#here it is... the an*al fic

[starry-bi-sky]

Danielle and Danyal's meeting... very, very quickly goes very sour from, basically, the moment Danny steps into his room and finds Ellie sitting on his bed (strike one) and reading the comic books Tucker introduced him to (strike two). By the time she's looked up to address him, Danny has the door locked, and a hand hovering near the knife hidden under his shirt.

She gets her third strike when Danny, in a voice that could make the mountains tremble, demands to know how she got into his room, and she lies (with uncertainty of her decision growing in her chest) that Jazz let her in. Danny's hand shifts closer to his weapon, and he turns towards her fully, and says that Jazz would never let someone he didn’t know into his room, and who was she.

(Vlad Masters had underprepared Danielle for her meeting with Danny -- not out of any completely direct malicious intent, but he failed to mention just how... 'touchy' Daniel could be -- he failed to mention the scars littering up his arms, unhidden by the hoodie tee he meets Ellie in. He failed to mention that along with those scars, that Danny was visibly lean, capable of doing very real damage without the use of his powers.)

(He tells Ellie that he’s adopted, and that he is observant and clever, but ungrateful and has a bad attitude.)

Her final strike occurs when Ellie, trying to keep her facade of cheeriness, tells him that she’s his third cousin once removed. Immediately, Danny has his dagger pulled out, and Ellie finds herself with the cold metal of a blade pressing against her throat.

Danyal 'A.G' Fenton hasn’t killed since he arrived in Amity Park. At first it was because mother told him to keep a low profile, and killing would do the opposite of that. But, he's been slowly learning from his sister and friends over the years the value of human life. So it's become a combination of keeping his head down, and also that life has value to it.

But. That doesn’t mean he can’t kill, nor is he opposed to doing it if the situation calls for it. It just means that he doesn't do it. And ‘Danielle’ is an unknown in his room, claiming to be family to him, and appearing uncannily similar to him and his family. Either someone hired her and she was trying to pass herself off as a relative to him because that someone realized Danny was the biggest threat, or, his false death has been compromised, his mother was unable to tell him, and the league was aware he was alive.

No matter how he looks at it, this Danielle was a threat to him, his sister, his friends, to Damian, and to the Drs. Fenton. Danyal Fenton doesn't kill, but he has no problems doing so.

(Ellie, pinned under Danny’s knee and the blade to her neck, is too terrified to think of phasing out of his hold. Not that it would help, he would just chase after her.)

“You have broken into my home, dared to lie to my face, and when I demanded to know the truth, you dared lie to me again." Danny's scowl could cower even Skulker, his glacier blue eyes burning. "Your continual breath has been a favor from me, that I have graciously allowed, from the moment you entered my room, dahkil."

"So I will ask one more time," he hisses, "who. are. you."

Danielle, only a few months old, unprepared for the ice storm that is "Daniel" Fenton, and his clone in only flesh and blood, and not memories, immediately breaks. And tells him that she was his clone, that Vlad sent her to come capture him, and to please not kill her.

Danny's face twists with anger, Ellie thinks he's going to kill her anyways. Instead, he withdraws his knife and gets off her, stringing out curses in Arabic as he sheathes his weapon back into its hiding place faster than Ellie can blink.

He switches to English as she is collecting her bearings (and contemplating fleeing), and Danny paces the room like a tiger in a cage. "--of course that wretched, arrogant, peacocking little ingrate would do something so infuriating. I should have driven my sword into the shrivel of his heart when I had the chance--"

Ellie, for a moment, thinks of leaving while he is distracted. And starts to slowly creep away. But Danny notices instantly, and whirls on her. His too-bright eyes bore into her head: "Where do you think you're going."

"...I'm leaving."

And Danny scoffs at her, "Why? So you can fly back to Masters and tell him that you failed to capture me, and that I know that he cloned me?" He says, and Ellie remains silent -- that's exactly what she was going to do. "He will destroy you within seconds."

Of course, Ellie rears back in offense, and she finds the footing to glare at him. "He would not! He's my dad, he loves me!"

Danny gets in her face, glowering back with an equal intensity. "He does not." He snaps, "Vlad Masters has not a soul in his body nor a heart in his chest. He would sooner cut off the hand that helps him stand, than to take it along with him."

"If you're really made of my blood, then I will teach you only this: we bow not our heads nor our hearts to anyone." Danny's too-blue eyes narrow, and his voice dips into a hiss, "Especially not to a conniving snake like Masters. Your heart: cut it off, or cut it out. He will sooner leave you to bleed."

Then, he unlocks the door and drags her out before she has much time to act. And as he drags her down the hall he shoots Sam and Tucker a text, and they meet up at Nasty Burger. Ellie is a spitfire, but Danny has her too intimidated to leave.

"This is Danielle," he tells them bluntly as he corners her into the booth, "she's my clone. Masters created her."

Ellie is with them for a week, and somehow throughout that time, Danny manages to actually get her to like him throughout that time. He's callous, blunt, and full of sharp edges that you can cut yourself on. But when he's not spitting venom, he's fretting.

When he drags her back to the house after being with Sam and Tucker, he pulls her to Jazz's room and opens the door to tell her the same thing. "This is Danielle." He says upon abruptly opening the door, interrupting Jazz's studying as he pulls Ellie inside. "She is my clone, Masters created her. She needs clothes."

Then he turns and leaves, shutting the door behind him. Ellie, in that moment, thinks that now's her chance to flee. But Jazz then squeals, and she is trapped in new arms, shaken around by Jazz Fenton, excited for a sister.

(Ellie finds herself complaining to Jazz that night, shoved into old pajamas. She's in utter disbelief that Jazz could care about a jerk like Danny.)

("He's rough around the edges, but Danny does care." Jazz tells her, combing through her hair with her fingers. "We've been working on it ever since he joined the family, but Danny warms up slowly. He's usually less stoney; I think your arrival spooked him.")

("Spooked him?" Ellie repeats, she doesn't believe it at all. "He has a funny way of showing it, he threatened to kill me!" And she turns around just in time to see Jazz's press her lips into a line.)

("He's... very protective. He'll deny if you ask him, but he worries a lot." Jazz's fingers find her hair again. "What I do know for certain though, is that he wouldn't have kept you here if he wasn't worried about you at least a little bit.")

(Ellie doubts it.)

But Ellie is indeed there for a week, and the day after her initially rocky introduction with Danny, he is a little bit kinder to her. Still kinda a bitch, but he's less harsh to her, if... almost uncomfortable around her. Flighty, kinda.

Whenever she gets mouthy at him though, he looks oddly smug about it and, infuriatingly enough, praises her attitude. He is very, very annoying. And still kinda terrifying. But hearing him shout insults via puns at someone during a ghost fight that happens that week lessens the intimidating factor,,, a little bit.

Things go about,,,, relatively,,,, similar to canon. In the sense that it ends with Ellie defecting from Vlad because she finds out that Danny was right and that Vlad didn't actually care about her. (And that Jazz had been right too; Danny, in his weird, mean way, had been worried about her as well)

Danny looks out of his depth as she talks about how he was right, and he cuts her off with a vaguely uncomfortable clearing of his throat. And gives her the most awkward, but genuine apology he can muster.

"I should've used more tact when telling you about Masters, and I... apologize for threatening you when we met. I was..." he makes a face like he's sucked on a particularly sour lemon, "worried. First about my family, and then later about you."

(Ellie will be damned: Jazz was right)

Before Ellie leaves, Danny puts a hand on her shoulder and tells her: "I wasn't kidding about what I said to you when we first met: you are of my blood, and as such, you do not bow your head nor your heart to anyone."

Ellie looks at him, thinks about the last week, and smiles like she's caught him in a trap. "What about Sam and Tucker then? And Jazz?"

Danny smiles, it's awkward and tilted, like his face isn't used to the gesture. "We bow not our hearts, but that doesn't mean we can't share."

[aealzx]

(continued ideas from this post, with the end part added in because of @silverspectre51 's comment about wanting a reunion scene)

The first time Danny had spoken to Jason he’d asked him not to tell anyone he had been there. He knew that the only reason his new family was safe from the enemies of his former life was because no one there knew about it, and no one outside of them knew he was still alive. So he’d asked Jason to keep his existence a secret, and was grateful when he agreed.

That didn’t stop him from taking Jason up on his offer that he was welcome there any time. Danny tried not to leave too often, for his sister and friends noticed when he was gone too long and tended to ask where he went. But sometimes the chaos of his life needed the stillness that was only brought by the small memorial Jason had made.

It also helped that Jason was a really cool older brother figure. He was gruff, and stand off ish at times, but it was easy for Danny to tell he was just awkward with emotions. There was always some sort of treat at the memorial when Danny arrived. Cookies, a candy bar, leftover chinese food. Danny always ate anything that was left, and Jason never asked how it was possible. They sometimes talked, but Danny never interacted much with the environment. It was easier to keep his presence hidden if he remained intangible, and Jason just assumed that’s how ghosts were.

It was because of the few visits that Danny found out Damian was targeted. Learned that whoever had targeted his twin had gotten the jump on him, and Jason and others had received a distress signal from him.

Danny was there first.

Being a ghost meant he didn’t have to strictly follow the laws of physics, and as Jason ran to his motorcycle Danny left him behind. His subconscious mind told him he should wait and only appear if he was actually needed. He hadn’t been needed so far afterall, so whoever these people Damian knew were, they had to be good. But the active part of Danny’s mind told him he could get in and out without being seen. Especially since when he arrived at the burning warehouse Damian was already unconscious, his limp body having been tossed to the floor.

Danny didn’t let the enemy get closer. He couldn’t make himself known as Phantom, couldn’t allow others to know Phantom had left his haunt of Amity Park. And so he allowed his true ghostly form to manifest. The one that manifested his accidentally begotten crown and matching wings, as well as the uniform he’d first died in, and the mark of his grandfather’s hand that had choked the life from him. Not even Sam or Tucker had seen this form, so he figured he would be unrecognized.

His appearance came with a distorted clap from the sound barrier being bent, his half alive form muffling the noise as though it were caught in a void but doing little to alleviate the pressure that came with it. As far as the enemy knew Damian was alone, and a blink of the eyes later a solid figure was half hovering above him protectively, an otherworldly sphere of energy held in his other hand.

“BACK OFF!”

Danny’s belted command came with a tiny burst of sonic waves echoing the ghostly screams of wailing dead. Just enough to reinforce his point and potentially burst some eardrums, but not enough to even come close to exhausting him.

They didn’t back off. Because why would they? Damian was no small prize to let go so easily.

And so Danny met their attack, his hand subconsciously scooping up Damian’s blade from where it had fallen. It had been a long time since Danny had fought someone fully alive. But his body remembered the training he’d been given. It was one of the reasons he didn’t fight with a weapon as Phantom. The blade flowed too easily for him. It was harder to be lethal with bare hands. But with a blade even someone with a form as small as his could overpower the brute that had targeted his brother. In moments he had the man on the floor, any goons he may have had having long fled as Danny raised the blade above his head, eyes locked onto the invisible target on the man’s throat.

“DANNY?! WHAT- STOP!”

The command didn’t halt Danny’s hands from plunging, but they did miss their target. The blade stabbed halfway into the concrete next to the man’s throat as Danny’s full consciousness returned to the front of his mind.

He knew that voice, and she shouldn’t be here.

“...Jazz?”

Danny’s voice shook in a whisper as he turned to look at this sister, somehow standing near the entrance of the warehouse. She wasn’t supposed to see him like this. He wasn’t supposed to do this anymore. With a gasp he flinched away from the hilt his hands had a death grip on, his form jerking away as though it had burned him.

“Is this where you’ve been sneaking off to?” Jazz demanded, her entire frame shaking from adrenaline from seeing her baby brother almost murder someone. He looked so different when she’d gotten there. So foreign to the Danny she knew. But she had long known that he had a past none of them knew about, and could only think this had something to do with it. “Have you been coming to Gotham to murder people?” she demanded. She would regret the phrasing of her question later, that obviously wasn’t the right thing to ask. But it was a little hard to think straight right now. She had followed Danny there, but she hadn’t meant to confront him about his escapades until later.

“N’no- I was just,” Danny stammered, suddenly feeling like thousands of unkind eyes were watching him, and shifting his gaze to his clawed hands.

Someone else arrived. A purple suit and blonde hair, dropping from the ceiling and running towards Damian. “Robin?!”

It drew Jazz’s attention to Damian, the hero name easily familiar. “Robin?” she asked, voice significantly quieter as she turned to look as another figure dropped in while the first started to pick Damian up after making sure he was safe to move. “Danny, were you…”

Jazz had a lot of questions that Danny didn’t want to answer. But if they stuck around there would be more people with even more questions he couldn’t answer. “We have to go,” Danny cut off, floating down to start ushering Jazz out the door. She protested, but Danny barely heard her. “They’ll take care of the rest. Please. We have to go before-”

He was frantic, not wanting the time limit to run out before someone else who would recognize him showed up. He wasn’t expecting the other time limit to run out.

“Danyal?”

The voice that spoke was barely a whisper of recently regained consciousness, but it caused Danny’s heart to slam into his throat with a harsh gasp. Danny’s old name dragged his attention from his new sister to the one who had spoken it, small frame cradled in another hero’s arms as the rest of them stopped to follow Damian’s gaze.

“...Dami?”

Danny’s response came without him wanting it to. It caused Damian to double his efforts to remain conscious, which in turn exponentially increased Danny’s panic. He shouldn’t be there. So he wouldn’t be there.

“I can’t do this,” Danny gasped with a breath his lungs didn’t have, his hands reaching to rest on his throat before he fled as quickly as he’d arrived.

___________

Jason hadn’t been the first to the site to rescue Damian, but he was the only one who knew what Damian’s frantic babbling was about. Demands for the others to let him go back to the warehouse, refusing treatment even though his ribs had definitely been cracked. He’d only started to behave when Jason got there, firmly holding him on the bed to keep him from making his injuries worse. No one knew what they were talking about when Jason promised to take care of it. No one else knew why vague words of reassurance, and a promise to handle everything was enough to calm Damian down enough to stay still. And no one else was given any more answers as Jason left to return to his apartment after asking Stephanie what she had seen when she’d first arrived at the warehouse.

The presence Jason was starting to get familiar with was behind his apartment door again, as he’d thought Danyal would be. But this time when Jason quietly entered the room instead of sitting quietly near the window Danyal was curled in a tight ball in the corner, sobbing. He also wasn’t see through. Something Jason noted as he silently closed the door and approached Danyal, sitting on the floor across from him.

At first Jason wasn’t sure what to say, and Danyal seemed too distressed to be the first to speak. So instead Jason reached forward to cup his hand under Danyal’s elbow, noting how the lad jerk in mild startle, and how he felt a strangely chilled warmth from him. “C’mere,” Jason coaxed, pulling Danyal towards him gently.

It didn’t take more than that for Danyal to lurch forward, crashing into Jason’s chest and wrapping him in a tight hug. It wasn’t something Jason was used to, but it didn’t stop him from doing his best to comfort the lad, resting his hands on his small back and rubbing gently. “It’s okay. Damian is safe at home now, and police are taking care of the rest,” he tried to assure, trying to guess if that was what had Danyal in such states.

It took several attempts being cut off by sobs and hiccups before Danyal got a response out. “I s’screwed up! S’she w-... wasn’t sup’posed to see. He w’wasn’t supposed to see me.”

Jason wasn’t sure who ‘she’ was, but he guessed Danyal meant Damian for the second person. It was something that had confused him for awhile, why Danyal didn’t want to see Damian, and he couldn’t help asking. “Why did you run from Damian? I thought you got along.”

It was a question Danyal hadn’t had an answer to, even for himself. He’d wondered at first why he’d asked Jason to keep it a secret that he was there, even from Damian. But he’d never been able to answer it. He wasn’t angry with Damian, like Jason had first asked. He didn’t blame Damian for anything that had happened. He didn’t resent Damian at all. But for some reason the thought of seeing his twin brother filled him with dread. He didn’t want Damian to know he had a different family now. Another life, away from him and all they had grown up with. Not because he thought Damian would ruin it, or try to get him to leave it behind, or anything like that. He realized now it was because of an overwhelming feeling of guilt.

“I abandoned him,” Danyal choked out, answering the question for himself as well as Jason. “I left him alone in that shit hole of a family, to be used as a toy, as a weapon just to kill people. We were just kids and I left him all alone.”

The revelation caused Jason’s grip to tighten around Danyal, anger towards Ra’s smoldering brighter in his soul. But this wasn’t about him, so Jason stifled that flame in favor of something that would be of greater use. He could try to tell Danyal that Damian didn’t hate him. That they both apparently felt the same ill begotten guilt, believing that they had somehow failed each other despite having only been children. His own words to the others came back to his mind. 

‘I was just a kid you know.’

They were just kids. They were still just kids. And shouldn’t have to deal with such grief over something that had been caused by adults. Jason knew he could sit there and talk, and try to convince Danyal that he was wrong, and his feelings didn’t have to be what they were. But he also knew there was a much easier way to solve this, and a lot of other tasks.

“...Danyal,” Jason spoke, getting his attention. “Can I ask you to trust me?”

“...W’what?” Danyal asked, his sobs thankfully starting to quiet as Jason piqued his curiosity.

“Will you trust me? And allow me to take you to Damian?” Jason repeated, hoping the hold he had on Danyal was comforting instead of smothering. “Trust me that I know Damian, and know this will help both of you?”

It was somehow a simple request in Danyal’s mind. Trust Jason, the only brother who Damian trusted enough to tell him about his dead twin, to know how to help them. For some reason it was easy for Danyal to turn his brian off, and agree. “...Okay.”

___________

Jason soon learned that Danyal wasn’t a ghost. A comment about finding a hoodie to hide his white hair for the trip led to Danyal revealing that he could easily switch forms between human and spirit. A ring of light briefly passing over his form, and Danyal had black hair, regular green eyes, and completely lost that intimidating presence. Now he was just another regular boy. And he looked exactly like Damian.

He still asked for the hoodie.

The trip back to the Wayne manor was quick, and silent on Jason’s motorcycle, the spare helmet shoved over Danyal’s head. He seemed reluctant to take it off when they stopped, and Jason couldn’t blame him. He seemed very keen on not being recognized.

“Don’t worry. Not even media cameras make it here. Bruce likes his privacy,” Jason assured, resting a hand on Danyal’s back in what he hoped was reassurance even as the kid pulled the hood lower.

Unfortunately because of the recent circumstances the manor wasn’t empty. But Jason ignored the others with short quips when they got nosy. It was only Alfred, the one who always looked after them when hurt, and who was just leaving Damian’s room, that they stopped for.

“Welcome home, Master Jason,” Alfred’s usual greeting was the first words exchanged. “Might I ask who our guest is?”

Alfred didn’t sound like Danyal was unwanted, but he didn’t miss the protective tone subtly in his voice.

“A visitor for Damian,”Jason responded simply. A half answer. It would take too long to explain, and they weren’t there for the others.

“Are you sure this is the best time for visitation?” Alfred asked, knowing that Jason was well aware of Damian’s current health status.

“Trust me. They both need this,” Jason confirmed, his hand never leaving Danyal’s back even as he kept his head low and face away from curious eyes.

“Very well,” Alfred relented after a small pause, stepping aside and gesturing for them to pass.

Jason thanked Alfred, and took charge of firmly leading Danyal through the open door. He could feel Danyal’s body tensing with rattled nerves, and didn’t want him to suffer in second guessing any longer than necessary. So when Bruce turned to look at them from the bedside where Damian was refusing to fully rest, Jason took care of introducing their arrival. “Couple of dead boys, here to visit.”

It was certainly unexpected, but while Bruce’s expression scrunched in confusion Damian stubbornly sat up and a tiny snort escaped Danyal. The humor was almost out of place, but appreciated, and Danyal allowed Jason to move him forward a little before taking the hood from his hands.

Letting the fabric that was hiding his face slip from his fingers, Danyal lowered his hands to replace it with the front of the hoodie instead, giving a shaky, nerve wracked smile as he clenched the oversized hoodie. “... Hey, Dami.”

The greeting was easier than Danyal thought it would be, and he didn’t have to wait long for Damian’s response. Despite the protest of his battered body, Damian ignored all the rules he’d been given to stay in bed in favor of launching himself towards his twin. “Danyal!”

Danyal’s breath left him in a slight huff as a figure the same as his own slammed into him, arms being thrown around him without any hint of hesitation. As Damian babbled broken chatter, Danyal found he couldn’t fully focus on what he was saying. Just the familiar voice from half a lifetime ago, slightly different with just a bit of age, echoing in his ears. It was easy to return the hug, Danyal’s hands remaining gentle in consideration of Damian’s ribs, yet also squeezing as tight as he dared. Fresh tears caused his throat to tighten once more, but this time he didn’t mind. Even the brand new voice behind him did little to deter his desire to stay right where he was.

“Holy shit! You have a twin!”

“Shut up, Tim. You’re ruining it.”

______________________________________

Friggen huge post but I'm not planning on making this an extended fic so just splatted it all out in 1 post X'D

The first part of this is what that design of Danyal I did was for. And a day of brain fog and just the right kind of positive motivation got me to actually do this.

I feel really out of my element because I only know the DC group from Wayne Family Adventures, and a few fan content things my sis reblogs |D I hope they're not too out of character.

[c0mbatchameleon]

@jegulus-microfic April 21st, prompt: run, words: 1160, nsfw

aka regulus comes until he cries? that’s basically it yeah (+t4t jeg)

He shouldn’t cry.

It’s what Regulus has heard since—well, as early as he can remember. Crying is a vulnerability he can’t afford, a sign of weakness, and the Black family are anything but weak. Don’t be a baby, they’d say—to the literal fucking baby.

The last time Regulus cried was when he was 7 years old, he thinks—his mother certainly made sure he never did it again. And even long after he left that house behind, left his family and everything they stand for, found a new family, found a new home and new self unrestrained by hatred and abuse, transitioned, finally became comfortable with himself, his identity—after all of it, this is what he’s held onto. The belief that he shouldnt cry.

At least, it was what he held onto.

Now, as Regulus finds himself bent over the kitchen counter, nails dragging down the cool granite that he’s pressed flush against, he’s beginning to think crying isn’t so bad after all.

The tears started falling after his second consecutive orgasm, streaming freely down his face as he convulsed around James’ strap. James only slowed his thrusts to something deep and drawn out as he leaned forward and cooed, “That’s it baby, let it out,” hot breath cascading down Regulus’s ear and neck, hand stroking his hair gently. Languid kisses pressed down his neck and shoulder as he twitched and softly gasped in overstimulation.

He barely got a chance to catch his breath before—

“How ‘bout one more for me, yeah?” And just like that, James was drawing out and ramming back into him with a brutal pace. Regulus let out a choked gasp as his vision whited out, back arching, legs shaking. All he could respond was a tear-streaked string of oh fuck oh fuck oh fu—ah—please as James continued chanting soft praise and encouragement, railing him into a new fucking plane of existence.

That leaves him here, hurtling head first towards a third orgasm and choking on intermittent sobs and moans in rhythm with James’ thrusts. Each one is hitting that spot that sends a line of white-hot electricity up his navel, fraying his nerves until his entire body feels like an exposed wire. His hands grab for purchase on the countertop, unsuccessfully, as he tries to drag himself up, away, anywhere to put distance between himself and the onslaught of pleasure-pain that’s spreading like a fire across his whole body.

But James only digs his hand into Regulus’ curls and pulls, the other wrapped around the front of him so Regulus’ cock grinds into it with each movement of their hips. “Where are you trying to run off to, love?” he teases as his grip tightens and holds Regulus in place.

“Oh fuck— I can’t—“ Regulus’ own moan cuts him off, loud and lacking shame. “S’too much,” he whines.

“But you love it, don’t you?” Soft lips trace up behind his ear. “You don’t want me to stop, love, do you?” Regulus’ eyes roll back into his head. The hand presses down further on his cock and another sob escapes him. “C’mon, tell me how much you love it when I take you apart like this,” James coaxes, pulling him up further by his hair so that he has to balance on his forearms, his head falling back.

And, here, in this state of over-saturated, pure white static bliss where Regulus can barely distinguish reality, the world around him, anything other than James’ hands and James’ lips and James’ sweet-honey voice and James and James and James, the only thought he can form amidst the haze is the one James has supplied for him so graciously, so giving as always: that he loves it.

You love it, don’t you?

And Regulus does.

He loves having his walls taken down, brick by brick until he’s bare, surrendered to pleasure and to release. God, he fucking loves this release. The kind he never allowed himself before, the way it washes over his whole body and builds up like a dam, the way it flows in and out of him, completely open, running rivers down his face and sending shocks out from his core, chest heaving, bones melting, transcending his own body and yet more grounded in it than he’s ever been. He’s nothing but skin and shaking muscle and neuron and nerve ending and pure, unfiltered feeling, and, yes, he loves it. So, he does what he’s told and voices it, let’s it flow out of him like the rest of the dam, frantic and breathless.

“I love it, I—ah—oh—I love it, I love it I love it I—fuck—“

“That’s good, that’s right, fuck, you’re doing so well, baby. You look so pretty when you cry like this” James praises, breathless now, tone soaked in awe and pure adoration as he watches Regulus repeat the phrase like a mantra, an oath, a prayer, the words melting together to the point of near incoherence: I love it I love it Iloveitloveitloveitloveloveitloveit.

“That’s it, I know, baby,” he tugs on Regulus’ curls again, pulling him up against his chest. The new angle makes his cock drive deeper into Regulus, drawing a strangled moan out between his quick, gasping breaths. “Why don’t you show me how much?”

His fingers move in quick circles on Regulus’ cock, other arm wrapping around his shoulders to hold him up. “C’mon, let go for me one more time, Star.”

The simple order is all it takes. When Regulus comes, it’s with stars behind his eyes and tears flowing freely and a scream tearing through him, head hanging back on James’ shoulder, back bowed, clenching down on silicone as shudders rack through his body in waves. James works him through it with a slew of there you go and so good for me and so perfect and show me how good it feels, baby, that’s it.

He collapses back onto James, boneless, and breathes. Shakily. James squeezes him tight. All that concentrated flame has simmered and spread out into something soft and warm and buzzing all throughout his body. A small whimper escapes at the feeling of James pulling out, his core still throbbing around nothing.

James scoops him up easily, laying him down gently on the couch in the next room, and kneels down to cradle his face with his hands.

“Okay?” he asks softly, kissing Regulus’ forehead.

Regulus keeps his eyes closed and smiles in delirious dream-state bliss, just barely aware that he’s still sniffling. “Love it,” he mumbles, and James snorts as his thumbs swipe back and forth under his eyes. His head is still cloudy, his body floating somewhere with it. “Love you,” he adds dazedly.

“Always so sweet after you come,” James remarks. “Think if I get you to five next time you’d propose to me after?”

If Regulus had the energy, he’d roll his eyes. Instead, he reaches out and runs his hand through James’ hair, down the back of his neck, along the scars on his chest, down his arm where he grabs his hand and pulls it into his own chest, body curling around it like he’s hoarding it. James doesn’t seem to mind. “We’re already married, James,” Regulus mumbles. “I literally proposed.”

James chuckles softly, fondly. “I love you, too, Star.”

[oifaaa]

Honestly think it'd be hilarious if people brought the same energy they use on hating Dick for "giving robin to Damian" to the actual person who made Damian robin you know this motherfucker

[saetoru]

al-haitham’s the kind of guy who tilts his head slightly for a kiss before you even lean in to give him one. he just knows it’s coming. expects it. trusts it’ll happen.

he’s yawning when he sits at the table for breakfast, hair slightly disheveled from sleep. he sits down and when you place the mug of coffee in front of him, his head angles a little for that kiss you place on his cheek.

he’s drowned in endless paperwork at the akademiya when you stop by to visit, chuckling when he gives you that look of despair at the all the work he has to do. you don’t even manage to walk up to him fully before he’s leaning in and waiting for the kiss to the top of his head.

he’s shirtless in the bathroom, brushing his teeth at night when you walk in to brush yours too, bumping hips with his as you giggle. you don’t even have to turn before he’s tilting his head so he’s exposed and ready for that gentle peck you leave at his jaw.

“have you ever noticed how demanding you are for these,” you chuckle one day, pressing a kiss to his cheek to prove your point.

he grunts, leaning in and burying his head into your neck as you greet him at the door after a long day. “what makes you say that,” he mumbles.

“you’re ready for one before i’ve even come close,” you grin, “what if one day i don’t kiss you?”

“you’d stop kissing me?” he asks, squeezing your hips as he nuzzles into your neck. something tells you he already knows your answer.

and he’s warm. he’s close. he’s here and he’s everything all at once. he’s all you need and everything you’ve ever wanted. he’s the messy hair of your mornings and the pouty lips of your afternoons and that shirtless back of every night. he meets you halfway—maybe even takes the first step so you don’t have to.

he leans in for that kiss before you do. because he needs you, wants you, loves you—and he never lets you forget it. so you turn your head, press your lips against the side of his head and run your fingers through his hair as he sighs in content.

“no,” you hum, falling in love all over again, “no i’d never stop kissing you.”

[steddielations]

ao3 | hurt/comfort, friends to lovers, pre s4

"Hello? Ed, is that you? What's all that noise? What's goin' on?" 

"Wayne, can you come pick me up ... I’m at a party at the Harringtons’ house ... I don't wanna talk about it, man … Can you please just come get me? Please." 

Eddie hangs up the phone and swallows down the lump in his throat. 

He refuses to cry in Steve Harrington's kitchen.

Making his way through all the teenagers crowding this soulless house, he blinks the fog from his eyes. No tears are gonna take him back to half an hour ago, shooting the shit with his dad in the van, happily ignoring years worth of bloody hatchets and skeletons between them. 

While Eddie was desperate for it to be real this time, dear old dad hadn’t changed at all, taking off with Eddie’s van the second he came inside to scope out the party. Sorry to all the manicured girls of Loch Nora that pay pretty pennies for his shitty joints, but his stash is long gone, along with all the cash he made the last few days. 

It’s all in the wind with Al Munson like always.

The muggy air washes over Eddie when he steps outside, rubbing his eyes against the cool sting of wetness brimming in them. He’s not gonna cry in front of Steve Harrington’s pool either, even if he’s alone out here. 

It’s like a different dimension from the crowd inside, but everyone knows the pool is off limits, though no one seems to know why. Everyone just falls in line to the will of the king. Whatever, Eddie doesn’t give a shit he just needs a minute to breathe. He needs a damn cigarette, too, but of course, his smokes were in the van.

“Hey Munson, you sold out already or something?”

Eddie’s hands drop from his face, whipping around to where the voice came from. Caught off guard, embarrassment rises in his cheeks under the gaze of the man himself, Harrington. There’s an almost eerie blue glow casting off the water where he’s sitting poolside in a deck chair, strangely alone out here when he’s got a whole party inside.

Eddie clears his throat, trying to shield his vulnerability from a moment ago, “Nah man, all my shit was stolen.”

“That bites. Do you know who took it?” Harrington sounds oddly… concerned. “I bet it was that dickhead, Hargrove. I kicked him out like 10 minutes ago.”

“What’s it to you?” Eddie shoots back, instinctively distrustful, hackles raised like a cornered animal. He’s already taken a knife to the back tonight.

Harrington holds up a hand as if to ease him, like somehow in all his prim Polo-wearing properness, he’s used to handling wild things. “Just figured maybe I could help you get it back.”

“Why do you care?” Maybe Eddie’s being too defensive, it’s not like Harrington has ever given anyone hell like Hargrove or Hagan, but they’re all one in the same right? Or maybe Harrington really was ousted from the throne like the rumors in the hallways say. Eddie’s got more on his mind right now than the intricacies of Hawkins High pecking order. 

“Uh, because it’s my house and I don’t want some thief around? Jesus you’re prickly, dude.” With an eyeroll, Harrington waves him over to the empty chair next to him. “Here, just sit down and relax for a sec. We’ll see if we can figure it out.”

Eddie hesitates, feeling like it has to be some kind of trap, but there’s no one else around. Harrington’s never done more than stand by while his jock buddies do their damage to whoever or call Eddie a freak under his breath a couple times, but who hasn’t? Eddie encourages it, even. What would Harrington get out of pulling anything now when it’s not for show?

Honestly, Eddie’s just trying to rationalize it because he could really use the beer that’s also up for grabs, offered with an outstretched hand.

So Eddie stalks over to the empty chair, warily sitting down as if it might snap him inside like a snare. His nerves are all frazzled. Between his dad’s little stunt and now the king of the jocks (former king?) is handing Eddie an open beer that he’s taken a sip from himself, give him a break. Eddie mellows out a tad after a couple chugs.

“Do you have any clue who took it?” Harrington asks, way too much concern in the line between his brows than he should be able to fake for Eddie.

“No one here.”

Eddie sort of wishes it was that simple. A stranger would only hurt his pockets, instead of this bone-deep betrayal he should’ve seen coming. He doesn’t even care about the money, or his van, it’s deeper than that. It aches somewhere the booze can’t wash away. He squeezes the cool bottle in his grasp, blaming the contents for what he woefully admits next.

“It was my pops, man. He ran off with my van and everything in it.”

For some reason, it’s embarrassing to say. Either secondhand for his old man pulling something so low-down, or just his own pride for falling for it. He stares at the unnaturally still water in front of him, instead of meeting the gaze beside him.

He can feel Harrington taking in it, questioning it. Maybe he’s wondering how a father could screw over his own son like that, or maybe he’s thinking everyone knows that’s exactly what Al Munson would do, and Eddie— especially Eddie, should’ve known that.

Even Jeff warned him this time too, having been there since the days that Al would bring Eddie a new bike when he won big at the casino, then steal it back the next week to sell when he lost. Seems like Eddie was the only idiot willing to give his dad another chance, even blowing off band practice the last couple days to spend time with him.

“Your van, huh?” Is what Harrington finally says, soft for some reason. “I could give you a ride home. Forest Hills, right?”

That’s… not what Eddie was expecting at all. Just picturing that hotrod that’s all the rage in the school parking lot kicking up gravel in the trailer park rubs him wrong. It’s all off-beat, Eddie feels so far off his center that he’s normally so sure of. All he can do is push back to try and find it again.

“What, you’re gonna ditch your party to slum it on the wrong side of Hawkins with me? Don’t worry about it, I called my uncle.”

Looking over, he sees how Harrington almost looks disappointed by that.

“Yeah okay, but I don’t really care about this party,” he says, not even trying to pass it off in a ‘cool’ way, he just seems put off by it, “Graduation’s coming up, y’know, it was Tommy’s idea. I should’ve said no, I don’t give a shit about it. Or Tommy.”

Again, not what Eddie was expecting. He feels a thud in his stomach at the mention of graduation, yet another failure under his belt. “Well I’m not graduating, so does it count as that kinda party if you’re out here with the super senior freak?��� 

“Guess we’re just having a shitty dads party then,” Harrington tries for what Eddie assumes is a reassuring smile, because for whatever reason in this twisted reality, Steve Harrington is trying to comfort him. 

Him, Eddie Munson.

But it ends up striking an already sensitive nerve.

“What do you even know about it?” Eddie scoffs.

Harrington’s smile drops, snapping back, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

A bitter laugh bubbles up in Eddie’s throat. He hates how it sounds as awful as he feels. Gesturing with the beer in his hand, he states the obvious, “Look around, dude.”

Maybe Harrington’s not as popular at school, but he’s still well off at home. A rich, two parent household that he’s never had to worry about scrounging to keep the lights on. The only business he’ll ever have to do is for his Daddy’s fucking letterhead. Eddie will accept his pity to the extent of a free beer, but he won’t sit there and listen to Harrington pretending to know what it’s like for him.

“Yeah, look around,” Harrington retorts, an even more bitter curl on his lip than Eddie’s. “Got everything except parents, don’t I? Like if they buy me enough shit, I won’t notice they’re hardly here.”

The look in his eyes is a little hurt but fierce, grating enough to cut through Eddie’s defenses. Wayne keeps telling him to stop jumping the gun and going off half-cocked. Yet here Eddie is again, assuming he’s got this guy all figured out.

When in reality, all he knows is that despite being the talk of the town, Harrington’s parents are rarely ever seen around. He lost his girl, doesn’t seem to have any real friends to show, and looks about as lonely at school as he does now— while he’s doing nothing but trying to help Eddie.

“I’m sorry, man,” Eddie relents, “You’re just going against everything I thought I knew about you right now. I’m trying to kick the habit of putting people in boxes with the whole anti-conformity thing. Been told I can be a real judgemental asshole.”

“Yeah I wonder why,” Harrington says lightly, his lips curling back into a smile that sort of makes Eddie want to hide his face. It doesn’t feel wrong somehow, like the rare times that a girl spared him a look, more like it shouldn’t be directed at him. Steve Harrington shouldn’t be smiling at him.

“And call me Steve, alright? If we’re gonna be in the shitty dads club together, we should be on a first name basis.”

That actually gets a laugh out of Eddie. Short and pained as it sounds, it’s real.

“Okay then, Steve,” he has to look away after he says it, feeling his chest cave under the weight of that smile for some reason. Must be the state he’s in. Steve made him forget for a second but he’s sinking again, staring out over the pool, trying and failing to see the bottom.

Read the rest on Ao3

for day one of @eddiemonth prompt “Parents”

[gbirrd]

5/9 - Damian Wayne-Al Ghul tarot card designs for Complete Candor by @vexfulfolly as part of the @batfam-big-bang

Read the fic here!

Other cards:

1-Babs 2-Cass 3-Bruce 4-Tim 5-Damian 6-Jason 7-Duke 8-Steph 9-Dick

Image IDs

Image 1:

A design of the "Justice" tarot card. It has the texture of recycled paper and reads "JUSTICE". A symbol of a rabbit and a wolf is visible behind the numeral "XI".

Damian Wayne-Al Ghul stands facing forwards in his Robin uniform. He is holding a glowing set of golden scales in his left hand and has wide pupil-less white eyes. A yellow bat-symbol is partially visible behind him.

Image 2:

A design of the "Justice" tarot card. It has the texture of recycled paper and reads "JUSTICE" upside-down. A symbol of a rabbit and a wolf is visible behind the numeral "XI".

A young Damian Wayne-Al Ghul stands facing foward in his assassin uniform. He holds a bloodied sword up in his right hand. His left fist and face both have blood splattered on them. He has narrowed pupil-less white eyes and a glowing spiky green crown framing his head. Green claws reach towards him from above his head and drip green down into a dark blood-red background. The entire card is upside-down.

[suddencolds]

insatiable appetite [1/?]

sooo... this is one of the thirstiest things i have written—and also one of the only times i've written a character with the kink, ever T.T warnings in advance for mess, character getting sneezed on, implied contagion, possible ooc-ness, & me writing this entirely with my d instead of my head

ivan and till are from al//ien sta//ge (a very fun watch which will only take 30 mins out of your life; i really recommend it!!). that said, this fic takes place in a modern au setting, so feel free to read it without any prior context :)

special thanks to @6pmsoup for sending me a very cute alnst doodle of these two which altered my brain chemistry permanently

—

Summary: Till shows up to a dinner outing with a brewing cold. Ivan suffers. (est. relationship, kink!Ivan, ~2k words)

—

For all Till tries to hide it, Ivan can tell immediately.

There’s this: Ivan has been paying attention to Till for most of his life. A full decade before they’d gotten together officially, and some more—this is how long Ivan has had to observe his tells. Always from the sidelines, always with a detached air of indifference that, in reality, was anything but.

All the signs are there the night before. Till, turning up the thermostat a couple degrees higher than he usually keeps it. Spending a little too long in the shower and using up almost all of the hot water. Clearing his throat one too many times in the morning before Ivan leaves for work, his smile distracted, the rasp of his voice nearly indistinguishable—but only nearly.

Now, Till is here for dinner—it’s a dinner they’ve had plans for a couple weeks now, at one of the nicer restaurants downtown, in celebration of Till’s recent promotion. Ivan had booked the reservation a couple weeks in advance.

When Till arrives, stepping out of a taxi cab, he’s wearing a scarf, even though the weather is too warm for it. Ivan steps up to meet him. 

“Sorry I’m late,” Till says. “Traffic here was the worst I’ve ever seen it, swear to god.”

“Was it cold outside today?” Ivan asks, a little pointedly, tilting his head towards his scarf.

Till looks at him, his expression unreadable. Then he nods. “Colder than usual, for this time of year.”

“Strange,” Ivan says, just to be difficult. “But the weather forecast says it’s the same temperature today as yesterday.” 

“It’s probably just windier today,” Till says, readjusting his scarf around his neck. His face is a little flushed.

“Your voice sounds a little off, though.”

Till clears his throat with a scowl. “You must be imagining it,” he says. “It always sounds like this.”

No admission, then. That’s fine. Ivan will get the truth out of him at some point. He lets Till guide him into the restaurant.

It’s a nice restaurant—worth the hassle of the reservation, Ivan thinks. Each table is set with flowers arranged tastefully in long glass vases, empty wine glasses turned on their heads. The server—who leads them to their table in a small, private booth—is wearing a suit.

It’s a shame, really. Ivan has a feeling that he won’t be able to pay attention to any of that tonight.

They sit. Ivan looks down at the menu, picks out something at random in a matter of seconds. Truthfully, he can hardly think of anything less worth his attention right now. He turns his attention to Till instead—Till, who’s seated directly across from him, the scarf still around his neck, obscuring the lower half of his face. 

Till sniffles, reaching down to turn the page, and oh. The sniffle is terribly liquid—has he been sniffling like that all afternoon? Perhaps it’s a good thing that they work at different offices—Till at a law firm, Ivan as a senior manager at a consulting company—because Ivan certainly doesn’t think he’d be able to get any work done with Till sniffling like that. 

It’s not two minutes later that Till is reaching up to wipe his nose against the back of one knuckle. All in all, it’s discreet. Just a quick brush of the fingers against his nose, which is still hidden under the scarf. Though, the look of sheer ticklishness that passes over his features for a brief moment there is...

“What are you thinking of ordering?” Ivan asks.

“I can’t decide,” Till answers. He turns the page again. “It’s between the ribeye steak and the… snf! The pork belly. Is this the kind of place that skimps on the portion sizes?”

“Not from their Yelp reviews,” Ivan says. “You know, if you really can’t decide, I can flip a coin.”

“I’ll pick,” Till says. “Why? Hungry already?”

He looks up, now. His eyes are a little watery. There’s a faint flush over the bridge of his nose. Ivan thinks that if he reached out and touched him, he’d probably be running warm. The thought is almost unbearable.

“Your taxi did take forever to arrive,” Ivan says, by way of explanation. 

“Did you really wait that long?”

He looks uncertain, for a moment. Ivan says, “Not at all. But you know, I’m always impatient when it comes to you.”

Till rolls his eyes, but it’s fond. “There was a meeting that ran late. I wasn’t avoiding you.”

“Is that also a part of your new position?” “I guess so, yeah.”

“I can see why they were eager to promote you, then,” Ivan says. “How productive can late afternoon meetings be, anyways?”

Till snorts. “Not that important. It definitely could have been an email instead. I was about ready to doze off.”

He sniffles again. “Okay. I think I know what I want.” The way he says know betrays the slightest hint of congestion. 

“At long last,” Ivan says, just to be a little bit of an ass. “I’ll call over the waiter.”

He flags their waiter down, waits for Till to order first.

“A spiced apple cider,” Till adds on, at the end, with the slightest of coughs. “Hot, if you can.”

That’s new, too. Till seldom orders hot drinks at restaurants, though he’ll drink tea without complaint if it’s offered. Perhaps his throat hurts, then, from the cold that has clearly started to settle in his system. Subtle, still, but Ivan is familiar with colds like this. He knows it will probably only be a few hours before this deceptively “small” cold turns into…

Ivan orders, too, and thanks the waiter, who leaves with a curt nod. When he looks back over to Till, there’s a… strange something to Till’s expression, a slight distractedness. Irritation.

Ivan swallows hard. He should look away. 

He should, but then, Till’s breath hitches. He pulls the scarf higher over his face preemptively, as if he anticipates having something to have to cover for. The sharp intake of breath that follows is breathy, though Ivan can hear Till’s voice in it. He should really look away.

Instead, he takes the scene in, painstakingly, little by little, as Till’s shoulders jerk forwards. As Till presses a hand to the scarf, presses the fabric closer to his face, to muffle a sneeze into his fingertips:

“hhH-Ih!! hiHH-’IESCHH-eew-!”

God. It sounds utterly miserable, the harsh release of it scraping against his throat, the spray tearing into his scarf. It’s the kind of cold sneeze that is undeniably telling: this is going to be one hell of a cold. It’s not very quiet, either, even muffled into the fabric.

For more reasons than one, Ivan is glad they’re in a private corner of the restaurant, not somewhere more public.

“Bless you,” he offers, once he can trust himself to speak. It’s a good thing that Till is too distracted to look up at him right now. Ivan isn’t sure he can keep what he’s feeling off of his face.

Truthfully, he isn’t sure he’s going to be able to endure a whole night of this.

The problem here is that Till—Till, of all people; Till, who Ivan has been pathetically in love with for almost as long as he can remember—has no idea about Ivan’s… relatively niche interests. That is to say, he has no idea what effect it has on Ivan when he does that.

“Thanks,” Till says, a little stuffily. He sniffles again, lowering his hand. 

Ivan can’t help it. He knows he shouldn’t pursue this line of questioning, but he can feel his self-control dwindling by the second. “Don’t you think it would be better to take off your scarf, now that we’re inside?”

Till freezes. “Y-You know what,” he says evasively. “It’s pretty cold in here.”

Ivan tilts his head in question. “And just how do you plan on eating like that?”

“I’ll take it off when our food comes.”

“I can ask the waiter to turn the temperature up, if it’s a problem,” Ivan says. 

“It’s not a problem.”

Ivan rises from his seat. Till watches him, perplexed, as he heads to the opposite side of the table, where Till is seated.

When he gets there, he stops. Stands, unmoving, so he can study Till from above. 

“What are you—”

Ivan reaches out, settles his palm across Till’s forehead. As expected, it’s warm. Not quite feverish, which is a good sign, but warm enough to be notable. 

“Just how long were you intending to hide this?”

Till stares back at him, wide-eyed. “Hide what?”

Shouldn’t it be obvious? “The fact that you have a cold.”

“I didn’t think it was worth mentioning,” Till says, slowly.

“Hmm.” Ivan drops his hand to his side. He is a little concerned, now. “We could’ve called a rain check.”

This time Till really does roll his eyes. “For the reservation we planned weeks ahead?” he sniffles again. “That just sounds completely and utterly unnecessary. Are you the type of person to call things off just over a little cold?” 

Ivan leans over, tugs down the edge of Till’s scarf. Till bats his hand away just a moment too late, cups his other hand over his face to shield his face from view. For a moment, he looks faintly mortified.

Then his expression settles into something more disgruntled. “What are you doing?” he hisses.

So uncooperative. “Let me see,” Ivan says. Slowly, gently, he pries Till’s hands away from his face, and then—because the restaurant is dimly lit—tilts Till’s face up slightly so that it catches more of the overhead light. 

Till’s nose is redder than usual. He’s probably been rubbing it all afternoon, if the redness that percolates into his cheeks is any indication. There’s  a damp, liquid sheen on the underside of his nose.

“What’s there to see?” Till says, a little crossly.

“Your face, since you’ve been so intent on hiding it under that scarf,” Ivan says, leaning in to get a better look.

Till scowls at him, but there’s no heat to it. “You see my face every day.”

“On the contrary, I don’t see it nearly enough,” Ivan says. “And you hardly ever get sick. Is it so wrong for me to be concerned?”

Without looking, he reaches behind him with one hand to grab a couple cocktail napkins. The other hand he keeps held up to Till’s cheek. 

But then, Till’s breath hitches. “Wait,” he says. Panic flashes through his face. “Ivan, move, I—”

Oh. Well, seeing as there’s no way he’ll be able to get the napkins over in time, it looks like he’ll have to improvise. If Till wants to cover, Ivan can help with that. He moves his hand to cup it loosely over Till’s mouth. Not a second too late, it seems. Till jerks forward unceremoniously, his nose twitching, his eyes squeezing shut.

“hHheh-! HHh’EIITShHh’yYiew!” he gasps sharply. Two? “Hh-! hHiiH’DSSCSSHh-IIew!”  

The jolt of the sneezes is practically electrifying—all of that force, brought to an abrupt halt behind Ivan’s waiting palm. He feels the expulsion of air against his skin, the warmth of Till’s breath, feels the slight dampness behind his hand as the spray mists over his fingertips.

Ivan swallows, hard. Thank god it’s so dark here, otherwise Till might notice what this is doing to him. 

“Bless you,” he says, withdrawing his hand at last to wipe it on one of the cloth napkins. It comes out slightly raspier than he intends it to, though perhaps it’s a miracle that he’s still able to talk at all. “Some cold, hmm?” Belatedly, he hands Till the stack of napkins.

Till practically snatches them from him, turns aside to blow his nose wetly into the top few. The way he sniffles afterwards suggests that his nose is still very much running. 

“Do you have no self preservation? It’s as if you want to catch this,” Till says, drawing back with another sniffle.

Oh, Ivan thinks, fighting back a shiver. That would be far from the worst thing.

[birbleafs]

It's hilarious how easily you could swap in (tweaked) dialogues from Pride & Prejudice (book/movie/bbc tv series, doesn't matter) and it would all still sound like their usual snippy and petty banter lol. Happy Valentine's Day to the two divorced-married idiots!! I need them to bite each other’s faces off, then kiss and makeup in bed later 🔥

[brewstersbru]

More radioapple with ace Alastor (cont. of last 📻🍎 fic) sorry if its a little ooc im sappy

“No.”

Alastor’s voice comes out quick and staticky as he expertly dodges Lucifer’s hands trying to pet down his waistcoat. Lucifer immediately steps back, eyes wide.

“Sorry! Sorry, Al, was that not okay?” He asks, still keeping his distance. Alastor’s expression is inscrutable, nose wrinkled as he smiles at the ground.

It’s quiet for a moment before Alastor shakes his head.

“I need to be alone for a bit.” He grits, then, just as Lucifer goes to respond, his shadows envelop him and he melts from the room.

“That’s-“ Lucifer sighs, “fine.” Leave it to him to somehow fuck this up. “This” being the unspoken, ever so slightly romantic thing he and Alastor have had going on ever since that night in the bathroom.

It started with meals; after figuring out that Lucifer was bearing his wound, Alastor- for lack of a better term- threw himself into feeding him.

Lucifer thought it was sweet that he used his, surprisingly human, ways to care for him through recovery. The food probably didn’t do anything tangible in helping Lucifer’s body patch itself together, but it made him feel warm, loved. Better than he has in an age.

The food, of course, was delicious, but what Lucifer liked most about taking meals with Alastor was the quiet sense of simply being with another person, without expectation. Without an unspoken asking for something in return. Lucifer had already done his part, and the pulsing pain in his chest each night was infinitely worth each peaceful hour.

At first, Alastor didn’t touch him if he didn’t have to, but just him being there, acknowledging Lucifer’s presence and doing his best to care for him through the pain was enough. Lucifer thought it would be over when he was finally healed, that Alastor would consider his debt repaid and leave him to his own devices once the bleeding stopped.

It was almost too much to imagine.

Lucifer has a nasty habit of getting attached, which is really quite unfortunate given his circumstances. Still, he hasn’t been able to shake it quite yet, and in a shameful moment of spiraling weakness, he had torn through his stitches, hoping to elongate the healing window, even just slightly.

He left the three green X’s alone, tried to keep it secret, but somehow Alastor figured it out, like he always seems to.

Furious, he’d marched Lucifer right back to the bathroom and redid his stiches, this time entirely with the neon green thread he is able to manifest at will.  The thread was warm, a little biting against his skin, but Lucifer liked it. Liked that it meant Alastor would pay attention to him.

God, what a pathetic thing to do. He still cringes when he thinks back on it, but loneliness will make a wasteland out of you. And Lucifer was desperate enough to bleed for the company, his blood is a mere pittance, after all. He’ll never run dry.

The longer they spent together, the more comfortable Alastor was touching Lucifer; little brushes against his shoulder as he passed behind his usual seat at the kitchen island, a steadying hand on his side when he checked his stitches.

It was bliss.

There was a starving, gnawing part of him that basked in it; that took the offered touches like scraps from a table and still wanted more. Another part of him, cold and still burnt from the last time, told him not to get stupid, not to ask for more than he was worth.

Never to beg, because begging is unbecoming of a king.

They fell into a rhythm, small touches, loaded glances, oh so subtle forms of care. Lucifer was healed before he wanted to be, but Alastor didn’t stop. Didn’t leave, even when he checked his stitches one day and, grinning, snipped them away to reveal a shining pink scar.

Even healed, Alastor cooked for him. Even on days when he couldn’t force himself to leave his room, a covered plate would be left just outside his door, food incomprehensibly warm even hours after being made. The touches- maddening, lovely as they were- continued, chaste and addicting as ever.

Lucifer began to feel wild with it. Something inside of him- frayed at the edges, and torn in the middle- couldn’t quite grasp what was happening. Why? He thought. Why, still? Why me? He never got the courage to ask, too afraid of Alastor realizing his mistake.

So, they continued like that. Alastor got more comfortable touching Lucifer who was more than happy to let him. It seemed like he didn’t get much practice with it. Touching.

The more Lucifer fell into the lull of security, the more he noticed the tentativeness of each touch, the careful laying of each finger against pale skin, as if Alastor were exploring touch for the first time. As if it fascinated him.

Lucifer never asked- always afraid of doing something stupid to make the final shoe drop faster- but he did notice. And he began coming up with a plan. Alastor is not the only person in hell who sees their relationships as transactional. Good deeds must be paid back. They must, or you’re indebted. Or, more frighteningly, at least to Lucifer, they will grow bored of you.

They will see that you are ungrateful, and they will leave.

Unwilling to let that happen, Lucifer devised a plot. Alastor has very obviously never been very intimate with anyone before, which is totally ok, if not confusing given his objectively handsome features. But he evidently, somehow, feels safe exploring intimacy with Lucifer, which is so incredibly heartening (it makes something hot burst in his chest every time he thinks about it). Lucifer can use this to pay Alastor back, slowly introduce him to different touches until he feels more comfortable with them.

It’s perfect. Or- he thought it was perfect. Until today. Until Alastor got that wide, panicked look in his eyes as he shouted “No!” before running off to recover. Father Above. How did Lucifer manage to fuck up this bad? There’s no way they recover from this.

He takes a second to mourn the relationship before squaring his shoulders and heading to his room to write about a hundred drafts of his apology letter. He can’t believe he so brazenly stepped over a boundary, not even realizing it was there!

He’s the king of hell for godssakes, he should know when one of his subjects is on edge, or uncomfortable. More than that, he’s spent enough time with Alastor that he should know his tells, as well.

Some king he’s turned out to be, huh? Fuck.

***

It takes Alastor two days to appear before Lucifer again, and not for lack of trying on his part. Lucifer had forced himself from his room each day, wandering the hotel’s grounds looking for him. Several times he would sit at the bar for hours on end, watching, waiting.

Not for nothing, though, he’s learned something quite interesting about the bartender, Husk, and Angel Dust, the porn star.

Over a series of poorly hushed conversations, and not-so-surreptitious glances, he’s learned that they’re dating. Have been for a good few weeks, and somehow no one’s noticed. They seem glad of that fact, though, so Lucifer resolves not to tell anyone.

More interesting, though, is that Husk has been urging his boyfriend to ‘go for what he wants, for once’ which Lucifer hadn’t really understood until he looked over and caught both of them hurriedly looking away. Super unsuspiciously. It was almost enough to make a grown man blush, the sudden knowledge that he was wanted. That despite what he tells himself in his worst moments, he is desirable.

Angel is an attractive man, Lucifer’s not too insecure in himself to admit that, but something curdles in his gut at the thought of pursuing anything with him while he and Alastor are still on the rocks. Which… Is new, and a little terrifying.

Plus, he doesn’t exactly seem like the type to take charge, if you catch his drift, and while Lucifer is happy to play any role his partner wants, he doesn’t know if he’d be any good at it. Not anymore. He just can’t see himself as a figure of authority, not when he knows what it’s really like to be himself. Pathetic, and lonely. The thought of embarrassing himself like that while vulnerable is excruciating, so he pretends not to have noticed their intentions. Thankfully, Angel hasn’t approached him yet. He’s not sure what he would say, anyway.

Back to the most pressing matter, Alastor knocks on Lucifer’s door late at night, two days after the awkwardness of Lucifer’s unwanted touches. When Lucifer opens the door, he’s smiling calmly, and holding two covered plates, one in each hand.

“May I come in?” He asks. Lucifer nods, doggedly, then flushes when he remembers the state that his room is in, after several nights of wallowing. Being the king of hell does have its perks, though, so he snaps his fingers and the place rights itself.

Not before Alastor gets a good enough look to purse his lips disapprovingly, though.

Lucifer manifests a small table and two chairs, which Alastor makes immediate use of, placing a plate in front of each chair, and pulling one out for Lucifer to sit in.

“Please, take a seat. I think we need to talk.” Great. That’s always a good start to a conversation. Not like that’s ever gone wrong for Lucifer before. Nope.

With a sigh- internally steeling himself against the impending rejection- Lucifer sits. Alastor hums, and follows suit, snapping his fingers to disappear the lids to their food as soon as he’s seated.

It looks delicious, as it always does. Some sort of colored rice dish with meat and veggies mixed throughout. Lucifer smiles and thanks him, snapping to manifest some drinks- a champagne for himself, and a rich red wine for Alastor.

It’s quiet for a bit as they take their first few bites. Lucifer hums his appreciation, which Alastor’s smile ticks up at.

Finally, stomach knotting itself enough to disrupt his enjoyment of the food, Lucifer speaks.

“I’m so sorry, Al. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, but I did, and if there’s anything I can do- anything at all- to make up for it-“ before he can finish, Alastor cuts in, voice staticky.

“It wasn’t your fault, my dear. You didn’t know. I’m afraid I…” He trails off for a bit, mulling over his next words. Lucifer waits patiently, eyes wide.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that specific kind of touching. I don’t like it.” He’s not looking at Lucifer anymore, head turned to the side as he taps his claws against his wine glass. Lucifer tilts his head.  

“By ‘that kind of touching’, do you mean on your torso? I don’t want to mess it up again.” He asks. It’s a little presumptuous to imply that he’ll be able to touch Alastor, after this, but he’s too on edge to censor himself correctly. Alastor scoffs.

“You did not ‘mess anything up’. There was just a simple miscommunication. By that I mean sexual touches. Or anything meant to lead in that direction.” Ah, Lucifer’s hand had been quite close to his navel, and his intention was most definitely to take the touches further if Alastor was comfortable with it. He nods, apologizing once more.

“Got it. Sorry again, Al, I know you don’t think I need to say it, but I still feel bad. Thank you for telling me.” Lucifer- infinitely relieved and brimming with ill-advised hope- smiles up at him and rests his hand, palm up, in the middle of the table. Maybe he can salvage this. Maybe he doesn’t have to lose everything again.

Alastor’s grin softens at the edges as his eyes rove over Lucifer’s expression. He ‘tsk’s but places his own hand on top of Lucifer’s, gently intertwining their fingers and bringing them up to press a small kiss to Lucifer’s knuckles.

A giddy laugh bursts from Lucifer’s chest and he buries his face- or what he can manage to obscure of it- into the palm of his remaining hand. It’s okay. Alastor’s not angry with him, it’s okay.

A few tears gather on his lashline, but he blinks them away before they can fall. Alastor’s other hand leaves his wine glass to brush just underneath Lucifer’s eye.

“Oh, don’t cry, dearest. It’s alright.” He says, voice softer than Lucifer thinks he’s ever heard it. It occurs to him that this must have been hard for Alastor, too, so unused to being vulnerable, but still showing this part of himself to Lucifer, and for what? So that Lucifer feels better? To put his mind at ease?

It’s so stupid.

It’s so kind.

Lucifer shakes his head, “Happy tears, Al. Thanks for trusting me.”

Alastor’s thumb swipes against the apple of his cheek as he hums.

“As if I could do anything else.”

[sarcasticshysociopath]

Are You Calling Me a Liar? Well I’m Not Calling You a Truther!

Summary:

Jason was more than aware that things between him and Bruce were rough, to say the least. How couldn’t it be when mess after mess had popped up, when he had caused chaos and heartache because it felt right even if it hurt not only everyone around him but himself too? So yes, he was more than aware of their current standing, didn’t mean it didn’t hurt, but when a chance encounter with Scarecrow’s newest fear toxin formula leaves him and Bruce with more than just open mouths as secrets and hardships come to light; maybe this will be the chance for Jason to finally reconsider what it means to heal.

Chapters 2/? out now!

I wrote this for the @batfam-big-bang challenge and it was so much fun to work with @artist1113 as my artist and @eventualtoast as my beta!

[otipe]

Al-Haitham x Deaf Fem!Reader

University AU

[Part 1] [Part 2]

[Silence could be overcomed by gentle gestures and shy gazes; but only the strong one go beyond for a voice that has been lost to reach the ears of their beloved.]

— x — x — x — x — x — x — x — x —

You fall in love with Al-Haitham throughout the winter season.

The great growth of love and timidness when having him around increased the more you two spend time together—and the moment where you realized that what you felt for him went deeper than simple friendship was unknown, but it didn't lessen the impact upon the fact that it was real.

The revelation from such an affair surprises you once you go past the confusion and denial from falling in love with a man who keeps his heart locked away and under a mask of nonchalant. The fleeting thought that you were just confused was viable, since you’ve never felt this way prior, and so you tried to convince yourself to drop the subject and to not think about your friend that way anymore.

But when the little veil of deception that you placed upon yourself vanishes, slapping you across the face that yes, you were in love, it takes no time for the butterflies to swarm in your belly whenever you look his way or his name is mentioned through conversations.

To notice the sudden race of your heart when you are alone, when he helps you when you’re unable to focus, to the way he cares for your well-being in subtle yet obvious acts of kindness; all of it was the beginning of your doom.

Because despite forging a friendship throughout the times at the university, in light of recent news of your newfound love, your actions are led with shyness instead of confidence. Your demeanor changes when he is in the vicinity, and you can’t help the assaults your heart does when he looks at you so intensely or simply focuses on your being.

And that places you here in the library.

Al-Haitham is keeping himself busy with his books and Kaveh…

Kaveh acts like he’s none the wiser when you need him as a backup when interacting with Al-Haitham; ignoring your pleading gazes, fixing his shirt when you tug on the fabric, and even biting back a grimace when you squeeze his arm to catch his attention. 

But everytime the bastard simply looks the other way with a pout, pretending that you both don't exist at the moment, and focuses on his papers instead of lending a helping hand.

A little nudge on your shoulder has your attention drifting towards Al-haitham, who raises a brow in questioning.

“What is it?” you sign, fingers trembling slightly. 

“What do you need from him?” he asks. His hand movements are choppy and a bit aggressive, “I can help you.”

Your cheeks warm with embarrassment, fearful that he's witnessed your childish nagging at Kaveh. Shaking your head, you tap the notebook.

“Tomorrow we have a test. I want to make sure he's ready, that's all.”

“Are you sure?”

You give him a thumbs up, smiling, “I'll be okay! I've been tutored by the best student on campus, so I have nothing to fear!”

Al-Haitham seems satisfied with your reply, the shadow of a smile hovers over his lips before he schools his face back to his usual stoic expression and goes back to his book. His eyes skim through the paragraphs and quickly jolts things down he deems important in his own notebook. 

You eye the stack of books he has next to him, two of them open and tossed to the side and the one he currently holds, keeping all his attention.

Idly, you think literature looks difficult; boring, even. 

Reading books is not of your preference, unless romance and tragedy are the main topic, your interest regarding lectures are non-existent so you are easily amazed by his focus and full concentration on what he reads whatever the topic might be.

A vibration catches your attention, watching a notification pop-up in your phone that lays next to you on the table. Picking it up, Kaveh's name shows on the screen with an incomplete message that has you blushing on the spot.

Gingerly, you open the chat.

× Kaveh: You look like a creep staring at him ಠ⁠_⁠ಠ

× Me: I'm not staring! 

× Kaveh: Yeah, sure- Even the librarian has noticed the hearts around you whenever he signs to you.

× Me: Shut up ;_;

Covering half of your face you glare at Kaveh, pouting at his teasing. He only gets to shrug and mouth an apology that’s not genuine with the smirk plastered across his face. 

× Kaveh: :P 

× Me: You are so mean for no reason :( 

× Kaveh: I'm only stating facts. If you want it a secret, then KEEP it like a secret.

× Me: Stop paying attention to what I do! I know how to keep a secret!

× Kaveh: Yeah? Your eyes don't! ╰⁠(⁠ ⁠･⁠ ⁠ᗜ⁠ ⁠･⁠ ⁠)⁠➝

Kaveh is insufferable when he teases, pulling you out of your tasks and bothering you until you give out and have to physically make him shut up.

Since he is in close vicinity, you slap his arm lightly, signing furiously for him to stop annoying you so much and to pay attention to his homework and study.

His eyes roam your hands, trying to piece together what you say but unable to tie the words and hand signs to coherent sentences. Is clear from his confused expression he hasn't gotten half of what you said, and now he wears an apologetic smile that tells you everything.

“She said to stop fooling around, and keep your head in your studies, dunce.” Al-Haitham closes his book, clearly annoyed. “Don't bother her too much, Kaveh. She's got enough on her plate.”

Kaveh gasps, offended, “I'm not bothering her, am I?”

“Lower your voice,” he reprimands, “You are being annoying.”

They go back and forth for a while, and you cannot help but look bewildered between the two of them, confused and intrigued by whatever they're talking about. 

Their mouths move too fast for you to interpret words into sentences, too fired up in their conversation—or argument, this looks like an argument—that they don't notice your curious stare.

Al-Haitham seems to mull over a thought, pondering whether to say what's on his mind or not. It seems to take a toll on him, sighing tiredly and briefly looking in your direction.

“She's clearly trying to study, and as her partner, shouldn't you try and help her out instead of fooling around?” 

Kaveh raises a brow, confused at his choice of words. 

“I’m a very good partner!” Is what he says a little too loudly. The librarian shushes him from across the room, glaring at their table and scowling, a finger on her lips. Kaveh bows his head in apology before continuing in a lower voice, “And I'm very helpful when I want to, thank you very much. You can even ask her, I’m a sweetheart.”

Kaveh notices the shift in attitude from Al-Haitham for a brief second, enough to surprise him when his scowls deepens and avoids eye contact to focus on the books on the table. He’s almost tempted to ask if his actions were what got to his nerves, but with the way he moves, uncomfortable and wary, he decides against it.

It becomes obvious something is going on when he starts packing his things without saying a word, closing the books and stashing them on his backpack slowly but with force behind every action. 

A little taken aback by his sudden urge to leave the library, you stand up from your chair and begin closing your notebooks alongside him in a hurry. 

None of them say anything while watching you pack up, eyes concentrated and precise actions to have your things in order. Kaveh purses his lips in contemplation and eyes Haitham stop dead on his tracks, regret flashing for a brief second on his face, but he doesn’t miss the fondness swimming in his green orbs.

“You don’t have to leave.” His expression softens ever so slightly, and he reaches for your wrist to catch your attention, “Stay.” He mouths slowly.

“Why?”

His eyes divert from you to Kaveh who looks at him with concern filled in his eyes, and he can’t help but sigh, scratching the back of his neck and unable to reason clearly. Taking his hand in yours, you tug slightly, getting his attention back to you.

“Don’t you want us here?” You ask. 

“I have to leave,” he signs, “I forgot I have a study session today.”

Shaking your head, you tap your wrist, “There’s still two hours away from your meeting time.” Al-Haitham doesn’t flinch when your expression sours, “Why are you lying to me?”

“I'm not lying, the session time has moved.”

Liar. And the fact he's doing so right to your face with no shame is worrisome for he's never had a reason to.

Al-Haitham continues packing his things in silence under your scrutinized gaze. When you realize he won't say anything else to you nor Kaveh, you take a seat and watch him leave with a quick goodbye.

You are left staring at the closing doors of the library and with an emptiness at the pit of your stomach. Slowly crawling your insides, anxiety takes over your thoughts in quick succession about his actions and lack of communication with you two. 

Was he upset over something? Did Kaveh say something? Did Al-Haitham say something? Are you at fault here?

You type in your phone before you can think further.

× Me: Did you two argue?

× Kaveh: No! He was scolding me for distracting you when it was the other way around >_> You get way too desperate when he talks to you.

You glare at him from the corner of your eyes, ignoring his last sentence.

× Me: But why did he leave? 

× Kaveh: I don't know, maybe he just got upset over me being too loud? I'll talk to him later when he comes home, don't mind him. He always acts like a drama queen.

× Me: Are you sure? 

Kaveh mulls over your question quietly. 

Al-Haitham is one to never hold a grudge when they argue, but rather take his time to calm down before sitting down and talk like civilized people. And Kaveh would have assumed this was the case if it weren't for the uncommon timing to his reactions, which raises the question: What made him this upset?

× Kaveh: I'll talk to him later, don't worry :) 

× Me: Okay, let me know if you both need anything! I don't like it when you two fight :(

Kaveh clutches the phone close to his heart and squeals loudly, fighting against his instincts to smother you in a big hug for how kind you were to him despite the clear favoritism you had for the one you crushed on.

From afar, you see the librarian standing from her seat, angry lines forming on her expression and marching towards you two with a determination that scares you deeply, freezing you on the spot.

You can't even warn your friend before she reaches him first.

“Kaveh, that's enough! Out of the library until you learn how to keep quiet!”

“What?!” 

“Banned for a week! Out with you!”

— x — x  — x — x — x — x  — x — x — x — x  — x —

Kaveh's expression at having the door of the library close shut on his face shouldn't be this amusing; but here you are, laughing with all your might and holding onto the wall for support because you can't hold back anymore after the last tense couple of minutes.

He's saying something, probably angry words at the ban and you for making fun of him, but you could care less with how much your stomach was hurting from the laughing.

“Stop!” he whines, tugging your sleeves with a pout on his face. “This is not funny!”

Cleaning the tears gathering at the corner of your eyes, you apologize between giggles, fingertips down the bridge of your nose and an open palm running a straight line down your chest.

“You are mean,” he mouths slowly, pulling you alongside him onto the halls of the university to walk away. 

“Sorry,” you sign again, not genuine enough for him to believe you. “I think we both need a break. How about we go for dessert?”

Kaveh blinks down confused, “I understood the break, the last thing I didn’t get.” 

“D. E. S. S. E. R. T,” you spell each letter slowly. He nods in understanding.

“Oh, yes!” He perks up excitedly, “Oh, oh! We can go to that coffee shop you were talking about yesterday. The one a few blocks away, yeah?” 

Happy at the prospect of some sweet dessert and a relaxing afternoon, Kaveh walks with new vigor and a goal in mind with you in tow, forgetting completely about his public humiliation and entertained like a little kid with a treat.

He holds your hand, smiling brightly back at you, and you return the grin with the same feeling of content filling your chest.

But even when you've settled down at the coffee shop; drinking milkshakes and eating cheesecakes between laughs and messaging each other, at the back of your head was the lie of Al-Haitham still present and bothering.

And perhaps it was selfish of you to have him roaming your mind when Kaveh is trying to lift your spirits and cheer you up to the best of his abilities, when it should be the other way round. 

And he notices. When he looks you from the corner of his eyes and his fingers hovers above the keyboard from his phone, you cannot help the embarrassed blush and hesitation whether to bring up the topic or not.

× Kaveh: Okay, I can't do this anymore. Spill.

× Me: …

× Me: What do you mean?

× Kaveh: >_> Don't play dumb. 

× Me: (⁠｡⁠•́⁠︿⁠•̀⁠｡⁠)

× Kaveh: That's adorable, I'm stealing it.

× Kaveh: Okay, girl, spill now or else.

× Me: Is just… I'm worried. Al-Haitham was acting very strange, and I believe we're missing something crucial that caused his distress.

× Kaveh: I think you're overthinking way too much, dear. Perhaps it might be your love for him talking.

The punch you throw at him doesn't hurt, he knows that, and yet, he feigns dramatically that you've broken all the bones on his arm. 

× Me: You're so annoying!!! Stop!!

× Kaveh: :P 

× Me: I just want to make sure we're okay. I don’t know why he lied :( 

× Kaveh: How about this; I'll talk to him later today and let you know how it goes. If he is upset or anything, I can solve the problem easily.

You nod, extending your arm on top of the table to reach for his hand. Kaveh doesn't take long to grab your hand and smile soothingly.

“Everything will be okay,” he says slowly. “Now that I think about it…”

You don't catch the last thing he says, watching him go back to his phone and type quickly with a determined expression.

× Kaveh: Okay so I've been thinking…

× Me: Rare occasion.

× Kaveh: Shut up! Look, I've been thinking that it would be a good idea for you to ask Al-Haitham on a date. 

× Me: Huh? No? 

× Kaveh: You should try asking him before he goes back to Sumeru on the spring break.

× Kaveh: I've heard he's reuniting with some old friend of his and, you know how it goes, maybe a childhood love might bloom.

× Me: :((((((

× Kaveh: Okay, sorry, maybe not that. But I do think you should try to ask him out, if only to give yourself a chance.

× Me: I don't want to ruin things between us. I like our friendship, and would love to keep it instead of jeopardizing it.

× Kaveh: That's such a big word for you! 

× Me: Kaveeeehhhhhhh :((((((

× Kaveh: Okay! Sorry! But think about it if you can. I'd love for my friends to date each other :( And I believe he won't say no. No one would be able to resist such a cutie like you (⁠ ⁠˘⁠ ⁠³⁠˘⁠)⁠♥

Oh, this man.

Whilst it is a wistful wish to date the one you fell in love with, his feelings on the matter is what makes you hesitate. This is not the first time you've thought about it, and won't be the last until you gather the courage to confess.

And Al-Haitham won't hate you if you say what you really feel, nor will he stop being your friend; but the lingering feeling of rejection will always be present and mocking you whenever you see him. 

Archons know how long it will take for you to heal from the whole ordeal if he really says no.

× Me: I'll think about it (⁠・⁠∀⁠・⁠)

× Kaveh: I'm going to pretend to believe you. BUT just know if he breaks your heart, I'll kick his ass into the stratosphere (⁠｡⁠•̀⁠ᴗ⁠-⁠)⁠✧ And that's a threat.

You giggle behind your hand, eyes filled with mirth and joy from his encouragement. Kaveh feels like he has accomplished something good today if your happiness is anything to go by. 

× Kaveh: Let's go home, it's getting a little late. I'll walk you back to the dorms (⁠づ⁠￣⁠ ⁠³⁠￣⁠)⁠づ

True to his words, he keeps you company the way back with both your hands clasped together the entire time. He would sometimes twirl you around to get you to laugh, sometimes would lay his arm around your shoulders to squeeze you affectionately when crossing the road; Kaveh keeps his touch present and as a supporting weight when you reach the building and kiss his cheek goodnight.

He waves back at you before you close the door, leaving him alone with his own worries and thoughts swirling in his mind.

The trek back home wasn't far, and it gave him plenty of time to think about his course of action before sitting down with Al-Haitham and talk about whatever happened earlier that day.

And if both are in the mood to keep the conversation going, he will try and prod information from him about his thoughts about you.

Perhaps he can be the cupid between you two?

‘I just want her to be happy,’ is what he thinks, sighing tiredly. 

Anything for you.

— x — x  — x — x — x — x  — x — x — x — x  — x —

Kaveh calls you a few days later. 

The vibration from your phone isn't enough to wake you up, sleeping right past it until midday when you realize you've slept way too long and have wasted precious hours of the day.

It takes a while for you to read your notifications and bark a laugh at Kaveh's multiple apologies for calling you when he knows you cannot hear. 

It doesn't offend you in the slightest, rather you find it hilarious because his enthusiasm knows no bonds to have forgotten something so obvious. 

× Me: Miraculously I can hear again! What is it? Let me hear your voice! 

It doesn't take long to see him online and typing already. You can even imagine the worried frown between his eyebrows and his pout in nervousness before he sends a message.

× Kaveh: In my defense!!!!!!!! Nothing…

× Kaveh: I'm dumb, I'm sorry. 

× Me: It was a silly mistake. If anything, I find it rather amusing.

× Kaveh: This is not for you to be making fun of me!

× Me: Why not? I think it's hilarious.

× Kaveh: ༼⁠;⁠´⁠༎ຶ⁠ ⁠۝ ⁠༎ຶ⁠༽

× Me: What the fuck is that.

× Kaveh: Oh so now is not funny anymore HUH

× Me: Kaveh that’s the most disgusting kaomoji you’ve ever sent. I’m sending you to prison.

× Kaveh: You're just jealous you'll never be him.

× Me: THANK GOD

× Kaveh: Ksdksngkdf ANYWAY!! Listen, I talked to Al-Haitham and we're good. He was annoyed I was being too loud and rather leave than start an argument with so many people around.

× Kaveh: You know how he is, a calm person and all. He's okay, I'm okay, and no, he's not mad at you. 

× Kaveh: Sooooo, want to come and grab dinner later? We can order take-out and maaaaaybeeeee, just maaaaaybe help me study for my next test (⁠๑⁠´⁠•⁠.̫⁠ ⁠•⁠ ⁠`⁠๑⁠)

Tempting, you think.

It's almost time for lunch, and you’ve spent most of your day sleeping away rather than being productive with the short time you have between classes, studies and exams. If you were to finish your duties before five and take a shower around six, you might be able to get there by seven or around that time to have dinner with them. 

Make lunch, clean the bathroom, wash your clothes and hang them to dry, clean your room a little bit. Humming to yourself, you think you might be able to make it on time and spend the night at their apartment without a hitch. 

× Me: Okay, I see no problems :) I'll be there by 7. Is it okay if I crash to sleep there?

× Kaveh: OH MY GOD YOU ARE AN ANGEL, AND YES OFC!! We can have a slumber party after studying. I literally cannot study alone because I get easily distracted and Al-Haitham doesn't want to help me (⁠ ⁠；⁠∀⁠；⁠)

× Me: Kaveh… you never want to listen to him. 

× Kaveh: That's because he's boring! That man isn't build for teaching ಠ⁠∀⁠ಠ

× Me: Try to keep yourself alive by the time I come, okay? Study as best as you can and I'll help out with the rest. 

× Kaveh: You're a real lifesaver! Let me know when you are on your way and send your location to keep track of you, alright? 

× Me: Okay! Don’t forget to eat lunch :)

And that's how you have your day booked.

To know both Kaveh and Al-Haitham were okay with each other was enough to feel relief wash throughout your entire system, as if a weight has been lifted off your shoulders and now you can easily breath without guilt nagging you. Despite the question mark as to why he opted to lie back then, you were happy to overlook it and focus on the good outcome.

Your day goes by with you running this way to the other to get things done and ready before you leave. There is the lingering thought of your conversation with Kaveh from a few days ago while you finish your tasks, entertaining the idea and even considering it with how joyful you were feeling.

You only hope that motivation stays until you arrive at their home.

Once on the streets, with your bag full of books and a change of clothes, you let Kaveh know you are on your way but don't receive an immediate reply.

Not even when you reach the apartment complex, greet the receptionist and take the elevator, there is no sign of your friend and you wonder if something bad has happened for him to ignore you completely.

You decide to message Al-Haitham instead, despite the butterflies roaming your entire being and warmness spreading on your cheeks.

× Me: Hey, is Kaveh okay? I sent him a message before coming but he hasn't answered yet :(

It doesn’t take long for him to reply.

× Al-Haitham: Hey, door is open. 

The reply is ominous without the intention to be. 

You open the door bracing for the worst.

The books scattered on his dinner table should have been enough to disperse any doubt of a catastrophe. Mouth slightly agape and surprised to see the desperation on Kaveh's face when he realizes you’ve arrived, and sure enough, the calamity seems to be himself with how exhausted he looks.

“Help,” he signs, and you can't help but laugh after a long pause. From all the words you've taught him, that one stuck to him like a life liner.

Nodding, you clean up the table and stack the books to the side to make room for you. Kaveh helps bring some books to the sofa, giving you enough space to open your notebooks and notes to start revising what he hasn't checked yet.

A buzz from the phone startles you, picking it up to see a message from Kaveh.

× Kaveh: What do you want to eat? I'll order now so we can focus ←⁠(⁠>⁠▽⁠<⁠)⁠ﾉ

× Me: Hmmm, do you want Japanese food? I've been craving katsudon lately. 

× Kaveh: Oh, yeah sure! I'll order ramen then. Let me ask stinky ass man what he wants and we're ready to go.

× Me: Don’t call him that >:(

× Kaveh: :P 

Kaveh leans back and yells down the hallway, “Hey, Haitham! Wanna eat ramen, or sushi? I don't know whatcha want. We’re going to order from Wangmins.” 

Al-Haitham's head pops out of his room, frowning deeply and seemingly annoyed. 

“I can hear you just fine, no need for yelling.” he walks out, shaking his head. “I don't want anything, thank you.”

You perk up when he waves at you, returning the greeting with a little more eagerness than you anticipate. But he seems to not mind, the shadow of a smile gently hovering over his lips and a nod of his head is enough to have you kicking your feet in excitement. 

Nudging Kaveh's arm, you point at your friend's clothes, curiosity filling your eyes when he walks past the dinner table and straight to the mirror. 

‘He looks rather handsome today.’ your eyes follow him from head to toe, blushing for ogling so shamelessly.

Kaveh whistles loudly, noticing Al-Haitham's fit. He seems to have dressed more elegantly than ever, brushing his hair in front of the mirror next to the door and smelling his cologne swift in the air and heavy on the nose.

“You look way too fancy today, what's the occasion?” he asks absently.

“I'm going out with Nilou.”

Kaveh freezes upon his words, blinking slowly and eyes going from where you're sitting to Al-Haitham, unaware of the shift in mood. You nudge him quietly, awaiting for a response to fulfill your curiosity.

“A date.” he spells, and he regrets doing so when he notices your expression break slightly. 

Oh.

“Man, that's um…that's new.” Kaveh scratches the back of his neck, surprised by the news. “Didn't know you were interested in that.”

Al-Haitham shrugs nonchalantly, checking his phone every few seconds and fixing the collar of his turtleneck, “She asked me, and I said yes. What's so weird about that?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing! Just never expected it from you…” He coughs awkwardly, not knowing how to continue the conversation, “What time are you coming home?”

“I don't know, probably late. Don't wait for me.” Grabbing his keys and the wallet from the table, he bids goodbye over his shoulder before closing the door behind him with an echoing thud.

For a couple of minutes, he doesn’t say anything in fear of breaking the dreaded atmosphere Al-Haitham has left behind in the awakening of the news of his date. 

Kaveh is fiddling with his pen nervously, unable to look you in the eyes because he knows the expression he’s wearing is neither pleasant nor helpful to the situation. Because just like you, he lingers in this limbo of uncertainty that he can’t seem to comprehend.

He idly wonders if he should have said anything at all. This outcome is not one he predicted nor thought possible in his wildest imagination; and the fact that you're now hurt because of his words and encouragement is making things worse for him.

The fault doesn’t fall on either of you, and Kaveh is aware you won’t hold this against him because feelings are out of anyone's control

And at the end, even if heartbreak is disheartening and ignites horrible emotions from within your soul, it is better to know it now than later.

Losing a battle that has never begun hurts more than you’ve ever thought.

When the first sobs go past your sealed lips, Kaveh's resolve breaks at once.

There is not a second of hesitation from him when he tosses his things to the side to cradle you between his arms and you latch onto him as your anchor.

The reciprocation serves to let him know this was the right action to take, losing stabilization that makes both of you slide down to the floor clumsily, but still in each other's arms.

Kaveh tries to fix you on his lap to let you rest comfortably, hand running down your back in soothing motions while you cry quietly against his chest.

It goes on for a long time, but he doesn't let go of you for a second. 

He can’t even say anything to make you feel better and it's frustrating. Not because of you, but because Kaveh isn’t good enough to communicate that everything will be alright. You don’t need that idiot who doesn’t realize how wonderful you are and it’s missing it out for a person who isn't worth the time—no offense to Nilou, she's a nice person, but you are more important than any other woman.

Biting his lip, he runs his fingers through your hair softly while you cry. He gets tangled easily between the fringes of hair, and Kaveh panics slightly when he gets stuck and is unable to detangle without causing a mess or pulling your roots. But when he hears you whine, and break a little laugh at his attempt at comforting you and messing up, he smiles softly, kissing the top of your head gently.

You tap the arm that’s holding your waist, catching his attention and making some distance to see your face. Kaveh frowns at your expression, cleaning a stray tear and cupping your cheek, thumb running soothingly under your eye. 

With trembling fingers, you start spelling slowly to him, “I’m sorry.”

Kaveh shakes his head, smiling reassuringly at you. His reply is slow, too, vocalizing every syllable, “Don’t be.”

“My fault.”

It's not your fault, he wants to say, but shortens it with a shake of his head. 

Conflicting emotions swirl inside of you, each one unable to place a name or intensity, that sends you into an overwhelming state of sadness.

Never in your life have you experienced something this strong that could make you ill with a snap of your fingers, rendering you weak and detached from your reality.

It still feels like a fever dream when you think about Al-Haitham trying to court someone, the ugly jealousy hurling inside your chest and your brain creating unnecessary images that do nothing to help your case nor fragile feelings.

Overthinking has always been your strong suit, despite trying to get rid of that bad habit for a long time; and it shows clearly that’s still ever so present when Kaveh shifts from under you, his big palm patting your head with care, and the tears well up in your eyes rather quickly with his show of affection because you selfishly wish this was Al-Haitham.

Falling in love is not as easy as romance books make it seem to be. It doesn't come with step by step instructions to help you get over the one you love, much less how to get the person of your affections when nothing seems to go your way.

The journey through the lands of unrequited love is a heavy one, one where you couldn't bring yourself to fathom severing the ties that bound you to him, even when the chance of Al-Haitham still hurting you unconsciously existed. Your love, though hopelessly one-sided, was a testament to the depth of your emotions—it’s bittersweet to try to find comfort in the idea that you might heal in the future, that you will get over him, but it lingers for a brief second before it vanishes completely.

And you rather be hopeless in love than to lose this cherished feeling you’ve cared for a long time.

Your brain runs down a mile, thought after thought, tears after tears, until you are left bare and dry from crying and fall asleep in Kaveh's arms.

[neztchi]

Some TWST boys from Twitter~☆

[fairylette]

Summers In Your Blood

The league trains its assassins to endure all climates. They are sent out in the Arabian deserts, to humid rainforests and to Antarctic planes. Damian himself was put in climate-chambers where he would sit silently for hours in various pseudo-climates.  So he has no idea why the Gotham winter cold is affecting him so badly. 

Or; Damian struggles to adapt to the freezing temperatures of his first Gotham winter, and his siblings try to work out why he is acting so strangely.

[wickedcriminal]

I have been rotating aria of pride and deceit by @asthmaticbee in my head like rotisserie for several days and I'm still crying over this little angel in a red coat and his ungodly demon (affectionate) of an older brother

[eggcats]

I'm still (always) thinking about my Housewife Vox AU, so here are my sexuality/history/etc headcanons for Alastor and Vox in it

(I kind of have more for Alastor here, bc almost all of my Hazbin ships involve him so he's the one I've thought about more - I kind of keep similar headcanons no matter what ship I'm thinking of, tbh).

I'm also going to write Alastor being in a rut in this AU, because those fics are always fun, and he will be having sex but it'll be more in a "my mate is aroused and I must please them" kind of way, if that makes sense? I kind of see him as sex-neutral/positive asexual, even in a rut, but the rut makes him a little (lot) more feral and in less control of his instincts. (This is why, before he got into a relationship with Vox, he's never really been affected by the sexual aspects of a rut, because he's only interested in sex as far as his mate is).

(I know my fic kind of tiptoes around any possible consent issues, but I think having Alastor react like this kind of solves it in a way, because he's only interested in making his mate feel good so if Vox didn't want something or began to not like it, Alastor would immediately stop to comfort his mate. However, since he's never before had ANY of his deer/demonic instincts really show before, none of them are sure how he'll react this time, hence the concern).

(I don't mean this in a way to insult any other Alastor-rut fics, trust me I love them, this is just how I'm writing mine here).

I put a readmore here bc I realized how many words I was writing and didn't want to clog your dash, lol.

Alastor:

Asexual - is generally so uninterested he has never masturbated or even considered doing so; knows and understands sex (in a baseline level) but doesn't know anything further as he never wanted to engage or see it; still is only interested in it in a way to experience/watch Vox enjoy himself, wouldn't engage on his own otherwise

Possibly aromantic - the line between "romantic love" and "this person belongs to me" is essentially the same to him, could not tell you the difference (side note: neither can I)

Doesn't know either of those things

Just thinks "I'm the only normal motherfucker alive/in hell when it comes to relationships" and has not had a single question in regards to himself since

Doesn't really understand the difference between being friends/roommates and being in a relationship (hence when he found out that Vox liked him, he was like ah, okay. I don't need to change anything here, since he thinks we're in a relationship, this must be what people DO in a relationship. No need to mention any of this to Vox, surely)

When eventually I do make him have sex, he doesn't really have a preference in position. Generally, I'll include him as the more dominant partner (especially with Vox), but that's more because that's what VOX wants, and Alastor is being intimate for Vox. He has no real preference on who tops and who bottoms, as long as Vox is enjoying himself (and Alastor gets enjoyment out of the act when Vox is)

The same applies to dancing - Alastor teaches Vox how to swing dance, but once Vox learns and becomes more comfortable, a lot of their dancing has them constantly switching the lead and following position, based on whatever they feel like doing at the time

Despite living in the 20s/30s is fairly open minded about a lot of things relating to gender and sexuality, because he lived in the vice district in New Orleans and was exposed to a lot of that (either growing up, or living there as a serial killer, or both).

Some parts of me think that after he murdered his father when he was only around 13-15 (another headcanon of mine), his mother needed a way to make money and so they moved to the vice district, and so Alastor knew and grew up with sex workers and cross-dressers and saw how they were treated by police/society, and so has no issues with them.

Living there when he was a serial killer was also useful, because no one bothers anyone to avoid the risk of setting the police on you.

He doesn't know a lot of more modern terms for things, but Vox wanting to wear a dress doesn't concern him, nor does being in a relationship with a man, since those were things he not only had experienced/seen when he was alive, he's also been in hell for 20 years which is, as a whole, a lot more open minded about things. (I did try to keep him ignorant of more modern things, tho, like he doesn't know anything about things he would have only seen/experienced in hell because he doesn't care about people or relationships, really).

Probably some form of autistic (same, bestie) and takes a lot of cues about how their relationship should be from Vox (which is why he originally didn't feel the need to change his behavior even when he found out Vox was interested in him, because it didn't occur to him at all, and only discovered Vox was sexually interested when it was shoved in his face - however, now that he knows, he's taken a much more active/possessive role in their relationship, including a sexual aspect)

--

Vox:

(Previously) closeted bisexual

Grew up/lived/married/died in middle Americana, white picket fence, 2.5 children, all the houses looking identical, 1950s desperate housewives edition, the whole shebang

DID have a cult, but I'm thinking less Manson, and more "televangelist who extorts his flock for money/power" - this is why he has his hypnosis powers (he doesn't really have them/have discovered them yet, but that's because he's never really had a chance to explore his powers in any real capacity - he basically showed up in hell and then was kidnapped and wifed up immediately)

Did have a wife and children, but wasn't interested in either of them - had them more so because he "had" to and it would look bad for his image, not out of any attraction or love to his wife

All of this contributes to him doing everything he can to try to hide his attraction to Alastor, because he had to do so in life

He's Really Bad At Hiding It tho, because living with Alastor (who, even before he learned Vox was interested in him, has very little boundaries to physical space and just grabs and touches him all the time) is different than being a little attracted to your neighbor

Also, no one in hell calls him out on it, so he never quite realizes how obvious he comes across

Does eventually start his side of the media business, with the help of Alastor, to combine both radio and television to take over the airwaves entirely - becomes the Television/Video Demon, to complete the Radio Demon

Stops Alastor from murdering any and all other media demons/demons who have similar powers over the airwaves, and instead makes deals for their souls to work for him - this is where a lot of his initial power/dealmaking comes from as he rises to also be an Overlord; even when Alastor is the one who finds a media demon he basically just kidnaps them and drops them at Vox's feet like a cat presenting a half-dead mouse to it's owner

--

(Note: I'm aware that Alastor is canonically asexual and he's still in my AU, and I've heard back and forth about him being canonically aromantic and I'm unsure if you'd classify him as aro here too. I'm ace, and I think (maybe?) I might be on the aro spectrum, but regardless I kind of write Alastor like how I'd see relationships/would develop into one in a similar way. I'm not interested in sex or anything, and I've been interested in people/relationships very rarely (and those I am, once I become close friends I'm usually like, oh cool, yay), so I'm kind of using myself as a baseline to figure out how Al feels about things here.

That being said, I don't agree with people harassing other creators who DON'T make Alastor ace or aro in their fics or art, bc it's fan content and so it doesn't matter. Changing a sexuality in a fanfic isn't the same as Actual Erasure and it's wild that people claim that, because I've been reading fanfic since I was 13 and I PROMISE you none of those characters were as queer as I was reading them, lmao. Despite all evidence to the contrary, when they grew up Naruto and Sasuke did NOT fuck nasty in the Hokage office, no matter how much they should have.

Sorry rant, over.)