#thanks for the prompt! :)

[mikacanica]

Napping after a hard day's work 🤫😴

prompt by @wafflebatter8225 !

[ariadne-mouse]

Doodle prompt: Kid Caleb admiring Chetney’s toys through a store window.

Someday, Bren, someday!

[luxaofhesperides]

Soulmark AU + Sleeping Beauty ; requested by @candeartist422!

For the last few years, Duke’s been waiting for his soulmate to die.

It sounds cruel to say it that way. But the waiting is more painful, he thinks, than just mourning a lost love. It’s not like most people ever meet their soulmates anyways; his parents weren’t meant to be, but they still loved each other and had a life together. He wishes he could turn his focus away from his soulmate, but Duke is a romantic at heart and has always wanted to find the other half of his soul.

But since he was fourteen, his soulmark has dulled, fading in and out of color. What was once a vibrant blue crystal star, with eight points and a swirl of watercolor hues around it, dimmed more and more until Duke was sure he was watching his soulmate die slowly. 

His soulmate didn’t die then. Whoever they are got better, his soulmark gaining color, but it never went back to the way it was. For years after, Duke would check at the beginning and end of each day, keeping track of when it faded and when it regained its color. 

He thought his soulmate was sick. In and out of hospitals, fighting to stay alive.

And then it went nearly colorless. 

Duke doesn’t remember much about that day. He knows he woke up, brushed his teeth, the lifted up his shirt to check his soulmark in the mirror. The blue was almost completely gone, the star on his left hipbone nearly gray with how colorless it was. He started at it for a moment, shocked, and reality slid away from him as he retreated into the safety of his mind, fully dissociating. 

Bruce had found him when Duke didn’t show up for breakfast. He held him and offered quiet words of comfort that Duke couldn’t understand, but just having someone with him lessened the hurt of losing his soulmate. 

Seeing the color come back the next day, faint as it was, hurt even more.

A year later, Duke still can’t break the habit of checking his soulmark twice a day. It hasn’t changed at all, still faint and dim, but carrying just enough color to show that his soulmate was still alive. At the very least, they were still breathing, but his chance of ever meeting them is basically zero. Still, he can’t help but hope, wishing that he could meet them even once before they die and leave him forever. 

“Same as ever,” he murmurs to himself as he brushes his thumb against his soulmark. He’s terrified that he’s forgotten how beautiful the blue of it was when his soulmate was healthy. 

Duke doesn’t let himself think on it too much anymore. Though his thoughts often turn to his soulmate during quiet moments like these, the busy nature of Gotham is usually more than enough to pull his attention back to the here and now. There’s no use in obsessing over his soulmate anyways; they’re just going to die, sooner or later, and Duke knows he’ll never get to meet them. They’ll just be another empty space in his life, right next to his parents. 

“Come on, Thomas, focus,” he tells himself firmly, then gets dressed and heads down to the kitchen for breakfast.

The manor is quiet. It usually is in the mornings, with everyone from the night shift dead asleep and trying to get as much rest as they can before they have to start their day. Not that many of them stay in the manor these days; Duke and Damian are the only permanent residents at the moment, but Steph usually stays half with her mom and half in the manor during the summers when she’s home from college, and the others drop in whenever they feel like it. 

Bruce lives more in the Batcave than the manor, so he doesn’t really count. It’s also why Duke is surprised to see Bruce awake and dressed like a normal person, drinking coffee in the kitchen as if this is a normal occurrence. 

“Morning,” Duke offers.

“Good morning, Duke,” Bruce replies. “Sleep well?”

“Well enough. Alfred out or something?”

“He may have kicked me out of the Batcave to clean it up a bit,” Bruce answers tiredly. “Want me to make breakfast?”

Duke has heard the horror stories of Bruce’s attempts to make edible food in a kitchen. In the interest of not dealing with food poisoning, Duke shakes his head quickly and says, “Nah, it’s fine. I was kinda wanting to eat out for breakfast. Get out there as me, and not a mask, you know?”

“Mind if I join you? Alfred may forgive me for not sleeping if I willingly go outside.”

Duke laughs. “Sure man, as long as you pay.”

“I’ll drive, too.”

“What, don’t trust me behind a wheel?”

Bruce gives him a tired look, eyes dead and dull. “I have taught all my children how to drive. The day I willingly let them take the wheel when I am not actively dying is the day I’ve been replaced by a robot clone of myself who doesn’t know better yet.”

“That is… very specific. Is that a thing you usually worry about?”

“I’m Batman. I have to worry about everything.”

Yeah, that tracks. Duke wouldn’t be surprised if he has at least five contingency plans for that scenario, should it ever happen. “Well,” he says, “Right now, all you need to worry about is having your wallet and driving us down to The Foodie Nook. I’ve been craving their breakfast plates for ages.”

Bruce doesn’t object to his choice of restaurant and follows Duke down to the garage, grabbing a random set of keys and pointing it out to the many cars he owns. One near the front blinks its lights as it unlocks and Duke cheerfully tosses himself into the passenger seat as Bruce opens the garage door. 

The drive into Gotham is smooth. They don’t hit traffic until they reach the bridge that leads into the city proper, taking them away from the quiet of Bristol. The morning is busy, but not enough that Duke worries about being out as the Signal to help keep the peace. It’s a normal type of busy, one borne from people going about their lives, feeling safe enough to go out. 

The Foodie Nook is entirely local and very popular, so the parking lot is nearly full. But they expanded their space last year, which means he and Bruce don’t have to sit outside while they wait to grab a table. Bruce keeps conversation light and casual, well aware of the many listening ears around them, and it’s nice, feeling normal for once. 

Well, as normal as life can be with Bruce Wayne™. The server who comes to lead them to a table realizes who she’s talking to after she gets a proper look at them while holding open the door and promptly stutters over her words. 

“No need for any special treatment,” Bruce laughs lightly, “We’re just here for breakfast. Nothing special.”

“Of course,” she replies, cheeks red. “Um, right this way! We’ve got a table by the windows for you. Just two, yeah?”

“Yup! Just two. Thought this was a good day to spend some time with Duke. He’s a great kid, you know, I’m glad I was given the opportunity to foster him.”

The sunny, cheerful Bruce Wayne persona is so different from the usual Bruce he works with that it feels like he’s standing next to a stranger. But his words are sincere and warm his heart, filling up the gaps that his soulmate has left. 

“Here you are!” their server announces, showing them to their table. “I’ll be right back with some menus.” She’s gone in a rush, and other customers glance over before quickly averting their gaze. 

It’s one of the unspoken rules of Gotham: give the Waynes their privacy while they’re out in public. Questions and conversation are for public events only, but if they see a Wayne out and about during a normal day, everyone leaves them be unless spoken to first. Duke used to follow those rules as well when he was just another Gothamite. It’s strange being on the other side of that now that he’s in with the Waynes.

Duke barely has to look through the menu when it’s handed to him. The breakfast plates are his favorites and he gets one every single time he comes to The Foodie Nook; stacked full with breakfast foods from around the world. As a kid, he loved the Mexico Plate, but these days he’s craving either the Brazilian Plate or the Vietnamese Plate.  

He can’t decide on which one and thinks about tossing a coin to decide, but seeing how that’s Two Face’s whole thing, he decides to hold off and settle the matter with eenie-meenie-minnie-mo. 

He gets the Vietnamese Plate.

Bruce, on the other hand, reads through the entire menu like it’s a novel, then leans over and says rather loudly, “Duke, what’s a tort-illa.” 

The pain he feels hearing that is only worsened by the amusement in Bruce’s eyes. He’s doing it on purpose, playing up the Brucie act for the public so he can psychologically torment Duke. A few nearby customers choke back laughter, turning away to hide their smiles. 

Duke shakes his head and says, “Don’t worry about it. It’s just food. Don’t ask any more questions, I just want a peaceful breakfast.”

“Well then,” Bruce replies, “I suppose I know what to order now.”

As if she was summoned, their server reappears before them, cheeks still looking a little flushed. “Hi! Ready to order?”

She writes down their orders quickly, valiantly keeping a straight face at Bruce’s mispronunciation of tortilla, then heads off to deliver their orders to the kitchen. 

Rather than draw out a conversation with Brucie Wayne, Duke settles for playing a few idle games on his phone; his current favorite is one quiet cat cafe game where he directs cats into fulfilling cafe orders. 

Bruce, despite being out in his civilian identity, is working. He’s on his Batman phone, which looks the same as his other cell phones except this one has a bat symbol sticker just barely hiding a Superman sticker on the phone case. His brow is slightly furrowed as he reads whatever file he’s accessing from the Batcomputer. It’s a little worrying but it could be anything. Bruce makes the same expression when he reads one of Tim’s snarky comments getting quoted in the news.

But that’s not Duke’s problem! He’s here to enjoy his breakfast and it will take the end of the world itself to remove him from his seat before he’s done eating.

The game takes most of his attention until their food comes out, and by then Bruce has tucked away the smallest of his Batman mannerisms. They enjoy a normal, peaceful breakfast. Bruce ends it by asking their server if she has any debt that’s weighing her down, then giving her a tip that’s at least five thousand dollars above that. 

She does cry and Bruce hugs her. It’s very sweet. 

As soon as they get back into the car, his easy going smile drops and Duke knows some superhero nonsense is about to take over his day. 

“Duke,” Bruce starts, seriously, “I received a message from Zatanna.”

“Don’t drag this out,” Duke says, “Just give it to me straight. What terrible thing is about to happen to us?”

“It’s nothing too big. They just recently defeated a magical being who had been tearing apart secret government facilities in Illinois. He had both magic and a high tech weapon, which they confiscated and are delivering to me. The government agency he was fighting was suspiciously interested in the weapon, and based on their behaviors and newly revealed work, Zatanna made the decision to turn the weapon over to us so it doesn’t fall into the wrong hands.”

Bruce smoothly merges into traffic as he speaks, getting them onto the road back to the manor. There’s a look in his eyes that means he’s keeping a lot unsaid, and Duke knows without a doubt that whatever this government agency was doing is bad if Zatanna needs Batman to act as extra security. 

He’s not sure about her decision to trust the weapon to be safe in Gotham, either. Sure, Batman will keep it as safe as he can, but with their luck, it’ll end up in the hands of a Rogue and lead to a lot of death and destruction. 

As soon as they cross the bridge and return to Bristol, Bruce steps on the gas and the car tears down the road. Without any other cars to worry about (or traffic laws), it takes barely two minutes to reach the manor, when the gates open for them and let them into the garage. 

Alfred waits for them by the door, looking them over with a critical eye. “I see you have managed to go outside, Master Bruce. What’s the special occasion?”

“Just breakfast,” Bruce answers. “I’m heading back down to the Batcave. Zatanna will be here soon to deliver a weapon.” He’s gone before Alfred can say anything more, hurrying down the hall and turning the corner, disappearing from sight as he heads towards his office. 

“I see we have yet to break that bad habit of his. Did you enjoy your morning out, Master Duke?”

“Sure did, Alfred. I’m, uh, also going down to the Batcave. He’s definitely not telling me a lot about what’s going on, so I’m just going to read about it over his shoulder. I’ll be back up for lunch, though!”

“And perhaps you’ll be able to drag Master Bruce away from that cave of his,” Alfred comments wryly as he walks with Duke towards the office. He gives Duke a nod, then splits away from him, returning to the kitchen where Duke can hear Damian speaking to someone, probably Tim by the annoyed tone of his voice, and mentally wishes Alfred luck in handling them.

Duke sets the correct time on the clock in Bruce’s office and heads down to the Batcave, taking the steps two at a time. 

Bruce is already at the Batcomputer, shoulders tensed, when he arrives. 

“More bad news?” he asks as he makes his way over.

Bruce doesn’t bother looking away from the screen as he says, “More details about the fight. It seems the magical being called himself a ghost and was going on a rampage due to a betrayal. He says they nearly killed his son.”

“Oh, yikes.”

“And two of the scientists working with the government agency said that he stole their son and is keeping them from saving him.”

“Yikes,” Duke says with more feeling.

He doesn’t get to hear anymore details about JLD’s fight with this ghost when he catches a flicker in the corner of his eye. Duke turns and stares at the empty space in the Batcave near the medbay and watches as colorful magic gathers and swirls in dizzing circles. The portal opens a moment later and Zatanna steps out, looking exhausted and lightly singed. 

“Batman,” she greets, holding a white gun that looks like it belongs in an early sci-fi movie from the 60s. “The GIW is trying to arrest us. Constantine keeps burning their badges and documents so it shouldn’t be a problem, but they are determined to get this back. I wouldn’t be surprised if they came after you next. They’ve got some way of tracking things, but I didn’t have time to get any details before I had to leave.”

Bruce takes the gun from her hands carefully, looking it over with a sharp gaze. “Why would a ghost want to use a gun?”

“I don’t know. He had a variety of powers, too.”

“What does this do?”

“Shoots ice. He never let it go and nearly burned me alive for taking it before we subdued him.”

“We’ll keep it locked up,” Bruce promises. 

Zatanna sighs. It looks as though a physical weight fell off her shoulders. “Thanks. I’m going to head back to stop Constantine from getting into a fistfight with the GIW agents.”

She opens another portal with a waved hand and a muttered spell. Bruce is already walking away to set the gun down on a work station, so Duke is the one to wave Zatanna goodbye. 

By the time he reaches Bruce’s side, the gun is already dismantled, all pieces neatly set aside. Sticky notes denote which pieces go together and in what order. It looks the same as most guns, save for the aesthetic, but the heart of it is a glowing blue orb, large enough to cover the entirety of Bruce’s palm, and it brings a chill to the air.

Duke stares at it and feels his soulmark burn ice cold.

“Duke?”

It’s in his hands. He doesn’t remember reaching out to take it, but it’s in his hands. He can’t take his eyes off of it, cradling it gently and bringing it closer to his chest. 

It’s the same blue his soulmark once was. Before his soulmate began to fade, before every day became a waiting game to see how long his soulmate will last before they die. 

This has something to do with his soulmate. He’s sure of it. 

He won’t let anyone take it from him. 

“Duke. Give that to me.”

He doesn’t feel like he’s in his body. He’s detached, floating somewhere outside his body, puppeteering his limbs, making them move without feeling the motion. Shadows condense around his feet and Bruce takes a step back, wary. 

“Duke,” he says again, but Duke can’t find any words, can’t draw on his voice, can’t even look away from the bright, bright blue of the orb. It pulses lightly in his hand like a heartbeat. 

Bruce reaches a hand out. 

He’s pulled back by shadows before he can get close, and Duke holds the orb against his chest, right against his heart, and feels the cold seep into him. 

“Duke. I need you to look at me.” This time, Bruce’s voice has Batman’s growl in it, a heavy command that he can’t help but instinctively follow. He looks up and meets Bruce’s eyes, but he can’t focus. All his awareness is in his hands and the heartbeat of the glowing orb.

“I have to protect this,” Duke manages to whisper. “I… I think it’s alive.”

“Okay. Let’s get you to the medbay so you can sit down. We’ll figure this out, Duke.”

Bruce slowly, carefully, sets his hand on Duke’s shoulder. He keeps his attention away from the orb, so Duke allows it and lets Bruce guide him to the medbay and onto one of the medical cots. Bruce leaves him after a minute of quiet fussing, muttering about calling Zatanna.

Whatever. None of that matters when the heartbeat of the orb grows stronger, steadier, and Duke feels it match the beat of his own heart.

Time slips away from him. Distantly, he hears people move around the cave, speaking in low tones. A hand presses against his shoulder, warm, then moves away. 

The orb in his hand moves. 

Duke blinks slowly, then claws his way back to awareness, pushing past the haze that’s fallen over his mind. The orb turns over in his hand, then cracks right down the middle. The glow grows stronger, washing the medbay in blue light and a symbol appears on the orb.

It’s his soulmark. 

Later, he won’t be able to say why he did it. There were no thoughts, no reasonings, no explanations. Duke simply moved on instinct and lifted the orb up to his face and pressed a soft kiss against it. 

One moment, the orb was still.

The next, it had burst in a flash of light that blinded everyone in the Batcave, and then a thin, injured teenager had fallen into Duke’s lap. 

Hands immediately grab him, pulling him away from Duke. The teenager puts up no fight, eyes barely open, but he reaches for Duke weakly. On his wrist is the bright blue snowflake, the color strong and vivid. 

“That’s me soulmate,” Duke whispers as he watches Bruce and Tim set the boy down on another medical cot. 

“What?” Tim says, turning to face Duke, concern clear on his face. 

“That’s my soulmate,” he repeats, louder. Then, panicked, he pulls up his shirt enough to see his own soulmark; the color is still dull, weak, barely there, but it’s more blue that it has been in a while. He doesn’t need to say anything. Tim sees the dullness of his soulmark, looks at the boy, and puts the pieces together on his own.

“I’ll call Doc Thompkins,” he says, already moving to fix everything. Bruce remains where he is, making sure the boy is tucked in and breathing steadily before he returns to Duke. 

“Are you alright?”

Duke swallows roughly, unable to tear his eyes away from the boy. He’s pale and thin, as if he’d been starved, and there’s frost beginning to spread on the bedsheet from his fingers. “He’s my soulmate,” Duke manages to say. “He’s been dying for two years.”

Bruce’s eyes a hard, a determined light in them. “We’ll save him,” he promises. 

If anyone can, it’s Batman. 

If anyone can, it’s them, Batman and the Signal, and their entire network of family and friends. 

Duke’s been waiting for his soulmate to die all this time. Now, he’s going to save him.

[srapsodia]

hinata and kageyama fighting over a meat bun!!!!

there's a non-zero chance that this meat bun will end up on the ground jfjdjf

[dontforcemetologin]

same thing as before but better.

what a dramatic loser

based this off that one time during a hsm on stage rehearsal when I was laying down on the ground in the background of ryan and sharpay’s duet.

[atrueneutral]

Imagine if Raphael was on the Material Plane in human form when he happens to cross paths with his little mouse (who he is infatuated with) and then, for one reason or another, someone mistakenly assumes that Tav is his spouse and refers to Tav as such ("Oh, apologizes, sir! I didn't realize your spouse would be joining you!"). How do you think he'd react? Do you think he'd go deer in headlights for a second? Would he just roll with it? Would he clear up the confusion?

Okay, I kiiiiind of tweaked this a smidge…

—

“That particular piece of armor will run you six-thousand gold.”

Tav balked at the price, and she over-dramatically cleaned out her ear with the tip of her pinky finger. “Sorry - I want to make sure I heard you correctly. You did say six hundred-”

“I said six thousand gold, yes. That’s exactly what I said,'' the dwarven armorsmith staunchly affirmed. His bushy mustache that she originally found fun suddenly became stupid, as did the squat face that hadn’t once smiled since her arrival into his stupid shop. “You can’t pull a fast one on me, lass.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, saer!” She performed offense with a hand to her chest and a face of aghastness. “How dare you accuse me of trying to trick you into giving me a fair deal on a piece of armor!”

“It’ll be the full price or nothing,” he gruffly replied.

The bell posted above the shop door jingled, and Tav could hear bootsteps sauntering up behind her as her brain worked to think of a way to attain the breastplate she wanted. She needed a plan that didn’t involve stealing, murder, or, more importantly, spending six-thousand of her hard-found and hard-earned (and sometimes-but-rarely hard-pilfered) gold...

She wanted this new breastplate, and–

The dwarf looked past her to the only other customer in the shop, and his eyebrows raised. “Lord Raphael! What an honor! How may I be of service?”

Lord Raphael?

Tav frowned and turned to see if it was who she thought (hoped) it was…

Her face lit up. 

It was!

Her solution - her knight in patterned doublet - was here! Her walking, handsome, charming bag of six-thousand gold!

Raphael seemed a tad befuddled by her enthusiastic reaction to his entrance, but that didn’t stop him from smirking at her. “Korrilla said she saw you nearby, and I thought I would see how-”

“-your wife was doing?” Tav finished. She pretended to be deeply touched as she strode up to him. “Oh, husband!”

His nose scrunched with more befuddlement. “Hus-”

Tav placed her hand against the side of his face and silenced him with a kiss. It was their first kiss, but because it needed to be between a husband and wife who were ardently and so-very-passionately in love with one another, Tav’s tongue ended up gliding over his lips in invitation after a handful of seconds. Surprisingly, Raphael accepted with a hum. His tongue entered her mouth and his tongue swirled around hers as he grabbed her hip.

As it turned out, Tav quite liked kissing him. So much so that she almost forgot she was standing in a shop and was well on her way of forgetting that she was only kissing Raphael because she wanted him to be her devilish coin purse.

Tav woozily broke the kiss, feeling weak in the knees.

“This is your wife, Lord Raphael?” the shop-owner asked with astonishment.

Tav, still against Raphael with her hip captured by his hand, stared at her ‘spouse’ with an expression that said: please say yes.

Looking past the lust in his eyes, the cambion stared back at her. His expression said: you’re up to something.

“I’ll pay you back,” Tav sang, grazing her thumb across his cheek with a smile. “After all, I did give you that wonderful… hat. The one that looks so nice and so perfect on your head. The hat that is better than alllllll the other hats in existence…”

“Did you not get something in return, Little Mouse?”

Tav twisted to give the shop-owner a heartened look. “Don’t you adore the pet name?”

The dwarf’s eyes narrowed.

“What is it that you want, wife?” Raphael asked with a tilt of his head. “A new deal will need to be struck.”

There were oftentimes instances where Tav’s mouth ran before logic and reason had the chance to catch up.

This was one such instance.

“I will clean the House, husband,” she replied, giving just as much bite to the fake title as he did to hers. “Naked.”

The offer threw kindling onto the fire in his brown eyes.

“For eight hours!” her logic and reason was quick to add. Tav tossed another glance behind her to the dwarf. “I’m so sorry you have to hear all of this. We like to have fun, my husband and I.”

Raphael’s hand squeezed her hip to draw her attention back to him.

“And what are you asking for in return?”

“Nothing, really…” She personified innocence and combed through his hair as if to put a stray lock back behind his ear. “Just a measly piece of armor… that I won’t be wearing… when I’m naked...”

She could tell Raphael was thinking of her naked.

And she could tell he liked what he was seeing.

“Very well, wife.” The grip at her hip jostled her, and he pulled her closer. His mouth lowered to her ear and his voice lowered in a way that melted her insides. “But you will be coming ‘home’ with me after this purchase, and I expect you naked once we’re in the door.”

She didn’t mean to moan, but it happened at the same moment her brain malfunctioned. Tav forgot she was standing in a shop, and she forgot about the breastplate; she was too busy imagining herself standing in a certain House with Raphael’s eyes on her naked body.

“Ahem,” announced the dwarf, bringing her back to reality. “My lord, with all due respect…”

Raphael breezed around her and landed at the shorter than average counter - leaving Tav gaping like a goldfish in the background.

“My wife requests the ‘measly piece of armor’,” Raphael said sarcastically.

Tav came back to earth. 

“The breastplate,” she corrected, her back to them.

“Yes, the measly breastplate,” Raphael additionally corrected.

“Of course, my lord. The cost comes to four-thousand gold.”

At that, Tav spun around - indignant.

“Hey! You said six-thousand, ‘take it or leave it’!”

The dwarf did not pay her any mind, and neither did Raphael.

“Four-thousand is an agreeable sum… yet I would like to offer you more,” the cambion said smoothly. “How about I pay you one-thousand now, and, say in three day’s time you come to Sharess’ Caress to see if we can’t work out a better deal?”

Tav was livid to see the shop-owner considering the offer.

“I accept, Lord Raphael. One-thousand gold for now.”

Tav returned to being a goldfish - sputtering nonsensically, enraged as Raphael snapped his fingers and handed over a pouch full of coin.

“For your wife,” the dwarf said, handing her new measly breastplate over to her ‘husband’.

“Ha! He’s not my husband!” Tav declared, needing to spread the foolishness she felt onto the shop-owner.

Raphael chuckled as he strolled over to her with the armor in hand.

Tav glowered at him. “Smooth-talking bastard…”

He stopped before her, snapped again, and the breastplate disappeared. “The breastplate is yours - once the House is clean and tidied, dearest wife.”

He held out his hand to her. 

“I regret giving you your hat,” she said, taking his offered palm.

“We’ll see if you feel the same - after your eight hours.”

Raphael smiled as heat swam in her core, and he teleported them to his House of Hope with a burst.

In the ‘door’ where they stood, his smile became exceedingly devilish.

“Now, my little mouse of a wife… strip.”

[Part ll]

[justalittlelilac]

Hiii! Since you're asking for prompts... how about sick step 2 Qiu with a high fever? Being clingy and accidentally confessing their love for the MC? 🥺

This is so cute, I'm going to lose my mind.

Caring for a prickly, clingy Qiu Lin

Barely revised and edited. If you see mistakes, no you didn't <3

It wasn’t uncommon for Qiu to not answer when you knocked on their bedroom door, but this was concerning. You shifted the food tray in your hands, trying not to spill the steaming chicken noodle soup that Mrs. Lin had carefully prepared. The familiar smell of ginger filled the hallway, reminding you of all the times you'd eaten dinner at their house.

Silence was still your only greeting from behind the barrier separating you and your friend.

“Qiu? It’s me. Your mom sent me up with some food and medicine for you. Can I come in?” You asked, concern lacing your words. You pressed your ear against the cool wood of the door, straining to hear any sign of life within.

There was a beat of quiet, but from the other side you heard shuffling, something toppling with a hollow thud, and the distinct sound of papers and pens falling to the wood floor. Qiu’s voice reached you, except it sounded more like a muffled groan. You took that as enough acknowledgment to breach the quarantine zone.

Qiu’s room was usually messy, but that could be an understatement compared to the scene you were met with now. Beyond the typical scattered clothes and notes, tissues covered every surface like confetti after a party. Wrappers from various types of snacks and cough drops, and the occasional water bottle were like little islands everywhere.

Extra pillows and blankets were strewn about the floor as if Qiu had rotated between their bed and the cooler surface of the hardwood. Your eyes traced a path to their mattress, which housed a rather miserable looking lump. The top of Qiu’s head was the only thing visible from the blankets.

Approaching slowly, you placed the food tray down on their night stand, nearly knocking off half empty water bottles and their journal. Qiu was turned away from you on their side, eyes closed, cheeks red, and their dark hair loose around their face.

"I'm dead. Go away," they grumbled softly. Their form remained turned away from you.

"That's weird. Dead people don't talk," you quipped, making yourself comfortable on the edge of the mattress. Qiu's face didn't change, not even an eyebrow twitch to indicate they heard you. "I really don't want to bury you," you added when they didn't respond, clearly taking your point into consideration.

After a moment, you shrugged your shoulders and rose, giving a dramatic sigh. "Alright, I guess I'll go get the shovel. I was really hoping it wouldn't have to come to this." You turned to head to the door, intending to just venture downstairs to let Mrs. Lin know you had made the successful delivery.

You hadn't taken three steps before Qiu Lin's head popped up, their hair sticking out every which way and glassy eyed.

"Wait," they croaked. You turned back, trying not to smirk as they avoided your eyes. "I may not be dead, but I am definitely dying," they declared, then sneezed into their elbow as if to prove their point. They flopped back onto the bed like a deflated balloon.

"Ew," you responded with another laugh, returning to your previous sitting position. With a sniffle, they stretched their arm, fumbling around on their night stand, and nearly landing their digits in the bowl of soup. You acted fast, reaching over to supply a clean tissue to their hand. Their tired eyes met yours with a small, grateful smile.

"Thanks," they said, before blowing their nose like trumpet. "What are you doing here anyway?" They blinked at you like they'd completely forgotten about the tray of food right next to them.

"You were dead, remember? Your mom let me in because she knows you'd want someone to mourn you properly."

Qiu rolled their eyes, but their smile stuck around. "She probably would rather have you around anyway." They pushed themselves up against their pillows, which took way more effort than it should have.

"Maybe, but I think she'd miss her only child," you assured optimistically, poking them in the leg. They winced, and you immediately felt bad. "And I would too," you added quickly.

Qiu's cheeks grew redder, though with their fever it was hard to tell if you'd actually made them blush.

"I have been sick for years," they insisted, but their tone was a little lighter than their previous attempts to convince you of their demise.

"You're so dramatic. Here, eat and take your medicine. I command it." You placed the tray in their lap like a stern head nurse. They blinked down at the contents, not realizing it was there until now.

"Chicken noodle soup?" was all they asked, eyes shifting from the steaming bowl of broth, noodles, and veggies to your face.

"Your mom said it's your favorite," you shrugged, watching their expression carefully. They didn't react any further than that, and picked up the spoon to begin eating.

The room grew quiet aside for the occasional slurp, but it was a comfortable kind of quiet, the kind that happens when you've known someone long enough that you don't need to fill every silence.

When they finished, Qiu wiped their mouth with their sleeve, then noticed the napkin on the tray and gave you a sheepish look. You just shook your head and handed them their water bottle and the medicine. Once they'd taken everything, you helped move the tray away.

Qiu shuffled in the bed, sinking back down into the blankets. You assumed that was your cue to leave and stood to do so. Subtly, you felt a tug on your pant leg. Turning to look down, you found Qiu's fingers pinching the fabric. Their eyes were closed, but where their face should have been relaxed, ready for rest, was the furrowed brow of confliction.

"I don't want you to go, but I don't want you to get sick too," they muttered into their blanket.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" You couldn't help grinning. Even sick, Qiu was too fun to tease. Their brows furrowed even harder and the corners of their lips pulled down slightly, as if the pain of repeating themselves was greater than the fever ache.

"I said, I don't want you to go, but I don't want you to get sick," they grumbled out, just slightly clearer than before.

Oh.

You had half expected them to ignore you in favor for not having to repeat themselves. Qiu's eyes opened, and they peered up at you expectantly. It took you a moment to realize you needed to respond.

"Oh, well, I guess I can stay for a little while." You tried to play it cool, but it was hard to ignore the feeling in your chest, a mix of flattery and the excitement that came with having a crush.

"Besides, I have an immune system of steel. I'm pretty sure I have ancestors that were impervious to the black plague or something," you added casually as you sat back down.

You were trying to keep the mood light, remembering how your mom would say that laughter is the best medicine. It was also to reassure Qiu that if they wanted you here, you would stay, sickness or not.

It may not have cured them immediately, but you did catch their smile as they scooched over to give you more room. Their bed wasn't huge, but it was big enough that you could fit next to them with while they propped themselves up again.

There was a beat of silence as the both of you were not quite sure where to go from there, but then Qiu Lin broke the pause.

"Sorry," was all they said. Their eyes darted to your face, and then back down to their lap. "About the whole thing," they tacked on after a pause.

"What?" You asked with your head cocked in confusion. Qiu rolled their lips into their mouth, you could feel the heat radiating off them. Hopefully the fever medicine would kick in soon.

"I just don't want you to be bored," they explained, looking at you with an expression that seemed to be asking more than their words were saying.

"Qiu, you are literally my favorite person to be around, you know that," you said it so simply, like it was a universal fact. "I do have my phone though. We can watch videos or something." You reached into your pocket to pull out your mobile device and wave it subtly.

The tension in their shoulders loosened and they nodded at your suggestion. Qiu was a bit slow, but they eventually settled against you. Their body was burning up against your skin, but you didn't mind. You could handle it.

You pulled up YouTube and clicked on a video you'd watched recently. After a while, Qiu's head dropped onto your shoulder, their breathing getting slower and steadier. When you glanced down, their eyes were closed, face finally relaxed instead of scrunched up in misery.

They let out a content sigh, snuggling closer like your mere presence was the cause of comfort and not the ibuprofen they'd taken.

"Your my favorite person too...you're always there for me...that's why I love you," Qiu murmured so softly, so gently, that it came out like they were expressing it more to themselves than to you. As if they had intended it to be said in their fevered mind than out loud.

If the sound of your video hadn't been playing, one would be able to hear a pin drop. That would be due to your halted breath. Your wide eyes lingered on their relaxed, sleeping face.

"I love you too, Qiu," you whispered the words back to them. They didn't respond. Sleep had claimed them once more. Your attention turned back to the video, dissecting what hat just transpired.

Eventually, you did leave Qiu and the Lin residence when you were sure your friend was deep in sleep. Your thoughts were scattered, unsure if Qiu's words were that of a friend or more.

But you didn't get a chance to bring it up, because two days later, the tables turned completely. You and Qiu had switched places as the patient and caregiver.

You were convinced your friend must have had the plague with how bad you were feeling. They called you dramatic in return.

"Maybe it's not the plague, maybe it's a different disease," you mumbled incoherently into your pillow. You were sweating like no tomorrow and the only reason your face was pressed to the soft surface was because it was cooler than the air around you. "Now I'm the one who is going to die and it's going to be all your fault Qiu Lin," you groaned.

Qiu laughed, crawling onto your bed to sit beside you, a mirror image from when they were sick.

"You can't die. If you do, how will I tell you 'I love you more' when you say 'I love you too'?"

You turned your face to theirs, the heat rising in your cheeks was absolutely definitely from the fever, and not from what Qiu had just said. They were giving you that soft lopsided smile they always did as they brushed a piece of hair from your sweat drenched forehead.

"Okay." It was all you could respond for the moment. "I won't die then."

[nyoomerr]

How about half demon SY fic? Maybe with some Cinderella-esque elements?

I can easily imagine Airplane making another half demon (of the non-heavenly variety) as a character foil for Binghe.

The original version was regularly mistreated by his full demon relations, saw them sucking up to the also half-demon emperor (maybe even trying to marry off a bratty full demon half-sister), and in his rage set up some dramatic ‘revenge’ plot that ended in his death.

Of course, with Shen Yuan in the role (and not wanting to die like the OG-version), he somehow bungles the whole thing into a seduction instead.

i'm not sure about cinderella-esque, but here's some half demon sy taking pity on things he really shouldn't be taking pity on, lmao

---

Luo Binghe was not the only half demon in Proud Immortal Demon Way, of course. Between cultivators that wanted to get a little freaky with it (weird) and demon lords who took human women as war prizes (downright terrible), there were plenty of occasions for mixed breeds to be born. 

Luo Binghe was, however, the only successful half demon.

His spiritual pathways developed perfectly suited to balance demonic and spiritual qi without getting the two energies tangled, and none of his demonic traits interfere with his human ones as so many other half demons experience. His demonic teeth sit without discomfort in his human mouth, he has no extra demonic appendages that struggle to reconcile with a human circulatory system, and his claws don’t even bleed when he retracts and extends them in a way that would cause any other half demon to be crippled with pain.

Perhaps it’s a result of his miracle healing blood parasites working overtime to keep his body from sabotaging itself; perhaps it’s simply the protagonist halo at work.

Either way, the less fortunate half demons of Proud Immortal Demon Way had every reason to despise Luo Binghe. Most of them did, or at the very least started off that way - several partly demonic women had of course been won out in the end by charming smiles and the discovery of just what other benefits Luo Binghe received from his successful mixing (read: his monster dick).

Shen Yuan had not transmigrated into a woman, though, and the character he had landed inside of had been one of the less fortunate half demons Luo Binghe ever stumbled across. 

Shen Yuan’s body had tried to grow both human and demonic ears alike, one on top of the other, warping each other and resulting in permanently impaired hearing. His pupils were stuck in the large, open shape of the sorts of demons that live almost entirely in the dark, but his human retina was not similarly adjusted, and Shen Yuan suffered near constant migraines whenever he went out in the sun. His teeth were made of rows of sharp needles, but his diet had not adjusted to allow him to eat as much - or as raw of - meat as his demonic ancestry had prepared him for, to say nothing of the way the sharp points of his teeth always left his mouth bleeding.

It was miserable. 

Even the good parts - the interesting parts, the things like the way his hair looked iridescent in the light or the general increase in energy and durability that Shen Yuan got to experience - did not seem to make up for the downsides of his mixed blood. 

And that was all before taking into the account the way that Shen Yuan was nearly entirely shunned by both demonic and human cultures alike, too.

Ah, it was unfair!! What kind of transmigration experience treated its host so poorly?! What kind of shitty wish fulfillment left the victim so deeply unfortunate?! Shen Yuan wanted a refund, damn it!!

If there was one saving grace to the situation, it was that Shen Yuan was not beholden to the plot in any way. The original host Shen Yuan had taken over had, in the later chapters of PIDW, been one of the prominent figures at the head of an attempted coup. His resentment towards his own life had burned and burned until he’d redirected it at Luo Binghe, a symbol of unfair success that he would never see, and he’d gotten himself barely half a paragraph in PIDW to describe his vengeful death for his troubles.

Shen Yuan refused to be such a small footnote in Luo Binghe’s life. If he was going to suffer by living in this world, then he’d wring every bit of joy he could from the world that causes that suffering. 

Naturally, the only good thing that this world offers is Luo Binghe himself.

“My Lord,” Shen Yuan demures, his tone hushed as he bends to refill Luo Binghe’s goblet. 

He had not been able to win a direct audience with Luo Binghe; outside of Luo Binghe himself, no half-breed is considered of good enough standing to be allowed the emperor’s time in such a way. Instead, Shen Yuan had taken a job as a servant in the Underground Palace, carefully biding his time and working his way towards this very moment, where he’d get to lean in close to refill Luo Binghe’s drink during a meal.

Luo Binghe cuts a sharp glance at him, then at the drink Shen Yuan has poured him, but says nothing.

“My Lord,” Shen Yuan says again, wetting his lips nervously. “The cursed mirror you seek is in the Fire Grass Marshes.”

Luo Binghe hums, his expression unreadable. “And how does a little servant know of such a thing?”

Shen Yuan swallows thickly. ‘I read it in a story about you in another world,’ isn’t exactly the sort of answer that would cut it, here. He can’t just brush it away as rumor, though, either; Shen Yuan needs to prove that he is uniquely useful to Luo Binghe. A usefulness that will both excuse his impudence in approaching Luo Binghe this way, and will allow Shen Yuan to remain close to Luo Binghe in the future.

Shen Yuan will not lose this gamble.

“This lowly one is a half demon like my Lord is,” Shen Yuan says, voice hushed. “My Lord is blessed; the rest of us are -”

Shen Yuan’s words catch in his throat. He’s only been in this body for a little under a decade, but it’s still - the hardships he’s had to endure, and the discrimination, and - Shen Yuan swallows again, trying to steady himself.

“In general, half breeds are not accepted in either culture,” Shen Yuan finally says, voice still low and deferential. “We have had to find livings in places that are not generally hospitable.”

“And you’ve lived in the Fire Grass Marshes as a result, then?” Luo Binghe asks.

Shen Yuan nods. The rest of the dining room has fallen silent by now, watching closely as Luo Binghe considers the daring little servant that has approached him as such. It makes Shen Yuan sweat, just a bit, but then again…

Their attention is not nearly as heavy as the single-minded focus of Luo Binghe himself. 

“The Fire Grass Marshes may not be worth the trouble to retrieve such a small item,” Luo Binghe says after a long silence, turning his gaze away from Shen Yuan at last. “There are other artifacts this Lord can use instead.”

Shen Yuan… maybe panics just a bit. He didn’t make this much of an effort to have Luo Binghe’s attention only to be dismissed outright like this, as if it isn’t worth the bother, ah!!

“Of course, my Lord wouldn’t have to fetch it himself!” Shen Yuan rushes to say. “That is, this lowly one can - if it pleases my Lord, I mean - for you -”

“If you’d offer to fetch it yourself, why didn’t you simply bring it with you now?” Luo Binghe asks blandly. Then, a bit more dangerously, he adds: “Don’t waste this Lord’s time, little servant.”

“If the mirror isn’t good enough, this servant can fetch something else,” Shen Yuan tries. “This lowly one knows much about lands that aren’t usually fit for exploration, so -”

“Why?” Luo Binghe interrupts, turning back to once more fix Shen Yuan with his full attention. “The only reward you will receive is your life, should I decide to spare you for the insolence.”

Shen Yuan swallows thickly, once, twice. He needs to fix this, or else his life - if he manages to keep it - will only end up more miserable than it was before. 

He refuses to go back to that, not now that he’s managed to be so close to Luo Binghe.

“This lowly one only wishes to help spare my Lord of unnecessary suffering -”

Luo Binghe stands suddenly, his chair tipping behind him and the dishes on the table falling and spilling at the sudden jostling movement.

Shen Yuan doesn’t much notice, what with the way Luo Binghe has wrapped a single large hand around his throat and begun to squeeze.

“Do not dare to speak of my suffering,” Luo Binghe snarls, his teeth inches from Shen Yuan’s face. “Do not dare to presume to know what I can and can not tolerate.”

Shen Yuan gasps, scrambling with his stupid, defective claws at the hand around his neck.

“I’m sorry,” he manages to choke out, “I’m sorry, but - but regardless of what you can tolerate, you shouldn’t have to suffer at all, it’s -”

Luo Binghe’s grip tightens, and Shen Yuan falls silent, focusing on trying to breathe. 

He does not break eye contact with Luo Binghe, though.

Because this is the truth of it: Shen Yuan’s mixed breed body sucks ass, and he’s suffered for it, and he’s been humiliated for it, and even the cool, kickass parts of transmigration have been kinda lame for it. He kind of hates it. He more than kind of understands the resentment that the original goods had harbored.

But Shen Yuan has the insight of a PIDW reader, and he knows that despite his perfect biology, Luo Binghe has suffered far more than most half breeds have. 

Shen Yuan and his kin are shunned, but they are not outright beaten or discarded or starved or pushed into the Abyss. They may be given shitty jobs, but they are given jobs; they’ve never had anyone try to sabotage their cultivations or been forced to overturn the demonic hierarchy just to find a safe place to sleep. Most people dislike them, but those that do care for Shen Yuan and other half breeds like him can be trusted; their regard is honest, as it can not be motivated by any sort of desire for power or influence.

Shen Yuan has suffered, but he has also experienced luxuries that Luo Binghe has not. 

He’s suffered, and he’s hated this stupid fucking transmigration, but - 

But in the end, he could have found ways to enjoy it that didn’t involve walking up to the protagonist and offering to help. He could have used his meta knowledge to get rich and powerful enough to explore the world on a cool vacation, instead of trying to use it to bargain for a spot at Luo Binghe’s side.

“Binghe should have someone looking out for him,” Shen Yuan wheezes. Maybe wheezes. Maybe he doesn’t say it at all. His vision is spotty and his brain is a bit foggy and he certainly wouldn’t have dared to say such a thing if he was fully conscious. 

Luo Binghe’s grip slackens all at once, and Shen Yuan crumples to the ground, coughing. 

“You’ll get only one chance,” Luo Binghe warns him. It’s very clearly a threat.

When Shen Yuan manages to look up at him, though, his expression is not as cold and dangerous as it had been a minute ago.

It looks hungry.

[kuravix]

I love the thought of Usopp tending to one of his grass type pokemon! 🌷

It doesn't hurt, it's like clipping nails

[fistfuloflightning]

I’d love to see Tianlang Jun if you’d be willing! Maybe relaxing and reading?

they were happy—for a time

[mikacanica]

Eds introduction to the suit.

Im no animator so this took a bit. Couldn't picture this prompt as anything other than a gif. LOL Thanks @jeff-the-accountant for this prompt! I laughed so much making this.

[ariadne-mouse]

wholesome autumn cr prompt: vex helping her little gwendolyn de rolo make a little autumn leaf mantle so that she can be like keyleth 😊

She's very resourceful.

[luxaofhesperides]

Please continue ghostlights multiverse constant au with Earth 0 having a happy ending together cuz halfa Danny is impossible to really kill anymore pleaseeeeeee 😭

(part one)

Danny is destined to die once he meets Duke. He knows this; he’s seen how their friendship leads to Danny’s death is so many different lives. There’s no doubt in his mind that the only way to ensure Danny lives a long life is to stay away from him.

Which is why the universe decides to make Danny pop up constantly. It’s clearly trying to get him killed, and Duke refuses to let that happen!

It starts innocently enough. They cross paths briefly at a bus stop, bumping into each other as Duke gets off the bus and Danny moves to go on it. He recognizes Danny immediately, feels a little spark go through him when their shoulders brush against each other. Something in him says I know you. I miss you.

He pulls back a step and offers a quick apology. Danny waves it off and looks at him as through searching for something. He opens his mouth to say something, but Duke can feel the threads of fate tighten around their throats and hurries away. 

He waits until he hears the bus pull away, then glances behind him to watch it go before he slows down to a normal walking pace and heads for the mall where he planned to meet his friends. 

Duke’s heart pounds in his chest. He can’t get Danny’s eyes out of his head; so painfully blue, so nostalgic, so doomed. 

This is for the best, he reminds himself. This is so Danny can live. That’s all that matters.

The moment’s passed, anyways. They’re still strangers, and they’ll stay that way. 

He takes another minute to collect himself, then plasters on a smile and heads into the mall to find his friends.

The next six times, Duke has to save Danny as the Signal, appearing just in time to stop a mugging, an armed store robbery, a car trying to run Danny over, and fighting off Man-Bat who, for some reason, took one look at Danny and went fuck this guy, actually.

Duke is stressed. He’s Stressed™ and if anyone tries to take out Danny again he’s just going to start screaming. 

For whatever reason, the universe is just out to get Danny now that they’ve run into each other once. Duke’s life is a cosmic joke, and he’s stuck in the center of it all waiting for the moment comedy turns into tragedy. 

It’s gotten to the point that Duke expects to find Danny in some sort of dangerous situation as soon as he starts patrol. He’s starting to dread going out, but he needs to; Gotham needs the Signal to keep the streets safe during the day, and Danny needs Duke to save his incredibly unlucky ass nearly every single day.

The first two hours go fine. He stops an armed robbery and a car jacking, chases away some creeps from the working girls, and gets a blueberry muffin from the bakery that’s been around forever, on account of the old woman running it thinking he’s a good lad who needs to eat more.

Duke begins to hope that he’ll have a quiet patrol. He begins to hope that Danny is safe and not in mortal danger for once.

His hopes are immediately dashed when he spots Danny on a rooftop, standing way too close to the edge.

Heart in his throat, Duke crosses the space between them in an instant, slingshotting himself forward through shadows.

He intends to pull Danny back, to say something, to try and shake some common sense into him so he actually has a chance at living a long life. Duke doesn’t get to do any of that; as soon as he steps out of the shadows, Danny turns to face him with a tired smile.

“There you are,” he says. “I knew you’d find me.”

“What? I—listen, can you step back from the ledge for me?”

Danny steps back, keeping his eyes on Duke. He doesn’t seem to mind that the Signal is so hesitant in this moment, keeping his distance. 

“I wasn’t sure at first,” he says, as if he never stopped talking, “But I had a feeling. You’ve probably had it too, right? It’s why we keep being pushed together, and why my luck has been so awful ever since I came to Gotham.”

He knows, is the first thing Duke things. But how can that be? If Danny knows about all those other universes where they had each other, then he knows how it ends. If he knows, then he should be trying to keep his distance from both Duke and the Signal before he gets killed.

“It’s you under that mask, isn’t it? Duke.”

The way Danny says his name brings him back to all those other lives where they had each other from the start. He sounds so sure of himself, as if he’s always known Duke.

It’s only when Duke says, “How?” that Danny falters, fear briefly crossing his expression before it settles into something more neutral. His fingers begin to pull at the cuffs of his jacket sleeves, confidence melting away. 

“Do you… not know me?”

The quietness of his voice, the fragility of it, breaks Duke’s heart. He doesn’t stop to think before he answers, “I know you. Of course I know you, Danny.” Then he blinks, shakes his head, and says, “Wait. No. I know of you. We haven’t really met this life.”

“It’s the dreams, right? They make things so confusing.”

“You’ve been getting them too?”

“I may be the cause of them,” Danny says with a wince. “Due to some, uh… ghostly magic shenanigans. It wasn’t on purpose! But it is kinda my fault.”

Ghostly magic? Okay, sure, why not. Who is Duke to judge the bizarre things that exist in their world. He has superpowers and his biological father is an evil immortal. He has absolutely no leg to stand on when it cames to the weird and the unexpected. Might as well roll with it, since this is his life now.

Besides, there’s more important things to focus on, such as: “Okay, so, just to be on the same page, you’ve been getting the same dreams as me, yeah? The ones where you always die? Those dreams?”

And Danny, very casually, answers, “Yeah.”

“Dude,” Duke says, pained, “If you know that meeting me leads to your death, then why are you seeking me out?!”

“What?”

“Have you not seen how you die young in every single universe? Because I have! And it’s messing me up!”

Danny blinks at him, then looks guilty, hunching in on himself. “Oh, yeah. That. Uh, yeah, so…” he trails off and bites his lip, gaze kept downwards so he doesn’t have to meet Duke’s eyes. “I do die young always, yeah, but it’s totally not your fault! I just do that!”

“You just do that,” Duke repeats, pained. 

“Yeah. I just die young.”

“Is this somehow not a problem for you.”

To his immense displeasure, Danny has the nerve to shrug and say, “Eh, not really.”

“Danny.”

“It’s okay! Really!” Danny says, a little frantically, “And also it has nothing to do with you! None of my deaths have been your fault, it’s just a thing that happens to me!” And then, in a quiet, rushed mumble, “Also I already died in this universe so it’s fine.”

A strangled sound bursts out of Duke’s throat as he tries very hard not to start yelling. He puts his head in his hands and holds back a heavy sigh because the boy of his literal dreams is stressing him out so much he’s about to dissolve into ashes and ascend to a higher realm where he has no worries. 

Unfortunately, he’s not quite there yet, so Duke has to deal with living in the reality where Danny admits he already died because that’s just what he does: die young. 

Which is, apparently, not Duke’s fault at all. Cool. 

Cool cool cool. He’s definitely not going to have a breakdown about this.

A hand gently tugs on his wrist, making him lift his head to meet Danny’s worried gaze. “Hey, you alright? Do you wanna sit down for a minute?”

And you know what? Duke does want to sit down for a minute. He’s earned it. 

He nods, and Danny carefully guides him back to where the roof access door is, so they can sit with their backs against something and be away from the edge where curious eyes might spot them. It feels easy, practiced, as if they’ve done this a thousand times before instead of just now having their first conversation. Their lives have been linked and twisted together, though only for a short time before death takes Danny away. 

He knows Danny, despite how illogical it is, and that’s what makes him take off his helmet and exposure his face to the world. 

Danny knows him too, after all. 

There is no hiding from someone who is meant to be in his life.

Danny’s smiling softly when he turns to look at him. “Hey, Duke. It’s good to see you properly. Is it weird to say that I’ve missed you even though we’ve technically never met in this life?”

“Nah,” he replies, “I missed you too. Please stop scaring me like that.”

“I make no promises. Expect for this: dying won’t take me away from you in this life. I’ve got it handled.”

“I don’t… I don’t think that’s someone anyone can have handled.”

“I’ve got it handled,” Danny repeats firmly. 

Duke shakes his head with a small laugh. He got so caught up in the guilt of leading to Danny’s death, of being unable to save him, of losing  him in every universe, that he forgot how stubborn Danny is. 

It is a weight off his chest, though. To know that it wasn’t his fault. To know that the worst has already come to pass long before they met in this universe, so they don’t have to fear the future together. 

“So,” he says, “Tell me more about these magical ghostly shenanigans?”

“At least wait until the second date for personal questions,” Danny jokes.

“Okay. Wanna grab dinner tonight?”

It’s nice to see that Danny blushes easily in this universe too. “Isn’t that moving a little fast?”

“We’ve been dreaming about a bunch of other universes where we’re together. We know each other even though we don’t know each other. We’re well past moving fast, dude.”

“Yeah, that’s fair,” Danny nods. “Alright. Dinner tonight, then. Take me to the best place for breakfast foods in Gotham. I’ve been craving pancakes all week.”

“Sure, I can do that. Mind giving me your number so I can figure out where to pick you up from?”

Danny nods and begins patting his pockets in search of… something. Duke means to grab his phone and hand it to Danny to get his number, but he’s quickly distracted as Danny gives up on his pockets and shoves a hand directly into his own chest. 

Ghostly magic shenanigans. This is probably part of it?  Danny doesn’t look alarmed by this at all, so Duke rolls with it and shoves away his shock at the sight. 

“Aha!” Danny holds up a sharpie in triumph. He sure did pull that straight out of his ribcage. Duke is so chill with it. 

He lets Danny take hold of his arm, removing a wrist gauntlet so he can write on the skin. The cool ink of the sharpie makes him shiver, but otherwise, he stays still. Danny writes carefully, in smooth movements. It doesn’t take more than a few seconds, then he pulls the sharpie away and blows a surprisingly cold breath against Duke’s wrist to help the ink dry faster.

“There we go,” he says with a smile. “Let me know when you wanna have our date, okay? I’m free whenever, so don’t worry about accommodating me or anything.

“I’ll text you once I’m ready,” Duke agrees. He stands up, looking over the numbers written on his wrist. He memorizes them, then puts his wrist gauntlet back on. It’s about time for him to get back to being the Signal, as much as he hates to leave Danny here when they’ve finally been able to have a quiet moment to themselves. 

“I’ll see you later, then.” Danny hesitates, then leans forward and presses a quick, chaste kiss against Duke’s cheek. Duke blinks at him, stunned, his heart skipping a beat. 

He doesn’t get the chance to return the gesture; Danny flushes red, backs up a few steps with a shy grin, and says, “Okay, bye Duke! Stay safe out there!” And then he’s gone, blinking out of sight, and it’s only his meta powers that let him see a faint wispy outline where Danny was. 

It moves, floating up in the air, then flies away like smoke in the breeze. 

Ah, Duke thinks, Ghostly. He’s a ghost. I’ll worry about that later.

His fingers brush against the spot where Danny kissed him. Then he puts his helmet back on and focuses on swinging through the streets of Gotham, ready for anything. 

The sooner he gets done with patrol, the better, after all. He needs all his focus to do that so he can start getting ready for his date with Danny, the literal boy of his dreams. 

This time, this life, this universe, they’re gonna do it right. They’ll make up for all the time their other selves lost. They’ll cherish every minute together, one pancake date at a time.

And to think, it only took a couple dozen different lives to get here.

[leiascully]

what about… a short msr bathtub fic, but only if you feel like it.

It got a little out of hand, so have 1300 words of bathtub fic. TW: infertility mention/IVF arc.

She answers the door wearing a robe. He steps in quietly and she locks the door behind him. She looks soft and small despite the bulk of the terrycloth, her bare feet silent on the floor. She takes his hand without speaking and leads him across her apartment.

The bathroom is full of steam; it swirls out when she opens the door. She draws him in. With the door shut, it’s as if they’re sealed away in another world. Water thunders into the tub, capped with a thick layer of quivering bubbles. He can see particles of mist in the air. Sounds seem muffled. She turns away, lets the robe slip off her shoulders. He turns his back hastily, but he can see a sliver of her side in the mirror: pale skin, a compact curve from rib to hip, an arc of lurid ink. He closes his eyes and unbuttons his shirt.

She called him earlier, an exchange of mostly breath. It wasn’t out of character; they’d both picked up the phone before just to know the other one was on the other end. At last, she said, “Please come over”, and the smallness of the request broke something in him. She should have known he’d do anything for her. He’d been to Antarctica and the graveyard and the IVF clinic for her, sat in filthy rooms and sterile ones, waiting for news.

Now he stands in her bathroom undressing. He can hear the taps creak off and the water swirl as she gets into the tub. There is an air of unreality to it: the steam, the heavy scent of bergamot, the unaccustomed glimpses of skin. He’s seen her naked before, but those moments were dictated by circumstance. This is her choice.

He toes off his shoes, folds his shirt and his jeans over them, drops his socks and his boxers on the top of the pile. When he turns, she’s tucked herself into the end of the tub, sitting with her knees drawn up. He climbs into the other end, hands braced on the sides. The water rises according to the principles of Archimedes, brimming toward her knees. Their toes touch in the center of the tub. He loops his arms around his bent knees, holding himself together, giving her space.

They sit like that in silence, quarantined at their separate ends. Together but not. She lets out a long shaky breath.

The water is hot enough to prickle at his skin. Scully is already flushed, tendrils of hair curling around her face. He’s trying not to look, he swears he’s trying not to look, but he’s always been transfixed by her.

“I’m tired,” she says at last.

“I know.” He studies her, keeping his eyes above her neck.

“I wanted….” Her voice breaks. She swallows. “Mulder, I really wanted it to work.”

“I know.” He rests his hand on the side of the tub, there if she’s ready to reach for it. She tangles her fingers with his.

“Did you?” Her eyes search his face. This is the moment, he understands. This is what could make or break them, after everything they’ve endured. Total honesty or nothing.

“Yeah,” he says, nearly choking on the word. “Yeah, I did.” He closes his eyes against the swell of emotion that makes his chest ache. A child. With her. He wanted that. He wanted it so badly he never allowed himself to know how much it meant until it wasn’t plausible anymore. He wondered about it from the moment he found her ova, wanted it badly from the first time he saw her with Emily.

In a way, he’s ashamed he feels this way. It’s such a cliché, to want to see her bear his child. It feels old-fashioned, even chauvinistic. There’s something primal about how territorial he felt about her during the IVF process. He felt larger, heavier, sensitive to her relative delicacy. He prowled at her side, showing his eyeteeth to Skinner, sensitive to any attempt to invade their pride of two.

He had some secret knowledge of her then, despite the fact they’d never made love. His seed inside her made her his woman. He hates that he enjoyed the thought: she belongs to herself first. But a baby would be a shared responsibility, immutable in a way their assignment to the X-Files isn’t. It would change both of their lives irreversibly. It would link them forever. He wants it so badly he can’t breathe.

The water ripples. He opens his eyes. She’s kneeling now in front of him, a supplicant. She puts her hands on his knees, her hot palms cupped over his skin. Scully has touched him everywhere, maybe, but not here.

“Will you kiss me?” she asks, and his heart breaks all over again.

“Anything,” he says, the way he should have years ago, the way he should have months ago when she first asked him. “Scully, I’d give you anything.”

He’d been terrified then. He’s terrified now. They have been standing on a precipice for so long, their backs to the abyss. The road has been steep and rocky; at times they’ve had to blaze their own trail. There are higher peaks, perhaps, higher truths, but they’re weary of climbing to the pinnacle to find more mountains beyond. He thinks that a paradise might await, if only they can take a leap of faith. She’s the only thing he has faith in, these days.

He leans forward, takes her face in his hands, studies her. Her eyes gleam. She’s got that little crease between her brows that bespeaks great internal turmoil. She studies his face.

“Scully,” he says tenderly. He strokes her hair back. His fingertips find her jaw and gently draw her forward. She leans closer, her weight supported on her hands on his splayed knees. He angles to meet her halfway. His lips brush hers. A butterfly’s wing, the lightest breathless touch.

The world shifts. In his heart, a hurricane forms.

How could he have been afraid of this? How could he not have been?

He can count the number of times they’ve kissed on one hand before tonight and not even use all his fingers. It’s magic every time. This time, it transforms them. The leaden tension that’s hung heavy between them since Diana’s return is transmuted into gold, pure and soft and shining. Her mouth opens in sudden hunger, asking urgent questions, and he answers, pulling her close.

It all feels like a dream. Their hands slide smoothly over slick skin, leaving trails of bubbles. He stretches out his legs and it seems she floats into his lap. Everything is easy. Everything is simple. He touches her breasts, her hips. She balances herself with a hand on his chest as she sinks onto him. They draw pleasure out of each other with lips and fingers, with hot breath and sweet words. She rests her forehead against his as she comes and pants against his mouth. The water sloshes as his body shudders under hers.

They towel each other off, after, moving slowly and gently. Scully’s towels are warm and soft as a Downy commercial, or maybe it’s just that everything feels like a miracle. Her mattress yields to their combined weight as comfortably as if they’ve slept together every night for years. Her bare skin against his is heaven. She exceeds his expectations, always. He knew she would. Still, this kind of solace seemed unimaginable. Fictional. They had written themselves out of happy endings. Now here it is, some blissful twist to their story. He can give up his holy quest: the Grail is in his arms.

“One more round,” he says. It’s a question and a promise. His fingers are splayed over her belly. He tries to ignore the softness of her, tries not to imagine a fecund swell instead. His imagination has always run wild.

“I’ve exhausted my resources,” she says in a small distant voice.

“I sold my father’s house,” he tells her. “Let me do this for you.”

“For me?” she asks.

His heart swells. He pulls her closer, nuzzling into her hair. “For us.”

“For us,” she whispers. She clutches his hands to her breast.

“I love you,” he says, and the once-bitter words are honey on his tongue.

[srapsodia]

for your hq doodles, maybe the miya twins? 👉👈

atsumu is going Through It 🙏

[whumpwordsoftheday]

“I don’t know what you’re saying. I don’t know what you want from me. P-please just go away”