#Flower from the Fae

[ryllen]

no, but pinecones is really beautiful isn't it ?

[cicerfics]

Broadly speaking, I like to think that I am a rational person who learns from experience. I like to think that I pay attention to the things that happen in my life, consider the lessons I can take from each experience, and refrain from (as my therapist once put it, speaking of other clients) running into the same brick wall year after year.

And so, after my eucalyptus adventure a few weeks back, I decided that I was going to be très sensible at the farmer's market this morning! Never again would I promise to purchase a bouquet sight-unseen! No, this time I would purchase a PREMADE bundle of marigolds so I knew EXACTLY how many marigolds I was getting. Impossible to catch me off guard with THIS approach, stallkeeper!!

...Please explain to me how I got home, unwrapped the bouquet, started arranging the flowers, and somehow discovered I had approximately three times as many marigolds as I thought I purchased?

Are the flowers multiplying in my car on the drive home? Is there an optical illusion at play where half the flowers are hidden by the wrapping? Is the stallkeeper using psychic powers on me to ensure that I overpurchase during every single transaction? I only paid you $10 this time, why did you give me this many marigolds???

[inchidentally]

(sorry if these have been posted to tumblr already but just. wow.)

[catzgam3rz]

I would like to thank the Witch Craft SMP for gifting me a reason to draw Ihascupquake fanart in the year of our lord 2023

[plasma-studios]

The Shape of You (ao3: x)

Chapter 2: Daffodils

He wakes up.

There is a tingly feeling in his skull. When he touches his forehead, he feels small bumps near the crown; his fingers brush over the first, still blearily confused, tracing it down to his temple. 

Then he realises, then stills. He traces it again. He feels the bulb, embed in his skull, and feels it out again, uncomprehending. It is small, barely even noticeable. He would not have noticed it if it were not for the stinging pain in his skull.

Then he touches what must be the base. And when he presses down, there is pain. Striking through his head— he gasps, and instinctively lets go. 

It is when he lets go that he realises there is something growing out. It is thin, his fingers find each other around the stalk, as he feels it out in its entirety. 

He touches something soft. Almost fragile, like tear-it-apart soft. But he is gentle with it. It is growing out of his skull, after all. It is with a delayed horror that he realises what that really means. 

Blue thinks, with deepening horror, what is growing out of his skull?

He rips away the soft thing. There is a comparatively duller pain. The ache that flashes through his head is quick, lightning by comparison. 

His fingers pull away with a single yellow petal. There is a drop of blood staining it. 

The yellow blots into red. 

There is a flower growing out of his head. 

He panics silently for a few more minutes, but collects himself. This is fine. As long as he cuts out the flower stalk gently, there shouldn’t be any damage. This is just like when the boy down the street cut open a cyst and found an inch of blackberry vein. He could’ve gotten the seed lodged in before and just not noticed. 

The bulb must have been the seed.

As long as he is careful, and his hands don’t shake, he should be able to remove it. 

Blue is careful. He is still tense, but the good thing is that the tension makes his hands so stiff he barely shakes at all, when he uses the iron knife hung around his neck to cut the stalk—

The iron. He is numb. The flower falls to his feet.

The iron is rusted. The red dust sticks to his thumb, like pollen.

If the iron is rusted, then— something must have happened. Something might happen soon. There must be some Fae nearby, watching him.

He does not know where he is. He realises. He glances left, glances right, and finds himself in a meadow of the prettiest flowers. But he glances down, and thank the stars he is in a clearing. 

It is never wise to step off the path, and even if he does not know where he is, if he is on the dirt path instead of the bordering dirt hosting yellow and white flowers, he is still technically safe. Though he would be safer back home. 

But he doesn’t know which end of the path leads back.

Blue stills. 

The soil, blooming with flowers, turns to snow less than five feet away. 

He stares at the snow, and then back to the soil. He takes a step forward, watching the snowflakes glistening in the light—

“If you make it out of Winter alive, I’ll let you keep your pathetic life.”

He freezes. His hand is an inch away from where the snow starts falling. His feet, however, are still on the soil. He glances around, but the voice had come from right in his head. He touches the base of his skull, but he does not know if the icy coldness he feels there had formed with the warning. It is a memory.

The hand pressed against the base of his skull, as if to warm it, finds a second flower. He feels cold in his stomach, and reaches up. A third. A fourth. His hand flies to his knife. Snip. Snip. The flowers fall, petals gleaming in the light. When he has finally stopped gasping, he is standing in a puddle of petals. 

A cackle that slices his ears open.

Light reflected off ice, reflected off metal.

He sees himself, like prey, staring at his reflection in the gleaming knife. 

He retracts his hand. His breath has caught in his throat. He stumbles backward, away from the border of Winter. He’d escaped, then. He’d gotten out of Winter alive, so he had been left alive. 

He stares at the flowers at his feet. Flowers he had cut out of his skull. 

Oh. He hadn’t gotten out of Fae domain. He’d just broached the borders and gone further into it. 

He was in Spring. *** And then, there is the next season. The blooming of daffodils marks the beginning of Spring. Beautiful, ardent Spring. 

“Sketches of Iridescent Irises” is perhaps the most-well known depiction of its splendour. The Spring Court is beautiful, after all. The poets sing endlessly of the marvels within the Court of forever-blooms and the sweetest fruit; who could refuse the allure? The Spring Ruler himself does not refrain from indulgence. 

Come, savour the honey that will taste all the more sweet by his hand. He is not stingy with his favour. So many have been taken into the meadow already, made beautiful, made better. 

Spring is known for its beauty, not for its kindness. *** How did he get here? He lets out a breath. Was he glamourised? But he’d taken all the precautions when he’d gone to meet Dust for the last time. He’d worn red, had iron on him and had been careful not to stray from the path. He’d been leaving town by that abandoned road that took left through the forest, to the other path, right? Yes. And he’d promised to walk Dust out of town, down the fork—

There was a fork in the road. And there had been a blizzard. 

His blood runs cold.

Could they have gone right?

And what was to the right of the path? 

“Let my friend go.”

He flinches. That is his voice. He hears it again, and again.

He only makes sense of it on the second minute. He lets out a slow, unsteady breath.

Dust had been taken. And he had followed. 

He trips. He almost curses, but swallows it. Why is he on a flower path? He touches the yellow petals, everything so absurd he cannot help but be curious. He recognises the flower. It is a daffodil. Daffodils.

He reaches up and feels the stalks extending from his head. It is a halo, he realises. It is a self-grown flower crown. And now that is so absurd he wants to laugh. 

He finds a bud attached to a stalk. With his touch, the flowerbud blooms. 

He tries to press the petals together and stop it from blossoming, but the petals pull away from the centre, spreading out quite lovely, and there is one more flower growing out of his head.

The flowers grow back. They grow back in minutes. 

He is so stricken, he cannot even think.

He has to remove the seeds. The flowers grow back.

He reaches for his iron knife again, but stops. What is wrong about the flowers? Something pricks at him, some seed of longing. The flowers are so soft. Hell, the flowers under his feet fold in so easily. It would be beautiful, in some odd manner, having a flower crown poking out of his skull.

He’d woken up confused. He’d woken up, dazed, without memory.

He’d woken up with a full head of flowers.

He lets out a shattering breath. It feels like he’s been struck. A flower takes up water from the soil. What were the flowers in his skull taking up? 

He reaches up, knife in hand, and wants to cut the first seed out. The pain blooms in his head, the blood dripping, and he mops it up with his scarf. He can’t afford to leave his blood around in Fae land. Blood was used for binding. Whatever enchantment the Fae could weave with even a drop of it— he rubs religiously at the leaking blood, but he has to continue. 

He braces himself. The first seed tumbles out. 

He lets out a sigh of relief, then promptly realises he has several more seeds to go.

He allows himself the dignity of a silent swear. Then he starts cutting.

By the time he’s done, there is so much blood staining his scarf it is now a deep, bruised purple. If it were lighter, it would be just like a hyacinth.

He steps on the seeds sunken into the ground. He does not want to dwell too much on his sudden knowledge about flowers. 

Blue forces himself to get up. He can’t stay here for too long. Surely one or two Fae has already noticed the mortal passed out by the border, and if he keeps moving, it will be harder for them to catch up. 

Of course, they would just need to follow the path. He ought to leave it and find his own way through the Court.

No. That was a stupid idea. Why would he leave the path? Paths were neutral ground. He wouldn’t be trespassing for as long as he stayed on-route. That’s why the old tales always warned about wandering off, second only to giving your name away. Fae loved to exploit the unwary, luring them with sweet words into the brambles and shadows, before claiming debts for the slightest infraction with blood. 

He touches the still aching spots where he’d removed the flowers from, and sighs.

He could find the town border of Spring, he thinks. All Seasons have a border to the human world. But he finds he is unwilling. Dust, he thinks. He can’t just leave him there. 

He made a deal.

He blinks.

He made a deal for Dust. He wagered his Name, and Dust’s. 

Memories. The flowers were stealing from him his memories. 

Blue wants to travel back in time and punch his past self. But he is already very lightheaded, and he does not want to waste his strength. It’s not as if he’s going to try to forgo the deal, anyway. There’s no world where he willingly leaves him behind.

He feels the snowflake at his wrist, and swallows. One token down, three more to go. 

He has to find some way to get the Spring Ruler on his side. He’s said to have a soft spot for artists. Blue’s no artist. But if he pleads his case— the Spring Ruler was said to be the most merciful, after all. If he can just convince him of his intentions, perhaps it is really possible to earn the second token.

Blue jerks back— Ouch! His back slams into the ground. But the breath that leaves him is relieved, because he had almost stepped off the path. He looks closer, and realises the yellow blooms are not petals, but living flowers, growing right next to the path. 

The difference is almost imperceptible. He almost stepped off the path. 

He blinks and pushes himself back onto his feet. He turns, but he sees no one. He sees nothing. He tears off the shoots clinging to his clothes, and takes a minute to steady himself. 

He does not hear that chuckle. Say nothing, Blue. If you don’t acknowledge it, they’ll get bored and leave you be.

He was never good at lying. Least of all to himself.

“I know you’re there.” 

His voice wavers. His words hang in the air, and he wonders if he’s talking to no one. 

He smells something. Sweet, but thick. Roses. 

“Are you not going to come out?” He swallows. “It’s getting kind of rude.” 

The moment the word rude comes out of his mouth, there is rustling. Roses blooming thick and strong. 

“My. So impatient?”

The rustling stops. He turns. There is no one there.

And a soft laugh. Right in his ear. 

There the Fae is, looking over his shoulder. He knows better than to show his fear. And yet, he must falter for a fraction of a second, because the Fae is smiling. 

Ah. He hopes it isn’t to his detriment.

“Hello, dear. May I have your name?”

He sighs. “Nice try. No.”

“Shame. I do enjoy a good name.”

A Spring Fae. It’s obvious, the curve of his frame draped in rose-colored silk clinging to bone rather than flesh. A skeleton, like Blue. Bone gleaming like ivory. A single rose tucked behind his ear.

The Fae’s eyes linger on Blue’s skull. Pink pupils in the hollow sockets. His mouth stretches into a laugh, voice as lilting as birdsong.

The sight of him is breathtaking. And it feels so wrong.

“It would’ve been a beautiful crown.”

He’s already known this. It doesn’t stop his stomach from twisting. 

The ache in his skull is nothing if he doesn’t make it back. “Let me pass, please.”

“Pass?” The Fae makes a soft titter. “I never stopped you, did I? You’re the one lingering. Perhaps you like the way my roses smell.”

“No.” And it might just be his bad luck that the scent lifts just enough to make that moment a lie, the smell not quite as overpowering as before, the smile deepening to reveal teeth. “Not really. It’s sweet. But too sweet for me.”

“Ah. Pity.” His lie has been forgiven, or so he hopes. He has enough on his plate. “But are you sure you know which way to go?”

“The path.” The path was neutral ground. Step off, and he would be lost. 

“But surely you’re looking for something? Wandering aimlessly by the path won’t do you much, dear. Why don’t you tell me what you’re looking for and I’ll find you a shortcut?”

Ah, so definitely altruistic. He knows what he wants. To get Dust home. To do that, he has to get the charms. To get the Spring charm, he needs to meet the Spring Ruler. 

He has no idea how to do that.

“Are you certain, little skeleton?” The Fae presses, taking a step closer. As smoothly as silk unfurling. “Paths can twist and tangle.”

He carefully looks over the path. 

“How do I get to the Spring Ruler?”

"Ah.” The Fae hums. “How curious. A little brash.”

“How do I get to him?” He has to worry about that later. 

The Fae smiles. “Come with me. I’ll take you to him.” 

He sighs. Take my corpse to him, you mean. Or some other loophole left in the laughably vague offer.

“Come now. I don’t think you made that deal with the Winter King just to fail at the first Court, did you?”

He freezes. Slowly, he looks back at the Fae.

He traces their amused gaze to the snowflake at his wrist. He curses, or he almost does, before swallowing the curse and tentatively asking, “How long has it been since?”

“A few hours.” The Fae is still smiling.

“News travels that fast?” 

“I happen to know someone in the Winter Court. I was very curious about the mortal they chased to the border. I almost returned you, but their King ordered them to leave you be once you crossed. That’s all. Though I suspect there will be many more Fae in the know very soon.” 

“Because you’ll tell them?” He asks wearily.

“No secrets in a Court, dear. Now, where to find the Spring Ruler? I’ll grant this favour for you, and you’ll owe me one in exchange.” 

“No deal.” A favour to a Fae? Might as well give them his Name. 

“I wouldn’t leave it in the open, that would be unfair.” The Fae’s smile only deepens. The playful edge makes him want to bash his skull in. “Oh, come now.” They tilt their head. “If you want my help, you will need to give for it.”

He steps forward, shoes scuffing against the dirt. Behind him, the Fae’s laughter echoes softly. 

“You won’t be able to find him on your own. And Fae can’t lie.”

Yes. That’s true. Fae can’t lie. 

He turns. “What kind of favour would I owe? I’m not giving up my name.”

The Fae makes a disappointed sigh. “I can’t ask for your name.”

“I think that’s enough, Lust.”

The Fae stills. Their pink pupils dilate. The Fae— Lust takes a half step back. ( Lust fits the Fae to a tee, he thinks.)

“Clever lure. Pity I was just close enough to render it obsolete.” 

The voice rings clear and resonant.

Lust’s smile falters. A noise like a crinkle.

“Turn around, mortal. Are you going to make a deal with me with your back turned?”

For a moment, there is silence. Lust’s gaze darts to Blue, then back to behind him. 

“Another time, then.” He steps away. Blue blinks, and they are gone.

Blue has to turn. He doesn’t want to, but he has to. He feels the weight of the Spring Ruler's gaze, pulling at him like he’s a single leaf on a branch in a storm. He takes a breath, slow and deliberate, and then he turns fully.

He meets eyes with the Spring Ruler.

He blinks. Yellow blots into orange. A square into an oval.

“You want something from me, yes?”

The Spring Ruler is also skeletal. He thinks of Nightmare, the only other Fae Ruler he’s met. He would’ve been underwhelmed if not for the changing eyelights. 

Orange into purple. But a spiral, this time. “Gonna need an answer, Blue.”

“How do you know my name?” He has to ask, if only to stall. He notices the flower they have clutched between their phalanges. They are plucking petals from a flower— and Blue is relieved that he is no longer able to name it. 

“Why the concern? Would you like to give me it?” The ever-changing eyelights twinkle. 

He resolutely shakes his head. And then thinks, why the hell not? “I need a token from Spring for a deal I made with Nightmare.”

The Spring Ruler’s bony fingers twitch slightly. Their gaze locks onto Blue.

“Oh? Tell me about this deal.” 

“Long story. And I’m on a time limit.” 

“We can walk.” Their smile is not soft, but it feels more real. It does not help the prick of annoyance. “Then we’ll have time.”

He does not have time. A walk wouldn’t take that long. But he doesn’t know where they want to lead him, and he does not want to find out.

He needs to change the topic. He hedges his bets. “You know me, but I don’t know you. Isn’t that unfair?” 

Their laughter is harsher. Not soft like Lust’s. Whatever softness there is is edged by something rough. It’s some rough thing being ripped away. peels of sound echoing somewhere in his head. Unhesitant. Rippling. But he drinks it in, the warm sound. 

“You would make a good Fae. Most folk call me Ink.”

Blue doesn’t move. “Okay, Ink. What will it take to get a charm from you?”

Ink gazes upon him. And he reaches.

He flinches. He catches Ink’s palm, pressed against his temple. The dulling pain under his fingertips. He wants to draw back, but the now green eyelights are staring at him, pinpricks hardly visible in the hollow sockets and the pain is gone.

He blinks. The ache in his head is gone. He reaches up, and pulls away. 

There is no blood sticking to his fingers. He touches his head. Nothing. Not even the wounds left behind when he’d cut out the seeds. 

“Walk with me,” Ink repeats. He just healed him. 

“Appreciate it.” He doesn’t try to hide the sullenness in his tone. With a sinking feeling in his stomach as he counts down the days to the Winter Solstice, he steps into place right beside him. 

[shylittlefrogg]

eyes trapped in the limbo of life and death, peace and violence. Committed duality, They give way to see the true intentions of people through words and what they are trying to communicate

[tadpal]

my favourite piece i did for this years @d20zinejam !! check them out here there are so many incredible zines to explore!

[dimension20npcofalltime]

Preliminary Round D

Propaganda under the cut (May contain major spoilers for one or more of the campaigns listed above)

Jeremy Renner - They got Renner to do the part!

Avanash - Never knew what was happening. Fears water. Help him

Archbishop Camille Colliflour - Old woman who pretends to be sweet and feeble until she transforms into a deeply terrifying eldritch creature bent on consuming all.

The Hangman - Just a wonderful dog bike, cracked in all fights he takes a part in

Telemaine Lomenelda - Jedge, runs essentially a summer camp for teenage elves.

Senator - Pinocchio's steed

Bridge & Tunnel Troll - Everything about his existence to his voice to hils ailment and recommended treatment are just delightful! He immediately added so much to the world

(Captain) Jan De La Vega - I LOVE her <33333333333

The Questing Blade (I'm counting this one as an NPC since it has a personality and is played by Brennan) - Facilitated one of the best unsleeping city moments when choosing Cody as their new holder. Still holds a grudge against ricky for leaving without saying goodbye. Allowed Dale to break out of heaven and see his wife Sofia

Wallace - undead twink

[capnkerfufflez]

Example character sheet for a regency-ish game I'm plannin with friends

[wysteir]

I don't remember at what points in my life things changed drastically

I guess that's not really something that happened to me, at least in a way I can fully comprehend

They were mostly slow rolls, all throughout. Except maybe the whole moving every 4-5 years when those actually forced me to change schools but that was just a fixture of life for me at that point

Except times I remember- being young, and wanting to be loved more, and yearning for kindness and comfort when I was upset. I remember distinctly thinking that at the rate things were going, nobody could save me from the loneliness

Too smart for my own good, or may smart enough to avoid whatever hole that would have led me down

I knew I had to do it myself

I didn't have the courage nor charisma to reach out to others and make friends at the time, my parents weren't evil but they WERE old school and from a different time AND culture

They weren't raised on American Television, which despite everything still showed love and care every now and then, in cartoons, on the family channel. Childhood best friends forever and understanding parents

Impossible for me, I thought. At least impossible with the conditions and semantics I thought were needed

I had to save myself

And I couldn't really

I could only do so much and I tried so hard

But I was an awkward lonely teenager with no emotional strength or foundation learning everything a bit too late and a bit too slow

But nobody could save me, I had to do it myself

It's a flawed viewpoint but it was all I had, and despite everything it made me not give up hope

For better or for worse I always started with nothing, so losing what due to my own failings or due to shifts in my life usually didn't feel like the end of the world

But it's not good for growth you know? I was already a little behind because I didn't socialize much and it was scary out there

I learned the best ways to deflect statements that hurt me, I learned ways to try and not step on toes, I learned to better slow myself down and often try to think before I speak

And once I had that I could build myself up the way I wanted to, a decade and a half late

I'd given up on so much

There was enough "wrong" with me that I spent most of my time struggling against myself whenever I wasn't doing school or work

I remember a particularly bad meltdown haunting me for three years before I felt it ebb

It's not like anyone else brought it up either, it was just me. All me

I didn't feel like I had too much time for therapy or counseling. I didn't know where to look and I didn't even know what to say

And I spent so much time thinking and going over things in my head that what I WAS able to put into words sounded perfectly coherent and healthy

Eventually counseling helped a little, but there's just a lot that I couldn't rely on someone else for because I didn't know how

And there haven't been that many drastic changes, at least I thought

Not when everything feels like a mountain to climb and every effort feels like digging into the stone with my fingers

Nobody could save me

To get what I wanted I had to do it myself

I envy the dolls here sometimes. I envy the hope they have in Witches sometimes. Granted I don't go to those spaces. But I see the texts sometimes. I'm so exhausted but I feel like letting myself have that hope goes counter to everything I've struggled for, that I've fought for, that parts of me have died for

I really, really, wanted someone to save me

There is this concept of a Witch's unconditional love for her dolls that probably would have made me happy long ago

At the very least a moment in life where I could rest properly for once

But it's not what I want anymore

At least not wholly

It IS nice to relax and let go every now and then, to rely on others as best as I can, to be myself

It's nice to let myself be a burden and be taken care of every now and then

But I am my own Witch, first and foremost

I built my own soul, my own purpose, my own magic, my own pride

My sliver of humanity that shines as bright as any torch in the darkness

I and we and she reached through the mirror and chiseled the jagged heart of our reflections into a smooth core

I won't give up on her

I won't give up on the Witch I was yesterday who struggled to bring me here today, just as she didn't give up on me yesterday, nor the day before, or before that

Even as she climbed over my shattered cerebral porcelain, and I climbed over hers, and mine and hers- from even before I flowered from the prince's tomb

I won't give up on her

I'm a bit manic and delusional and a bit sleep deprived it seems

But I won't give up on her

She never gave up on me

When did it become like this?

Never, not really, it didn't become, it grew

From a flower, to a garden

Porcelain with gold between the cracks is still broken, but it still functions, and it's still beautiful

[cosmirii]

an oldie i forgot to post. pls ignore the incorrect words in the final panel im too lazy to fix it

[alterednoon]

To one of my beloved friends, M.R.S.❣️

Now that I'm finally free from this semester, although I still have to take care of paperwork for the next semester (oh gods), I'll get to have time for the things I want to do—one of which is drawing, aHA

Many hopes and loves for my Belle-loved friend on this fine day =ヮ=

[circuslollipop]

trying to get this loras armor to look all mythical like the leafman armor from epic

[prythianpages]

Beautiful Stranger | Azriel

Azriel x Reader | Azriel gets injured while on a mission and meets someone he never thought he would. aka you finding an injured Az and the mating bond snapping.

warnings: mentions injuries and blood; other than that, this is light & fluff

word count: 4,342

a/n: I love Halsey's Finally//Beautiful Stranger & when it came on my shuffle while driving, this fic played out in my mind.

Humming quietly to yourself to keep your thoughts occupied, you allow the glow of the moon and fireflies to guide you back to the village. Dawn Court was your home, but after the fall of Spring, you had volunteered to help its fae, creatures, and land heal from the devastation left by Hybern’s attacks.

Though the damage to Spring was immense, its beauty still endured. The air still held a lingering heaviness but the flowers had begun to bloom once more with promise and hope of a better future. Your task today had been to gather healing herbs, yet when you stumbled upon a field of dandelions in full bloom, you couldn’t resist the urge to stop and admire the scenery. It was why you were returning late at night, long past the sunset you had promised to return by.

As you made your way along the path, the gentle breeze grew colder and sharper. It rustled the leaves on the trees and made the branches creak, its eerie sound halting your steps and silencing your humming. A chill of unease prickled your skin and your muscles tensed in alarm. 

Then you saw them. 

Shadows, darker than the night itself, swirling around you.

These were not the shadows you were used to seeing at night. No, these shadows felt alive and with purpose. 

You should’ve turned back. But there was something in the way they moved, fluid and insistent, that made you follow. With every step, they guided you away from the familiar moonlit path and deeper into the forest, pulling you toward the river that ran through the heart of the woods.

A flicker of blue light was coming from just beyond the tree line, catching your eye. Curiosity tugged at you, drawing you closer. The shadows slithered toward the faint glow, vanishing into the darkness by the water’s edge.

When you finally reached the riverbank, your breath hitched at the sight before you.

A male lay sprawled on the shore, half-submerged in the water, his blood mingling with the river’s water. Blinking your eyes, you saw the shadows that led you to him, clinging to his battered form and limp wings. They pulsed in a protective manner. It’s then that you recognized the source of the blue light. It was coming from the gems attached to the leathers he wore. 

Siphons. He must be Illyrian…but what was an Illyrian from the Night Court doing in Spring? Alone?

It didn’t matter. You immediately rushed and knelt beside him, your healer’s instincts snapping into action. Your finger’s pressed against his neck, mind racing with worry and dread as his skin felt cold against yours. He must’ve been out for awhile now. The nerves eased slightly when you felt a pulse. 

Weak but present. 

You slipped your arms beneath him, the shadows aiding you as they wrapped around his arms, helping you turn him over to his side. His dark hair clung to his face, your hand reaching up to brush it back.

Your eyes finally met the face of the fallen warrior and something snapped. 

So piercing and electrifying, it had your heart fluttering from the intensity. All at once, the golden threads of the bond you’d only heard stories about unraveled in your chest. They weaved between your rib cage, pulling you tight toward him. A pull so strong it left you breathless and in shock.

Fate and shadows had brought him to you. Your mate.

But the exhilaration of it all was soon smothered by panic, the golden threads beginning to quiver. His blood, too much of it, stained the riverbank. His body was limp in your arms, his breathing shallow.

You had found your mate and already, you were on the verge of losing him before you could even learn his name.

**

Azriel wakes to the sound of singing, a nice and sweet sound, and he catches faintly to the words. He’s never felt so warm, so relaxed. His senses are dulled by grogginess, his body sluggish, but something feels… different. Lighter, somehow. 

Beside him, his shadows stir, the familiar weight of their presence grounding him. But there's also something else— different from the cool and light caresses of his shadows. Firmer. Warmer. The pressure is foreign but comforting.

As his senses slowly return, the scent of herbs and incense reach him before his eyes flutter open. Where am I? He thinks, finally blinking his eyes to clear his vision.

The first thing he sees is you, the source of the beautiful singing.

Light streams into the room, casting a golden halo around you. It strikes him hard, stealing his breath and sending a shock through his chest. He doesn’t know who you are, what you are. But you’re beautiful, so beautiful that his brows furrow in bewildered awe. There’s no way, he thinks. I don’t belong here…

He wills his dry lips to part, his voice is rough and barely audible. “Am I…dead?”

Your eyes widen and your singing comes to a sudden stop, startled by his sudden words. The warmth he felt vanishes as you pull your hand back, and only then does he realize it had been your touch on his face earlier. Your hand hovers between you, glowing faintly with a bronze light, like the first rays of dawn, before you settle it into your lap.

“No,” you finally answer. “You’re not dead.”

Azriel tears his gaze from your face, even though some part of him protests. His eyes wander around the small room, taking in the sparse furniture, the wooden desk cluttered with jars and vials. The sunlight continues to stream through the single window, the curtain hanging doing little to dull the brightness thanks to the Spring breeze. It blinds him when it catches his eyes and he winces, looking away. 

His attention is inevitably drawn back to you. You’re seated beside him, perched on a small stool that does not look comfortable by the bed. His shadows, the loyal dark tendrils that always remain by his side, are dancing around you. Their movement is playful, loving almost and you don’t seem bothered by it. As if they’ve done this before. 

The sight stirs an unfamiliar flutter in his chest.

The flutter is cut short when one of his wings, too big for the bed he’s in, twitches and knocks into the bedside table. A vial tumbles to the floor, the sound of shattering glass jerking his body forward, and in an instant, the memories come rushing back.

He remembers the mission. Rhysand had sent him to the wall separating the mortal lands from Prythian. He had met with Jurian, the encounter brief, and then he was on his way back—flying over the Spring Court when he was ambushed. His mind aches as he tries to remember more but all he remembers is being struck by poisoned arrows and falling through trees. Multiple trees.

Hot, searing pain stabs through him at the sudden movement and your hands fly to his bandaged chest, gently urging him to sit back. “You’re safe,” you reassure him. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Azriel shouldn’t feel comforted by your words, not when he barely knows you. However, he finds your voice soothing. He listens, allowing himself to slowly lean back against the pillows, despite his mind screaming at him that you’re a stranger. Your hands remain on his chest, glowing again with that soft bronze light, and the sharp pain in his body begins to ebb away, fading into a dull ache. Much more bearable.

His shadows return to him, sighing with relief as they nestle close. Azriel watches you, keen hazel eyes taking in more of your features. The curve of your lips, the softness of your eyes. They draw him in, and he finds himself unable to look away. Had it not been for the pain that shot through him moments ago, he would’ve thought you lied to him about not being dead. Because surely you weren’t from this world to have him in a daze like this…

“Who are you?”

“I’m…,” you hesitate, uncertainty crossing your features. He watches with bated breath, waiting but the words seem to catch in your throat. You swallow, clearing your throat before speaking again. “I’m just a healer.”

“And here I thought you were an angel from above.”

A quiet laugh escapes you, and the tension in your posture melts away. The corner of your lips tug up into a faint smile, one that Azriel surprisingly finds himself mirroring. “Sorry to disappoint.”

He doesn’t think. The words spill from him before he can stop them. “I didn’t say I was disappointed.”

The flush that dawns across your cheeks doesn’t go unnoticed. You turn your head, trying to hide the reaction. It’s too late. Azriel already saw it and even if he hadn’t, his shadows are happily gushing over it. Some, the ones not distracted by your beauty, curled around his ear and whispered about the emotion lingering on your face, in your eyes.

There was more you meant to say. Words left unsaid and he wants to know, the curiosity and yearning bordering on desperate. His gaze assesses you again, searching for an answer. For a hint. His shadows continue to whisper. Good, they say reassuringly, sensing no danger or malintent in you. We found her for you!

She saved master's life. Master was out for three days and she stayed by master’s side. She’s–

“What’s your name?” You ask, pulling him from the silent conversation with his shadows.

Azriel is not one to give his name so easily, often going by what he was–a Shadowsinger– rather than who he was. He’s also not one to dwell in places he’s unfamiliar with longer than necessary. But you saved his life and for some strange reason, his shadows had taken an immediate liking to you. They seem to trust you and therefore, so does he.

“Azriel.”

“Azriel,” you repeat and his shadows shudder in response, as though they, too, are captivated by the sound of it on your lips. His stomach flutters in time with their movement.

“What about yours?”

“Y/n.”

“Y/n,” he says, repeating your name the same way you had his. His shadows dance in the air around you both.

**

It’s late morning, as you pick up the empty plate from him, that he feels the familiar sensation of talons scraping against his mind. Azriel?? Rhysand’s voice is urgent, the frantic panic of it making him wince. Your head immediately turns in concern and Azriel brushes it off with a small shake of his head.

I’m alive. Azriel responds, his answer curt as he’s once again distracted by your presence.

Thank The Mother, Rhysand breathes a sigh of relief. Where are you? Are you somewhere safe? Do you need me to–

I’m fine. I was attacked while flying through Spring. 

Who? Rhysand demands.

Given the fact that whoever ambushed me has made no move to find me and finish the job, I’d say no one of importance. Azriel replies, lips curving into a small frown at the thought of being caught off guard and attacked. It rarely happened, his shadows always keeping him one step ahead of anyone and anything. Had they been distracted…?

He turns his head, searching for the shadows in question. Some remained with him, choosing to burrow under the blankets. The others, however, were hovering at your side and helping you clean up from breakfast. One even opens the door for you and he hears you murmur a small thanks as you leave the room.

Azriel had spent most of the afternoon sleeping. He didn’t want to, not liking the idea of being in such a vulnerable state with someone he barely knew. It’s not that he suspected you’d harm him or had bad intentions–you literally saved his life for Cauldron’s sake! It was just a feeling he was not used to. To be able to sleep safe and sound.

When he woke up again, it was a brand new day. He realized the bandages on his chest and arm had been changed. He was slowly gathering his strength back. One of his shadows must’ve given him away because shortly after he woke, you had walked in with a friend. 

“Wow,” the dark haired fae murmured, her steps faltering. Her eyes had widened in wonder, taking in the large expanse of his wings that made the bed look ridiculously small. “The Cauldron truly favors you.”

Azriel’s gaze couldn’t help but narrow. Those words had been directed at you, not him. 

You’d introduced her as Poppy, explaining she was your friend, another healer whose family had taken you in. Poppy had left shortly after setting a steaming bowl of stew on the table right next to the bed. She had been adamant on letting him know her mother had made it and not you, which he found odd.

Azriel was surprised to learn this was your room and you’d given it up for him. He tried to protest, offering to sleep on the couch or floor. Of course, you had refused and he was even more surprised to learn you were more stubborn than he was. 

Where are you in Spring? Rhysand’s presence in his mind pulls him back to the present. He hopes he hadn’t accidentally projected his memory to his friend, wanting to keep it to himself for now. I can send Cassian, if you’re unable to fly. 

No. Azriel responds immediately and he can feel Rhysand’s confusion. I’m alive and safe. I just need more time to recover. 

And without waiting for a response, Azriel brings up his mental shields again, shutting Rhysand out. He can only hope he doesn’t send Feyre knocking on his mind next. Or worse, actually send Cassian to Spring, despite him saying not to.

He should’ve said yes, and accepted the help. The Spring Court was among the least favorite of his courts, in tie with the Autumn Court. He had a strong distaste for the High Lord, who remained wandering through his forests like a beast. 

As you return to the room, Azriel catches sight of a faint glow wrapped around your wrist. He hadn’t seen it before, the glow of your magic outshining the gold ink etched there. A sun, cradled by a crescent moon, and below the moon, a fine lined star glimmers, connecting the two celestial bodies with its ray of starshine. 

“You’re far from home.” Azriel comments, nodding toward the tattoo.

“So are you,” you answer, lips turning up at the slight flush that takes over Azriel. You then glance down at the tattoo on your wrist. The insignia of your Court with the added touch of your healing gift. The tattoo was an honor, a testimony of the oath you had taken after mastering your magic. “I came to Spring to help after the war.”

“Will you go back home after?” He asks, a little too quickly, then clears his throat. His shadows snicker beside him in a knowing manner. “Or will you stay here?”

“I’ll stay here as long as I’m needed.”

He doesn’t understand why but a part of him feels relieved that you’re not attached to this court. 

“You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need,” you then add. 

He feels an odd sense of relief, and his shadows give a little wiggle in excitement. He sends them a glare, and they sheepishly return to hiding under the covers. Though one brave shadow lingers by his side long enough to whisper, you'll find out soon Master.

“They’re cute," your voice pulls him from questioning his teasing shadow.

Azriel lets out a snort, the effort making his chest and stomach ache. Cute. His shadows had been called many things—strange, unnerving, even unsettling—but never cute. They typically clung to him, weaving around his form quietly, careful not to disturb anyone. Unless he sent them on a mission of their own or they had a mission of their own.

Occasionally, they’d make an exception for Cassian, creeping up behind him just to tap his shoulder and bask in his exasperation when he turned to find nothing there. They’d even tried their luck with Rhysand once, though he was never fooled. Yet, for reasons Azriel couldn’t fathom, his shadows had taken an immediate liking to you, drifting toward you whenever they could.

The said shadows peek out from under the covers, almost shyly. If they could blush, he’s sure they would be at this moment. They're never going to forget this moment.

“I wouldn’t call them cute,” Azriel replies, ignoring their indignant hisses.

Conversation flows easily between you two from there, Azriel giving into his curiosity to know and learn more about you. Much to his surprise, Azriel indulged you in your questions, telling you about his shadows and things about himself he rarely told others. They were small, trivial things such as his exact favorite shade of blue and his biggest pet peeve. Yet you held onto every word, every detail and it felt strangely comforting.

Two more days passed, Azriel’s body still healing. Slowly but surely. You had been able to recover one of the arrows that had shot him. Not that it mattered. Azriel was now, unfortunately, familiar with the effects of faebane. It hindered his healing and though it was frustrating, there was one upside to it all–the friendship blossoming between you and Azriel.

There’s a knock on the door as you mix Azriel’s concoction for pain. “Yes?” You call out.

Poppy peeks her head in. “I was just checking to see if I had given you enough spearmint for the pain tonic and also to let you know that we’ll be out most of the day. If you wanted to take out your ma—male for a walk or something without being bothered by the little ones.”

You freeze and a sheepish look takes over your features, tainting your cheeks. “Poppy,” you say her name again in what sounds like a warning. “He has a name, you know. And he doesn’t need to be taken on a walk.”

“Oh, right, Azriel,” she says, giving him a cheery wave. “Hello again!”

“Hello,” Azriel replies, shifting in the bed, despite the protests of his muscles. He’s not at all offended by Poppy, her aura too bright and cheery to be bothered. He flashes you a grin that has your grasp on the mixer faltering. “I think a walk would be nice actually.”

“Told you!” Poppy replies. “Anyway, we’ll see you for dinner. Send a butterfly if you need me.”

When the door closes, you let out a small sigh, shaking your head with a small, sheepish smile. “I’m so sorry about her.”

Azriel brushes off your concern, his eyes shining bright when he looks back at you. “How about that walk?”

**

Azriel grunts as he pushes to stand, his wings trembling as he shifts his weight, unused to bearing himself after days of bedrest. He stumbles right into your arms, his usually steady form swaying. You quickly catch him, your arms coming around one of his sides. His shadows dart toward his other side, helping you hold him upright. 

“I’ve got you,” you say softly, your hold surprisingly firm. 

He can't help it. He lets out a low, amused breath. 

“What?” You ask.

“Usually, I’m the one saying that.”

Your lips quirk into a smile, a gleam in your eye, as you help him find his balance. “Well, even the best need someone to lean on sometimes, right?”

Azriel stares at you. Something in his chest tightens–a weird but comforting sensation. It’s similar, if not the same, to what he had felt when he first saw you. Warm and painfully sweet. The feeling reassures him that, though you were strangers mere days ago, you’re someone he can lean on.

“Come on,” you murmur, nodding toward the door. 

Azriel lets you guide him through the house and out onto the porch. You settle there together, cutting the walk very short. You're mindful not to push him too far when he's still recovering. Azriel doesn't mind, the fresh air enough for him. He knows he isn’t at full strength to protect you should anything arise. Even though you most likely know these forests better than himself.

His hands drift to the porch railing as he leans forward for support, fingers curling around the edge. The sunlight glances off his scarred hands, each ridge and mark stark against his skin. He’d kept them hidden beneath the covers and out of your view while bedridden, hiding them instinctively, unable to forget the pitying glances they’d drawn in the past. Though he’s sure you must've seen them when you rescued him.

Now, as he feels your gaze slide toward them, a familiar discomfort tugs at him. He starts to withdraw his hands, wanting to tuck them closer to himself.

But you reach out. Your hand hovers, brushing slightly over his. There’s a slight hesitation—an uncertainty in whether to bridge the space or leave it. In the end, you let your hand rest gently beside his.

Azriel hesitates, unused to this vulnerability, yet unable to move away. He glances up to meet your eyes and his guarded expression softens slightly. “They’re… not easy to look at,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “I know they’re not.”

“I’m familiar with scars, you know. They don’t make you less of who you are.”

Azriel’s jaw tightens, his gaze dropping where your hands are barely brushing against one another. His throat feels tight, an ache he’s kept buried resurfacing.

“Not to me,” you continue. “I don’t see you any differently because of them.” 

He searches your face and he sees something in your eyes that helps him slowly relax. His gaze returns to your hand, fingers hovering now over his. This time, there’s no hesitation as you gently lay your hand over his, holding it as if the scars didn’t exist at all.

It’s such a simple gesture, yet it speaks volumes. 

His shadows slither down his arm and toward where your hands connect. For the first time, Azriel feels no urge to hide, no shame from the past that has long haunted him.

A silence drifts down between the two of you, settling like a blanket over the conversation. There’s no need to fill it, no awkwardness there. Just a gentle, shared peace, stretching softly around you both. He turns his head, shifting his gaze forward and takes a deep breath. 

He closes his eyes and a breeze rolls in, brushing against his skin and stirring his hair. His shadows begin to whisper excitedly. He basks in the sun’s warmth, and lets the scent of spring fill his senses from the fresh earth to the blooming flowers and the faint sweetness of pollen. It brings forth a tickle in his nose, and before he can stop it, he sneezes. His body groans in response, wings shuddering.

“Bless you,” you say, but he notices the way your mouth quirks as if you’re holding back a laugh.

“What?” he asks, brows furrowing.

“I’m sorry,” you giggle, your free hand rising to stifle it. “It’s just… you have such a fatherly sneeze.”

Azriel raises an eyebrow, a rare, amused smile creeping onto his face. “Fatherly sneeze?” He echoes. He has never heard the expression before yet he somehow understands it. If you thought his sneeze was “fatherly,” he’s curious to see your reaction to one of Cassian’s sneezes. That thought is enough to make him laugh outright.

It's so silly but the sound is so contagious that you laugh too. His shadows began to flutter around you, as if joining in on the laughter. Azriel’s gaze then drifts down, watching the way your lips curve in laughter, how your eyes crinkle at the corners, how effortlessly you draw light into his heart.

And there it is again—that rush of warmth. It’s mixed in with joy, so pure and intense it has to be coming from you. His heart stirs, his pulse quickens, his mind clears, and in a single, life-altering instant, he knows.

“You’re my mate.”

Your smile falters, replaced by a moment of hesitation. Some shadows travel to you, brushing softly against your arms as if in a reassuring manner. He can't help but watch them, realization dawning on him.

“Yeah, I am,” you admit quietly.

“How—when…” His voice catches, unable to form the words.

“I was walking through the forest when your shadows came to me. They led me to you, by the river. You were unconscious and bleeding. And then… the bond snapped for me the moment I saw your face. You were so cold and--and…,” your face tightens, eyes glistening at the memory and Azriel can feel the panic you must’ve felt then. “I’d just found what so many only dream of and you were already slipping away...I thought I’d never get to know your name…”

Azriel feels a pang deep in his chest as he absorbs every word. His chest feels tight again and he swallows thickly. “And when I woke up, why didn’t you tell me?”

Your gaze falls, fingers twisting together. “I wanted you to heal, to feel better. That’s all that mattered.”

“I owe you my life.”

“You don’t owe me anything. I would’ve saved you, mate or not.”

Azriel searches your face, touched beyond words at the sincerity in your tone. It made sense why he felt so drawn to you since the moment he saw you, why his shadows took a sudden liking to you and kept whispering "we found her, we found her!" They had known all this time, been able to sense it before he even could.

Looking back, Poppy being the one to bring him food and water and not you was not as strange as he originally thought. You were being mindful, not wanting to accidentally accept the bond without his knowledge. He felt an overwhelming gratitude for how gentle and considerate you've been with him all along. He couldn’t help but wonder how he had gotten so lucky to be bound to someone like you.

“And would you have sung to me, mate or not?” Azriel asks, his mind drifting back to the exact moment he'd first woken up.

Your cheeks flush, and you glance away toward the gardens, suddenly refusing to meet his eyes. “What?” You let out a small huff. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 “What did I hear?” Azriel’s tone borders on teasing, his expression shifting into one of exaggerated contemplation. “Something like… ‘Beautiful stranger, here you are…’”

“That’s enough!” You interrupt, your face turning into an even deeper shade of pink, caught somewhere between mortification and laughter. 

This time, it’s Azriel holding back a chuckle. His lips curl into a small smirk, seeing the blush that lights up your face. He quite likes that shade on you—likes being the one to bring it out even more. “So…”

You keep your gaze straight ahead. “So…?”

Azriel leans in, his voice low and warm, making your stomach flutter. “Do you sing that song for just anyone too?”

“No,” you let out a laugh, your hands cup your face but there’s no hiding the blush there.  “I’m afraid that song was just for you.”

“Good,” he murmurs.

You turn to look at him, realizing his gaze had never left you. Your hands drop back to the porch railing.  “Yeah?” you whisper, your own heart pounding, not sure what it was you were asking.

But Azriel seems to understand anyway. He can feel what you’re feeling, now fully aware and attentive to the bond humming between you.

“Yeah,” he breathes, his smirk softening into a genuine smile, his heart finally at ease. 

A gentle warmth surges through the bond, reaching every shadowed corner of his heart and wrapping around his soul. It’s a feeling he could get used to, one he’s spent centuries longing and yearning for. It’s a feeling he’s searched for in all the wrong places, enduring the heavy weight of heartbreak after heartbreak.

But now, with you, he feels the weight begin to lift. After all the empty falls and broken promises, it’s finally, finally safe for him to fall.

a/n: you can't tell me Az & Cas don't have dad sneezes lol. Anyway, I really wanted to write a fic where Az finally feels safe with someone because he deserves to. I hope you enjoyed this <3

General tag list: @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444 @lilah-asteria @the-sweet-psycho

@daycourtofficial, @milswrites, @stormhearty, @pit-and-the-pen, @mybestfriendmademe

@loving-and-dreaming @azriels-human @mrsjna, @adventure-awaits13, @lorosette

@alwayshave-faith

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Shit Fae!Danny Has Said While Living With Waynes

Danny, making a 'got your nose' gesture: Hey Jason, look, I've got your name!

Red Hood, who suddenly can't remember his own name: What the fuck

Bruce, in a tired dad voice: Danny, please, we talked about this, return your brother's name back

Danny: Oh, come on, it's not like he even uses it

Jason, thankfully remembering his name: And I repeat, what the f u c k

Steph, at dinner: I was wondering, what do faeries even eat normally? Like, flowers and stuff?

Danny, his eyes two black voids inside his eyesockets: The souls of the innocent

Steph: So that's a 'no' on the flowers?

Danny, back to normal and shoving a bagel in his mouth: I mean, I can, but would you want to stay on the crumbs-only diet when you are in a 5-star Michelin restaurant?

Tim: It's actually 3-star. Michelin rating system only has three stars, not five.

Dick: Are you saying that people are basically food joints for Fae?

Damian, at Constantine: It would do you well to choose your wording better when speaking to fair folk-

Danny, very much a fair folk, appearing out of thin air in the Cave: Yolo, s'up bitches, guess who's back in town!

Damian: -even when they do not necessarily do so themselves.

Constantine, looking between them: Are you sure you're the human and he is the changeling?

Tim, 46 hours of no sleep: Hey, if you can take a name from someone, does it mean you can take, like, other things that have no real shape or form?

Danny: Names do have shape and form, they even have taste. Yours is like a ping-pong ball made out of really dense cotton candy with banana-caramel flavor.

Tim, losing his touch with reality: Dense banana cotton candy...

Danny: By the way, I know you wanted to ask me if I could take your need to sleep from you, and theoretically, the answer is yes.

Tim, his whisper full of hope: ...will you?..

Danny: No. Either go to sleep or keep suffering. I'm not here to make your life easier.

Danny, after a half-an-hour rant on the Fae customs and traditions: -and Fae never tell the truth, but also never lie. It's a work of art, you know, say what you want but never in a way that makes sense.

Jason: So Fae just like to fuck with people.

Danny, looking him in the eyes, smiling and winking: Sure, humans are very fuckable.

Bruce, trying very hard not to pay attention to this: Can you make an example?

Danny: Sure. I lied.

Bruce: Where?

Danny: :)

Bruce, feeling like he is about to lose his mind: W h e r e ?

Alfred, right after he heard Dick's muffled screaming in the hallway: Young Master Danny, would you mind returning Master Dick his ability to talk in coherent sentences?

Danny, obediently standing up and walking out of the library: ...okay.

Bruce: How come he always listens to you?

Alfred: He knows what I will do if he doesn't.

Danny, returning to the library: He will change all the silverware to iron-ware. As well as the doorknobs and hairbrushes and lightswitches and everything else.

Alfred: Did you fix Master Dick's shoes?

Danny: I did. But I still think that making all of his shoes left ones was funny.

Alfred: Indeed, it was.

| <-prev | next-> |

There's also a fic now.

[nightingale-prompts]

Beautiful Ghost-DC x DP prompt

Part of the Accidental Ghost Courting AU 》 HERE

We finally get Tim's perspective on Danny

If there is one thing everyone on campus knows it's that Danny Nightingale is hot. Not in the stereotypical supermodel or Hollywood way. He was so attractive it was scary like he dropped out of a fairy tale.

Tim first saw Danny after whispers started going around. He spotted Danny in the library walking towards the observatory on the top floor.

At first glance, you'd call him a goth and there was no shortage of people who'd love to date one. It's probably why no one shuts up about him. But Tim could tell this wasn't the corporate punk type goth that he saw Damian scrolling through on his phone. Tim was quick to tease Damian and stop what would inevitably become a phase.

No, Danny had a clear style. Classic gothic...but also not. It's hard to explain. His clothes looked handmade, straight out of the 1800s. Did he thrift or make them himself? He was an astronomy major right? Or was is engineering?

Danny looked almost ethereal. Tall, lean, and almost glowing skin. It wasn't until later that Tim would be close enough to see the way his skin sort of glittered in low light.

People parted to not obstruct Danny's path as he went toward the observatory.

Everyone knew that Danny was off limits, too cowardly to get the courage to ask him out and risk rejection. So Danny remained unreachable.

Tim paid it no mind. He acknowledged that Danny was good-looking but there wasn't much else that got his attention. Danny didn't pay attention to others.

But Tim couldn't help but notice that Danny was always alone in his own little world. There was a hint of longing in him. Tim might have overheard a few things.

Danny would usually be in the library reading eclectic materials, playing with tarot cards, and studying star charts. Other days he was in the greenhouse tending to a little corner of plants he was growing. He seemed bored. He looked like he'd rather be somewhere else.

Tim might have done some research. Just scrolling through Danny's social media. Pictures of friends and graveyards. Most of the landscape photos were taken after his arrival in Gotham. Tim gathered that Danny was alone out here and far from home. He could fit in easily around here but simply chose not to.

It wasn't until that faithful day when Danny offered him a bundle of red carnations and a cup of Death Wish coffee.

"You looked like you need this." He said smiling.

And wow...that smile. Tim didn't think he'd ever see a smile like that. It was a sort of lopsided smile, a bit clumsy but sweet. Danny had elongated canines. Were they fake or was it a medical condition?

Tim didn't know how to respond to Danny's offer but he wouldn't say no to a cup of coffee.

Over the next few weeks, Tim found himself on campus more often and hanging around Danny. Danny tended to be very generous. Always gave things to Tim, most of which he made himself. That is what made it all feel genuine. On cold days Danny always had a hot cup of coffee or tea. When it was sunny he had something sweet freshly baked. When it rained he had flowers to brighten the room. When it was foggy he wanted to go find something fun to do. Danny also worked at the flower shop nearby which was said to be haunted by the old owners.

Rumors spread more and more that Danny wasn't human, like some kind of fae that took human form. Was there a chance it was true? Yes. Does that mean that Tim was going to test that?

Yes.

So Tim just wanted to test that theory and gave Danny a bracelet that looked similar to the ones he usually had. It just so happened to be made of Iron. Tim felt bad about it (kinda) but it was just genuine curiosity.

But no Danny wasn't a fae. He was incredibly happy to get a gift though so no harm done.

Another thing Tim noticed was Danny's eyes. They weren't blue like he thought. Danny had central heterochromia. He had a ring of bright green near his iris surrounded by icy blue. Not that Tim was staring at his eyes or anything, just that no one ever mentions that part when describing Danny. It's pretty notable you know. More people should know that.

...

.....

It's normal to think that.

Anyways Tim and Danny meet up when they can. Danny likes visiting graveyards and abandoned churches. Not that he doesn't like the movies or arcades because he loves that stuff. But one time after a late class he dragged Tim with him on a scenic drive out of the city to this spot he found. It was this massive cliff just far enough from the city that you could see the stars.

Tim never really gave much thought to the stars. He's seen them thousands of times especially being carried around by Kon or on the Watchtower. But right then watching Danny fiddle with his telescope babbling on about the planets and far-off galaxies, the stars felt new and wondrous.

Was this what it felt like to be normal? Just a college kid going on a spontaneous road trip with a friend, not thinking about patrols or duties.

He liked it.

Danny had a way of making him forget about the rest of the world. Someone not linked to heroes and assassins. A friend, a weird one but one he didn't have to be Robin with. He was just Tim to Danny. Not Tim Wayne, not Tim Drake, just Tim.

Because of that, he wanted to keep Danny as far from his family as possible. They already think they were dating and he'd be damned if they scared Danny away. This didn't stop them from investigating Danny and that brat wont stop spouting his opinion.

"I don't know what he sees in you. Aside from appearance, there isn't much to like." Damian grumbled.

"He must be really vain then because Tim doesn't deserve this kid." Jason responded.

"But if he even thinks about hurting Drake-"

"Yeah, we bury him."

Tim has chosen to ignore everything they say.

The last issue is Phantom.

Tim doesn't like Phantom.

The spirit had been hanging around Gotham for a while now. He lingered around the corners of the city and if he felt like it he'd interfere. In his own words, Phantom said that he dealt with the dead, not the living. Tim did some research and it's said Phantom showed up near the dying or dead as a sort of shepherd to souls. He made the transition easier for them.

So when Phantom was seem lingering around Danny he couldn't accept it. He'd be damned if he let some spooky bastard take Danny. He can't have him.

So Tim decided to invite Danny to stay with him for a few days. But a few day became a week became two weeks. Don't judge. This was just so Tim could look out for Phantom and prevent Danny from dying. It hasn't been working so far since Phantom hasn't been seen nearby.

But Tim did run into him.

"Why are you stalking Danny Nightingale?" Tim damanded.

Phantom circled overhead his spectral tail curling. His translucent body phasing in and out of the visible light spectrum.

"Stalking? I don't know what you're talking about. I don't care about chasing the living. But let's say Nightingale is an exception. He's special. But what does he have to do with you?" Phantom eyes Tim suspiciously before diving down floated inches away from Tim face. "Hmmm, I always did think you were the cutest Robin. I was right. Too bad I've got my eyes on someone else now."

And like that he dissappeared.

Now Tim was even more anxious. Phantom was definitely after Danny most likely dead or alive. If something happened to Danny he didn't know what he'd do. Its not safe out there with Phantom hanging around.

Danny was still awake when Tim returned home. He was watching some detective drama he had refused to watch with Tim because he kept guessing the plot during the first few minutes. Which was fair.

"You were out late again. Would it kill you to get some sleep now and then?" Danny sighed stretching.

Tim wanted to say "Actually I think it would. Lets not test it" and banter like always. Maybe even relax and let Danny talk about where show was on.

But Tim couldn't. Not when everything felt so surreal. Danny was just oblivious to the dangerous spirit trying to take his soul and Tim couldn't protect him.

Tim couldn't believe he was thinking this but what if Danny wanted to be with Phantom? Then what?

Tim knew that his emotions were his greatest weakness. When he did control them he does a lot of self-destructive things and he ends up hurting people especially when he's hurt.

He hugged Danny, burying his face in his shoulder.

"Danny can you promise me...that you'll stay here." He didn't care if Danny wanted to be with Phantom just as long as he doesn't leave this world and stop being his light.

The thought of not seeing Danny every day killed him. No more nagging him to eat and drink. No more star gazing. No more TV marathons. No more being dragged to spontaneous trips to the crafts stores. No more hearing the insane conversations with his friends. No more waking up on the couch with a pair of blue-green eyes looking up at him. No more Danny.

Tim felt like his heart was stopping and his stomach dropped.

Danny hugged him back putting a soothing hand on the back of Tim's neck. It was cool to the touch.

"Of course, I'll stay." Danny laughed as if the very notion he'd leave was ridiculous.

Tim's brain seemed to twist in on itself as the cascade of emotions overflowed. That laugh seemed to play over and over in his head echoing non-stop. Warmth bloomed in his chest. Dread, uncertainty, hope, and affection all blended.

Oh no..

Tim was in love.

(This got way too long. I'm not really good a romance as you can tell but I'm trying. Anyway this is a Danny fell first but Tim fell harder situation.)