#but theyre both so haunted and troubled that it follows them to sleep

[ruporas]

nightmares

[justcourttee]

could you do one where dami and mari are dating but they havent told the waynes yet and they keep seeing hints of their relationship (like clothes around the place, dami talking to on the phone and smiling, stuff like that) but they cant figure out whats happening!!!! the ice prince is softening and theyre like wtf!!!

I’m sorry, it’s a little different. I got carried away! I hope you still like it!

Tim is Like a Genius or Something..

It was official. Tim had lost it.

At least that was the sentiment the family shared as they watched him tumble down the rabbit hole that he had sprawled out across the dining room table.

“-and then he smiled at me. At me! That has never happened before, at least not a genuine one.” He paused to catch his breath, allowing his theory to sink in.

“Timmy, don’t you think you’re giving the boy too much credit?” Jason was the only one able to voice what they all were thinking, at least the one with the best chance of not getting their head torn off. “I mean, he has trouble communicating with his own gender and now you’re telling me he’s been able to woo his female lab partner?”

Tim slammed his hands on the table in frustration before sinking back into the chair he had started in. For weeks now he had been gathering evidence of his brother’s oddities and for weeks he had been haunted by a softer and friendlier Damian.

“Think about it guys, please!”

His pleads seemed to fall on deaf ears as one by one they left the table, each offering their own look of sympathy until he was the only one in the room. It wasn’t long until he himself had given up, collecting his pictures from the table, tearing them in half one by one.

Maybe Dick was right. His hallucinations were getting the better of him. After all, even if Damian was changing, it couldn’t be because of one girl, right?

Absolutely nobody in the world could wield enough power to reign in a demon such as him. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Tim had survived another week of hallucinations. He had tried sleeping more, laying off his coffee, and even cutting his hours back from Wayne Enterprises. But as he sat in the kitchen, going through his emails, his mind remained drowning in thoughts of his replacement.

“Timmy, do you know who this jacket belongs to? The ladies say it’s not theirs and if it’s one of Brucie’s night friends, I bet it’s worth thousands.”

Tim spared a glance from his laptop to where Jason stood in front of him, his fist clenched around a small black pullover. He had half the mind to wave him off when something pink flashed from the corner of his eye.

“Jason, let me see the jacket.”

Jason tossed it, his face cautious as if Tim were about to dart with his next paycheck, but it was the furthest thought in the younger Wayne’s mind.

“The girl that Damian is always bringing over, it belongs to her. His lab partner.”

“You mean Marinette? Damn, then I probably won’t make much off of it. Guess I’ll probably give it back next time I see her.”

Tim waited, his face showcasing the perplexion he felt as Jason seemed to walk away thoughtlessly. How he could come to the same conclusion that he did? How? It felt like it was so obvious.

“No.” His voice was firm, barely above a whisper as he shook off the thought, returning to his laptop. He agreed that he would drop it and that’s what he was going to do. “Marinette was just a nice girl trying to help out Damian and he probably views as some intriguing toy, yeah, that’s all.”

Besides, it was just one jacket and why would he want to damn the girl over one jacket.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . He should have damned her. That was the only thought that plagued his mind as he listened to the conversation at breakfast.

“Did you guys know that the Demon uses his phone during patrol?”

Bruce looked up from his paper, his face a mixture of disappointment and interest.

“Can you elaborate Dick? What do you mean by uses his phone?”

“Exactly that! We took a break on a roof in our sector and right as I was about to turn around to ask him where we should check next, he was answering a phone call! We sat on that roof for an hour because he said ‘he couldn’t hang up yet’.”

Tim nearly choked on his coffee as he slammed his mug into the table earning a glance from both the men.

“Richard, who was calling him?”

“Hmm? You know, I tried asking him but he waved me off instead.”

“You mean he didn’t try to tear your head off?” Tim watched in horror as Dick shook his head in denial, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Maybe he finally has a friend other than Jon!”

Bruce nodded as if the notion weren’t completely insane, his eyes returning the newspaper in his hands. Dick smiled, returning to his crossword as if there was nothing wrong with the world as if he didn’t drop the largest bombshell in history.

“This is so wrong, why can’t any of you see how wrong this is?”

Neither spared him a glance as they continued their morning routines with thoughtless giddy expressions.

At this point, Tim wasn’t sure he could drop it anymore. There was so much evidence piling up, so much pointing that Damian obviously liked the girl at least. Why was he the only one who could see that?

It was decided. The next time Marinette came over, he was confronting this once and for all.

.  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Tim waited and waited. Weeks passed between her last visit to the manor. Damian had left several times and random hours of the day, always giving him vague answers as to where he was going. It was as if the little demon read his mind and decided it was safer to meet her outside the manor.

He was so close to giving up when a truly diabolical thought crossed his mind. His smile was sinister as he approached Bruce’s office, his plan foolproof. He gave a slight knock on the door, two voices asking him to enter.

“Hey Bruce, Dick. I was just thinking the other day, we haven’t seen Marinette around lately. You both know that Damian is terrible at keeping up with his acquaintances. Maybe we should invite her for dinner one night! I mean, we all adore her, right? She is such a good influence for Damian too.”

It was like clockwork. Both Dick and Bruce jumped on the opportunity each pulling out their phones to let both kids know the details of when this dinner party would occur. As Tim left out the room, he couldn’t help the hysterical giggle that escaped from his lips. For good measure, he made sure to linger by Damian’s room, awaiting the reaction he was longing to hear. Surely enough, a soft ‘shit’ could be heard followed by heavy footsteps echoing as if he was pacing his room. It was the best sound Tim had heard in weeks.

Three agonizing days passed before Tim found himself waiting at the manor door to welcome Marinette into the manor. Damian had volunteered to bring her to the dining room himself, but Tim argued that it would be rude if not a single one of them were also there to greet her. In the end, Tim and Dick were volunteered to accompany one angry demon to see Marinette to the dining hall.

“Thank you so much for having me! I was surprised when I received a call from not just Damian, but you too Dick. I was under the impression that Damian hadn’t said anything yet.”

Damian’s face paled as his eyes darted to Dick’s as if Marinette said something damning. Tim caught onto immediately, his eyes also watching Dick’s face for any indication that he had realized the weight in her statement.

“Said anything? You mean about your friendship? Well, it’s impossible to pry anything from him, but we couldn’t let him keep you all to himself!”

In all of his blissful ignorance, he turned on his heel, dragging Marinette with him, chatting idly about whatever came to mind. Damian raced after him, his face a mixture of panic and hatred. It was a sight that warmed Tim to his core.

All dinner he watched as Damian stirred the conversation off Marinette only for someone to inevitably bring it right back. He relished in Damian nearly pulling his own hair out to ensure no one asked the question that Tim had been pressing for weeks now.

As the night drew to an end, Damian couldn’t rush her out of the manor fast enough. The doors slammed shut with a loud thud ricocheting through everyone’s ears.

“So, we’re in agreeance right?”

Tim turned his attention to where Jason leaned against the entryway, his lazy smirk building hope in the younger boy’s chest.

“Very much. They are definitely courting, or what is the phrase you call it now? Dating? Hangin’?” Bruce chuckled at his own joke before his gaze dropped to meet Tim’s. “It looks like we owe you an apology.”

Words never sounded more beautiful to Tim, he honestly felt like he might shed a tear. A heavy weight caused him to stumble as Dick threw himself onto Tim’s back.

“Tim is like a genius or something, right guys? I mean who would have ever guessed that Damian had a girlfriend! Hey, do you think they’ll get married? Does that mean at this point Damian is your best chance at getting grandkids?”

Tim dealt with the picking and jokes and the onslaught of fake apologies as they remained crowded in the entrance, waiting for Damian’s return. To him, none of it mattered as much as seeing his replacement’s face the minute they walked through the door.

After all, it was a large reward for a small price to pay. It all comes with being a genius.

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[ressarioth]

HEY SUKIE.... would u wanna write me a zevistair thingy... id love to read the reunion when alistair becomes king n zevran had left to take out the crows and stuff so they thought theyre over but THen at inquisition times they meet again

This took me way longer than I would’ve liked, but I finally finished it! Have a bit over 3.6k words of Zevistair reunion before I overthink the question of how they can get their happily ever after ending. That would be something for a multi-chaptered fic after all.

I hope you enjoy!

[ Writing Requests ]

It’s been on his mind for the longest time, a seed of yearning that took roots and grew a sprout of hope against all his principles. One day Zevran doesn’t know how to fight it anymore, because he runs out of his most prominent reason against it when he finally breaks free from the Antivan Crows for good. For the past decade his heart has been growing stronger and now it’s overthrowing the rule of his rational mind.

So Zevran returns to Ferelden: the country where he tasted freedom for the first time and embarked on a journey to stop the blight; the country where he fell in love against all odds with a man who in the end became someone he cannot have. He’d be better advised to never look back, like he never allowed himself to miss Taliesen or Rina — though Rina was a dead woman when he turned his back on the Crows and Taliesen met the same fate when coming after him. It’s not unreasonable to think that these two don’t compare, not to a man who lives and breathes and haunts his mind whenever he doesn’t indulge in distractions.

What fate is worse? To love a dead assassin or a living king? Having experience both, Zevran concludes it’s the latter for all the temptation it holds. Temptation he’s finally giving in to as he sneaks past the guards in the courtyard and into the kitchen of the Ferelden palace. It’s the middle of the night so the fire in the hearth has died down to nothing more than embers and the servants are asleep in their quarters.

He presses on in the faint light of a few torches on the walls. There are some guards patrolling the corridors, but he knows how to avoid all of them. The only disadvantage he has is that he isn’t sure where the bedroom is which he’s trying to find. Though he takes a gamble and guesses that it would be on one of the upper floors and most likely guarded. So he ventures upward, determined to find his destination as soon as possible.

It’s not the hiding and sneaking past armed men that has his heart beat faster in his chest — Zevran is used to doing that from his time as an assassin and it has long since become second nature to him. What has his pulse reach new heights in his throat is the prospect of what awaits him behind the door he’s trying to locate. This isn’t the first bedroom of royalty he’s sneaking into, but for the first time it’s not to assassinate whomever is inside. In a way he’s out of his element and his nerves know it, that’s why they’re troubling him so much.

When he comes across a door with two guards, Zevran realises he isn’t sure how to get past them. He hasn’t planned this far ahead which goes to show just how foolish this whole endeavour is in the first place. Should he knock them out, risking someone to come across them and raise the alert, or should he draw them away with a distraction which might also get the attention of other guards? All he knows is that he shouldn’t kill them, he did not come here to stain his daggers with blood.

As he lurks around the corner of the hallway, debating how to handle the last two guards in his way, Zevran has a thought. It’s his biggest gamble yet in this nightly infiltration, but he considers it his best bet at this point if he wants to avoid drawing any attention to his presence. If the door is blocked, find a window to get inside — one of the oldest rules he’s been following in his occupation. So he picks the door closest to him and slips into the room, out of sight of the two guards further down the hallway. Had someone been asleep inside he’d taken his chances sneaking past them, but as if to ease the final steps on his way, the bedroom is empty and he can proceed to unlocking the window without worry.

Zevran knows what comes next is going to be way harder. There are no years of practice and experience to fall back on, he has no routine for what he’s about to attempt. Nothing in his life could’ve prepared him for facing the man he grew to love more than he could’ve ever imagined who long since wears the Ferelden crown. How can an elven assassin approach a human king and ask to be loved as an equal?

The voice of reason in Zevran’s head tells him that he’s being foolish and wasting his time on a idle fantasy which can never become reality. But his heart persists and clings to hope even more than Zevran holds on to stone wall as he inches along the windowsill two stories above the ground. He’s not scared of heights, but his nerves straining in anticipation of what lies ahead makes this go less smother than he would’ve liked. Two times he nearly slips as he’s trying to maintain his balance.

Finally Zevran reaches the window to the royal bedroom and crouches down in front of it. The lock keeping it in place is easily taken care of and he pushes it open and climbs inside. The room lies quietly in the pale moonlight and he gets a good look at the man sleeping soundly in the wide bed. Recognition turns into relief that he finally arrived at his destination in the blink of an eye. The feelings pass as quickly as they’ve come before he’s struck with awe at the sight which presents itself to him.

After a decade, Zevran is seeing him again: Alistair, the features aged with the years, his jaw and cheekbones becoming a little more defined than those of the 20-year-old Zevran met back then, but still familiar. There’s a slight stubble covering his jaw and the hair is now long enough to fall into his forehead in its dishevelled state. Beneath it Zevran can make out thin lines as if he’s been frowning too much for his skin to smoothen out entirely.

Zevran forgets to release the air from his lungs, the sound of Alistair breathing almost melting into the silence of the room. Or maybe the blood in Zevran’s ears is rushing too loudly and he just assumes everything to be so quiet when actually Alistair is snoring. With a pinch in his chest he realises he can’t even recall if Alistair was ever prone to snoring in his sleep.

For a moment Zevran just watches Alistair in the scarce moonlight falling through the windows. He used to do that a lot when they were resting by the campfire, curled up together in the bedroll they started sharing. Alistair had needed some time to allow for the intimacy of a man — especially one who tried to kill him and his Warden companion. Zevran had teased him for it, but never too much to drive him away. It was way worth it though, their first tentative kiss stirring something up inside of Zevran which he had never felt before.

There was a sincerity in the way Alistair went about everything, proof of a naivety which Zevran found simply endearing at first even though it felt misplaced in a world he knew was filled with intrigue and deceit. But when Alistair looked at him he came to realise he had never felt so loved in his entire life. When Alistair reached out for him with fingers trembling from nervousness, every touch tentative as if Alistair was scared to break something, he felt treasured.

Zevran closes his eyes, his mouth twisting in an expression of anguish as the memories start welling up. A yearning fills his chest, stronger than ever, and what makes it so painful is that he knows that he should not give in to it. It’s the one truth inside his mind which he feels he cannot deny. He broke free of the Crow’s chains, but he can never overcome the fact that he is an elf and the social conviction that elves have no place in a royal castles apart from being servants.

Yet Zevran is drawn closer, against his better judgement, drawn in by the peaceful look on Alistair’s face. He wants to touch it, that skin which now is seeing less sun than during the time they travelled and slew darkspawn at the Hero of Ferelden’s side. He wants to trace them, those features which are relaxed in a way almost exclusively reserved to a person being fast asleep. He wants to feel it, the stubble rubbing against the skin of his fingers in a sensation between scratching and tickling him.

Before Zevran can stop himself he’s standing directly next to Alistair’s bed and leaning over to better reach down. His hand hovers inches above Alistair’s head, his breath hitches in his throat. He’s still hesitating as if what he’s about to do could have insufferable consequences. Fear is a curious thing with how much power it can hold over someone.

It’s a faint brush over Alistair’s cheek that marks the crumbling of Zevran’s resolve. That’s also all it takes to have Alistair stir in his sleep. Zevran freezes as he blinks open his eyes, caught in the act like a lousy pickpocket. It lasts only a moment though before Zevran snaps out of it and quickly puts one hand over his mouth so he can’t raise the alarm. He struggles like anyone would who wakes up finding a dark figure leaning over their bed.

“Shhh,” Zevran tries to calm Alistair as he puts his index finger on his own lips to emphasis his point. “It’s me, Zevran.”

That does the trick and has Alistair go limp so that Zevran dares to let go of him and step back to give him some space. In the pale light which now finds his face again Zevran can make out bewilderment.

“Zevran,” Alistair repeats, a whisper which is softer than mere surprise. Then the first shock wears off and with it disappears the gentle tone. “What the hell, were you trying to scare me to death?”

Zevran feels guilt and embarrassment and worry about the situation he landed himself in and having to explain himself. He’s not the type to open up and easily share his genuine feelings like Alistair. He’s too used to keeping his guard up and trying to steer clear of all the emotional pitfalls like rejection and ridicule. So he tries to make light of the topic, giving his voice the usual carefree note. “An interesting way to kill someone for sure, but I did not come to assassinate you — please don’t be disappointed.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not,” Alistair retorts as he sits up on the edge of his mattress and reaches over to his nightstand to light the candle standing there. “I’ve had an attempt on my life recently, that’s more than enough for a lifetime if you ask me.”

“You aren’t cut out for Antivan politics, that’s for sure.”

“Well, thankfully I’m the King of Ferelden and not Antiva.”

There it is, the painful reminder, and Zevran tries not to flinch at it. He turns his back to hide his face in case his features betray him, though Alistair seems momentarily to occupied with himself, rubbing his tired eyes, to notice any effect the words have on Zevran.

Silence spreads around them and Zevran begins to think that the distance was the smallest obstacle which has grown between them. After all he’s finally here and yet he doesn’t even know how to look at Alistair anymore, let alone how to hold him. Zevran wonders what the past years have done to them. He wonders if this is what it’s like to grow apart and it’s almost funny how it never used to bother him as much with anyone before. (Or maybe he was just good enough at lying to himself.)

“Why have you come?” Alistair finally asks and though he doesn’t sound hostile, the gravity in his tone makes Zevran’s heart grow heavy.

Despite it, Zevran tries to maintain his lighthearted air as he walks along the windowed wall. “To test your security and let me tell you, it’s way too easy for a pro like me to get in here.”

He glances only briefly over to Alistair, but the silence which meets him breaks down his weak resolve and he relents. “Or well, that sounds way more fanciful than me simply wanting to see you.”

Zevran tries to play off the confession as an aside yet it leaves him feeling vulnerable as if he had taken off his armour in the midst of an arena in front of his opponent. In a way it feels more reckless and foolish to do than pointing an enemy at your vital spots and inviting them to hit you there. You can dodge a blade far more easily than you can avoid sharp words which cut like a knife. But maybe he’s going a bit overboard with the worst case scenario for this reunion.

“You wanted to see me?” Alistair questions and there’s a painful edge to his time. “After all those years you’ve been roaming the world without ever sending a word, leaving me to wonder if anything we had ever mattered in the end.”

Zevran turns around and stares at Alistair, a sense of horror building in his gut. The accusation hits him whether he thinks it’s fair or not. For the first time it occurs to him that Alistair was hurting, too; that maybe he wasn’t the only one who had been longing for something he could no longer have, hung up on the past and all the promises it held. The thought burdens him.

“I never said it didn’t matter,” Zevran objects quietly. “I just said what we both knew: that with you becoming king there was no place for me at your side.”

Alistair had agreed back then, even though not right away. Zevran wonders if he has to bring that up though he’s still reluctant to do it. That would make it seem like he’s defending himself like man unjustly accused of a crime. He refuses to accept that role.

“You made leaving seem so easy,” Alistair notes, though his solemn tone doesn’t make it sound like an accusation. His eyes are fixated on the ground somewhere in front of his feet as if he’s avoiding to meet Zevran’s gaze.

“Trust me, it wasn’t.”

At those words, Alistair jerks up his head and looks at Zevran with something akin to surprise. This time it’s Zevran who averts his eyes, only catching a glimpse of the shadow of a thought crossing Alistair’s face in the flickering candle light.

“Tell me, were you angry with me for claiming the throne?” Alistair asks and his voice has grown even softer.

“I don’t think I had any right to be.”

The wall Zevran is looking at is starting to blur in front of his eyes, but he doesn’t bother to refocus his vision. He also still doesn’t meet Alistair’s gaze, too afraid the emotions he feels quelling up inside of him could show in his face.

“I didn’t ask if you thought you had the right,” Alistair clarifies. “Were you angry with me?”

Silence takes over as Zevran has Alistair’s question drift around in his head, seeking for resonance. He tries to fight it, the feeling which forces its way out in response. It was something he never wanted to acknowledge, but with Alistair calling it by name he can no longer deny it.

“Yes,” Zevran admits finally, a hoarse whisper from his lips. It’s quite horrifying not only to face an aspect of himself he’s been repressing for years but also to lay it bare in front of someone else. But for Alistair’s sake he wants to try. “The moment you announced your claim to the throne I knew you’d leave me behind.”

“So you decided to move on before that could happen,” Alistair concludes, his assumption scarily accurate. Zevran feels unable to respond, but he doesn’t have to, the lack of protest being answer enough.

“But I wouldn’t have, I could never have!” Alistair stands up from his bed in protest.

Zevran turns to look at the king who resembles the naïve man he used to be more than ever. A sad smile spreads on Zevran’s lips as he regards Alistair with fondness hiding away the mocking voice in his head which has already started to come up with countless objections. If only things were as simple as Alistair makes them sound.

“You show a severe lack in realism if you think your human nobles would’ve accepted an elven man at your side,” Zevran remarks, touched by Alistair’s devotion even though his own experience tells him it would’ve been worthless if confronted with the cruel currents of this world.

“Like I care what they think about who’s at my side or not!”

“Has your time on the throne taught you nothing about politics?”

“Oh it has, but that doesn’t mean I have to go along with everything. Besides, we’re not in Orlais.”

Zevran shakes his head, still convinced that Alistair is getting hung up on a pipe dream which cannot withstand reality. “That’s not how these things work, not even in Ferelden.”

“Yet despite all that you’ve come here.” Alistair moves close, covering nearly all the distance between them with a few steps. “There would’ve been no point in that if not at least a part of you had hope that what we had doesn’t have to be a thing of the past.” He briefly pauses before confessing: “I know I have hope now, because you’re here.”

“Hope, maybe you can call it that.” Zevran chuckles lightly at how ridiculous the thought is to him and yet it was something he considered. “Or maybe your foolishness has rubbed off on me.”

Alistair tilts his to the side, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Is that really all?”

First Zevran shrugs. Then he closes his eyes, halfway fooling himself into believing that he isn’t being watched. The words come easier this way. “Maybe, after all those years of you haunting the back of my mind I need to ask you what you think I should do.”

He keeps his eyelids shut and waits for an answer — one moment, then two moments pass. It makes him wonder if he could’ve just as well posed the question to the image of Alistair in his head with the same result.

“I don’t know.”

Zevran hears Alistair’s admission, but only opens his eyes once he can feel touch of Alistair’s arm against his back. It’s firm, the shaking hands tentatively reaching for him definitely a thing of the past. He stares up into Alistair’s eyes and finds a determination that makes him convinced that it’s the opposite of what Alistair just said.

“I’ve never known how to love you under the scrutiny of others,” Alistair admits, his voice quiet but solid. “Maybe because deep down I’m a coward who was always too concerned with what others think.” A slight smile plays around his lips at the confession, but before long he turns serious again. “But there was a time I could’ve never imagined being with a man and it was you who taught me to challenge my own conceptions. So why stop at that when I’ve learned to stand up more for myself and what I want?”

Entranced by Alistair’s words, Zevran finds himself reaching up and touching Alistair’s cheek. He almost can believe it, even though the voice inside his head keeps faintly insisting that it’s a lost cause. “You don’t want me to give a reasonable reply to that, do you?”

“If you find my notion unreasonable, I’m telling you to screw reason.”

Zevran laughs, his wit returning and making him lighter as if relieved from a heavy burden. “Now there’s a thought. I had a multitude of lovers in my life, but I never considered my liaison with reason to be a thing of pleasure.”

Though Alistair chuckles, he doesn’t take the thought any further. Instead he leans in even closer, his warm breath brushing over Zevran’s skin, ensuring to maintain eye contact. “Stay with me this time.”

The request is simple in words but made complex by circumstances. The reasons why this can’t possibly end well won’t disappear even if Zevran tries to will them away. Even if Alistair is determined to figure things out, Zevran isn’t sure he’s up for the challenge.

But then Alistair kisses him and the protest Zevran was about to voice slips from his tongue. Alistair’s lips are enough to make reason and worry a tertiary concern on his mind. He wraps his arms around Alistair’s back to pull the man closer. The hunger inside him is aflame now that he finally gets to taste the one he loves again.

As his yearning is fed the sprout of hope grows inside him like a young tree stretching towards the sun. Zevran knows he’s not going to leave now, not tonight when he finally finds himself in Alistair’s arms again. It may be temporary — it may end tomorrow, in a week, in a few months. Or maybe it’ll last for years to come this time. He doesn’t know and doesn’t trouble himself with it. That’s a concern for another time, when daylight breaks.

Zevran breaks the kiss only to give Alistair his answer, a whisper of warm breath in his beloved’s ear.

“I’m not making any promises,” he declares and for tonight that is enough.