#this hurts too much to write

[glorious-spoon]

i know we all laugh (mostly fondly) about the paper-thin plots in porn that only exist to make the sex happen, but i was reading some old stargate fic over the weekend, and i really think we're sleeping on the paper-thin hurt/comfort plot that only exists to force the characters to FEEL THINGS.

like, is this scenario realistic? no. does it make any rational sense? no. does it provide a built-in excuse for a character to collapse, bloody and disoriented, into the arms of his beloved/friend/partner? obviously, that's the whole point of this exercise.

i love it. it's my favorite thing in the world.

[bluerosefox]

The Drakes

It's been years since the Bats had seen Red Robin much less Tim Drake-Wayne. It started with a rather dumb argument that after years of holding back his tongue and the stress of being a TEENAGE CEO that Tim finally ripped into them.

They were too stunned by the end of his speech, him also admitting that yes he has his own problems and mistakes but at least he's trying to make amends or get over himself unlike others. It was their prolonged silence that was the final straw for him it seemed though, because Tim finally announced he was done, he was done bleeding for those that kept him on the edge of the family and that he wanted to rest, and with that Tim turned and left the Batcave for the final time.

They of course didn't take Tim's retirement announcement seriously, after all Tim was the last person other than Bruce they all believed would ever leave the life of a vigilante and a hero behind, and they all knew Bruce would keep working on the 'mission' even as a frail old man. It took them a few weeks before one of them finally decided to go see Tim and try to... talk about everything he said.

Only when they reached Tim's Nest, they discovered it was empty and he was no where to be found did they realize he was serious. It was a quick call to Wayne Enterprises to see if he was in and Tam no doubt holding back her sharp response to them that she told them that Tim had stepped down from CEO weeks ago and hasn't been heard from since. The one who went to see Tim immediately called the others, which sent many of them onto goose chase of false leads, arguments, and pointing blame.

Despite looking for their long lost Red Robin, he was good at hiding his tracks and any who might have an idea where he could be weren't talking.

So yeah it's been a while since the Bats had heard any news relating to their lost bird.

So imagine their surprise when Ra's latest attempt to upset the balance in their family again (did he want Damian to return as his heir? Take control over Gotham in the shadow? Upset Bruce? None of them honestly knew what his plan was anymore. Same old song and dance) and having captured them all that he brought up Tim to them. Or rather "shame the Detective is going to be late, but I'm sure his little family shall inform of things once he gets here."

None of them were expecting for Ra's to look away from them and with a snap of his fingers, three assassins brought forth into the room two others. One was being dragged by two assassins, black hair, pale skin, and lean swimmers build of a body. He looked roughly around the age Tim would be. He was placed on the floor right by Ra's boots, arms and legs tied up, clearly but alarmingly breathing low and slow from the raise and fall of their chest. He wore a simple T-shirt but had dark jacket that was covered in stars, NASA logos, and other galaxy themed patches all over it, his dark jeans also held some star patches but also held everyday stains from being outside in the grass and other normal day to day thing. All in all this person seems like a normal civilian individual and none of the Bats knew why Ra's had taken him.

The other assassin that had walked into the room was holding a toddler, a girl from the little pigtails on her messy head indicated. Her hair was just as dark as the passed out male by Ra's and her skin was shade healthier than him. She wore grass stained and messy paints caked overalls with a plan shirt under it and two different kinds of kids shoes (one was a green with dinosaurs and the other blue with little stars). She, unlike the young man on the floor, was awake and was looking around the room while sucking her thumb in clear distress, she also used her free hand that wasn't in her mouth to push the assassin holding onto her away from her as far as she could and was squirming her tiny legs enough to kick their sides. Thankfully the assassin didn't look too hostile or upset meaning she wasn't doing to much damage or being too annoying.

"What a lovely family the Timothy has gained for himself don't you think? I will admit Daniel put up a rather interesting fight, it was only due to us having the element of surprise that we managed to take him down and his little Eleanor has his fighting spirit it seems." Ra's said as he slowly reached over to the toddler to lightly fiddle (just to unnerve them as well) with her hair. However the moment he touched her hair, the little girl's eyes flashed from frosty blue to neon bright green and she had spat her thumb out of her mouth in order to hiss like a cat at him, her little feet kicking hard enough to cause a small 'oomph' from the one holding her.

Ra's gave an amused chuckle as he stared at the toddler in fascination before also casting his gaze down at the passed out young man, remembering the way his eyes also had flashed from blue to green and the amount of power he had saw bubble to the surface when they had ambushed the two in their home. As Ra's said before, if they hadn't had the element of surprise on their side when they went after Timothy's little family it wouldn't had worked. No doubt little Eleanor Drake was a hint of power Daniel Drake held.

Ra's turned to look at the Bats, and could clearly see the emotions on their faces which amused Ra's deeply, and couldn't help but say "Although I wasn't expecting him to marry a being with pure Lazarus blood flowing in their veins. Quite a interesting discovery that was. And that his offspring seemed to carry it also from birth. What lovely and priceless boons he has granted the League to have once he joins us."

Ra's could clearly see the questioning, fear (for the family in his clutches), confusion, and disbelief on the Bats faces and knew it would be so entertaining to watch the little.. family reunion he had set into motion.

He was so amused watching Batman the others he never noticed the light twitch on Daniel's face or the shifting breathing pattern. When he would later check to see of the large amount of tranquilizers they had given Daniel was still in-effect he was none the wiser that it had already wore off and that Danny was merely bidding his time for a opening.

[yuwuta]

yuuta exhibits such previously abandoned, recently adopted dog behavior. incredibly anxious all the time, even though nobody’s out to get him or leave him behind. waits for you to return home or from school or from work excitedly, just to see you when you walk through the door. follows you around senselessly, hovering in your space just for the sake of companionship. initiates affection in prodding ways—starts off next to you, then a hand on your thigh, then deems it safe to lay all the way down, then slowly pushes his head into your lap. gets up whenever you need to get up, and resumes his position as soon as you’re ready. brings you gifts as a sign that he’s thinking of you, and maybe because he likes the affection it brings out in you, maybe because he likes the gentle affirming touches of a hand in his hair or a pinch to his cheek. rests his head on your stomach or his chin on your shoulder when he’s sleepy, stays there, immobile, and will not move unless absolutely necessary. sometimes he gets surprised when he hears you calling for him, there’s a moment of disbelief as he thinks “me? really? you need me?” but it’s very quickly overshadowed by this compulsive need to show up, to please, to do anything for you, which is why he always answers when you call. he doesn’t realize that he has puppygod eyes, especially when he’s excited or confused, but he does and it’s incredible endearing. very reluctant to share your space or attention after a while, considers that to be sacred and he won’t risk being let go or lost again, so as a safety precaution, he keeps himself right by you, waits for you always. 

[luxaofhesperides]

Ghostlight!

"You came?" "You called."

Danny in trouble, Duke to the rescue! (Or it can be reversed!) Maybe they've been online friends or met in person once and bonded over both having all these unexpected powers. Slightly angst.

There was never a point when Danny thought he would need the panic button Duke gave him.

It was a sweet gesture, a way for Duke to show that he cared for Danny and wanted him to be safe. Never mind that Danny can take care of himself, heals quickly from most wounds, and has been the protector, not the protected, ever since the Accident. If it makes Duke feel better, than Danny was more than happy to keep it on him as a token of affection.

The cultists, however, caught him off guard. 

Danny would be embarrassed about being nabbed off the streets so easily if the people who took him weren’t cultists lead by the daughter of a GIW agent, one who disapproved of the scientific approach the GIW took towards ectoplasmic entities and had turned to mystic arts as a way to defy her father. Which, usually, Danny would be all for striking out against the strict expectations of parents and their unwillingness to listen to their kids in any serious manner, but not this time. Not when it ends with him slowly waking up after they chloroformed him, curled up in some magic circle, surrounded by black candles and blue flame, and something in the air that smells of blood blossoms.

There are voices speaking, but he can’t make out what they’re saying over the pounding in his head, his heartbeat stuttering in his chest with each gasping breath he takes. 

Whatever they’re doing, whatever’s got him bound in the circle, makes his blood feel like its been lit aflame, agony coursing through his veins. He tries to grit his teeth and bare it, but it doesn’t become any more manageable.

No, it gets worse the longer he’s awake.

Danny tries to move, tries to get to his feet, but all he can do is curl up tighter, a sob forcing its way out of his throat.

“I know you’ve got some connection to Phantom,” he hears someone say, both by his ear and so far away he can barely make out the words. Danny whines, trying to insist that they’re wrong, he’s got nothing to do with phantom, but the voice continues. “Come on, cooperate with us and this will end sooner for you. You can’t lie about this; you wouldn’t be feeling anything if there was no connection.” 

A hand brushes against his forehead, burning hot, and Danny turns his face towards the ground trying to move away from it. 

“I knew ghosts had to have some tie to the living world. And a living anchor would make the ghost stronger… If only dad would listen to me.” The voice sighs, and the words help him put the pieces together and realize this is the daughter of the GIW agent that came closest to finding him when he first ran to Gotham. 

It’s been close to a year since then. He thought they’d stopped looking. 

Really, he should have known better.

The hand leaves his forehead and he hears the leader bark out an order. Voices surround him, chanting, as they rise out of the dark. 

A red glow begins to fall on everything, enough that Danny can see it through his barely open eyes. A shudder runs through him, and he feels his transformation try to begin.

NO, he thinks desperately. He tries to force it down but it fights against him. It’s agony, pain on a molecular level, the feeling of dying over and over and over again.

NO, he thinks, STOP I DON’T WANT TO DIE SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME.

And then, unbidden, a single word rising in his mind. Duke.

Duke will help him if he knows Danny needs help. Duke has been kind and welcoming and helped Danny find his footing in Gotham, never judging and always quietly offering a hand in support. He’s the person Danny’s closest to in Gotham, someone dear to him, a light in the dark. 

He gave Danny a panic button.

Contrary to popular thought, Danny isn’t an idiot. He knows Duke is the Signal. A few too many incidents where Duke had disappeared and the Signal appeared to save him tipped him off. It didn’t help that Duke acted the same in and out of costume, and he always, always grabbed Danny first at the elbow, then slid his hand down to his wrist. 

Besides, who else gives panic buttons to their friends? Danny would have done the same to Sam and Tucker if they weren’t always attached at the hip. He’s a (former) teenage vigilante too, he knows how being involved in this kind of thing invites trouble into the rest of his life.

Duke can help him. He’s a hero. He’s saved Danny before.

He’s his friend. Danny trusts (wants to trust, so badly) that Duke will help him even when he’s not fully human, fully alive.

With trembling hands, he reaches into his jacket, to the panic button. It’s a simple necklace with an unassuming metal rectangle dangling off of it. It’s flat and thin, but the top gives way to a button that Danny clicks three times in quick succession. 

He waits a moment, trying to breathe through the pain, and clicks it three times again.

Please hurry, Duke, he thinks, hand falling limply to the ground. 

“Let’s try this, instead,” the leader says, and the chanting falls to a quiet murmur to give way to her voice as she begins reciting something.

It starts at his feet. They cramp up suddenly, then pain crackles up his bones like lightning, digging deep into him. It feels as if a thousand knives dig into his abdomen, cutting in deep and twisting.

Danny chokes on his breath, then screams, trying futilely to scramble away. All it does is make him writhe on the ground, back arching enough that he can feel the strain of it on his spine, but it doesn’t matter because he’s forcing down his transformation again, smothering Phantom as much as he can.

His breath mists out before him. His fingers go numb, frost spreading across the floor.

Tears slip down his face as Danny pants for breath.

It hurts. It hurts like nothing has ever hurt before, but he refuses to give in. If they find out he’s Phantom, they’ll only do worse. 

Please, he thinks again, deliriously.

As if hearing him, a window shatters above him and the cultists break off in screams. 

Forcing his eyes open, Danny squints through he tears and watches as the shadows around them rise up, roiling, and crash against the cultists. The force of it knocks them down, leaving them to claw desperately at their faces as the shadows cover their nose and mouths, cutting off their air. The leader is yelling, rage clear in her voice, shooting out magic spells at the Signal.

The Signal is usually a friendly figure. He’s safe, something whose meer presence makes people feel safe. His smile means everything’s alright and when it’s directed to Danny, he feels like nothing bad can ever happen to him again.

The Signal isn’t smiling now. 

He’s furious, expressionless and stone cold, bashing away the spells with shadows or light, advancing on the leader like an avenging angel come to deliver justice. 

He takes her out with hard hits, striking methodically. It’s not quick. She doesn’t get the kindness of being knocked out; no, he snaps a wrist, breaks her nose, slams her down on the ground and cuts off her air with a knee until her struggles die off and she’s left limp on the floor. 

When he rises, surrounded by shadows still moving restlessly, illuminated only by the flicker blue flames of the candles, he should look terrifying. 

All Danny feels is relief so sharp it worries him that his chest was cleaved in half without him noticing until now. He shivers against the floor, too weak to reach out to the Signal.

It’s a good thing he doesn’t have to. 

The Signal picks him up with careful hands, checking him over for injuries.

“Duke,” Danny murmurs, slurring a bit. The torture is definitely at fault for it, but the sudden absence of all that pain doesn’t help him sound any more coherent. “You came.”

“You called,” Duke says, “Of course I came. I’ve been looking for you for hours. You never showed up for our study date and I know you always try to reach out if you can’t make it. I’m just sorry I didn’t find you sooner.”

“S’okay, ‘m not mad. Was scared, but you made it better. The panic button…”

“It’s how I found you. I’m so glad you were wearing it today.”

Danny tries to smile, but the most he can manage is a twitch of his lips before his head tips forward to rest against Duke’s armored shoulder. “I always wear it.”

Duke’s grip on him tightens for a moment, then he begins walking, taking Danny away from the magic circles and the prone bodies of the cultists who had watched him be tortured and decided to keep going. Danny shudders again, his entire body aching. His transformation is still fighting to come out, but it’s not as strong anymore. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Duke says into his ear. “I’ll take you to the hospital.”

“No! No hospitals, please. I can’t let them know… they’ll find me…”

Duke shushes him soothingly, tucking him more securely against his chest. “Alright, Danny. No hospitals. But I am going to call Batman for a pick up to get you to one of the people we trust for medical care.”

“But Batman doesn’t work in the day.” Danny’s too exhausted to sound confused, but it must go through anyways. Duke laughs lowly, and the sound helps unwind the last of his nerves coiled up tight in fear. 

“Danny, it’s well into the night. You were gone for hours. Longest hours of my life.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles, 

“Don’t be, it’s not your fault. Hang on, Batman’s nearly here.”

In any other circumstance, Danny would be excited to meet another hero. Especially Batman, one of the original heroes of the modern age. But all he wants is to go somewhere safe so he can curl up and cry, then sleep for three days before he pretends to be a normal human again. Ideally, he’d stay with Duke until he felt safe again, but he doesn’t want to take Duke away from the city that needs him.

His ears perk up a bit when he hears the smooth rumble of an engine stop in front of them. A door opens with a click without Duke needing to grab the handle, and then Danny is carefully being deposited in the back seat.

“Wait,” he says, trying to grab for Duke’s arm only to have his fingers fumble and grab nothing. Duke doesn’t move away, though, and instead grabs Danny’s seeking hand. “Stay? Please? I just—” his voice shudders, cracks, fractures apart. “I just want to feel safe.”

There’s a pause, a stillness in the air, before Duke says, “Okay. I’ll stay.” And then he’s sliding into the backseat, pulling Danny in to lean against him, curl into his embrace.

“Signal,” Batman’s low, gravelly voice says. There’s something in his tone that makes Danny tense up, prepared to take off, and his transformation pushes at his skin, ready to come out.

“He knows who I am, B,” Duke replies. “He’s trustworthy. Besides, just because he knows me doesn’t mean he knows you.”

“We will be discussing this later,” Batman says, dark promise in his voice. It’s just how he talks, Danny’s sure, too used to years of making himself the scariest thing in the dark. That doesn’t change the fact that Batman can be terrifying, and Danny can’t imagine he’ll take kindly to the fact that Danny knows Duke’s identity.

Fear slithers up his spine, and he can’t stop the transformation this time. The rings of white light flash over his body in a second, leaving Phantom in his place. 

Danny lets go of his legs first, glad to be free from their aching weight, and without a body made of flesh and bone, the hurt begins to fade away until it’s just an unpleasant memory. 

“What—” Duke starts to say just as Batman says, “Signal—”

They must have some sort of silent exchange. There’s only a heavy tension in the car and the barely audible rumble of the engine as they drive towards their destination, whatever it may be. Danny sinks into Duke some more, sighing in relief as a hand comes up to card through his wispy white hair. 

“Danny,” Duke says, “What’s this?”

“It’s why they hurt me,” he mumbles against Duke’s chest. “It’s why they keep hunting me down. I want them to leave me alone. I’m tired.”

Embarrassingly, his voice cracks on the last word and more tears fall down his cheeks. He hears Duke move, and then hands, bare and gloveless, wipe his tears away with a gentleness that makes his heart ache.

“They won’t be able to hurt you again. You’ll be safe from now on, Danny, I swear it.”

“S’okay if I get hurt,” he says, “It always happens. Promise to save me if this happens again?”

“I’ll do whatever I can to make sure it doesn’t happen again. But if it does, then I promise to always save you. I gave you that panic button, didn’t I? As long as you keep it, I’ll always find you.”

“You’re a good person, Duke,” Danny says, voice falling quieter as his exhaustion catches up to him. “I’m glad I met you.”

He thinks he feels a soft touch to the top of his head. A kiss, maybe, though it’s not likely. But he wants comfort, and he’s endured a lot a pain so he allows himself to hope and be delusional. With the warm that spreads through him from Duke’s soft kiss to his head, Danny gives in to the siren call of slumber.

“Get some sleep, Danny,” Duke says, voice hushed. “I’ll stay with you as long as you need.”

I know, he doesn’t say, too tired to open his mouth again, You’re always here. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

He falls asleep easily after that. There’s nothing in the world that can hurt him while he’s in Duke’s arms. He’s never been safer.

[babykittenteach]

He's fine.

[cowboycatss]

the true lives of the fabulous umm.. um. catjoys.. kittyjoys… no the furbulous ??killjoys?? the mew lives of th

[kettlefire]

Broken Promises

It wasn't their fault.

Vlad kept trying to remind himself of that. It wasn't their fault when the prototype malfunctioned. When Vlad was curled on the floor of the lab. When screams tried to force their way out of his throat, but all he could muster was muffled choked cries. When it felt like someone had tazed him while also throwing acid on his face.

The pain had been unbearable. He couldn't focus. The voices were barely a haze in the background. Vlad knew something was wrong. So horrible wrong. He just didn't realize just how wrong it all went.

He didn't realize it when he was being wheeled out of the building. Bodies and people moving around him. Vlad could barely see anything. Cooled products were being placed all over his face, blocking out most of his vision. The coolness of the items only seemed to make Vlad's skin burn more, the feeling sinking down to his bones.

But Vlad had seen them. The two of them, just as the ambulance doors closed. Jack Fenton and Madeline Walker. The two held each other, tears streaking their faces.

But that's not what Vlad focused on.

No. What got him was the look of unfiltered horror and disgust. A look aimed at him. At whatever that portal had done to his face. A look that cut so deep that Vlad had felt something crack inside him. The last thing he saw before everything went black.

It wasn't their fault.

Vlad reminded himself after he had woken up alone in a hospital room. Nurses and doctors fussed over him, trying to tell him what was going on. Words that went in one ear and out the other ear.

Everything hurt. Every single atom in his body felt like they were boiled, burning until nothing but ash would be left behind. The medication didn't do anything.

They had to limit him, and he understood. They couldn't risk him overdosing, but it was hard not to cry and beg for more when the relief only lasted a few hours... A few hours that quickly turned to minutes.

After the fourth day, Vlad gave up on hoping. Gave up looking up every time the door to his room opened. He was at a high risk of infection, a burn unit for a burn the hospital had never seen before.

Then it happened. Vlad woke up from another fitful, short, painful sleep to voices. Gentle hands holding his through PPE. He barely believed it when his eyes landed on Jack Fenton.

Maddie hadn't come. Jack made a hundred and one excuses why she couldn't. But Vlad knew why. She was disgusted with him. She probably saw him as broken, tainted with how much ectoplasm had hit him.

Jack had been nothing but apologetic and gentle. His usual clumsiness and heavy hands seemed to vanish. Jack had doted over Vlad for three months.

When the burns healed but turned into infectious acne. Something Jack coined as "Ecto-acne". Jack swore up and down that he'd find a way to cure it. That him and Maddie were working on something, something to fix things.

To return it all back to normal.

Long evenings of Jack's visits helped Vlad. Helped him feel less horrible about how he looked or how he felt. The pain was still there, but seeing his friend's smile and attempts to make him laugh seemed to make it all bearable.

Then, one day, Jack didn't show up. Vlad tried to remind himself that the man had other duties in life. Jack had classes still, and it's already been three months. He couldn't expect Jack to throw his life away just because Vlad's life was on a pause.

When one day turns to a week, then to a month, then to five months... Vlad couldn't keep lying to himself. He had been abandoned. Abandoned completely by the people he thought would always have his back.

The pain seemed to just get worse once Vlad fell into the solitude. Even the nurses and doctors couldn't seem to stand being around him once the bandages were removed.

Vlad felt like he was dying. His body was a nerve ending current of pain. He'd have episodes of not being able to breathe. He'd constantly have cardiac episodes, code blues, crash carts, the whole nine yards.

The doctors didn't know what to make up of it. New teams, new faces, new opinions. Yet Vlad wasn't getting better. He was only getting worse.

As a year passed, and then two, Vlad lost hope complete. He resigned himself to a short future of pain, a hospital bed, and a lonely death. The tears dried up by the third year.

By the fourth year, Vlad stopped talking. He remained curled in his hospital bed. Barely eating, being fed through an NG Tube. Psychiatrist tried to talk to him, but Vlad refused. He completely shut down.

The only noises that ever left him were his choked sounds of pain, when he was choking for air, or when his heart decided to stop beating right.

By the fifth year, Vlad couldn't remember much. He had flashes of memories. Of lashing out to the hospital staff. He was constantly restrained to his bed. He was an angry shell of his former self.

By the sixth year, it was a repeat of the fourth year. Vlad couldn't feel anything else but pain. He found himself starting to hate Jack and Maddie. Hate that it was their prototype that did this. Hate that they had abandoned him when he needed them most. It was getting harder for Vlad not to blame them.

It wasn't their fault.

The seventh year was when things changed. Vlad had been resigned to the NG Tube, having to take oxygen in through a breathing tube as well. His body was barely functioning at this point, barely keeping his heart beating.

Vlad felt something change as he saw how it affected the staff. The ones that were there since day one. The ones that had tried to hold out hope, even Vlad had given up.

He saw it in their eyes. The second-hand pain they felt watching him wither away into nothing. Even as they smiled at him, they checked in on him. The pain was always there, always lingering.

Vlad hadn't realized anyone cared if he survived until the last few moments. When his breathing was nothing but raspy harsh inhales. When the beeping in the monitors started to slow.

Then he died.

Vlad was certain he died. He felt it, his body finally giving under the years of pain and loneliness. He remembers taking his last breath, feeling his body start to shut down, and his vision fading to black.

There was no big bright light, no flash of his life before his eyes. Vlad had just faded. He heard the monitor flatline and heard the people rushing into his room. Heard one of the nurses asking him to stay with them. In the moment, Vlad realized he should have signed a DNR. That was his last thought before he passed.

It wasn't their fault.

It was unexpected when Vlad suddenly felt his eyes snap open, his chest heaving with a deep full breath. A breath he hadn't been able to take for years now. He heard the shocked cries around him, something clattering to the floor.

Vlad's eyes were wide, breathing growing labored in shocked panic. He could feel his heart. His heart was beating strong and heavy in his chest. He hadn't felt that in so long.

Then there was the aftermath. Doctors scrabbling for any scientific reasoning for Vlad's sudden turn around.

His Ecto-acne had completely gone away within the first week. His organs had started to slowly get better, functioning as they should. The only crazy split second recoveries had been Vlad's heart and lungs.

There was another year of PT, of tests, and studies. Vlad made a full recovery, at least physically. The staff started to call it a miracle after the first few months. When it was cemented that Vlad wasn't going to suddenly decline, he was free to go.

And Vlad did. He spent eight long years in that hospital, eight long years alone and forgotten.

It didn't take him long to track down Maddie and Jack. They never separated in the time he had been abandoned. Vlad found a small town called Amity Park, the place where his friends had settled down.

His friends had moved on with their lives. They had gotten married and had a beautiful little girl. She reminded Vlad so much of Maddie with her spitfire personality. Even at just the young age of four years old.

Then there was the boy. Just a small young thing at only two years old. He seemed to have his father's clumsiness.

It was then. When Vlad was watching the happy family of four at the park, hidden away in the shadows. As he watched how happy they all looked. How happy Jack and Maddie looked without him.

Vlad had shed his first tears in years.

It wasn't their fault.

Vlad reminded himself over and over again. It wasn't their fault when he had his first accident. Almost a decade in a hospital, no friends or family, Vlad had quickly realized he truly had nothing.

He had no money. No support. No anything.

Vlad had struggled all on his own, barely keeping things afloat. Barely scraping by. Barely finding a place to sleep. It was hard, and Vlad had only found himself falling back into shutting down.

And then he phased through his bed.

After waking up in a muffled cry from a nightmare. A horrible twisted recounting of the accident. Vlad suddenly found himself in the room beneath him.

Thankfully, it was empty, but it left Vlad with a whole new problem. It took months of deep personal testing and trials. Of learning about all his new abilities. Finding out about what he was exactly.

It wasn't their fault.

Vlad reminded himself as he learned the truth about his recovery. Learned that he was now essentially half ectoplasm. Half ghost. Half dead.

Abilities seemed to pop up out of nowhere. First, there was the phasing, then the invisibility, then the flying, and the next thing Vlad knew he had fire abilities too.

Things finally turned around for Vlad. After sulking for months, turning to alcohol and drugs. Alcohol and drugs that only lasted for a few moments at a time before fading from his system.

Sure, Vlad turned to a life of crime. But he changed things. He stopped letting the actions of Jack and Maddie run his life. He became a millionaire over the course a few weeks. Then he became a billionaire.

The world was watching him. And for once, it wasn't as a medical mystery. Vlad felt on top of the world. He completed the work he had strive to do in college. He built his own portal, and it worked.

Years few as Vlad learned more. Learned everything he could about the Ghost Zone. As he established power and control over many of the ghosts. As they all learned just what a halfa was.

Dalv. Co become a national success. Vlad had stolen his money, but he had earned to keep it. Working his hardest to make a name for himself, to final be someone. Instead of just in the shadows.

It wasn't their fault.

Vlad reminded himself when he received the email asking him to host the twenty year class reunion. He reminded himself when he reacted out to Jack and Maddie, inviting them to stay with him for the reunion.

Even behind the hidden anger and pain. Vlad missed his two friends, his two best friends. If he could just get an apology, then maybe. Maybe Vlad could finally let things rest.

Except it hadn't happened. Vlad found himself feeling bitter as he looked at his friends. Looked at how much older they've gotten when Vlad barely aged a year. All that changed was his hair turning white over the years.

Bitter, as he watched them interact with their children. Children that Vlad didn't have. Children that Vlad wasn't even sure he could have if he wanted to. There was no evidence of a prior halfa, and Vlad didn't know how much that changed things.

Vlad had success, yes. But he had it completely alone.

It wasn't their fault.

Vlad barely kept a straight face in as they had dinner together. As Maddie and Jack boosted about Fentonworks and their kids. As Jack washed him with compliments for Vlad's accomplishments.

Vlad barely made it through, but he did. Kept it all together as he wished them all good nights. He kept it all together until the moment he went down for a quick drink.

He had to remind himself that he had guests. Ghost hunters in his home. Reminded himself he couldn't just fade down to the kitchen. It was smart he hadn't, considering the fact that Jack was down there. Helping himself to some leftovers.

Vlad couldn't fake it anymore. His mask slipped slowly as they sat in the dimly lit room. As Jack blabbered on and on the way he always did.

It wasn't their fault.

Vlad reminded himself again, not realizing it would be the last time. He found himself in a vulnerable moment. The pain and hurt in his eyes and tone were clear as day when Vlad finally broke the fake pleasantries.

"You promised."

The words had left Vlad as nothing but a whisper. His heart felt raw in that moment. Open and exposed as he felt those feelings. Those feelings from when Jack and Maddie first abandoned him.

Vlad hadn't meant to. He didn't want this to happen now. Not before the reunion. Not before Vlad truly got to see how much they all changed.

But it happened. And Vlad found himself aching to hear a few simple words. For Jack to apologize. Apologize for turning on the prototype. Apologize for taking four days to see him. Apologize for suddenly leaving him behind. Without so much as a word.

"I know."

All that hope, the desperation in Vlad's chest, broke the moment he heard those words. Heard the resignation in Jack's surprisingly quiet tone. A wave of pure despair and pain washed over Vlad in that moment.

Jack didn't apologize. A simple two word phrase that would have meant the world to Vlad in this moment. Jack didn't say it. Instead, he said two words that felt like a stab to Vlad's half-beating heart.

Vlad didn't say anything else in that moment. He downed the last of his drink before standing from his seat. Vlad was much too into his own feelings and thoughts to notice the shock on Jack's face. Or the way Jack's mouth opened to speak again.

Instead, Vlad turned his back on Jack. Although his tone was more hollow than Vlad intended. He managed to fake a layer of pleasantries. A second good night given that night as Vlad made his ways up the stairs.

He wanted nothing more than to curl up in his bathroom. Downing his sorrows in alcohol and maybe taking his rage out in his hidden lab below the surface.

Instead, Vlad found himself with a burning need for revenge. A burning need to break about Jack's life. Break apart Maddie's life. A life they built once leaving Vlad behind. A life they excluded from him for so long. Only just now showing interest to having him around.

No. This time, Vlad was putting himself first. His wants. His needs. His desires. It wasn't about the Fentons anymore. It was going to be about him. About him finding a family. Of having a community. A life outside of his economic and scientific success.

And maybe this time, Vlad was going to start with a certain fourteen year old boy. A certain boy that Vald had picked out at the start.

A certain boy whose heart beats half the average. Who takes in a breath every few seconds, just a tad too long. A certain boy that made Vlad's ghost sense trigger. A certain boy that reeked of ectoplasm.

A certain someone who might just know how it feels to be an abomination to science. To be so different that you may just be the only one to exist.

A certain someone that might just make his life a bit less lonely.

In this moment, Vlad finally realized the truth of his situation. Whatever has happened since that accident. Whatever happened in the years they hadn't talked. Whatever happens now, after this reunion was over. When Vlad finally made his moves. Whatever happened then, now, and in the future. He knew with unbridled certainty that...

It was their fault.

[autistic-beshelar]

rue is, i think, in love with the idea of love.

they set a wager. the lords of the wing will find true love in this romantic, ephemeral bloom, if they only seek it. they can win it, as though it’s a game.

they long to abolish the courts. their own court has never held any love for them - why would any other court be different? a court stifles, a court smothers, a court suffocates love. the courts must be abolished, so that love can bloom. true love, love that is unfettered by politics, or station, or duty.

they are the architect of the bloom. the hunt, the heart. the dance. the potions. they will pour love into a cup and the guests will drink their fill. fae from across the realms will fall in beautiful, perfect love at rue’s hand. 

they have become the arbiter of love. when an engagement between a cruel prince and a wild goblin is set, what else can they do but judge it unfit? it was not love, it was not true. 

they share a moment in a forest with a venerated captain. he is tall, as they are. he is clawed, as they are. he is a beast, as they are, and so beautiful for it. they fall fast, and hard, and heavy. and perhaps it is only the nature of queerness, of a life lived behind a mask, yearning for the faintest spark, that causes them to love so fast. 

or perhaps they did not truly fall in love with hob at all. for they did not see him. 

they fell in love with a reflection of themself.

except, of course, that hob is not a reflection of rue. hob is his own person, and like any real person, he cannot live up to an idea. and while rue is on a wonderful journey of revelation and self acceptance, it is baffling to them that someone else’s love does not always mirror their own.

rue, in an act of bravery and vulnerability and hope, removed their mask. and they long so very much to remove hob’s - but he has never worn a mask. he has always been exactly as he is - a soldier, devoted and dutiful. an outsider, used and abused by his court. rue’s true form was hidden by their court, while hob’s otherness has always been mercilessly exposed.

rue loves hob for the idea of who he could be, if he could simply unmask as they did. but hob needs, just as rue does, to be loved for who he is.

[fangswbenefits]

just a few random thoughts on The Arrangement Astarion (cw: mentions of past abuse and trauma)

The way abuse can warp someone for life is often overlooked. This isn't just a journey about him dealing with intimacy (in all its forms) but also how to do it in spite of everything he went through. Putting up walls and not letting her in, but feeling the need to resort to sarcasm and to being snarky cause the vulnerability that comes with it is just too much to handle. She has already seen the ugly yet he keeps doing it, because when you've doing it for so long it becomes second nature and it's hard to unlearn this behaviour. How can people stay when they've seen the ugly? Well, some people do stay because they have seen the ugly and their love for you surpasses that. They'd ve damned if they allowed that to change their opinion of you.

However, this doesn't have be a life sentence for him. He can learn and better himself alongside her if he so chooses. There will be good days. There will be bad days. But the constant will be her by his side. And this isn't about anyone getting fixed. There are other ways to heal. Are those healthy, though? But still, no matter how uncertain things are, he can count on her love as a constant that can help him love the parts of him that he has grown to hate.

Is it easy? Does it happen overnight? Probably not. But there's always hope. There is always a way out. Even when he dissociates. Even when he's fearful of getting more intimate with her. Even when he remembers that she chose friendship over something else - it's never easy to be shown what you need to see instead of what you want to see. Astarion falls into this constant dichotomy and I think it's worth exploring 🫂

[actual-changeling]

Aziraphale, in his new position as Supreme Archangel, could make his job a lot easier by delegating most of the tasks to whomever he pleases.

He doesn't.

There is a modest office opposite the Earth Observation Chamber and its archive, a golden-yellow touch of colour in an otherwise sterile white building, and in that office is a desk that has never had to listen to the laws of physics and never will. After a few initial moments of hesitation, he had miracled a suggestion box right next to the door that, for the most part, remained open.

It is in this office, with an overflow of paperwork to his right and a portal link straight to the archives on his left, that he first receives notice of a miracle performed on earth by Muriel, 37th-order Scrivener and current representative in London.

'Frivolous miracles' only exist in the minds of the other Archangels, and so he barely looks at it, ready to put his signature at the bottom and send it to be sorted into its section, when a familiar name makes him pause. His breath hitches despite the fact that he has not taken a single breath since re-entering heaven, and he slowly, slower than he needs to, reads the details of Muriel's miracle.

Leaving out corporate details, the note can be summarised as follows:

'The angel Muriel miracled a 100% cotton blanket in the reinstated Embassy for the demon Crowley.'

Don't, he tells himself, vision blurring, don't go looking for him.

Long, dark evenings, wine-red cheeks, high on each other's company and the warmth radiating off their skin, bodies falling onto the couch, close, closer. They shouldn't, they really, really shouldn't. Aziraphale places his glass on the coffee table, talking before he leans back again, just to be interrupted by a sudden weight on his shoulder.

"Maybe we sh- oh."

Crowley, fast asleep, his wine glass empty but precariously balanced in a limp hand, his face pressed into Aziraphale's neck. He can feel the gentle, regular ghost of his breath caressing his skin, the smooth locks of hair long enough to fall past his collarbone tickling him whenever he exhales.

There are moments in which choices need to be made quickly and without regret, and this was one of them.

They shouldn't.

Aziraphale plucks the glass from his grasp and carefully frees his arm without jolting Crowley, wrapping it around him and holding him in place.

He really shouldn't.

With only a thin shirt between his palm and Crowley's skin, the heat seeps deep into his bones, inviting him to stay, and so he does. Making himself comfortable, he reaches for a book and dims the lights with an absent thought, glancing down at the demon with fluttering eyes and parted lips.

He really, really shouldn't.

The note, which remained unseen by some stroke of luck, contained the following information:

'The Principality Aziraphale miracled a 100% cotton blanket in the earthly Embassy for the demon Crowley.'

Aziraphale gingerly positions the blanket so it covers as much of Crowley as possible, giving into the urge to rest his cheek on top of his head just once. Melted candle wax, smokey campfires, and a smidge of ginger that may or may not be his shampoo; his hair feels exactly as soft as it looks. Crowley stirs, pressing into the touch, and mumbles something he is too scared to admit is angel.

Somewhere on earth, Crowley is fast asleep and kept warm by a blanket Muriel thought to summon.

Aziraphale signs the notification and watches as it disappears into the archives, leaving not the slightest trace. Then, with a tremor in his hands, he stands up and closes the door to his office, waiting until the lock clicks shut and a floating 'do not disturb' appears on the other side before sliding down the wall.

He thinks of a familiar heartbeat next to him, sparkling golden eyes, soft, sleepy breaths, and cries.

[drawnfamiliarfaces]

<< First - here - Next >

[honeycollectswhump]

maybe put a shock collar on Ashtray?

Lightning in His Veins

[masterlist]

CW: shock collar, pet whump, conditioned whumpee, dehumanisation

His Mistress has a new collar for him. Ashtray should be excited at the prospect of being decorated, but something about it makes his stomach churn. It is big, black and ugly. Nothing like the delicate accessories his Mistress usually dresses him in, and that almost feels like a sin.

Maybe it's because the collar is a gift from one of her friends, watching excitedly. Not for Ashtray, of course, nothing is ever for him, nothing belongs to him, that’s how it's supposed to be. But sometimes they gift her things to dress him in, though nothing comes close to her knowledge of style and grace. This collar must be one of those gifts then, and who is Ashtray to question that. A Good Boy never questions his superiors, a Good Boy never questions anything. A Good Boy does what he is told.

So Ashtray does. He bares his neck prettily, taking note of how his torso moves, twisting on fresh burns, knowing that the glitter the servants applied must shine like tiny diamonds. And maybe, silently, he hopes that his Mistress’ friends must be so jealous of her beautiful, perfect possessions, decked in gold and jewels, just what dreams are made of. 

…At least he thinks that’s what dreams must be like. Objects don’t dream, naturally. 

As his Mistress closes the clasps of the collar, as her pristine red nails scratch over a burn scrab, he can’t help but focus on the feelings of prongs digging into his throat in an uncomfortably familiar way. Ashtray doesn’t dwell on it though. He has already learned, there is nothing to fear. The blank rooms are far gone and instead have been blessedly replaced by the shining smiles his Mistress graces him with, her cold hands like glistening ice bringing warm burns, and the golden glamour she has allowed him to be a part of. 

Satisfied, his Mistress steps back. She is saying something, talking with her guest, exchanging airy laughter and warbled pleasant tones, washing over Ashtray like pearly morning dew he can picture in his mind but has never seen before. He could get lost in her voice, riding on it like clouds carrying him through his purpose, and yet never being too distracted, always keeping an eye on the ground just low enough so he’ll never miss a clue he can’t understand, never missing the remote–

The remote being handed to his Mistress, equally as black as the collar, making him suddenly awake of the prongs against his throat and the pit forming in his stomach. 

Ashtray stays still though, perfectly poised, and suppresses the flinch before it had even fully realised. Maybe he hopes, desperately, if he is Good enough she’ll decide against it. Maybe it was all a test, maybe, maybe… Maybe he can see it coming just enough to give her the reaction she wants. 

Almost pleadingly in the silence of his own mind, Ashtray knows he isn’t trained for pain. He is supposed to be an Ashtray, an object with a specific use, it’s all he could ever hope to know. The thought of displeasing her with his reaction scares him more than any pain ever could. What if he reacts too much? What if he is not– Lightning burns down his veins, ripping out his throat, his skin and tissue and soul. Two punctures spread venom down his very being, and there is no escape no escape no escape no escape no escape

Suddenly, it’s gone and Ashtray finds himself curled up on the ground, his limbs still twitching. He can’t remember how but surely it wasn’t graceful and–

His mouth rips open in a breathless scream, a pathetic, garbled screech barely noticeable over the sound of mindless thrashing, limbs hitting the floor, head banging against polished stone. It’s fire and lightning and Punishment and he doesn’t know why, doesn’t know anything, only knows Pain and Punishment and Please Stop.

Pause.

Breath.

Notice saliva dripping from the mouth. Not elegant. Not trained.

Hell. 

Like veins imploding, swallowing what is left of Ashtray, leaving no trace of his purpose. Like poison, destruction, ruin, Ødelæggelse.

Stop.

Gasp.

Look up at Mistress, hope for mercy, hope for anything.

Find glee. Find amused laughter. Please.

It never ends…

• • •

He is still here. Ashtray is still here. Twisted, on the ground, the venom still burning in every vessel, but here. His tongue feels thick and swollen in his mouth, dried and bloody at the same time. Somehow, it is all pain, every single cell in his body is pain and lightning and shocks still coursing through him.

Maybe she heard him think. Maybe she felt her Ashtray have stupid little thoughts about things he should be grateful for, like being adorned in a big, black, ugly painful it hurts burning agonising beautiful collar. 

taglist: @whumpsday, @2in1whump, @sodacreampuff, @webbo0, @toyybox let me know if you want to be added or removed :)

[tennessoui]

For the prompt list, nanny/single parent obikin would be amazing!!

(from this prompt list)

(the first time I answered this prompt two years ago, the nanny anakin au was born)

so to do something different, here's some gffa widowed anakin, nanny (sort of) obi-wan!

(2.5k)

It is hard to find time to grieve. There are too many things to do. Too many appointments to make, too many decisions Anakin isn’t sure he’s qualified for. Some decisions are easier than others. For example, the funeral will be on Naboo. There will be two services: a public one to honor Padmé’s public service, and a private one to honor who she was as a person. The casket will be closed, because his wife died when her cruiser exploded. There isn’t much left to bury anyway.

But some decisions are harder. Which flowers should go on her casket. What songs would she want sung and who should sing them? Would she prefer her grave closer to her ancestral home or the home she created in her adulthood?

If she told anyone the answers to these questions, it wasn’t Anakin. But then, the people who knew her best, who loved her most, died with her. Sabé, Rabé, Saché, Yané, all of her handmaidens—an assassination such broad strokes that it was impossible for it to fail.

So Anakin chooses Yali lilies, because Leia’s eyes linger on them the longest. He chooses a small Nabooian folk band to play after her service because their music is the first thing to make Luke lift his head from his coloring books in days. He formally requests that her body be buried among her ancestors, and the Nabierres agree immediately.

And he keeps telling himself that he will grieve, but there is so much to do. 

And then—then there’s after the funeral. Then there’s the rest of his life, sprawling out before him in a long, hazy road. 

There are more decisions to be made.

There are people who have opinions on them now, people who sat back and let Anakin muddle through flower arrangements and kriffing seating charts, who now step in to peer over his shoulder, monitor his every breath.

Should he really move the children back to Coruscant? Does he truly plan to continue to work as a mechanic in the Mid-Levels? Should he not think of the children, their needs? How can he support them on the thin amount of credits he makes? Would it not be better for the children to live on Naboo in the care of their grandparents and their extended family?

It would be what Padmé would have wanted.

Anakin cannot care about what Padmé would have wanted, because she isn’t here. Not to argue with him, not to make her wants known. She is dead. She doesn’t get to haunt him in the waking world too.

“What do you want?” he asks plainly, sitting down across the table from his two children. The twins blink back at him. Leia has finished her cereal. Luke has barely touched his.

“Bacon,” Luke says.

Anakin hadn’t meant for breakfast, but he figures it’s as good of a start as any. “Alright,” he agrees.

He stands once more and goes to the kitchen. It’s not exactly his domain. It was never Padmé’s either. The way Padmé grew up, food was made once you requested it—by droid, by cooking staff. Not by the hand of a Nabierre.

The way Anakin grew up, food was cobbled together carefully, sparingly no matter how much you requested it. And no matter how you cooked it, it always tasted a little like dust, which took the joy out of experimentation.

But the serving staff have been dismissed for the past two weeks to give the family time and space to grieve in private. 

(Padmé’s parents have been given a schedule for visiting hours for that exact reason.)

Anakin locates the pan; then, he locates the package of bacon strips.

When he glances up, both twins are watching him over the edge of their barstools, tiny faces showing both skepticism and incredulity.

“I want to know what you want to do,” Anakin says, raising his voice as he places the pot over the heating plate, the meat in a moment later. “Do you want to stay here with your grandmother and grandfather? Do you want to go back to Coruscant?”

The twins are quiet. Anakin twists his neck to look at them again, and they’re looking at each other, silently communicating the way only twins can.

“Where will you be?” Leia finally asks, looking at him with narrowed, suspicious eyes, bottom lip already jutting out.

Anakin blinks. “Wherever you are,” he answers.

“You won’t leave too?” Luke asks rather tremulously.

Anakin takes the pan off the heated plate and turns it off with a decisive flick of his wrist. “Of course not,” he says. “Come here.” He crouches down and barely has enough time to open his arms before the twins are there, pressing in as close as they can get to him. He holds them back just as tightly in return.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promises into Leia’s hair. “Not without you two.”

—-----------------

It becomes apparent fairly quickly that this is, by necessity, a lie.

The twins don’t want to stay on Naboo, which Anakin is secretly incredibly grateful for. He doesn’t want to either, but he knows he’d just be called selfish should he express the opinion.

But the twins don’t want to go back to Coruscant either. This makes sense as well. It would be incredibly jarring for them to go back to living in the quarters they shared with their mother, her Upper Coruscanti apartments in the nicest district of the planet, without her there.

Anakin wishes it were as simple as sticking a pin on a planet and deciding to uproot the entirety of his family to live there. 

But it’s not.

Perhaps if he were still young, nineteen, newly free and in love with the taste of that freedom, it would be.

But he’s a widower now. He has his children to think about, their futures. Any planet he chooses must have what they need as well. 

And they are four year olds who have just lost their mother. Their needs are numerous.

What makes the decision for him in the end is that his boss knows a man from Stewjon, who is willing to hire him. Who is willing to pay a premium for his expertise with mechanics.

Anakin doesn’t know the first thing about Stewjon, other than that it’s an ocean planet in the Inner Core and his dead wife always said the Senators from Stewjon were so frigid and tight-lipped because they spent the first few days of each visit trying not to be seasick on the Senate floor.

Anakin isn’t sure why this is the very first thing he tells the man—his potential boss—he meets behind the counter in the mech-shop on Stewjon.

He’s left the children with their grandparents for the week—long enough to fly from Naboo to Stewjon, meet with his potential employer, interview, apply his work practically, and fly back out.

He’d explained to both twins why they had to stay on Naboo. He’d explained many times. That hadn’t changed the betrayed look Leia had worn as she saw him off. It hadn’t wiped the tears from Luke’s eyes.

“Ah, well, I can’t say I’ve heard that one before,” the mechanic says. He sounds amused, and Anakin is incredibly shocked to hear a Coruscanti accent. Everyone he’s spoken to since arriving planetside has had such a heavy brogue that he’d honestly struggled to understand their directions to the shop—Kenobi & Sons.

Anakin lets himself look again at the man behind the counter. He’s rather clean for a mechanic, he decides. His beard is red, a common factor around these parts apparently, but his beard is short and neat, trimmed to accentuate the strong lines of his jaw. His eyes are a stormy blue, the kind of blue that matches the Stewjoni ocean.

“Between you and me though,” the man smirks and leans onto the counter with his elbow. His tunic is dark gray, white starchy fabric peeking out beneath the v-necked collar. “I’ve never been a fan of Stewjoni politicians anyway.”

“Oh?” Anakin asks, sidling a step closer to the counter. The man has the beginnings of gray at his temples, and his eyes are lined with wrinkles. They don’t make him look old though, Anakin decides. They make him look…well-lived.

“I’ve not a head for politics much at all,” his future employer shakes his head slightly with a small smile. His eyes flick up and down Anakin’s face, lingering on his lips and then lingering longer on the scar over his brow. Anakin feels rather flushed under the inspection, and he shifts his weight forward until he’s leaning up against the counter too.

There’s something about this man that’s rather…magnetic. It pulls him in. It makes him want to linger.

Good characteristic for a shopkeeper to have, though Anakin privately decides that the man before him has a face that’s wasted on mechanics, buried under some ship’s underbelly in a backroom.

“Me neither,” he admits, a moment too late to sound anything but highly distracted. It makes the man smile again though, a flash of straight white teeth.

“Is there anything you do have a head for then?” he asks. His tone is light, airy, rather teasing.

This is the strangest interview Anakin has ever had.

“Um,” he says. “Well. There’s mechanics.”

“Oh?” The man’s eyebrow lifts at an elegant angle. He props his chin on the palm of his hand and looks up at Anakin through his eyelashes. “Then why come here to us then?”

“Um,” Anakin says, and not because the man looks rather unfairly flattering like this, amber eyelashes in sharp relief against the blue of his eyes.

They’re interrupted by the sounds of clattering in the backroom, stomping and cursing. The man before him straightens with a slight sigh and picks up the closest flimsipad. “And what brings you in here today, sir?” he asks rather loudly, pitching his voice back to the other room of the shop pointedly. “Problem with your speeder? Serving droid? Cruiser? If it’s your astromech droid, I regret to inform you that I’ll have to refuse you service on account of the fact that I don’t particularly care for them.”

Anakin thinks he splutters, but whatever noise he makes is definitely drowned out by the rather irritated shout of Obi-Wan! that comes from the back.

A moment later, a man storms through the door, looking annoyed. "We will service an astomech if that's what's broken, Obi-Wan."

Now this is a man that Anakin can believe is a mechanic. His nails are blackened with oil, and his bare, burly arms carry smudges of the stuff. He’s much broader than the man—Obi-Wan—that Anakin had been talking to. He’s bald with a reddened scalp and a rather large red beard that’s the antithesis of the other man’s in every way. His clothes are dirty, loose, and the color of ash. He looks older too—whereas Obi-Wan could easily be in his thirties, this man must be pushing fifty.

He snaps at Obi-Wan in a language that Anakin doesn’t understand. Obi-Wan shrugs and hands over the flimsi pad without argument.

“Um, actually,” Anakin says, feeling incredibly wrong-footed. “Which one of you is Kenobi?”

“I am,” both of them say. Obi-Wan’s smirking slightly. The other man’s voice is louder, carrying that Stewjoni accent so obviously lacking in Obi-Wan’s speech.

The older man closes his eyes as if he’s praying for patience. “We both are,” he says. “Though if your ship’s malfunctioned, sir, I’m the Kenobi you want to see. This one’s good for naught but magic tricks.”

“I have been told I’m rather good at other things,” Obi-Wan turns his smirk full-force at Anakin, dropping his eyes to Anakin’s lips once more.

“My name is Anakin Skywalker,” he says very quickly in a very normal tone of voice that is most definitely not a squeak. “I’m here to interview for a position. As another mechanic.”

“Oh,” the older Kenobi says.

“Oh,” the younger Kenobi says in a much different tone.

The older Kenobi pinches at his nose for a moment before turning around the counter and offering his hand. “Ben,” he says. “Ben Kenobi.”

Anakin takes his hand and shakes it, eyes traveling back to Obi-Wan. Is he supposed to shake his hand too?

“I’m the Son in the sign,” Ben says gruffly as if that answers his question.

“I’m the reason it’s plural,” Obi-Wan adds, busying himself with the contents of the counter. From what Anakin can tell, the man is just messing up the carefully organized piles of receipts. 

He decides that he would rather not get the job than point this out to Ben.

Ben huffs out something in Stewjoni that sounds downright insulting, but that doesn’t stop Obi-Wan from smiling sunnily up at Anakin. “My brother enjoys bitching and moaning that I came back home when I was seventeen, but he’s awfully quick to foist his children off on me when he’s called to shift at the rig offshore and Marci’s off-planet too.”

Anakin blinks. He feels like that’s the safest answer.

“Only thing good that blasted Jedi Order ever taught you was how to handle younglings,” Ben says, and then spits on the ground as if the words themselves have left a bad taste in his mouth.

Anakin blinks and wonders if he should say something to remind the brothers that he’s here. For an interview. “And my magic tricks,” Obi-Wan rolls his eyes slightly before catching Anakin’s eye and winking. With a wave of his hand, a flimsi-sheet flies over the counter and into Anakin’s chest. He catches it unthinkingly. “Would you like to sign in, sir?” “Get out of here,” Ben barks, snatching the flimsi from Anakin’s hand and pushing it back to the counter. “Like I said, the only one’s impressed with that is the younglings.”

“I don’t know, your man looks impressed,” Obi-Wan says slyly, even as he pushes himself away from the counter and around the edge of it.

Anakin isn’t sure what he looks like. He doesn’t think impressed is the word he’d use though.

When Obi-Wan brushes past him, the static electricity in the air jumps between their shoulders. Anakin feels as if he’s been shocked.

Obi-Wan must feel it too because he stops only a few inches away and looks at Anakin. For the first time, his expression is open. Curious. Considering.

“Get!” His brother insists, and Obi-Wan obeys, throwing one last look over his shoulder at Anakin before he slips out the door.

The shop feels somehow much bigger now that the other man has left. Ben sighs and rubs a hand down his face. He looks older now. More worn. “So that was my brother,” he tells Anakin wearily. “Who you would most likely see frequently if you were to take this job. I would understand completely if you would like to start by talking compensation.”

[gooperts-gunk]

im so crazy over the tragedy of everything q!bbh does being under a demon pretense even though he's a fallen angel.

do u think he just accepts the demon label because it's easier. do u think he believes it too, and catches himself in his thoughts with "oh, right. im not exactly that". and maybe he believes that he did this to himself? do u think what he did was to protect himself or someone? no matter the fall, he still has so much kindness to give and his brain just isn't wired the way a natural-born demon would be, he can't hold back instincts when time demands it, maybe that's why he fell in the first place.

and when he's finally bad, not good, it's treated like the end of the world, without empathy on why he would act out. do you think this keeps happening? the same scenario, multiple times, every timeline? he has to be used to it. so he has to take it in stride. he's good until he lashes out under extreme pressure, and suddenly he's called demon. and once again he's what heaven made him out to be. what he made himself to be, his brain would ruthlessly provide...

i don't think he wants to be that, though he hides secrets behind secrets of which neither identity is a home... but i don't think he wants to have to change, either. and i don't think that's wrong of him.

...you collapse atlantis ONE TIME and all of a sudden YOU'RE the bad guy and SURE it was FUN but REALLY now,--

[luxaofhesperides]

"I see you, and I love you" + hurt/comfort ; requested by @oops-i-dropped-the-galaxy!

Danny can handle being a halfa. He’s had years to get used to it, switching between dead and alive, living boy and ghost, always living in flux. He’s settled into his identity as one of the few halfas in existence, navigating the living world and the Infinite Realms with ease after years of practice.

What he can’t handle is becoming an Ancient.

Apparently, while most Ancients are born into the role, ruling over their domain, some can grow into it. It’s rare, practically unheard of, but not impossible.

Danny is growing into the Ancient of Stars, changed from the inside out by his love of space. 

He would be happy if it didn’t hurt so much.

Danny can’t sleep at night anymore. When the stars are out, he can hear them singing, each windchime voice echoing through his ears. Though he can’t see them from beneath Gotham’s cloud cover, he can feel them shining brightly far above him. 

He lays in bed with Duke, curled up in his side, trying to muffle his whimpers as his bones creak and hollow, his soul growing too large for his body to handle. He is space contained in a human body. It wants to be free, to stretch from its suffocating confines and fill every dark space with cold light. His skin feels too tight and his teeth ache. 

All Danny can do is clench his jaw, wrap his arms around his stomach as tightly as he can, and try to weather through the pain of changing.

The agony of it comes in waves. He doesn’t know how long it takes until it recedes enough for him to feel like he can breathe again, trying to suck air in as his lungs are crushed by his ribcage. Slowly, Danny pushes himself up, taking care not to wake Duke, and stumbles out of bed. His throat is dry and feels as if its been scraped raw by sandpaper, and all he wants is water.

He gets halfway down the hall when the next wave hits.

Danny collapses, gasping for breath, and can only watch through tear-filled eyes as his fingers go dark, the same black as deep space. His body shifts, bones cracking and muscles stretching like taffy, and suddenly he’s big larger than life a galaxy a black hole there is darkness everywhere it is alive it is full of stars the stars are singing the stars are singing the stars are si

“Danny? Hey, sweetheart, are you okay?”

That’s Duke’s voice. He’d recognize it anywhere, even from miles away, even when he’s sure he doesn’t have ears anymore. It takes all his effort to pull himself back to Earth, back into their apartment, blinking up at Duke as the stars in his eyes fade away. 

Duke kneels before him, concern clear on his face, gentle hands reaching out to hold Danny steady. The feel of his warmth grounds him, keeps him more securely in his body. The pull of space is still there, tugging at him, trying to pull him out of humanity and into the form of an Ancient, but Danny can resist it so long as Duke keeps him tethered to the ground.

“It hurts,” he croaks, shivering.

“Shh, I know, baby. How can I help? What do you need?”

Danny leans forward, burying his face in Duke’s chest as tears slip out of his eyes. “It hurts,” he says again, voice shaking. ��I keep changing and growing and my entire body is being torn apart and—” he gasps, cutting himself off. “I keep disappearing. I don’t want to disappear. I want to stay here but it takes me away and then I’m too big and no one can see me and I’m alone—”

“You’re not alone, Danny,” Duke says, holding him tightly as if his arms will be enough to keep Danny from breaking out of his own body, ridding himself of a mortal vessel, his only remaining tie to this world. “I see you, and I love you. Even if you have to change and go far away to be happy, I’ll find a way to follow you there, okay? I’m with you for as long as you want me.”

“I don’t want to hurt so much,” Danny whimpers, black fingers speckled with stardust clawing at Duke’s arms. 

“Just breathe through it, sweetheart, you can do it. Let it pass through you. I got you, okay? Just let the pain pass and you’ll be fine.”

He wants to snap at Duke that it’s not fine, that the pain will be forever, it’ll linger in every one of his joints, that he can’t just stop fighting it because it’ll hurt even worse then. But his jaws are aching, his teeth sharpening, and there’s a black hole in his throat that he refuses to let loose. He lets out another pained whine, shivering, and in his chest a star is formed, burning bright and angry.

“Breathe, Danny, breathe,” Duke soothes, rubbing a hand up and down Danny’s back.

It’s habit to relax into his touch. They’ve spent so many nights working through night terrors and injuries, comforting each other through gentle touches. The pain eases a bit, and Danny sighs, frost on his breath. 

“There we go, sweetheart, that’s it. You’re doing just fine.”

Another tear slips down his face, but the ache in his entire body as his growing ghost form tries to escape begins to fade. 

He’s spent so many nights in pain, waiting for the sun to rise to muffle the singing of the stars. If he can get any relief, he’ll take it, even if it means losing his human form.

Danny stops fighting. His resistance to this change falls away. There’s a moment where the pain disappears entirely, the world going still, but before he can let out a relieved sigh, the change hits him like an asteroid, sudden and instant and inevitable.

A cry is ripped from his throat, but it doesn’t sound like him. It echoes, deep and inhuman, and suddenly Danny is every dark space surrounding the stars, the arms of every galaxy, suns burning bright and dying, supernova, cold and ice and the slow drifting of planets in orbit. His body grows, expands, no longer a ghost but an Ancient, body curling into itself to stay within the walls of the too small apartment, large hands cupped around Duke to keep him safe. 

He can feel the cold of space. Orbits dance in his mind. Meteorites and asteroids drift without pattern across his chest. Danny can see everything with too many eyes, and he can cup planets in his palms, so much larger than possibility. His chest opens and expands and his body can curl around Earth and keep it safe. 

He feels settled in this new body, senses stretched in every direction and the universe is so much lovelier than he could have ever experienced it in a halfa’s body. 

Danny, Ancient of the Stars, hums and the universe shivers, singing back to him.

The pain is gone completely. He wonders why he resisted so hard; this is what he’s meant to be. He’s never felt so right before.

“Danny?”

Duke’s voice is small, but only because he is small when compared to Danny in his Ancient form. 

Duke, he tries to say but his vocal chords have changed. Instead of words, a deep hum erupts from his throat, similar to the purr of a particularly large cat. 

“Hey, sweetheart. Feeling better?”

Danny nods, pulling himself back together to feel his body more keenly, no longer stretched across the universe, cradling every star in his reach. Duke reaches a hand up and Danny reaches back, folding himself back into his body. His human eyes return and he realizes the apartment is completely covered in darkness with stars sparkling all around them. It recedes as he fits himself back into his body, the black on his fingers fading away until his hand is indistinguishable from a normal human’s. 

He takes hold of Duke’s hand and tries to stand. His legs are weak and unsteady and he falls onto Duke, who catches him with ease and sweeps him up into a princess carry. 

“There you are, honey,” Duke says, voice warm and relieved. “You alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I feel a lot better.”

“Good. Do you need anything? Hot chocolate, heating pad, sleep?”

Danny thinks for a moment, then says, “Hot chocolate.”

“You got it. Let me just set you on the couch and I’ll have it out in a minute.”

He carefully sets Danny onto the couch, then tucks the blanket they keep folded over the back around him. Once he’s satisfied Danny is comfortable, Duke heads to the kitchen, flicking on the light as he does. 

Danny sinks into the couch cushions, carefully moving all his fingers and toes to make sure they’re fine. He’s a little sore, as if all his bones where put through the ringer, but it doesn’t feel any different from when he has a particularly rough training day. 

What’s more important that his physical body is the fact that he can feel his core, settled deep in his chest. It’s no longer the cold of ice, but it burns coldness, a white star embodying his soul, a changed core to reflect his transformation into an Ancient. 

A baby Ancient, technically. He still has some growing to do, but the rest should be easier and, hopefully, less painful.

He closes his eyes and begins to drift off when he hears Duke return. It takes some effort to open his eyes, and his smiles softly and sleepily when he sees Duke set down two steaming mugs of hot chocolate on the coffee table.

“Love you,” he mumbles, freeing a hand from the blanket to try to pull Duke down to join him.

Duke goes to him easily, sitting next to him and pulling Danny in to cuddle against him. It’s been so long since he last felt so comfortable at night, not writhing in pain and biting through his lip to keep quiet, that he can’t help but sink into it. A purr starts up in his chest, and Duke startles.

“Sweetheart, are you purring?”

Danny flushes and tries to hide his face. The purr doesn’t stop. He’s always been able to purr after becoming a halfa, though purr is just an easier way to describe it. It’s less of his vocal chords vibrating and more of his core rumbling in contentment. Usually, it’s unnoticeable, barely able to be felt let alone heard. Apparently, becoming an Ancient and therefore a much stronger ghost means his purrs are also stronger and louder.

“You’re so cute,” Duke says, pressing a kiss against Danny’s forehead. “Drink your hot chocolate, and then we can go back to sleep.”

He makes grabby hands at his mug, and Duke laughs and picks it up for him.

“Love you,” Danny repeats, voice less muffled.

“Love you, too,” Duke says. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

“I’m glad you were there to help me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“It’s a good thing you’ll never have to find out. I’ve got you, sweetheart, always.”

Believing him is the easiest thing Danny has ever done. If Duke says he’ll be there for, then he will. 

Always, always, always.

. . .

[send me ghostlights prompts!]

[roomy-ghosted]

My feelings towards ao3 this morning.