#danny's nervous as hell

[soul-crowned-prince]

[ Damian waited inside the cafe, fiddling with his hands nervously but keeping a calm poker face. He didn't want to come off as scared... He was but that didn't matter. ]

[ Danyal’s transformation was almost jarring in its simplicity. He had to keep reminding himself that he wasn't a king in this form. That he had to act normal. The weight of his regal presence seemed to melt away. The heavy golden chains that had once bound him shimmered reforming into delicate bracelets that he kept fidgeting with. His crown dissolved into nothingness, leaving his hair still a striking, unnatural white and blue eyes. His royal attire shifted gave way to a casual button-up shirt and well-fitted pants, the kind any ordinary teenager might wear. The transformation stripped him of his kingly aura, leaving behind a boy who could almost pass for normal—save for the bright white hair that framed his face like a ghostly halo. A quiet reminder of all the ways Danyal had changed. A reminder that Danyal was anything but ordinary. He stepped in the cafe awkwardly glancing around for his brother. He could recognize Damian anywhere. Could Damian recognize him? Danny didn't look like the child he used to be...]

Brother.

[conquerthenight]

Tumblr user conquerthenight stop doubting your writing skills challenge (difficult)

[enigmaris]

DPxDC idea that has been floating around my head for a few months now:

Gotham, given its whole... thing with Lazurus Pools and general bad vibes, has a ghostly representative. Lady Gotham, when she bothers to be coporeal, looks like an influential lady from the 1920s, straight art deco elegance. A real classy girl.

Jazz is touring college campuses around the US. She has full ride offers from Gotham University, Metroplis College, and Star City State, to name a few. Danny, upon hearing that his sister is going to GOTHAM of all cities, decides he is going on this trip with her. He might be only 15, but his big sister isn't getting mugged while he has half an afterlife left to live!

Lady Gotham is all a flutter! Why the last ghost king was so frumpy! King Phantom is so handsome and powerful, and he is coming to her city. She absolutely has to show off her best side! She feels like a teenaged girl getting her home ready before a new beau comes to visit. She's flustered, she's nervous.

Meanwhile, John Constatine wakes up with cosmic alarm bells going off because something really, really bad is happening. He investigates to dicsover that for the past three days Gotham has not had a single crime.

No murders, muggings, hell not even a single jay walker!

Gotham the most cursed place on the North Or South American continent is suddenly more squeaky clean than whatever small farm town Superman grew up in.

No crimes, no smog in the air. Crime Lords seemingly gone in a puff of smoke, Assassins asleep in their beds.

Its so freaky. Even Batman is spooked and he is never spooked by anything.

Constantine is certain some demon or other nefarious being is harnessing Gothams cursed energy for some evil plot. Gathering the power to use it like a nuclear blast. Batman is concerned about mass mind control.

Lady Gotham is doing the metaphysical equivalent of hiding all of your stuff in a closet before a guest comes over because you dont have time to actually clean. She had to shoulder the thing closed! She just knows that when the lock fails there will be a huge mess.

Jazz and her family are just surprised about how nice Gotham U's campus is. She'd heard it was so dark and dangerous, but everyone is smiling and pleasant to her! Danny is just happy Jazz is safe from various villains.

So we have Batman investigating his rogues gallery for mind control plots, Constatine hunting for demons, Jazz and her family taking a walking tour of Gotham U, and Lady Gotham using every bit of her ghostly powers to make sure her damned, cursed city doesnt embarrass her in front of her crush!

[geminiwritten]

safehouse ; joaquín torres

fandom: marvel

pairing: joaquín x reader

summary: you're an ex-assassin trained by hawkeye and black widow, and your old friend sam needs your help on a mission alongside his new protege... but things don't go exactly to plan and you end up indefinitely stuck in a safehouse with joaquín

notes: danny ramirez has me in such a chokehold, he made me write smut!!! kind of... upon reread, i feel like this might flop? and i'm a little extra nervous about it because it's my second first attempt at smut, so i hope it doesn't suck! please, please, please let me know what you think! i need feedback! and also, sorry if it's shitty, i'm so out of practice with marvel, i'm just feral for this man...

warnings: swearing, sexual tension (lots), mention of guns / weapons, very minor descriptions of violence, italics, mention of a toxic ex and toxic behaviour, very out of date marvel knowledge, super horny, and SMUT-ish? (masturbation, dirty talk, thigh riding) so 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!

word count: 15295

“I’m going to do a quick sweep,” Joaquín says. “Make sure we weren’t followed.” 

You nod once, doing your best to flash the hottest man you’ve ever seen a cool, easy smile. 

“Copy,” Sam says as he walks further into the house. “Echo, you’re with me. Let’s clear this place.” 

You roll your eyes and follow Sam deeper into the safehouse, forcing yourself not to glance back as Joaquín slips out the front door. 

“That’s not my name anymore,” you mutter, sheathing a dagger in your thigh holster. “And would you slow down?” 

Just an hour ago, you were waiting at a secret meet-up spot for Sam to fill you in on this special mission he needed your expertise for. You weren’t keen on coming out of retirement, but he’d practically begged you over the phone—and you had no excuse good enough to say no. 

So there you were, waiting, when all hell broke loose. You don’t know who they were, but they came at you hard and fast, raining hellfire just as Sam—and his stupidly gorgeous protege—showed up. You fought your way out and found refuge in this safehouse. Now all you need to do is make sure you’re actually safe before figuring out what the fuck just happened. 

“All clear,” you tell Sam as you return to the landing just inside the front door of the old townhouse. 

He nods. “Looks like we’re good.” 

You tuck your gun away and start fiddling with a strap on the sleeve of your jacket, keeping your gaze locked on Sam beneath a furrowed brow. You’ve always been particularly good at death stares, and if Sam was a lesser man, he’d probably keel over by now. 

But instead, he grins. “What’s that look for?” 

“You know damn well what this look is for,” you mutter. 

He raises his brows, waiting for you to snap. 

It doesn’t take long. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” you hiss, just in case Joaquín is within earshot. “Two weeks ago you just happen to be in town, we catch up for a drink, and I drunkenly confess that I think your little protege is hot. Then all of a sudden, there’s a mysterious mission that requires both of us?” 

He chuckles quietly, eyes sparkling with amusement. “I’d call that a coincidence,” he says. “Oh, and I think your exact words were a walking wet dream with a stupidly perfect smile.” 

You narrow your eyes. “Whatever you’re playing at, stop it. I’m here now, so I’m going to help us get out of this mess—but that’s it.” 

“Would you calm down?” he sighs, leaning back against the wall—awkwardly, thanks to the shield on his back. “The kid has a thing for you too, so I just thought—” 

“What?” 

He rolls his eyes. “He’s like... obsessed with you. As soon as he found out I was catching up with you the other week, he wouldn’t shut up about it. Kept saying how he used to track your missions when you were working off-book with Hawkeye and Widow.” 

You raise your brows, crossing your arms. “Oh, cool. So he’s a stalker obsessed with a version of me from years ago? When I was training every day and hadn’t just been dragged out of retirement.” 

Sam gives you a flat look. “Would you stop calling it retirement? It was an elective hiatus—at most—and you’re still in your physical prime.” 

“Yeah,” you scoff. “Tell that to my knees.” 

Sam smirks. “I’m sure Joaquín won’t mind if you can’t get on your knees. Laying down would be just as—” 

You cross the room in one step and punch him in the shoulder. “Dude! Seriously?” 

He chuckles. “Okay, look, I wasn’t lying about the mission. I really do need your help on this. And so what if maybe you find a little love along the way? You’re both into each other and I know you both very well. You’d be great together. Plus, you’re both equally irritating, so really, this is an entirely selfless act. Why would I want to double your annoyingness?” 

You sigh and lean back, propping one arm on the post at the end of the stair banister. “It just doesn’t work like that, Sam. Not for people like us. We don’t date—it’s not realistic.” 

He rolls his eyes again and pushes off the wall. “Whatever you say, Echo. But I can see the way you’re looking at him. So if you want me out of the house, just say so. I’ll go for a walk or something.” 

Then he winks and turns into the small living room, making the cheap furniture look ridiculously tiny compared to his broad, geared-up physique. 

After a hot minute of seriously considering whether or not you could get away with ditching this mission entirely, you sigh and follow Sam—stripping off your gear as you go. 

You unzip your jacket and shrug it off, tossing it over the back of the couch as you pass through the living room. There’s a narrow archway leading into the kitchen, where Sam is already cracking open the fridge like he owns the place. You stop at the island counter and reach up to slide your weapons harness off your shoulders. It drops into your hands with a familiar weight before you set it on the bench. 

Next, you unclip your belt and bend down to unfasten the straps of your thigh holsters, tugging them free one at a time. You reach lower, dragging a short dagger from your boot and adding it to the pile. Then your gloves—peeled off and tossed carelessly onto the heap of weapons—before grabbing the hem of your long-sleeved tactical shirt and yanking it over your head. 

You’re down to your compression shirt—tight, unforgiving, and clinging to your body like a second skin—as you lean one hip against the counter and finally let out a breath. 

“Damn,” a voice says behind you—Joaquín. 

He’s standing just shy of the archway, making it look comically small with the bulk of his gear. His cheeks are flushed, dark curls damp with sweat, and his lips curved into a soft, crooked smirk. 

You want to say something snarky—ask if he sees something he likes, maybe point out a non-existent drop of drool on his chin. But you can’t. Because you’re giving him the exact same look—all heat, all want, no shame. 

Joaquín isn’t just gorgeous, he’s fucking badass too. You nearly lost your cool when he wrapped you in his arms during the earlier ambush, just before rocketing into the sky. You weren’t scared—just absurdly, wildly horny for the hot guy with mechanical wings flying you to safety. 

“Alright, you two,” Sam says, dropping a half-empty bottle of orange juice on the counter. “Save the saucy looks for later. First, we need to get in touch with the Secretary of Defence—see if we can start an investigation into whoever attacked us. Then we’ll figure out how long we’re stuck here.” 

Joaquín eyes the juice suspiciously. “How do you know that’s not expired?” 

Sam lifts it up. “Oh, it’s very expired.” Then takes a swig anyway, grimacing as he swallows. 

“Gross,” you mutter, turning toward the sink. 

You twist on the tap and squirt a half-crusted blob of soap from the sad little pump bottle on the windowsill, scrubbing the dirt and dried blood—thankfully not yours—off your hands. 

“Alright,” Joaquín says, “how do we contact the Secretary?” 

- 

Two weeks. It’s been two whole weeks of living in this godforsaken townhouse in bum-fuck suburbia, with barely any information on the assholes who forced you into hiding. 

All you do know is that they were after you. 

Yep. Someone’s been holding a serious grudge, just waiting for you to crawl out of retirement to make a move. So Sam made the call—told you to lay low at the safehouse, use an alias in case any nosy neighbours came sniffing around, and to simply wait while he tries to dig up more information on whoever sent the thugs. 

And the worst part? He assigned Joaquín as your full-time protection detail. 

Which means not only are you stuck in this crusty old house, but you’re stuck with one very attractive, very tempting man who apparently has no idea just how goddamn gorgeous he is. 

“You finished with this?” Joaquín asks, brows raised as he slowly reaches for the plate in front of you. 

You’re standing at the kitchen island, bent forward with your elbows on the bench and your chin resting in your palms. Across from you, Joaquín is washing dishes. Shirtless. Wearing nothing but a loose pair of grey sweats, skin still damp from the shower, curls sticking to his forehead, and looking like every fantasy you’ve ever had come to life. 

“Hello?” he says, waving a soapy hand in front of your face. “Anyone home?” 

You blink and force your eyes away from the absurd perfection of his body, dragging them up to his equally unfair face. 

“Sorry,” you mutter, cheeks warming. “Yeah, I’m done.” 

He flashes that boyish grin, picks up the plate, and turns back to the sink—letting you go right back to ogling him in peace. 

Your eyes drift over the muscles in his back, watching them roll and flex as he scrubs. You’re nearly tempted to dirty another dish just to keep the view going. Because this? This right here—domestic Joaquín, shirtless and glistening—is enough to keep your imagination busy for a very long time. 

Not that you’ve had much opportunity to indulge those fantasies, because Joaquín is here all the damn time. He only leaves when Sam calls him out—usually for groceries, clean clothes, or a quick intel drop. 

You’re almost never in the house alone. 

Which means your fantasies have been... limited. Mostly to rushed moments in the shower or late at night, when you’re pretty sure—hoping—that he’s asleep. 

“You know,” he says, breaking you out of your dazed—and admittedly filthy—thoughts, “if someone told me a few weeks ago that I’d be stuck in a safehouse with the Red Echo, I probably would’ve fainted.” 

You frown curiously, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “Really?” 

He nods. “Really.” 

When he turns around, your breath catches. Yeah, okay, you saw his abs like five minutes ago, but that doesn’t make them any less ridiculously sexy. 

“Why’s that?” you ask, determined not to let him fluster you any more than he already has. 

His cheeks flush, eyes dropping to the dish towel he’s drying his hands with. “I was, like... obsessed with you. I’m sure Sam mentioned it. Used to track your missions with agents Barton and Romanoff. Thought you were the coolest assassin ever.” 

You let out a soft laugh, straightening up and leaning a hip against the counter. “Do I live up to the legend, then?” 

His eyes widen as he nods. “Oh, yeah. You’re badass.” 

You feel your cheeks heat even more, quickly dropping your gaze to hide the stupid smile trying to sneak its way onto your face—just because he called you badass. 

Despite living together for two weeks, you’ve mostly avoided getting too personal. Most of your time has been spent in companionable silence, watching TV or reading. When Sam’s over, you all talk and joke, but when you’re alone, you let the tension do the talking. Exchanging nothing more than heated glances and softly spoken words. 

You’re not entirely sure why you’ve kept your distance—maybe because you know this is temporary, and you don’t want to get too attached. But it’s getting harder by the day. Joaquín is charming. And so painfully attractive that playing it cool is starting to feel impossible. 

“It wasn’t that badass,” you say, folding your arms. “Working with Clint and Nat, I mean.” 

He frowns, unconvinced. “I find that hard to believe.” 

“No, really,” you insist. “It was brutal, mostly. I got beaten up, like, a lot. I wasn’t raised an assassin like they were—I had to learn. So if I wasn’t getting my ass handed to me in combat, it was one of them kicking my butt during training.” 

He chuckles. “Really? Who was worse?” 

You bite your lip to keep from smiling—his grin is stupidly infectious—and tilt your head in thought. 

“Hm,” you hum. “I know I should say Nat, but... it was probably Clint.” 

Joaquín raises a brow. “How?” 

“Oh, he was like a drill sergeant. Had me learning everything, all at once. My hands were bleeding from archery, my limbs were bruised from hand-to-hand, and my head was always throbbing from getting slammed into mats. And he didn’t let up. Told me the enemy wouldn’t, so why should he— unless I was genuinely wrecked. Nat was a little more forgiving. I think her childhood made her more empathetic when it came to training. She didn’t want to push me too far. Clint, though? He needed me to be tough. It was a good dynamic—very good cop, bad cop.” 

“Wow,” Joaquín murmurs, eyes a little dazed as he just stares at you. 

You pause, brow furrowing. “What?” 

He shrugs, tearing his gaze away as he turns to hang the dish towel over the oven handle. 

“Nothing, just...” He looks up at you again, all warm eyes and stupidly perfect cheekbones—like he doesn’t realise how dangerous he is. “You’re really cool.” 

“You’re pretty cool too, Falcon,” you say, letting a small smirk curl your lips. “With or without the wings—I know you’re a badass too.” 

He meets your stare with dark eyes full of challenge. “I am pretty badass. Could probably give you a run for your money.” 

The mood shifts, the light teasing between you pulled tighter—tension creeping in, hot and deliberate. 

You arch a brow. “You think?” 

He nods, arms crossing over his bare chest in a way that makes your thighs clench. “I do.” 

“Bold, Torres,” you murmur, narrowing your eyes. “Care to prove it?” 

He steps around the kitchen island—two strides and he’s in your space. “Name a time and place, cariño.” 

“Right now,” you say, holding his heated stare. “Backyard.” 

That panty-melting smile flashes across his face as he leans in. “You’re on.” Then his voice drops—lower, rougher, almost lethal. “Be lying if I said I haven’t been dying to get my hands on you.” 

Your heart lurches, then takes off, sending a hot rush of blood straight to your head. 

“Professionally, of course,” he adds quickly, and you might’ve believed the cool confidence if it weren’t for the blush creeping up to the tips of his ears. 

“Of course,” you echo, your voice soft—breathless. 

The air between you thickens, crackling with heat as your eyes lock—tension simmering, slow and dangerous. 

Then his phone chimes, and you both flinch. 

He moves to check it while you step back, letting out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. 

“Just Sam checking in,” he mutters, glancing up. “Should I tell him I’m about to kick your ass, or...?” 

You roll your eyes. “Try it first. Before claiming victory.” 

Then you turn and head into the small living room, taking a right at the front landing and making your way down the hall toward the back door. 

The backyard isn’t much—patchy grass, some cracked pavers, and a chain-link fence that barely shields you from nosy neighbours. But right now, with Joaquín standing across from you, shirtless and barefoot in the glow of the setting sun, it might as well be an arena. 

“You sure you’re ready for this?” he asks, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, all cocky grin and coiled muscle. 

You roll your neck and stretch out your arms. “Oh, I’m ready.” 

He waits a beat before making the first move—a quick step in, testing you with a light jab. You dodge easily, grabbing his wrist and twisting, using his momentum to spin him around. He grunts, surprised, but recovers fast, sweeping a leg toward yours. 

You jump, laughing as you land and press your body into his from behind, locking an arm around his throat in a loose hold. “That all you got, Torres?” 

He chuckles, low and warm. “Just getting started.” 

He bucks back hard, breaking your hold, and in the scuffle, you both stumble—him catching your waist, you grabbing his shoulder—and suddenly, you're tangled, chest to chest, breathing hard. 

“Careful,” he murmurs, his breath hot on your skin, “you might enjoy this a little too much.” 

“Speak for yourself,” you shoot back, but your voice is ragged, traitorous. 

He smirks and tries to pin you, but you twist at the last second, hooking your leg around his and taking him down—landing right on top of him. 

Straddling him. 

You both freeze. 

Your thighs press against his hips, your palms on his bare chest, heat sparking where your skin meets. His hands hover near your waist, not quite touching, but God, you can feel the tension in his fingers, the flex of restraint. 

“Not bad,” he says, voice low and uneven. 

You smirk, grinding your hips just slightly—for dominance, of course. “Say it.” 

He looks up at you like he’s starving. “You’re dangerous.” 

“And?” 

His hands finally settle on your hips. Firm. Possessive. 

“And you’re really, really hot when you’re trying to beat the shit out of me.” 

Your next breath shudders out of you. 

And then the back door creaks open. 

“Am I interrupting something?” Sam asks, arms crossed as he stands on the porch. 

You jump off Joaquín like you’ve been burned, nervously brushing non-existent dust from your knees. 

“Nope,” you say, way too fast. “Just sparring.” 

Sam raises a brow. “Sure. Sparring. What’s that move called? Cowgirl?” 

Joaquín, still on his back in the grass, just grins up at you. “Maybe we could try reverse later.” 

You narrow your eyes, pursing your lips to keep from grinning. “Without an audience, preferably.” 

“Promise?” he asks, his gaze shameless. 

You can’t stop the quiet laugh that slips out as you shake your head, leaning forward to offer him a hand. Joaquín takes it, and you help him off the ground before turning back to Sam. 

“So, Cap,” you say. “What’s up?” 

“Just checking in,” he replies, eyes flicking suspiciously between the two of you. “I texted Joaquín to let him know I was dropping by.” 

Joaquín scratches the back of his neck, sheepish. “Yeah... not gonna lie, I didn’t fully read the text.” 

Sam raises his brows. “Distracted?” 

His tone is playful, but you catch the underlying suggestion—it’s a test. Joaquín is still on duty. He’s your protection detail, and he’s supposed to be focused. 

“It was my fault,” you jump in. “I bet him he couldn’t take me in hand-to-hand.” 

Sam snorts. “Please. All you’d have to do is flash him a smile and he’d be on his knees.” 

Joaquín’s jaw drops, his cheeks going a deep, furious red. 

You turn to him, grinning. “Is that true?” 

He stares at you with wide brown eyes. “I—I mean, well—no, but—” 

“Save it, man,” Sam laughs. “You’re just digging yourself deeper.” 

Despite the nerves fluttering in your chest, you keep your cool. You pat Joaquín’s bare chest—your palm lingering just long enough to feel the heat of his skin—before turning back to Sam and walking toward the porch. 

It takes Joaquín a full minute to remember how to move, but eventually he follows. You all make your way inside and settle into the cramped little living space, listening closely as Sam delivers a brief—and rather disappointing—update. 

They still don’t know much about who ordered the hit on you, but they’re not giving up. New leads might turn up in New York, and they’re even considering reaching out to the Winter Soldier and his new team. 

“So what does that mean for us?” you ask, gesturing vaguely between you and Joaquín. “We’re surviving just fine, but I’d really like to get back to my life. And I’m sure Joaquín would—” 

“Actually,” Joaquín cuts in, flashing that crooked grin that threatens to short-circuit your brain, “I think I’m having more fun here.” 

He even throws in a wink for good measure. 

You feel your cheeks warm, but Sam keeps talking, mercifully ignoring the exchange. 

“I know it’s not ideal,” he says, “but it’s the safest place for you right now. And I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you. I was the one who dragged you back to work, so I’m going to be the one to find these guys and stop them.” 

You take a deep breath and let it out slowly, sinking back into the couch. “Alright, fine. But if we’re stuck here indefinitely, I’ve got a list of demands.” 

Sam nods. “Anything. Just say the word.” 

The next afternoon, Sam returns with everything you asked for. He brings a large duffel packed with the exact clothes you requested, a trunk full of groceries—including all the pantry staples that the house has been lacking—and the box from under your bed containing... personal items. 

“I had a Secret Service agent swing by your apartment,” Sam says, setting the box on the coffee table. “No one opened it, but something definitely started... buzzing on the way over.” 

Your eyes go wide as you snatch the box off the table. “What the fuck, Sam?” 

He chuckles. “Hey, you’re the one who needed it.” 

“Yes,” you snap, cheeks burning. “Because it’s got personal shit like tampons and pads—which I’m going to need if we’re stuck here for another two weeks.” 

Joaquín’s laugh carries from the kitchen, where he’s putting away the groceries. “What else is in the box?” 

You shoot him a look over your shoulder, eyes narrowed and lips twitching. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” 

“Cool it, you two,” Sam says. “You might be stuck with each other for a while. Don’t make it weird.” 

- 

The next week is nothing if not weird. And tense. And so full of heat and frustration, you’re surprised the walls haven’t caught fire. 

Because after that little spar in the backyard, something shifted—snapped, like a rubber band pulled too tight. Now, you and Joaquín just can’t seem to stay out of each other’s way, no matter how hard you try. 

He’s everywhere. In the kitchen when you’re trying to make coffee—shirtless and smug, all lean muscle and unintentional teasing. He’s always leaning in too close, brushing your waist with his fingertips, pressing his body against yours to reach for something he absolutely does not need that badly. 

And the couch. That small fucking couch that leaves no real space between the two of you. His leg against yours. His arm slung casually behind your shoulders. The whole tiny room suddenly suffocating with his heat, his scent, the sheer proximity of him turning your brain to static. 

Then there’s the time you turned the corner just as he was grabbing his towel out of the dryer—both of you freezing as you came face to face with damp skin, low-slung fabric, and absolutely zero shame in his smirk. 

In that moment, you decided—two could play at this game. 

So, you stopped wearing pants. Not all the time—just before bed. Sometimes it’s little booty shorts, or cute boyleg underwear. But mostly, it’s just an oversized tee and nothing else. 

And the way his eyes track your bare legs like he’s a man starved? Yeah. You’ve noticed. 

But then there was the morning you’d opted for a bath instead of a shower—to deal with the ever-building frustration twisting low in your belly. You were already settled in the steaming tub, surrounded by bubbles, one of your favourite toys waiting on the vanity… when he fucking walked in. 

You both froze. Eyes wide. Lips parted. His gaze drifted to the magenta-pink silicone on the counter. And then he grinned—slow, wicked, and impossible to look away from—before dragging his eyes back to yours. 

You shouted at him to get the hell out. Which he did. Eventually. Without even pretending not to sneak one last glance at the toy. 

That was the final straw. 

You need boundaries. Rules. Anything to help you survive this unbearable, unrelenting tension crackling between you. Before one of you snaps and professionalism goes flying out the window. 

“I think we need to set some ground rules,” you say, planting both hands on the kitchen island. 

Joaquín turns away from whatever he’s stirring on the stove, brow raised and an amused smirk tugging at his lips. “Rules?” 

You nod. “Yes. Boundaries. Something—anything—if we’re going to survive this.” 

He chuckles under his breath. “Alright. What kind of boundaries?” 

“First,” you say, narrowing your eyes at his bare chest, “you need to start wearing shirts.” 

His brows lift, brown eyes sparkling with mischief. “Really?” 

You nod again, firm. 

“Okay,” he says, “then you have to wear pants.” 

“Fine,” you mutter. 

“Fine,” he echoes, turning back to the pot on the stove. 

“And you need to knock,” you add. “I don’t care what room it is, or if you just saw me walk away. Knock.” 

He laughs, shoulders shaking as he stirs. “Noted. Must knock.” 

“Good.” 

You hesitate, debating how to phrase the next rule without admitting just how badly you want it. 

“And no—” you clear your throat, “no touching.” 

That gets his attention. He turns back around, smirk softer now, more curious than cocky. “No touching?” 

“Exactly. If you need to get past me, just say ‘excuse me.’ And we can get Sam to bring over a bean bag or something. That couch is way too fucking small.” 

He watches you closely, tongue dragging slowly across his bottom lip before he catches it between his teeth. The sight alone steals your breath—but then he moves. He steps away from the stove and toward you, all heat and intention, bringing with him that warm cinnamon scent that scrambles your thoughts and short-circuits every nerve ending in your body. 

“You really don’t want me to touch you?” he asks, voice low. 

“There’s…” you swallow, “there’s no need for you to touch me, so…” 

He tilts his head. “Nothing you need that might require a little contact?” 

You freeze, like your brain just blue-screened—unsure whether to slap him, kiss him, or straight-up combust. 

“No,” you manage, though your voice is breathy. Traitorous. 

“Okay,” he says easily. “I won’t touch you.” Then he leans in, voice low and smooth. “Not until you’re begging me to.” 

Your breath hitches, eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?” 

He straightens, grin cocky. “You heard me.” 

“You think I’m going to be begging you to touch me?” 

He nods once. “Oh, yeah.” 

You scoff. “No chance, Torres. If anything, you’re the one who’s going to crack first.” 

“That so?” he says, arching a brow. “Sounds like a challenge.” 

You take a step back, crossing your arms. “You’re on.” 

His gaze tracks your face like he’s memorising it, heat pulsing between you. One wrong move and this whole damn place could go up in flames. 

“Any other rules?” he asks. 

“Not yet,” you reply, letting your eyes drop to his chest. “Now put on a shirt.” 

He arches a brow, gaze dropping as he steps back just enough to get a better look. “Then you better put on some pants.” 

“Fine,” you huff, turning on your heel and storming out of the kitchen. 

Behind you, he lets out a low whistle, voice pitched just loud enough for you to hear. “You are fine.” 

And the worst part? It still makes you blush. That smug little comment sparks something inside of you, heat curling low in your belly—warm, aching, and impossible to ignore. 

You’re pretty sure you’ve just made the dumbest bet of your life. 

After pulling on a pair of sweats and giving yourself a whispered—but stern—pep talk in the bathroom mirror, you head back downstairs. Joaquín’s got a shirt on now and is ladling something hot and delicious-smelling into a bowl. 

“Smells good,” you say, stopping on the other side of the island counter. 

He wipes the edge of the bowl with a dish towel before sliding it toward you. “It is good.” 

Then he hands you a spoon before fixing his own bowl and standing across from you at the bench, just as you’re gently blowing on your first spoonful. 

“Sopa de fideo,” he says. “Mexican noodle soup.” 

You take a cautious taste—and nearly moan, just barely stopping the sound from crawling up your throat. But Joaquín isn’t stupid, he sees the way your eyes glaze over and your shoulders ease in quiet bliss. 

“Told you it was good,” he says, wearing that infuriatingly smug look. 

Your cheeks warm under his gaze—those big brown eyes locked on you as he lifts his spoon to his mouth. It shouldn’t be erotic. And yet, the way his lips close around the spoon before dragging it out again sends heat straight between your legs. 

You swallow hard and prepare your next spoonful, letting it cool while praying he can’t read you as easily as you suspect he can. 

“So, you cook and you fight. What’s your angle?” 

He cocks an eyebrow as he swallows. “My angle?” 

“You’re almost too good to be true,” you say, fighting the urge to melt at that stupidly gorgeous smirk. “So why are you single?” 

He shrugs, casual as anything. “Just waiting for the right girl.” 

Your brows lift. “Oh, really?” 

He nods and takes another spoonful like it’s no big deal. 

“What’s she like, then?” you ask, trying to match his calm confidence. 

He grins—mischievous and warm, with a spark behind his eyes that makes your chest tighten. 

“Oh, she’s awesome,” he says. “Total badass. Ex-assassin. Worked with the Avengers. Can definitely kick my ass—it’s super hot.” 

You roll your eyes and shovel more noodles into your mouth before your smile gets out of hand. 

“She’s stupid pretty too,” he adds. “But obviously doesn’t know it.” 

Your face heats to an impossible degree, and you drop your gaze to your bowl, pretending to study the swirling noodles. 

“And she’s smart,” he goes on, completely unperturbed. “Witty as hell. The verbal warfare? Honestly, it’s better than foreplay.” 

You almost choke, barely managing to swallow without incident. When you look up, he’s just standing there, all cheeky and red-faced like he didn’t just soak your underwear with three lines of dialogue. 

“Wow,” you mutter. “She sounds pretty great. Sure you’re up for the challenge, though?” 

“Oh, I’m sure,” he says, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on the counter. “I know her weakness.” 

You lean forward too, the corner of your mouth twitching. “Kryptonite?” 

He shakes his head slowly, eyes darkening. “Me.” 

It’s just one word, but it slides in sharp and smooth—curling under your skin and lighting you up from the inside. 

You want to reply—say something snarky, or at least tell him he’s full of shit—but you can’t. Your voice is stuck somewhere in your chest, tangled up with the fire burning hot and bright for the man grinning at you. And goddamn, he might just be right. 

You finish your dinner in mostly comfortable silence, too flustered to manage much more than the occasional hum of agreement while Joaquín talks. His smile never fades, and that infuriating sparkle doesn’t leave his eye—not for a second. He knows he’s got you breathless, rattled, right where he wants you. And if you’ve got any hope of winning this bet, you’re going to need to flip the script. 

“I’ll wash up,” you say, already rounding the island toward the sink. 

He steps aside, placing his empty bowl into your outstretched hand with a note of hesitation. 

“You sure?” 

“You cooked,” you say with a nod. “I’ll clean.” 

He moves a few more steps around the bench, trading places with where you’d eaten your dinner. 

You turn to the sink and start the tap, sliding the plug into place before adding a generous squirt of dish soap to the growing pool of hot water. Then you move to the stove, wiping it down with a sudsy cloth and scrubbing at a few stubborn spots where the sauce had dried. 

Once the sink is full, you plunge your hands into the bubbly water and start with the cutlery. You keep your head down and your eyes on the task, refusing to give in to the weight of Joaquín’s stare burning into your back. 

“So,” he says after a beat, voice laced with something devious, “you clean and you fight. Why are you single?” 

You roll your eyes, grateful he can’t see the stupid smile tugging at your lips. 

“That’s kind of a long story,” you reply. 

He chuckles. “Baby, we’re stuck here indefinitely. No story could be that long.” 

Your heart stutters at the pet name. It’s tossed out casually, with no serious intent—but it still leaves you feeling way too warm. 

“I guess not,” you say with a breathy laugh. “I’m single because I choose to be—after a series of poor decisions. And I became single after my last boyfriend because... well, apparently my taste in men needs work.” 

“How bad are we talking?” he asks. 

You shift a handful of soapy cutlery into the empty side of the sink and rinse them under the cold tap. 

“Short version? He was a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent turned HYDRA,” you say, glancing over your shoulder. “The long version involves a lot of weird behaviour, some questionable kinks, too many fights to count, and probably one of the most violent breakups in history.” 

Joaquín raises his brows. “You kicked his ass, right?” 

“Oh, yeah,” you reply, turning back to the sink. 

“Good,” he says simply. 

You reach back into the water, feeling around for any remaining cutlery when— 

“Fuck,” you hiss, yanking your hand out of the sink. 

Blood smears across your knuckles and trickles down your wrist in a messy streak of crimson and bubbles. 

“What happened?” Joaquín is beside you in an instant, his eyes wide, hands hovering like he wants to help but isn’t sure where to start. 

“It’s fine,” you say quickly. “I’m fine. It’s not that deep—it just looks worse with the water—” 

“Pause the bet,” he says firmly, cutting you off as he steps in and gently wraps his hand around your wrist. 

“Joaquín,” you sigh, “I’m okay. I’ve had worse.” 

He doesn’t look up. His eyes stay fixed on your hand, brow furrowed. “I don’t care. I’m helping you.” 

He leaves your side for only a second to grab the first aid kit from the cupboard above the stove. Then, without a word, he takes your uninjured hand and leads you to the lounge. 

“Sit,” he says, voice low. 

You do as you're told, sinking into the cushions as your heart thunders in your chest. He sits beside you—close. Too close. His thigh presses against yours, his warmth wrapping around you like a blanket. And his scent—ugh—like fresh-cut cedar and rain-damp leaves. But there’s heat beneath it, too. Something rougher. Like sweat, smoke, and the kind of trouble that finds you even when you hide. 

“You alright?” he asks, opening the kit on the coffee table. 

You straighten, quickly realising that you'd been slowly leaning into him. 

“Yeah,” you mutter. “I’m good. Sorry.” 

He chuckles softly, then takes your injured hand again—holding it in his lap like it’s the most important thing in the world. He works quietly, carefully, seemingly unaware of the tension crackling between you as his fingers graze yours with the utmost care. 

It’s almost hypnotic, the way he moves—cleaning the blood, dabbing antiseptic, wrapping your knuckles with gauze. But even when he’s finished, he doesn’t pull away. His touch lingers, his thumb stroking softly over the delicate bone in your wrist. 

His eyes flick to yours, then drop to your mouth—lingering there as he leans in. 

“You know,” he murmurs, “if it weren’t for this bet…” 

His hot breath brushes your lips, and your heart starts to beat so hard you wonder if you’ll survive it. 

"You’d what?" you ask, trying to sound steady—but your voice betrays you. 

“I’d kiss you,” he whispers. 

Your breath catches. Your chest aches. Your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears—so loud you can’t hear a single thought. 

You want to let him. You want to close the space between you and let him do every wicked thing he’s thinking. But you can’t. You won’t. You need to win. 

Instead, you smile—slow and dangerous. 

“Bet’s back on, Torres,” you say, standing as you slide your hand from his. 

You head back to the kitchen, steady and deliberate, refusing to let him see just how much he’s gotten to you. 

Behind you, he exhales a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters. 

You don’t look back, but your grin is smug—and you just know his is cocky. He’s loving the chase just as much as you’re loving the game. 

Back at the sink, you crouch down to rummage through the cupboard for the pair of rubber gloves you know you saw earlier. Once you find them, you slide them on with a snap and return to washing up, ignoring Joaquín’s protests. 

Eventually, he gives up with a dramatic sigh and grabs a dish towel, falling into step beside you to dry and put things away. The air between you simmers with silence—thick and heavy, like steam clinging to your skin. You exchange the occasional quiet ‘excuse me’, the barest brush of hands, and a few glances that linger a second too long. But mostly, it’s just tension. Hot and unbearable. 

The kitchen is too small. The space between counters is too narrow. And Joaquín is far too fucking attractive to focus on anything else. That soft smile. Those gentle, dark eyes. The sharp cut of his jaw, dusted with just a hint of stubble. And his curls—God, those curls. They make your fingers twitch with the urge to sink in and pull. 

As soon as you finish wiping down the sink and peeling off your gloves, you open your mouth to say you’re heading to bed—but Joaquín beats you to it. 

“I think I’m gonna call it a night,” he says, already edging out of the kitchen. “I know it’s early, but I’m... spent.” 

You nod, heartbeat still a little too fast. “Yeah. Me too.” 

“I’ll be quick in the bathroom,” he adds, flashing a soft smile. “Good night.” 

“Night, Torres.” 

And then he’s gone. 

You wait a few minutes before following, keeping yourself busy by wiping down the benches—again—and tidying the lounge room. Once you hear the soft click of his bedroom door shutting, you quietly pad upstairs and slip into the bathroom. 

You’ve each got a drawer in the vanity now, and you’ve promised not to look in the other’s... though the curiosity is killing you. Not that you really care about toothbrushes and dental picks—because of course he uses them. Have you seen those teeth? No, what you’re more interested in is whether there are any... toys. Or condoms. 

Because really, why would he need condoms at a safehouse? 

To fuck you, maybe? 

God, you hope so. 

Barely clinging to your restraint, you brush your teeth, wash your face, and tiptoe into your room. 

The house is almost too quiet tonight. And oppressively warm. You’re not sure if it’s the creeping summer heat—or just the tension between you and Joaquín—but either way, you need to let off some steam. 

There’s only one thin wall between your room and his, which isn’t ideal for what you’re about to do—but you’re pretty sure you’ll go insane if you don’t. So you suck in a deep breath and quietly slide the box from under your bed, picking out your quietest—you hope—vibrator before climbing up onto the mattress. 

Every shift of the sheets and every sharp inhale feels too loud in the dark room. You try to stay still, to keep calm, but your body won’t listen. It’s too wound up. Too eager. 

You shimmy out of your underwear and toss them toward the foot of the bed, letting your knees fall open as you move the toy to the apex of your thighs. You’re just about to press the little button when— 

A groan. 

Soft. Clipped short. But it definitely happened. 

“Holy shit,” you whisper, scrambling onto your knees. 

You know Joaquín’s room mirrors yours—bedhead pressed against the same wall—so you inch up and press your ear to it, holding your breath. Listening. 

There’s the quiet rustle of sheets. Barely audible. The faint whisper of wind—your window, probably. And then—a sigh. Soft and breathy. 

Your eyes widen as you lean impossibly close. 

Another groan—louder this time. Not stifled. 

Oh, God. Is this real? 

Then you hear it. The quiet slap of skin on skin. A steady rhythm, fast and getting faster. 

Holy fucking shit. 

You drop back onto the mattress, toy still in hand, and resume your position. You suck in a breath as you press the cool silicone to your core, hissing it out through your teeth at the contact. 

Then—a hitched breath. Sheets shifting. Silence. 

Oh. He heard you. 

Fighting a wicked grin, you press the button and the toy hums to life in your hand—a soft whimper escaping your lips as you melt into the pillows. 

Through the wall, you hear a strangled, “Fuck.” 

Your heart leaps—racing now, pounding against your ribs. 

You squeeze your eyes shut and picture him. Sprawled on the bed. Eyes dark and dazed. Boxers shoved halfway down his thighs. Hand wrapped tightly around his cock. 

It makes your thighs quiver. 

Another groan rumbles through the wall, and you arch into the toy, pretending it’s him instead—his hand, his mouth, his breath hot on your skin. 

“Oh,” you sigh, all hesitation gone. “Joaquín.” His name slips from your lips like a prayer. Barely audible—but you know he hears it. 

Because his rhythm falters—then quickens. His breath is shallow and sharp now, rough and uneven. 

Normally, you’d take your time—drag it out until the ache is unbearable. But not tonight. You can’t stop. You won’t. Not with the image of him burning in your mind—eyes squeezed shut, brow furrowed, lips pink and parted as he pants. 

You’re already close. So close. 

And by the sound of his soft whimpers—threaded with your name—he is too. 

You bite your lip to hold in a moan, desperate to hear his sounds over your own, but it escapes anyway—soft and broken. 

Then you hear him. A low groan. Raw and wrecked. 

You writhe against the sheets, your hand shaking as it clutches the toy. Whispers. Sighs. Soft moans—some his, some yours. At this point, you can’t even tell. All of it winds tight behind your hipbones, pressure threatening to burst. 

Then his breath hitches. Stutters. Breaks. And your name—your name—leaves his mouth in a low, guttural groan. 

It isn’t quiet. 

It isn’t hesitant. 

It’s loud. And it’s enough. 

You break. 

His name tumbles from your lips, over and over, a reverent chant as you fall over the edge—boneless, breathless, and blushing. 

- 

You wake too hot and far too exposed, sunlight spilling through the blinds you forgot to close. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust, your thoughts still slow and hazy— 

Then you bolt upright, the memory of last night burning fresh in your mind. 

Fuck. 

The sound of the bathroom door closing—right across the hall—makes you jump. Your head snaps toward your own door, left ajar in your rush to get to bed. God, that was stupid. 

After a solid ten minutes of berating yourself for acting like a cat in heat, you finally drag yourself out of bed and pull out some clothes. You wait until you hear Joaquín leave the bathroom before darting across the hall and practically slamming the door behind you. 

You spend longer than usual in the shower, one eye on the door through the fogged glass. You’re not sure what you’re hoping for—maybe that he’ll walk in by accident again. Or on purpose. Maybe join you. Show you exactly what he’d been doing to himself last night. 

The thought alone makes you ache, your thighs pressing together instinctively. 

You shut off the water, dry off, get dressed, and brace yourself to face the man who starred in every hot dream you had last night. 

Maybe you need a new house rule: no mutual masturbation through the wall. 

“Morning,” Joaquín says the second you step into the kitchen. 

He’s leaning against the counter beside the coffee machine, one hand cradling a mug and the other braced casually behind him. His eyes are dark and wicked, glinting with something that makes your heart stutter. 

“Morning,” you mutter, keeping your gaze low as you head for the fridge. 

“Sleep well?” he asks. 

You swallow hard, willing your cheeks not to flush. The asshole knows exactly what he’s doing. 

“Yeah,” you say lightly. “Great sleep. You?” 

“Best I’ve had since getting here.” 

You nod, lips pursed as you pretend to study the fridge’s pitiful contents. “That’s good.” 

A beat of silence follows—thick and humming with everything you’re both refusing to say. 

Then he breaks it with a simple, “Coffee?” 

Your stomach growls in response, and when you glance over your shoulder, it feels like all the air has been knocked out of you by just how downright delicious he looks. He’s in a muscle tee, arms bare and still gleaming from the shower, curls damp and falling over his forehead. His smile is devastating—lazy and knowing—and has no business affecting the parts of your body that it is. 

You snap your eyes to the machine instead, clearing your throat. “Yes, please.” 

He nods, sets down his mug, and reaches into the cupboard for a clean one. You stay planted on your side of the kitchen island, knowing damn well that you might not make it out of this room with your dignity intact if you get any closer to him. 

It doesn’t take long before he sets the steaming mug of fresh coffee on the bench in front of you. 

“Thanks,” you murmur, wrapping your hands around it. 

He nods, watching as you blow gently across the surface of the liquid. 

When you glance up, he raises his brows—a silent question. 

“It’s hot,” you say simply. 

He chuckles, low and warm. “Like last night.” 

Your eyes go wide, and you nearly drop the mug. 

“The temperature,” he amends quickly. “Just couldn’t cool down. Summer is definitely on its way.” 

You narrow your eyes, carefully setting the mug back on the counter as you drag your tongue along your top teeth. He just stands there—smug and unrelenting. 

“What happened to boundaries?” you ask, arching a brow. 

He laughs again, and the sound is somehow hotter than the coffee. “What do you mean? A wall is a boundary, isn’t it?” 

Then he turns, drops his mug in the sink, and flashes you one last, infuriating wink before strolling out of the kitchen—like he didn’t just fry every nerve ending in your body. 

You spend the rest of the day avoiding him. 

You can’t so much as be in the same room without seeing mental images of him sprawled naked on his bed, getting himself off to the thought of you. 

And God, doesn’t he know it. 

The smug smile on his lips hasn’t faltered in hours. Every time you pass him—every time you glance at his stupidly handsome face—there it is. Those pretty pink lips, curled into the most delicious, insufferable smirk you’ve ever seen. 

If Sam doesn’t find whoever’s trying to kill you soon, you might just die stuck in this safehouse with Joaquín. 

Then it hits you. 

You’re out on the back porch, a book in your lap, pretending to read when the idea flashes through your mind like a lightbulb flicking on. Your eyes go wide and you shoot up from the old porch swing, your book dropping to the ground as you sprint into the house. 

“Joaquín!” you call. “Joaquín, I think I know who it is!” 

You turn into the lounge room—empty. 

Then duck into the kitchen—also empty. 

When you spin around to double back and check the other side of the house, you run right into him. Chest-first. Firm, warm… and damp. 

You glance up. “What the fuck?” 

He’s in gym clothes, sweat trailing from his cheekbone to his jaw, curls sticking adorably to his glistening skin. He must’ve been working out. Where? You have no idea. But whatever he was doing was clearly working his body, and it’s probably a good thing you hadn’t witnessed it. You might’ve dropped dead on the spot. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, slightly breathless, a hint of panic in his tone. 

You step back quickly, dragging your eyes up to his face—away from the tight gym clothes that are making your mouth water. 

“I—I think I know who it could be,” you say. 

He frowns. “Who?” 

“Whoever’s after me.” 

“Oh?” 

“Yeah. Remember last night, I told you about my ex?” 

He nods. 

“Well… when we broke up, it was messy. He tried to get me to join HYDRA. Told me he loved me and couldn’t live without me. Said I didn’t know the whole story, but once I did, I’d want to join them.” You hesitate. “I told him to eat a bag of dicks. Then it got physical. We fought. He almost had me—but I got lucky. I couldn’t kill him, though. So I let him go.” 

You feel almost stupid admitting it, but Joaquín doesn’t look even remotely judgmental. 

“The last thing he said to me,” you continue, “was that he’d never give up. That he’d find a way to get me back or—” 

“Or what?” Joaquín prompts. 

“Or he’d kill me.” 

His brows shoot up. “Oh. Okay. Yeah, that’s probably something you should’ve told Sam earlier.” 

You shrug, sheepish. “I kind of forgot. I didn’t take it seriously. He always said stupid, dramatic stuff like that.” 

Joaquín blinks hard, like he’s physically stopping himself from rolling his eyes. “You really need better taste in men.” 

You glance up at him through your lashes, dragging your bottom lip between your teeth. “I’ve got much better taste now.” 

He inhales sharply, eyes fluttering shut like you’re dangling a drug in front of a recovering addict. 

“You’re going to kill me,” he mutters, stepping back. “We need to call Sam.” 

You nod, eyes shamelessly glued to his ass as he turns away. “Yeah. Call Sam.” 

A few hours later, under the cover of darkness, Sam arrives, and you all gather around the small kitchen island to discuss the possibility that your ex is behind the attack. 

It all seems to add up, and Sam quickly calls the contact in the Secretary’s office who’s helping him. He explains the situation, gives your ex’s name, and starts organising a team to locate and apprehend him. 

You want to ask if you can come along—this is your mess, after all—but you know he won’t say yes. And a small part of you wants to stay here, in the house with Joaquín, because suddenly this little townhouse feels a lot less godforsaken than it did before. And you don’t really want to leave… 

“Alright,” Sam says, sliding his phone into his pocket. “They’re looking for him now. They’ll let me know as soon as they have any leads, and then we’re going in. He’s been mostly MIA for the past few years, but when he’s popped up, it’s been suspicious.” 

You nod. “So, he’s still HYDRA?” 

Sam shrugs. “I’m not even sure HYDRA is still operating. But whatever he’s up to, it’s definitely nothing good.” 

“Why?” Joaquín asks, his eyes locked on you, a playful smirk trying to appear but looking a little forced. “Thinking about getting back together?” 

You narrow your eyes, lips pulling into a soft, amused smile. “Torres, are you irrationally jealous of my ex?” 

He scoffs. “No. Absolutely not. Just—” 

“Oh, man,” Sam sighs, shaking his head. “What the hell have I done leaving you two alone for this long?” 

You roll your eyes. “Shut up, Sam.” 

Joaquín chuckles. 

Sam’s eyes narrow at you, amusement written all over his face. “Did I hit a nerve?” 

You ignore him and turn to leave the kitchen. 

“You know,” he calls after you, “you have my blessing. If you two want to fuck, I don’t—” 

“I’m going to shower now,” you cut in, shooting a lethal glare over your shoulder before disappearing around the corner. 

You hear them both giggling as you ascend the stairs, rolling your eyes again when you reach your room. You grab some clean clothes and carry them into the bathroom—only to realize your towel is still in the dryer. You start the shower, letting it heat up, then duck out and begin heading downstairs to get to the laundry. 

But then you hear your name and freeze mid-step, leaning over the banister to listen closer. 

“So,” Sam says, “you two haven’t… you know?” 

“No,” Joaquín replies. “We haven’t slept together.” 

Sam chuckles. “You sure? Because you can practically taste the sexual tension in here.” 

There’s a brief pause, then a heavy breath—Joaquín’s, you assume. 

“Something… kind of happened last night.” 

Your eyes go wide. No way he’s about to tell Sam— 

“We could hear each other,” he says, “through the wall.” 

Another pause. 

“Doing what?” Sam asks slowly, as if unsure he really wants the answer. 

“You know,” Joaquín says. “Getting off.” 

“Oh, my God!” Sam exclaims. 

You drop your head into your hands, cheeks burning against your palms. 

“Shut up, dude!” Joaquín hisses. “I doubt she’d want me to tell you that.” 

“Then why did you?” 

“You basically asked!” 

Sam scoffs. “I asked if you’d slept together. Not if you’d jerked off on opposite sides of the wall. Jesus Christ, how old are you? Eighteen?” 

“Shut up,” Joaquín mutters, his voice muffled like he’s covering his face. 

You start quietly continuing down the stairs, deciding you’ve eavesdropped enough. Until— 

“Okay,” Sam says, “so if you’re into each other, why haven’t you slept together?” 

“I don’t know, really,” Joaquín replies. “She’s cautious, I think. And I don’t want to pressure her. But God, it’s so fucking hard.” 

Sam chuckles. “I bet it is.” 

“Dude,” Joaquín says, deadpan. 

“What?” 

Joaquín sighs, exasperated. “Look, I really like her. She’s so much cooler than I ever imagined. I don’t want to blow it by—” 

“Blowing it?” Sam cuts in. 

“How old are you?” Joaquín fires back, and you can almost picture him narrowing his eyes at his mentor. 

“Sorry,” Sam mutters, though he’s still laughing softly. “I’ll stop.” 

“Good,” Joaquín says, taking a deep breath. “I’m going to ask her out properly once all this shit is over. I want to try actually dating her. Like, romantic-styles.” 

Your heart thuds harder in your chest, your pulse pounding in your throat. 

“Romantic-styles?” Sam repeats. 

“Yeah. Like flowers and dates, stolen kisses, late-night talks, anniversaries, handmade cards—” 

“Making love under the moonlight?” Sam interjects, voice dramatically wistful. 

“Yes,” Joaquín says firmly. “I want to make love to her under the moonlight, goddammit. I want all the dumb, romantic, cheesy shit you see in movies. Because I like her. A lot.” 

Sam whistles under his breath. “Damn, son. I think you’re whipped.” 

“Shut up,” Joaquín mutters. 

You’re frozen halfway down the hall toward the laundry. Your cheeks are burning, your heart is racing, and you can’t remember how to breathe. Everything Joaquín said is possibly the lamest thing you’ve ever heard—in real life—but somehow, it’s making your head spin and your chest ache. 

Then you hear footsteps. 

Startled, you hurry down the hall, silently thanking your years of training for lightning-fast reflexes. You duck into the laundry, grab your towel from the dryer, check the hall is clear, and bolt back upstairs. 

Then you lock yourself in the bathroom. Panting like you’ve just run a marathon and blushing like a fool in love. 

After an intentionally cold shower, you throw on a pair of sweats and an oversized tee before making your way back downstairs. The house smells like roasted garlic with a hint of herbs—rosemary and thyme, you think—and the closer you get to the kitchen, the richer and more mouthwatering it becomes. 

By the time you step into the kitchen, you’re practically drooling. And not just because of the drop-dead gorgeous man at the stove, cooking like it’s his own personal brand of foreplay. 

“Damn,” you sigh. “That smells incredible.” 

Joaquín grins over his shoulder, flipping something in the pan without even looking. “Garlic and herb roasted chicken, with caramelised onion and sweet potatoes.” 

You lean forward and rest your elbows on the kitchen island, propping your chin in your hands. “It’s like you walked straight out of some lonely housewife’s favourite sexual fantasy.” 

Sam chuckles from across the room, one shoulder braced against the wall. “You sure it’s not your fantasy?” 

You roll your eyes. “Why are you even still here? Shouldn’t you be out looking for my asshole ex?” 

“I’m off the clock until we’ve got a confirmed location,” he says with a smug grin. “And Joaquín invited me to stay for dinner.” 

You stand upright, crossing your arms and scowling at him. “This is a safehouse, Sam. We’re supposed to be undercover, not hosting dinner parties.” 

He raises a brow. “If you want to talk about the stuff you’re not supposed to be doing in this house, we can—” 

“Okay!” Joaquín cuts in, just a little too loudly. “Dinner’s ready. Let’s plate up.” 

You and Sam both glance at him with narrowed, knowing eyes. His cheeks are pink, brows lifted, and his mouth is pressed into a tight smile. 

With a sigh, you decide to let it go and start laying out plates and cutlery while Joaquín serves. Each of you gets a full plate of the mouthwatering dinner he’s somehow whipped up, despite constantly complaining about the grocery situation Sam leaves him with. Then you all move into the dining room on the opposite side of the entrance hall from the lounge. You’ve barely used it since hiding out here. It’s small, just like the rest of the house, and wouldn’t comfortably seat more than four people around the circular table. 

It’s quiet at first—the only sound the soft scrape of cutlery on plates as you all dig into what is, frankly, an obnoxiously delicious meal. You can feel Sam’s eyes flicking between you and Joaquín, that annoying little half-smirk tugging at his lips. 

You can also feel the heat of Joaquín’s thigh brushing close to yours—because for some stupid reason, you decided to sit next to him instead of Sam. 

“She’s all tough now,” Sam says, leaning toward Joaquín and eyeing you as you sip your wine, “but just wait until she’s had two more glasses.” 

You set your glass down with a little more force than necessary. “I will bury you in the backyard, Wilson.” 

Joaquín chuckles, eyes still on you even as he mutters to Sam, “Pretty sure that’s the fourth time today she’s threatened someone with murder.” 

Sam raises his brows, that smirk deepening. “And you still want to date her?” 

Joaquín grins—all cocky charm and perfect teeth. “Are you kidding? That’s half the appeal.” 

Your wide eyes snap to his, heat rising from your chest right up to the tips of your ears. 

“What?” he says with a casual shrug. “It’s true.” 

You squeeze your eyes shut and pinch the bridge of your nose, silently begging the floor to swallow you whole—just to escape his stupidly perfect face… and Sam’s insufferably smug one. 

After a beat of silence—far too brief for your liking—Sam starts up again, eyes locked on you and sparkling with mischief. 

“So, what happens if it is this ex-boyfriend of yours?” he asks. 

You raise a brow, swallowing your mouthful of food before replying, “Isn’t that your job, Captain America? Last I checked, lowly civilians like me don’t get to decide the fate of the bad guys.” 

“But if you could,” he presses, propping one elbow on the table, “what would you decide?” 

You bite your lip, gaze drifting to a blank spot on the wall behind him as you consider it. 

“I’d probably kill him,” you say simply. “Or send him to the Raft.” 

Sam’s brows lift. “Really? That harsh?” 

You nod, stabbing a piece of potato like it insulted your bloodline. “He’s an asshole. And obviously a dangerous one. So if it’s between my life and his? I pick mine.” 

“Wow,” Sam mutters, glancing down at his plate. 

You frown. “Why is that surprising? He’s a dirtbag.” 

“I mean, now he is,” Sam says with a shrug, his eyes sliding—none too subtly—toward Joaquín, “but from what I heard, the two of you were pretty serious. Like, real serious.” 

“From what you heard?” you echo, incredulous. 

“Yeah. Barton and Romanoff used to mention it. Apparently, you were talking marriage. Settling down. Getting out of the game.” 

You drop your knife and fork like they’ve scalded you, lips parting in disbelief at the sheer nerve of the man across from you. 

Joaquín shifts beside you, visibly tense. His jaw works as he stares down at his plate, knuckles white around his cutlery. 

“Seriously, Sam?” you ask, leaning forward. “You’re asking me if I’m still in love with the man we think just put a hit out on me?” 

Sam just nods and pops another bite of chicken into his mouth, utterly unfazed. 

There’s a beat of silence. 

Then— 

“Are you?” Joaquín asks. 

Your eyes snap to him, brow furrowed. “No, you idiot. I’m not.” 

Then you turn back to Sam, who’s clearly seconds away from laughing. “And you—what the hell was that? Just because I once considered marrying someone I was in a committed relationship with doesn’t mean I’m still hung up on him. In fact, if he wasn’t actively trying to kill me, I wouldn’t even be thinking about him right now. Because you know what? The only goddamn thing on my mind lately is this—” you shoot a pointed look at Joaquín, heat blooming in your chest— “this unholy combination of soft curls and filthy intentions—which, by the way, you are one hundred percent aware of.” 

Sam makes a choking noise, but you don’t stop. 

“So don’t play dumb. Or coy. Or whatever little psychological warfare tactic you think you’re running to stir shit up. We don’t need your help turning up the tension in this house.” You stand abruptly, flustered and flushed. “It is already stifling in here. And I swear to God, I am this close to snapping.” 

Then you pick up your plate, turn on your heel, and storm back through the house toward the kitchen—heart pounding in your ears, and face so hot you’re amazed you haven’t already burst into flames. 

“What did she just call me?” you hear Joaquín ask. 

Sam chuckles. “I believe it was an unholy combination of soft curls and filthy intentions.” 

Joaquín laughs quietly, and you hate the way the sound alone makes you smile. 

“Damn,” he mutters. 

“She likes you, Falcon,” Sam teases. “The big bad assassin lady likes you.” 

You roll your eyes and drop your plate on the kitchen island, deciding to finish the annoyingly delicious dinner before cleaning up. 

Fifteen minutes later, once you’ve decided you’ve regained enough dignity to face them again, you move your empty plate to the sink and head back to the dining room. Without saying a word, you stack their plates in one hand and grab your wine glass with the other, downing the rest of it in two bitter gulps. 

Then you return to the kitchen to start washing up, half-listening as their conversation drifts from the dining room to the lounge. 

Once everything is clean, you refill everyone’s wine glasses and join them in the lounge room, dragging a chair in from the dining room since there’s no space left on the tiny couch. 

Thankfully, the conversation doesn’t stray far from work. Joaquín asks Sam about the plan once they manage to locate your ex, and Sam reassures him that they—whoever he’s working with—have it covered. You can tell from Joaquín’s steady stream of questions that he’s worried. And it’s not just the standard concern for civilian safety. He’s worried about you. 

And damn if that doesn’t make your heart ache a little. 

Eventually, Sam flicks on the TV and picks a movie. You can tell he’s had enough of Joaquín’s interrogation, so you play along and pretend to be invested in whatever crappy comedy he’s chosen. 

On your way to refill everyone’s glasses, you grab a spare blanket and lay it out on the lounge room floor. Then you steal two cushions off the couch and settle down on the blanket, wine in hand, pretending to watch the screen while trying very hard to ignore the weight of Joaquín’s gaze. 

An hour and almost two bottles of wine later, the movie ends, the screen bathing the dark room in soft white light as the credits roll. 

“Alright,” Sam sighs, tipping the last of his wine into his mouth. “No way I’m getting home now. I’ll crash on the couch.” 

You and Joaquín snap toward him in unison—eyes wide, lips tight. 

“What?” he deadpans. “I’ve had too many drinks and I don’t feel like catching a cab. You two can keep it in your pants for one more night.” 

Joaquín takes a long breath through his nose, his jaw flexing with tension. You’re not sure what shifted in the last couple of hours—maybe Sam’s meddling worked—but the tension in the room is unbearable. Your heart won’t slow down, your skin feels too hot, and honestly, if you don’t feel Joaquín’s hands on you soon, you might actually go feral. Claws out, back arched, hissing kind of feral. 

“Alright,” Joaquín mutters through clenched teeth. “Take the couch.” 

You collect the empty glasses and take them to the kitchen while Joaquín grabs the blanket from the floor and drapes it over Sam, who’s settling into the world’s smallest couch like he owns the place. Then you move quietly back through the lounge room and meet Joaquín at the bottom of the stairs. The air between you is practically humming—so thick with tension one spark might blow the whole house sky-high. 

“G’night,” Sam mumbles, entirely too smug. 

“Night,” Joaquín replies, clipped. 

“Night,” you echo, with a glare over your shoulder. “Hope your back hurts in the morning.” 

Sam chuckles behind you, completely unbothered by the two of you stomping up the stairs like thunder. 

You head straight for the bathroom, flicking on the too-bright light before stopping in front of the vanity and grabbing your toothbrush from the cup beside the sink. 

Your reflection is a perfect mirror of how you're feeling—which is absolutely and completely wrecked. Your hair’s a mess, your lips wine-stained, your cheeks flushed, and your eyes wide and dark with an unrecognisable kind of hunger. 

It’s almost laughable, the way your reflection exposes just how utterly undone you are by the man standing beside you. 

Joaquín grabs his toothbrush and silently takes the tube of toothpaste from your outstretched hand. Then you both take turns wetting your brushes before wordlessly starting to brush your teeth. 

You glance at him in the mirror, shamelessly studying the pretty features of his perfect face—soft curls, straight nose, sharp jaw, and those same wide, hungry eyes staring intently at his own reflection. 

His elbow brushes yours, but he doesn’t seem to notice—not in the same way you do, at least. A sharp jolt of electricity shoots up your arm and through your shoulder, making you shiver. 

He catches your eye in the mirror and pauses, quirking a brow—just the tiniest, stupidest smirk. But it still sends your heart vaulting into your throat. 

The heat in your cheeks intensifies as you duck your head and focus on rinsing. The water is cold as you splash it over your mouth, but it does nothing to cool the fire simmering beneath your skin. 

“This is torture,” he mutters. 

You dry your mouth on a towel before straightening, frowning at him in the mirror. “What?” 

He gives you a flat look. “This. You. Me. Captain fucking America sleeping on the couch.” 

Your breath stutters, and you have to grip the counter to steady yourself. “It’s one night. We can do one more night.” 

Joaquín blinks, then turns toward you—actually looking at you, not your reflection. “One more night,” he says quietly. “Then what?” 

Your eyes drop to his lips, lingering there as his tongue flicks between them. “You know what.” 

“Say it,” he mutters, stepping closer. 

Your breath hitches, still locked on his mouth. 

“One more night,” he repeats slowly. “Then… what?” 

You let out a shaky breath and take a reluctant step back. “Then…” You swallow, lifting your gaze to meet his. “Then you fuck me so hard I forget why we waited this long.” 

He stops breathing. 

His eyes go wide—impossibly dark. His whole body goes still. 

Your stomach flips. Your knees wobble. But somehow you keep moving, brushing past him and walking straight into your room. 

You feel the heat of his gaze on your back. The phantom drag of his fingers down your spine—even though he hasn’t touched you. Not properly. Not since you made up that stupid, wildly ineffective rule. 

You shut the door without looking back, not trusting yourself to survive what you’d see—him, still standing there. Mouth open, eyes black, foamy toothbrush dangling stupidly from his lips. 

God, even dental hygiene is sexy when he does it. 

You fall face-first onto the bed, groaning into the sheets. 

It’s going to be a long fucking night. 

You spend an hour trying to fall asleep. Tossing, turning, blankets on, blankets off. One pillow, two pillows, fluffed pillow, no pillow. Nothing helps. 

Sleep evades you. 

You’re too hot. Too wound up. The wine and the tension are thrumming through your veins like electricity. Your pulse won’t slow. Your breath won’t settle. All you can think about is Joaquín—his stupid smile, his eyes, his lips, his hands. The way all of it would feel against your burning skin. The way he’d unravel the knot sitting low and tight behind your hipbones, slow and deliberate and maddening. 

It’s too much. You can barely breathe. 

You need to do something. 

After what feels like an eternity, you throw the blankets off and lean over the side of the bed, reaching underneath until your fingers find the box. You slide it out and fumble through its contents for your little bullet vibrator. It’s not the quietest, but it’s efficient—and at this point, you don’t care what Joaquín hears. You just need release. 

You use your phone’s flashlight illuminate the box, but after a few seconds of empty searching, you remember… it’s in the bathroom drawer. 

Of course it is. 

With a quiet sigh, you swing your legs off the bed and pad softly to the door, careful not to let the squeaky hinges whine too loudly. You don’t bother with the lights as you tiptoe into the bathroom, stepping up to the vanity and slowly sliding open the top drawer—your drawer. 

You quickly find the small vibrator and wrap your fingers around it before gently shutting the drawer. Then you turn and tiptoe out of the bathroom, your bedroom door in sight when— 

Joaquín steps into your path. Shirtless. Curls a mess. Nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants slung dangerously low on his hips. 

You duck your head and try—feebly—to sidestep him, but he moves with you, crowding into your space until your spine meets the bathroom doorframe. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice low and rough. 

He steps in closer, slow and deliberate, and the hallway suddenly feels too small. Too warm. His face is cast in soft shadow, but you can still see every perfect line—sharp cheekbones, full lips, that frustratingly elegant nose. The kind of face sculptors dream of and sinners pray to. 

But it’s his eyes that undo you. 

Dark. Wild. Burning with something untamed. Hunger, yes—but barely restrained. Like he’s holding himself back with a single fraying thread, one you’re both terrified and desperate to snap. 

You manage the smallest nod. 

He edges even closer, his bare chest now just a breath from your peaked nipples beneath your thin cotton shirt. 

“You’re not wearing a shirt,” you murmur, voice embarrassingly breathless. 

His jaw ticks as he looks at you—like he’s trying not to do something reckless. Then his tongue slides slowly across his bottom lip. “You’re not wearing pants.” 

“Guess we’re both breaking rules,” you whisper. 

He lifts a hand to your face, knuckles grazing from your cheekbone down to your jaw. “What’s one more, then?” 

Your breath hitches, heart pounding in your throat. “Which one?” 

He hums softly, his eyes trained on his fingers as they ghost along your jaw and down the column of your throat. 

“Guess,” he says quietly. 

Then he grips your chin. Hard. Fingers digging into your jaw, forcing your mouth open. 

“You have no fucking idea how hard it’s been not to touch you,” he growls. 

Then he surges forward and crushes his mouth to yours, all heat and hunger and pent-up fucking agony. It’s not soft. Not sweet. It’s a collision—teeth and tongue and a groan so guttural it vibrates against your lips. You gasp into him and he swallows it whole, devouring you like he’s starving. 

Your head hits the doorframe with a soft thud, but you don’t care. You’re too far gone. His hands find your hips, rough and possessive, gripping you like he wants his fingerprints embedded in your bones. 

You whimper—and that’s all the encouragement he needs. 

He shoves a knee between your legs, pressing his thigh up against your core. The pressure punches the air from your lungs—hot and perfectly placed—and your hips grind down on him before you can stop yourself. 

He groans into your mouth, deep and wrecked, and then his teeth catch your bottom lip in a sharp, punishing bite. Not enough to break skin, but enough to make you gasp. 

“Shh,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Gotta keep it down, baby. We’ve got guests.” 

Then he kisses you again. Harder. Desperate and possessive. Like he’s trying to brand you with his mouth alone. 

You try to lift your hands—to touch him, to feel—but he’s faster. He catches your wrists and slams them above your head, pinning them with one hand as the other slides down and cups your breast, rough and reverent all at once. 

You gasp against his mouth, a shocked, breathless sound that he swallows greedily. 

Then he stills. 

His eyes drag up to where your hands are trapped. To the shape pressed between your fingers—small, hard, and anything but innocent. 

He pulls back just enough to uncurl your grip, slow and deliberate. You try to pull away, but he’s stronger—too strong—and within seconds, he’s holding the little vibrator up between two fingers. Right in front of your face. 

“This what you came out here for?” he asks, voice ragged, low, thick with disbelief and something darker. 

You can’t answer. You’re too stunned. Your breath is coming in shallow gasps, your chest rising and falling like you’ve been sprinting. 

He drops his gaze to your lips, then back to your eyes. And smirks. 

“Nah,” he murmurs, voice like smoke. “You don’t need that.” 

The vibrator drops from his hand, hitting the floor with a soft, humiliating thunk. 

For a moment, neither of you move. 

Then he’s on you again. 

His mouth crashes into yours—devouring, claiming—like he needs you more than air. Like kissing you is the only thing keeping him alive. 

You moan into him, fingers twitching with the need to touch, to claw. He releases your wrists and you drop them instantly to his shoulders, then into his curls, grabbing hard enough to make him groan. 

His hands find your hips again, rough and greedy, dragging you closer until his thigh slots back between your legs. The pressure is maddening. Perfect. You grind down with a gasp, hips rolling instinctively against the solid muscle. 

He pulls back just enough to smirk against your mouth, that dark, cocky glint flashing in his eyes. “Yeah,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Just like that.” 

His fingers tighten on your hips, guiding you into another slow, filthy grind. The drag of fabric against your clit electric. You whimper and drop your forehead to his, your breaths mingling in the heat between you. 

Every rock of your hips sends sparks shooting up your spine, the ache between your legs growing unbearable. His thigh flexes beneath you—deliberate, teasing—and you feel his breathing start to match your own, ragged and fast. 

“Gonna cum on my thigh, baby?” he asks, breathless but teasing. 

You can’t form words. You just whine—a needy, broken sound that ghosts past your lips and makes him chuckle, low and dangerous. 

“That’s it,” he mutters, guiding you a little higher on his thigh. “That’s my girl.” 

You grind harder, chasing the friction, the pressure, the devastating edge that’s so close it hurts. His hands are locked on your hips, dragging you over him like he wants to leave bruises behind. 

“You feel that?” he rasps, mouth brushing your jaw as he speaks. “How fucking wet you are for me?” 

You nod—frantic, breathless—but it’s not enough. He growls low in his throat and suddenly pulls you down harder, his thigh flexing beneath you. You bite down on a cry, head tipping back against the doorframe as your body trembles. 

“You’re so fucking hot like this,” he breathes, watching your face like it’s the most obscene thing he’s ever seen. “Soak my leg, baby—come on.” 

One hand slips up your shirt, calloused fingers grazing the bare skin of your belly before cupping your breast—no bra, just heat and softness and a tight nipple begging for attention. He rolls it between his fingers, rough and greedy, and your hips jerk in response. 

“Jesus, you’re so fucking responsive,” he mutters, leaning in to bite down on the soft skin beneath your jaw. 

You gasp, nails digging into his scalp, dragging him closer. 

“Please,” you whisper, not even sure what you’re begging for—release, more, everything. 

He lifts his head, eyes dark and glittering with wicked intent. “You wanna cum for me, baby?” he asks, voice thick and taunting. “Wanna make a mess all over my thigh like a needy little slut?” 

You whimper—pathetic and wrecked—and he smirks. “Then take it. Rub that desperate little pussy on me like you mean it.” 

He moves his thigh up harder, fingers biting into your hips as he guides you, using your body like it’s his to play with. And it is. 

You’re grinding shamelessly now, panting into his mouth, broken noises falling from your lips as the heat builds. You’re close—so fucking close. Muscles tightening, vision going spotty— 

“Cum for me,” he growls. “Right fucking now.” 

And you do. 

With a strangled whimper, you break—hips jerking, thighs quaking, mouth falling open in a silent scream as pleasure tears through you like a live wire. You bury your face in his neck, biting down on a gasp, desperate to stay quiet. 

A muffled moan slips out anyway, ragged and breathy against his skin. He groans, low and wrecked, one hand fisting in your hair as your body trembles against his. 

“Shh,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple, even as his thigh flexes beneath you to draw out every last wave. “You’ve gotta be quiet, baby. Sam’s just downstairs.” 

But you can’t stop shaking—your orgasm crashing over you in hot, relentless pulses—your nails clawing at his back, your teeth sinking into his neck to stifle another sound. 

He holds you through it, breath thick and uneven, a dark smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he feels you unravel. 

“So fucking good for me,” he whispers. “So sweet when you try to behave.” 

He kisses you again—slow, filthy, coaxing you through the aftershocks with soft praise and a hot tongue. His lips drag along yours like he can’t get enough, like he’s trying to taste every noise you made. 

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he breathes, eyes half-lidded and burning. “So fucking sexy.” 

Then, without warning, he lifts you—strong arms locking under your thighs, making you gasp as your legs wrap instinctively around his waist. You cling to him, giggling breathlessly against his shoulder as he starts walking down the hall. 

His mouth finds your throat again, biting softly as he mutters, “You know I’m not stopping ‘til you’re ruined for anyone else, right?” 

You let out a wrecked little laugh, and he grins—dark and dangerous. 

“Gonna fuck you so good, baby,” he murmurs against your skin, voice wrecked and wicked. “Gonna make that pretty little mouth scream my name ‘til it’s the only word you know.” 

You shudder—helpless, breathless—and he chuckles low in his chest, kissing the hinge of your jaw as he kicks open his bedroom door. 

- 

The door clicks softly shut behind you as you both step out into the hall, but neither of you move. 

Joaquín’s back hits it a second later, pulling you with him—your chest flush to his, breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a moan. 

“Joaquín,” you sigh, warning in your voice but no real conviction behind it. 

“Mmh?” He leans in, mouth already dragging along the curve of your jaw, his hands low on your hips. “Just one more.” 

You bite back a grin, threading your fingers through his messy curls as his lips brush yours—soft, slow, intoxicating. His tongue teases your bottom lip, coaxing it open, and before you can stop yourself, you’re kissing him again. 

Deeper this time. Greedy. Sweet. A little wrecked. 

His hands wander. Squeezing. Grabbing. Remembering every filthy, delicious way they unravelled you last night. 

He trails kisses along your jaw, down the column of your throat, sucking a bruise into the dip of your collarbone as he lowers himself slowly. 

Dropping to his knees. 

You tip your head back, lips parted and panting softly. 

“We—We have to go downstairs,” you murmur, though you don’t try to move. 

“I am downstairs,” he mumbles, lifting the hem of his shirt to kiss your stomach. 

You let out a shaky little laugh, your breath hitching as his tongue slides over your hipbone. 

His hands slip up beneath the shirt, fingertips dancing over your hot skin like he’s thinking about dragging you back to bed. Again. 

You’ve been trying to get downstairs for over an hour now. This is the furthest you’ve gotten. 

“You’re not helping,” you hiss, voice catching as his knuckles graze the underside of your breast. 

“I’m not trying to.” 

You thread your fingers through his curls and tug, reluctantly pulling his mouth away from you. He looks up at you through thick lashes, eyes dark and hungry, grinning like a man thoroughly satisfied with his own choices. 

“Come on,” you sigh softly, wanting nothing more than to have his head between your legs again like it was twenty minutes ago. 

He rises to his full height with a playful eyeroll, slipping one hand into yours and lacing your fingers. Then he uses his free hand to cup your head and pull you toward him, pressing a tender kiss to your temple before turning down the hall. 

“Let’s get this over with,” he says with a soft chuckle. 

You giggle quietly, biting your lip to stop yourself from begging him back to bed. 

Halfway down the stairs, he leans in, lips brushing your ear. “You realise I’m gonna spend all day thinking about what you sound like when you cum.” 

You nearly trip, but he catches you easily—smug and warm behind you, his laughter a hot puff of air against your neck. 

You elbow him, but you’re smiling, flushed and glowing and absolutely ruined. 

You let him lead you into the kitchen, fingers still laced together, cheeks flushed and lips swollen. You try not to look like someone who’s just had every bone in her body melted and rearranged—but the limp in your step and the heat in your cheeks aren’t exactly subtle. 

Sam’s already there, leaning casually against the counter beside the coffee machine, mug in hand. His eyes sparkle with that familiar, knowing mischief the moment you enter. 

“Well, well, look who finally decided to join the land of the living.” 

You pause at the edge of the kitchen, but Joaquín doesn’t. 

“Morning,” he says easily, strolling over to the coffee machine like he hadn’t just threatened to make you scream his name five minutes ago. “Coffee?” 

Sam takes a long, deliberate sip from his mug. “It’s probably cold by now. Didn’t think you two were ever coming down.” 

You press your lips together, fighting back the embarrassed smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. Joaquín just shrugs. 

“We got distracted,” he says, opening a cupboard and pulling out a mug. “Important business.” 

Sam snorts, shaking his head. “Yeah, I heard. Whole neighbourhood did.” 

You choke on your breath. “Oh my god.” 

Joaquín turns to you, mug in hand, a smirk spreading across his face—smug and utterly unrepentant. “She’s loud when she’s happy.” 

Your eyes go wide, and you’re surprised you don’t implode on the spot. 

Sam groans, setting his mug down with a thud. “Jesus Christ. I take it back. You’re officially banned from happiness.” 

Joaquín just grins wider. “Too late.” 

You drop your face into your hands with a soft groan. 

“At least one of you has the decency to blush,” Sam mutters as he walks past you. 

You drag your hands down your face and shuffle further into the kitchen, stopping at the island across from where Joaquín is pouring two cups of coffee. 

He nudges the mugs toward you, but neither of you makes a move to grab one. Instead, he steps around the island, slips his arms around your waist, and pulls you in—pressing you flush against him as he buries his face in the curve of your neck, breathing you in like he’s trying to memorise every trace of you. 

All of it completely shameless, even with Sam just a few feet away on the lounge, sipping his coffee and looking vaguely traumatised. 

Honestly, though? You can’t bring yourself to care either. 

Your hands drift up Joaquín’s arms to link behind his neck. 

“You hungry?” you ask. 

His head snaps up, eyes dark with immediate interest. “Yes.” 

You roll your eyes, thighs clenching despite yourself. “Not like that. I meant actual food. You know—sustenance.” 

“The other thing is sustenance,” he mutters, mouth finding your neck again. 

“I’m still here,” Sam calls. “And you’re still not quiet. Do either of you know how to whisper?” 

Joaquín lifts his head and glances toward the lounge. “We didn’t invite you to stay. Feel free to leave anytime.” 

Sam shakes his head, laughing in disbelief. “You two should be thanking me.” 

You frown. “For what?” 

“Introducing you,” he says, pausing like he expects applause. Then he sighs and adds, “And tracking down your shady ex.” 

That gets your attention. Both you and Joaquín straighten, turning toward him. 

“You have a location?” you ask. 

Sam nods. “We’re organising a strike team. Intel says he’s been renting this place under an alias. Plan is to hit him when he’s not expecting it.” 

“Tonight?” 

“Tonight,” he confirms, pushing off the lounge. “Which means I’ve got a team to prep.” 

He moves into the kitchen, drops his empty mug in the sink, and glances back at you. 

“If your hunch is right and he’s behind everything… you’ll be able to go home soon.” 

You nod, trying to ignore the tight knot forming in your stomach. “Great.” 

Joaquín slowly releases your waist and lifts his coffee, taking a sip to hide what you know is a frown. 

You wait for Sam to gather his things and bid you both goodbye, stepping out the front door with a knowing smirk and muttering something about ‘getting the house fumigated’ after you two finally move out. 

When the door clicks shut behind him, you turn to Joaquín, who’s settled on the tiny lounge, elbows resting on his knees and fingers steepled beneath his chin.  

“Hey,” you say softly, stepping in front of him. 

His hands immediately find your hips, like that’s where they’re meant to be. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, tugging you onto his lap. 

You straddle his thighs, hands pressed to his chest. “You know,” you say, resting your forehead against his, “if you wanted to stay here a while longer… I wouldn’t be opposed.” 

He huffs out a soft laugh, breath ghosting over your lips. “Yeah? You want to stay in this tiny house with paper-thin walls?” 

“I’d stay anywhere with you,” you whisper, so quiet it barely registers—as if saying it aloud makes whatever this is feel real. Too real. 

His breath stutters. His fingers tighten at your waist. 

“Really?” 

You nod. “Yeah.” 

“What about my apartment in D.C.?” he asks, leaning back to study your face with wide, hopeful eyes. “It’s not much bigger than this, but—” 

“Okay,” you interrupt, pressing your lips together to keep from grinning like an idiot. 

His eyes go even wider. “Really?” 

You nod again, giggling. “Let’s call it an indefinite sleepover. Just in case you get sick of me and want to send me back to my own place.” 

He laughs too, the sound rumbling deep in his chest beneath your palms. “I’m never gonna get sick of you.” 

“You sure about that?” you tease, shifting your hips to grind down against him. 

His breath catches, lips parting in a soft sigh. 

“Baby,” he whispers, “we’re just getting started.” 

Then, before you can blink, he lifts you, flipping you onto your back and pressing you into the couch cushions. He hovers over you, lips finding yours like they belong there—sliding against yours and stoking that slow-burning flame deep in your belly. The same flame he lit the first day you met. The flame that now blazes so bright, your whole body glows—burning beneath his touch. 

He pauses, forehead resting against yours, breath warm and uneven. 

“You know,” he murmurs, voice thick with promise, “I plan on making you forget your own name by the end of today.” 

You grin, tugging him down for one last kiss—soft, slow, but packed with everything you feel. 

“Good,” you whisper against his lips, “because I don’t want to remember anyone else’s.” 

END.

[stars-obsession-pit]

Since Captain Marvel is quite personable and his champion of magic status makes him pretty close to being a demigod, the Justice League decide to send him to try to communicate with the new burgeoning proto-Ancient they’ve heard about and make sure they’re not a threat.

And upon their meeting, Danny and Billy instantly clock each other as fellow teens who have been given too much power, striking up a friendship.

So when they’re done chatting, Marvel returns and tells the League that Danny is nice.

Which the League promptly responds to like “who the hell is Danny?” until Marvel clarifies that he means the Ancient.

Which… is a bit confusing/concerning to them. The proto-Ancient just told Marvel his real name on first meeting?? What is going on? Did Marvel somehow befriend the godling in one meeting? Is one of them trying to mentor the other on their role? Wait, the Ancient is presumably immortal too, like Captain Marvel is assumed to be. So could they (gods forbid) have been… courting?

They have absolutely no idea, and are a bit too nervous to bring it up.

[dcxdpdabbles]

Damian: In the name of everything holy, stop speaking in cursive.

Danny: Aw you think I sound fancy?

Damain: I think all of your letters are attached to the other whenever you open your mouth. Put some space between your words. It sounds like you cast a spell when you say ICanGoForSomeBurgers.

Danny: Sorry, I talk fast when I'm excited or nervous. IJustThinkYoureReallyPrettyAndCoolandIWasWonderingIfYouLikeToGoOnADate?

Damian: Stop it! I can't understand you!

Danny: I-dot-think-dot-that-dot-you-dot-!

Damian: This is not an old, timely telegram! It's a verbal conversation!

Danny: *Sobbing and switching into Ghost Speech by accident* You're just so hot, I can't do this.

Damian: That wasn't even words! I know several languages, and none of that screeching was sentences! Are you issuing a duel with me!? Attempting to blemish my honor with this silly mockery!?

Danny: Oh dang, you speak in cursive? That was fancy as hell.

Damian: HOW DARE YOU. I ARTICULATE PERFECTLY! MEET ME AFTER SHCOOL IN THE WEST PARKING LOT FOOL!

Danny watching Damian stomp away: Task failed successfully.

Tucker: In what world was that successful!?

[cakypa120]

Touching the phantom core is a very intimate gesture. And only very close people do it.

Billy was one of those very close people. Danny sometimes allowed him to touch his core. Danny explained that when Billy touches his core, he relaxes a lot and it helps him calm down. Billy is glad that Danny trusts him so much. That's why he always monitors his boyfriend's condition, because Danny's life is quite tense and stressful.

Danny had been on the verge of murder one day. His entire week had been hell. Vlad was pestering him, the ghosts had increased their attacks, he was struggling at school, he had a fight with Jazz over something he couldn't remember, the boys in white had laid siege to the city and Danny had to fight his way through to get to Billy for help. All in all, he had spent the week under immense stress. And now he was in the Watchtower, listening to Batman's plans to destroy the GIW from the inside. His head was hurting and his hands were itching to punch someone.

Billy noticed Danny's stress so he took him to a secluded corner. Danny looked at him sullenly, Billy simply placed his hand on his chest. Danny sighed and his chest opened up to reveal his core which was pulsing with all the stress he had been holding inside. Billy gently touched the cool surface. Danny sighed softly and exhaled in relief. Billy gently ran his fingers over the surface, like a feather touching skin, his fingers gliding over the surface. Danny laid his head on his chest and breathed heavily. Billy softly whispered words of comfort as Danny melted in his arms, releasing all the pent up stress.

Superman went to find Captain Marvel and the Phantom. They left the meeting, and Marvel said they would be gone for a while. But ten minutes had passed and Bruce began to grind his teeth. Then he heard a quiet groan and heavy breathing. Which definitely belonged to the Phantom. And also a quiet whisper from Marvel. Clark stopped and his face turned red. He turned sharply and went back into the conference room.

Batman: Where are Captain Marvel and the Phantom?

Clark: They're...h-they're...talking...

Batman: And about what?

Clark: I'm not eavesdropping!

The heroes look at him and understand everything. Clark's eyes were darting, his posture was nervous, and his face was unusually red. You don't have to be Batman to understand that Marvel and the Phantom were caught doing something inappropriate.

Everyone tries not to stare at the happy Marvel and relaxed Phantom when they return. Clark doesn't even look at them. Hal gives Marvel a proud father's look with a fox-like grin.

Billy doesn't understand why his colleagues are looking at them like that. Danny doesn't care. All the stress is gone. Now all they have to do is destroy the GIW and make peace with Jazz. No big deal.

[artemismoorea03]

DP x DC Prompt: The New Teacher

(So, I've seen a lot of prompts that have Danny go to Gotham and be a teacher but I don't remember seeing any with it in this direction, so on the chance that this is an original idea here we go!)

Jason was given a choice, or multiple choices. Babysit the Replacement on a mission that could last a week, go to Bludhaven and have some 'brother bonding time' with Dick who needed backup on a big case, or take a temp solo-gig in a tiny town in the middle of nowhere called Amity Park.

Well, considering he was still a bit hurt about the fact that B replaced him all those years ago and the pit loved to grab hold of that bit of frustrations towards his younger brother, that didn't seem like a smart idea. Dick wasn't an option either because he knew that would lead to 'talking about feelings' and other shit that he didn't want to do.

So he took the solo-gig.

It was supposed to be easy, at least that's what had been implied by the others he'd spoken to about the case. It seemed like most of the Justice League thought this situation was being 'exaggerated' because most of the time when somebody checked out what was going on there was nothing happening. No big take over, or kidnapping, or 'end of the world' situation, but there had been too many calls to put Bruce's mind at ease. The frequent calls mixed with the fact that the Government apparently had the area under a 'black out' made Bruce even more nervous.

Hell, if it hadn't been for the fact that Bruce was famous and that Scarecrow, Penguin and Riddler had all escaped from Arkham he would have been doing the case himself.

Which is how Jason ended up in a restraunt named 'Nasty Burger' looking at the news papers he had managed to get from a stand down the street while taking notes of things he had already seen. It wasn't just that the Government had cut them off, all of the tech in the city was easily 20 years outdated compared to the rest of the world.

Nokia phones, chunky computers, hell he'd even seen a kid with a PDA of all things. Thankfully, it looked like his tech still worked other than running slower than it should have, but thanks to modifications made by Barbara and Tim things were running better than he expected. But, they did struggle to have access to anything, specifically the news.

Hence the paper.

Ghost Boy: Friend or Fiend. A new vote cast by the city has found that the Ghost Boy - Danny Phantom - has had an astounding rise in support after the events over the Christmas Holiday. The new polls suggest that 43% of Citizens support Danny Phantom, with the majority of his support coming from the students at Casper High who insist that Phantom is a hero who has saved them countless times over the past few months. 49% of people still agree, however, that Phantom appears to be at the center of the majority of the attacks with many still claiming that he is the sole cause of the attacks. However, 8% of the population remain undecided, including many teachers, police and hospital staff. Upon seeing the new results of the pole Mayor Montez had this to say; "While I will admit that Phantom appears to favor the younger generation and frequently seems to come to their aid, we cannot forget what it has done in the past. Taken hostages, injured innocents, and caused millions in property damage. Phantom may not be a 'villain' in the typical sense of the word, but we shouldn't blindly trust him just because of a few good deeds."

So there was a... hero? Half hero - potentially villain - in Amity Park? That might have explained some of the calls they'd gotten from Amity park over the past few months. Still, he was concerned by some parts of the report.

Students at a high school were frequently coming under attack? So much that this potential-villain kept saving them? Just what was the cause? What could cause so many issues?

Jason looked up as he saw that same PDA kid talking with a girl with short black hair in a half-ponytail who was wearing a black crop-top. The girl seemed annoyed while the boy seemed worried about something.

"But it's Vlad, Sam... what if he does something?" He heard the boy whisper, "We should go back him up..."

"He doesn't need our help, besides Jazz ran away from home, remember? She got herself into this mess it's her problem to get out of it. Something that Danny should have learned a long time ago."

Jason frowned, pretending not to hear them as he hesitated then got up and walked over to the two younger teens. "Hey, excuse me."

The girl looked annoyed and suspicious while the boy looked confused.

"Uh, yeah?" Tucker asked.

"Hey, sorry to bug you both. But could you guys tell me about this... 'Danny Phantom' person?" He asked, holding the newspaper out.

The girl looked even more suspicious, "And... who are you?"

"And how haven't you heard of Phantom?" Asked the boy.

"I just moved to town." Jason admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "So, I'm just trying to catch up on all the town drama."

"You moved to Amity Park... willingly? Psh, what do you have, a deathwish?" The girl grumbled.

"Come on, I just moved from Gotham, which is worse?"

The girl blinked as the boy laughed.

"Furries vs Ghosts, who will win~" He said as the girl elbowed him. "Ow! What?!"

"Danny Phantom is a hero." The girl explained, "He showed up in April and has been protecting the town since."

"A hero, huh? Could always use more of those in the world, but the mayor seems to have it out for him."

Tucker sighed, "No kidding, man. Somebody framed Phantom for something really bad and no matter what he does to try to fix it the city just see's that incident as the only thing he's ever done. It was the first big 'public thing' outside of the high school so it was huge but it wasn't his fault."

The girl reached for her phone suddenly, looking at it before she answered. "Hey, Danny. What's up?" She was quiet for a moment, "Yeah, we're at Nasty Burger, wanna join us? Lunch on me?"

A quiet mumble came through the speaker before she smirked.

"I'll order for you then. Double or triple?"

More mumbles.

"Triple it is. See you soon." She said, then hung up. "Come on, Tuck, Danny is on his way for lunch."

"Hell yeah, see you later, dude." The boy said, then jogged off with the girl.

"A teacher? Yeah, it looks like there's some openings but why would you want to have your cover as a teacher?" Oracle asked as Jason sat in his hotel room, looking through the paper again.

"Most of the incidents seem to surround the High School, I want to see what's going on."

Oracle hummed, typing for a moment. "Alright, well as luck will have it, it looks like teachers are sparse at Amity High, at least from what I'm able to get using your connection... which is infuriatingly slow, by the way, are you sure you did it right?"

"I've done it a million times, of course I did it right."

Oracle grumbled, "Stupid Amity black-out. Okay, so you have options. Most of the teachers have fucked off so all of the teachers in Freshmen year switch around to cover lessons or do mixed lessons. For example the English teacher also teaches Math and the normal Math teacher also teaches Science. So it looks like you could have any position you want and the school would just shuffle around the teachers."

"You said English is taken, right?"

"Yep, the teacher is named William Lancer and he- oh... wait, he's on a leave of absence due to injuries he suffered over Christmas Break. Concussion, broken arm, and bruised ribs, he'll be out for a few weeks."

Jason smirked, "Perfect. Sign me up."

". . . Jason, the English and Math teacher... never thought I'd see the day. Alright, I'll type up your application, send it in and casually push it to the front of the line. You'll be official by the time Winter Break ends in a few days. So get studying."

"Sounds like a plan, but I'll be fine, I mean our family is crazy and i deal with criminals on a nightly basis. How hard could this assignment really be?"

He would regret asking that question by the end of his first day as an Amity High School teacher.

[emacrow]

Welcome to the Starlight Toy Galore! How can I help you?

Apparently, 1 toy wasn't enough to in the analysis machine. Dick and Damian were compromised by the toys and refused to part with them.

Babs decided to go this time, but this wasn't the first time she came into the place for investigating, actually..

This was the 36th time she visited, not because a ridiculous tall, very obvious dork of a owner kindly remade his front more wheelchair accessible to enter and couldn't take a goddamned compliment to save his life.

This was her case dammit, and Batman wasn't going to ruin all her processes steps of plans she had already set back, steps now by visiting.

It seem this week was appreciated space theme background that was completely accurate with various sizes planets above attic seemingly look to be floating until one tiny pluto float downward only for a little 7 year old girl with pigtails to wind it up with a blue winding key and watch it float back up with the others.

Danny always went all out in the starlight Toy galore before what caught her eyes was a little boy that had a butterfly hairpin with a broken dolly, a bag of doll pieces that was the missing cracked head and missing arm piece walking up to a station where the Owner Danny Nightingale was await.

"Can you fix mah ma's Sally? Felix got mad at her for not giving him lunchie when he went out with the guys.. and.. and I got all the pieces..! I trade you mah hairpin for you to fix her!" the little boy said softly with quivering confident, raising the hairpin that he was wearing up with his hand.

The Danny looked down on the little boy and bent over slowly, his form still gigantic even crouched down as he nodded, whispering softly to the boy as he ruffled his little hair, carefully picking the broken dolly that seem way too small in those long thin hands.

Carefully placing dolly and the broken pieces out of the bag carefully, The Danny went to the cabinet above the station and pulled out a jar. She could see his body shake as though he knew she was watching. Now, if Babs could almost see what that jar said, she coul-

The hard tug onto her shirt cause her to turn to see a 6 year old little girl in black braids with rose designed beads, bright blue eyes, and a soft grin with a front gap toothy. She had a tagged name, and I'm Ellen Nightingale.

Ellen mischievous little girl who like to play pranks at the beginning but became sweet on her 3 months ago.

She was holding out a strawberry taffy out in her small hand, colorful sensory rings on three fingers and a ducky doodle in yellow and green marker on the back of her hand.

"Oh.. thank you." Babs said softly, holding out her hand to receive the taffy. Ellen smiles with wider, and her eyes gleamed brighter at Babs as she giggles, rushing off to where Babs was previously watching the Dann-..

Ack. She got distracted!

The little boy was walking away, smiling brightly with the fixed dolly now wearing his butterfly hairpin as Danny waved at him.

Ellen tugs onto his apron and points at Babs, whispering something lightly to him as he picks up something from his stationary. Babs felt nervous for some reason, considering he was a ridiculous tall man. Hell, he can give the killer croc a run for his money in size if he were broader instead of slim figured.

And here they come, alright. Babs smiles softly as they both come over. Before Babs knew it, a bouquet of lilacs and purple roses was nearly shoved in her face.

A heavily bright red-faced danny with his hands shakenly holding the bouquet as he tonguedtied on his own words.

"You did the order wrong, Papa!! It was ask, then give the flowers!! All that hard work pwactices over this last night, gone, You big oversized Dumdum!!" Ellen shrieked, pounding her tiny fists on his legs.

Danny wilted like a deflated tube man as if Ellen's tiny blows could hurt him, but Babs couldn't speak as she was laughing too hard into the bouquet she held over her face to hide how red her face was.

Part 1 here <- -> Part 3 here

[sukeruton-san]

A Coffee Heart pt 2

First Next

There's a coffee shop in Gotham that allowed him way more caffeine than Amity allowed. . .

He likes it here he can have 21 shots of expresso and all he got was an eye roll with some grumbling about a guy named Tim and twins, it's great!!

_______________________________________________

___________A table in the far corner______________

Do I have a twin. . .

No seriously does he have an unknown twin cause standing at the register is a guy that looks so much like him, but not exact enough to be a clone.

We both have pitch black hair the same thick and soft kind but his is infinitely more fluffy and wild like his Red Robin look, bright blue eyes with analytical intelligents and slightly unhinged but his are more icey in color and somehow more dead inside,both our body types are small soft and lean with muscle, small waist, and rounded in the hips, shoulders in mid range, but he has more curves with his shape he's also worriedly more skinny to an unhealthy degree even in my standards, face shapes similar but his are little more angle too it, hell even our voices are similar his being softer and a little deeper than mine

What made me really catch my attention was the fact that he's coffee intake is just as death inducing as mine maybe even more deadly. Hes eye bags are worse then mine from what I can see from here which is across the fucking room.

So I have reasonably concluded that he is my twin. I mean there was a popular rumor that Janite was pregnant with twins and gave one up to adoption as soon they came out with how big she got. Maybe it was true when I am look at someone who has to be related to me.

Though this begs the question where he has been the entire time, He may be visiting with how he has an Midwestern accent but he also holds himself like an Gotham native.

hnmmmmmm. . .

What's he doing?. . .

He's comING OVER HERE ABORT ABORT ABO-

_______________________________________________

"Um you mind if I sit here for a little all the tables are full"

Why he look familiar? Have I seen him before? . . .

Wait that's Timothy Drake-Wayne Co-CEO of Wayne Enterprises, I only know him because of the research binge for the Gothampedia and Tucker's fanboying.

He probably wants some privacy. . .

Probably to relax a little bit and be normal if he's just drinking some coffee in the back corner, alone. He looks nervous as hell too probably don't want any unwanted attention brought to himself, I sure as hell know the feeling

" No it's fine you can sit here "

Is it just me or does he look a little eager

" Cool I'm Danny by the way " sitting and taking a sip of his coffee he notices that Tim seems to be in some sort of dilemma with himself finally he asked

" So you happen to be around and about here often?" He drinks his own coffee

" No, just found this little shop" he cringed a little "I was draged here because my parents wanted to work on something here"

Tim Slightly invested slightly worried " What are they working on?"

" They uhh want to 'help make Gotham more prepared for dangers that may arise in the haunting world' their words not mine"tilting his head slightly to the left "to be fair I think the bats have all that covered, no need to interfere and cause more problems than what it's worth" grumbling under his breath " Don't want them to get on the bats radar cuz they are doing reckless shit and I have to clean it up"

_______________________________________________

Tim is slightly panicking now who are his twins adopted parents and why are they wanting to 'prepared for dangers that may arise in the haunting world'?

What does the haunting world mean?

What does he mean by causing more problems?

Are his parents escaped midwestern rouges or something?

Does he need to do a welfare check on him as Red Robin?

Also he was pretty sure he wasn't supposed to hear that last part but that's just making him more worried.

How reckless can they get?

How many times has he had to clean up their messes?

What does he do. . .

(Thank you for helping me with the idea for the next chapter @ghostlysuitnight )

[chaoticwriting]

THE FATHER 3

Part 2

So Danny and Babs go out for a nice evening date that weekend. It is so nice that they even return home safely and romantically and even promise for another date.

Well

That is what Danny and Babs wanted. But now here they are 1000 feet high in the air, looking down on Gotham. It is fine if it's just the two of them and it is part of Danny's plan. However, the one orchestrating the event is The Riddler that decides to bring the whole restaurant that they are dining at flying up high in the air.

Danny sighs as he watches the event unfolds. Standing up he brings his chair right next to Barbara and sits right next to her. Danny seriously needs to have one normal date because for the love of god even in highschool he can't take a break. It's like God is preventing him from having a normal date.

Danny holds Barbara's hands as he can see she is a little nervous about it all. I mean, they are now 1000 ft high in the sky. If she isn't afraid at all that is more impressive. Danny tries to make a conversation with her as they eat while everyone else is freaking out. Amidst the chaos, a couple is sitting beside each other talking and occasionally laughing as they eat.

Suddenly, a big explosion engulfs one part of the restaurant. Danny immediately perks up his senses because he can hear The Riddler panicking about something. Smiling at Barbara, Danny sends out a little clone of him to check what is going on.

To his surprise, Vortex is here thrashing the room where the explosion happened. His clone gets close to Vortex to ask him what happens.

Clone Danny: Vortex! What are you doing here?

Vortex: Phantom! I am in need of your assistance! Right now!

Clone Danny: Dude. Can't you see I am busy?

Vortex: I need you to help me find my relic. That damn bastard Zeus stole it from me.

Clone Danny: Goddamnit! Why the hell don't you go after him then?

Vortex: Clockwork says to go to you if I have any problem relating to the human realm.

Clone Danny: Uugggghhhh....... Of course CW is behind this. Just go back first. I will find your relic later. What is it that you lost anyway?

Vortex: It is my Pendant of Thunder. That is my first ever artifact. If you find it, I will even let you keep it.

Clone Danny: What? If you don't want it, why do you even care that it is stolen?

Vortex: It's not a matter that it is stolen. It is the fact that the one that stole is Zeus. I hate that guy.

Clone Danny: Fine! But come back later. That is none negotiable. I have a date and an attack from Gotham's Rouge is already bad enough.

Vortex: Grrrrrrr......fine. I will comply.

And with that, Vortex just disappears into the sky. Sighs. What is even happening anymore? He just wants a date. And shit is going so fast.

-In the dining room-

Danny: So do you have any plans for the future?

Barbara: Hmmm, I don't really have one. But I do wish to get married and have a kid or 2 running around.

Danny: *Stiffening smile* Only one or two? What about adoption?

Barbara: I mean they are cool. I don't have any negative thoughts on them. And there is this one guy I really like that runs an adoption centre. Such a fine young man.

Danny:*Blushes* Ehem. I'm sure that young man thinks you are lovely too, Barbara.

Barbara: You think? But that guy hasn't tried to make anything between us official yet. Not even boyfriend and girlfriend.

Danny: *Looks around* I'm sure that young man is looking for a nicer place to announce his plan to you.

Barbara: Hmmm, I certainly hope so. I don't like waiting for so long. I hear that guy has a lot of pursuers.

Danny:*Snorts* As if they could hold a candle to you. All they want is my money or because they think I am mysterious and dangerous like in their omegaverse fan fiction.

Barbara: *Giggles* That certainly is true. Though I must say some of the things in their fan fiction are 'spicy' to say the least. I even see some tags of your name in AO3.

Danny: Please don't mention that. My kids think that I don't know what is going on but my friends are having a blast making fun of me because of it.

Barbara: It's fine. It's not like they can hur-

*Booommm*

Danny & Barbara: Oh no.

Suddenly, it is almost as if gravity stops working for them. Some of them starts floating in the air as they can feel the air brushing through their face. No. They are not floating. The building is going down!

Realizing the severity of the situation, Danny makes hundreds of his clones as some of them go under the building to support it slowly to reduce the impact of downfall while the others go to take care of the other customers alone with the goons. In retrospect, the goons are very nice. They haven't been rude to him nor Barbara this whole time. And even only treats the adults roughly. So they honestly get a pass in Danny's book.

Danny meanwhile stands behind Barbara as she finishes her meal. He holds both her and her food with ectoplasm so they wouldn't move.

When the restaurant lands safely, Danny brings Barbara out of the restaurant towards his car. He can see Batman and his crew jumping across the building as they are fighting against Riddler's goon.

Danny drives them off to another place so that they can continue their date.

[redflagshipwriter]

Ghost Driver 6

Masterpost

His body was shaking. Jason came back to himself in fits and starts, mind suffering through the sludge of a concussion and heavy duty pain medication. His ears had finally stopped ringing after the explosion. He was aware enough to know that he had been in and out of it for what must have been hours.

He checked in with himself: he hurt. His body hurt, like he had hit a wall at high speed because of the uh, the explosion. His eye ached obnoxiously, and he had a crick in his neck. Jason rolled it cautiously. “This is not my beautiful sofa,” he said. Where was he? He should be sleeping off his injuries in a shitty cold apartment in downtown Gotham. The world rumbled around him like he was on top of an old water heater, or traveling at high speed.

“Definitely not,” said Dickie.

Oh. It was another dream. He closed his eyes. There was no scenario in which Batman took him back to the cave that didn’t involve waking up on a bed in a room with no shoelaces. He was scrunched into the front seat of a vehicle– that was the source of the shaking. A motor. He peeled open one eye to reconfirm that the world outside was wavy and green.

“This is different.” He didn’t feel much of anything when he looked at it. It was kinda dumb. He deserved a more substantial hallucinatory sequence after the new worst day of his life “Hey, was I really fuckin annoying when I was little? Is that why you didn’t like me? Because I dreamed I was on a road trip with little me and I gotta say, he didn’t deserve to have his head beat in with a crowbar, but he was truly obnoxious.” He grimaced. So sincere. Christ. He was an idiot and he always had been. Of course Bruce would never choose his son over his morals.

“Not a dream,” said a new voice. “Sorry.” They coughed.

Wait. Jason struggled to put it together. He did know that voice, but the guy it came out of was all wrong. “You look like a space mermaid,” he told Danny Fenton disapprovingly. “I am not a pirate. What are you doing? There’s no coherency in this dream.” He waved a hand around and immediately regretted it. “Go back to your other face.”

“Uh.” Danny sounded nervous. “This is just what I look like, all the time.” He gave a very bad fake laugh.

That was suspicious. Jason considered this. Fuck, his head was pounding. He sat up and fought past nausea to assess what was going on around him better.

Dick was staring at him inside the cockpit of an unidentified vehicle. He was aiming for a cheerfully detached mien, but Jason saw right through it. Dick was stressed out of his big dumb pumpkin head. Next to him was a Robin.

Jason narrowed his eyes. That wasn’t a ghost or vision. That was the new kid, upgraded uniform and all. “You lack panache,” he told Tim Drake disdainfully. He skimmed over the techno mermaid version of the incredibly hot getaway driver he had promised to protect from Batman and had the dim suspicion that he had fucked that up. He nodded at the vampire who was driving their spaceship through green air. “Hey, man.”

“...Hello,” said the vampire.

“Ignore him,” Danny hastily said. He gave Jason a queasy smile and twisted his fingers together. “You’re up up now? Sorry, you missed kiiiind of a lot. When you didn’t come back I decided to figure out what happened to you and I did kidnap a guy, so we have to fix that with paperwork.” He paused. “Also I did kidnap Robin a little bit. But that was an honest mistake! I thought he was dead.”

Jason watched this babbling, perplexed but charmed. “Who else did you kidnap?” His voice was a little choked up. He had kidnapped Robin? Batman must be losing his mind. He fought down a hysterical giggle. Dickie was here too, hell. The Bat-aneurism would be blinding.

The vampire heaved a massively put-upon sigh. “Some ruffian styling himself as a Joker,” he drawled. He was so powerfully unimpressed that his words took a moment to penetrate Jason’s brain.

He froze.

“So dear Phantom here gifted him to Skulker.” He pronounced ‘Skulker’ like the name might leave mud in his mouth if he wasn’t careful with it. “Skulker is disinterested in giving up his toy, so we are now in a very exciting chase.” The vampire sneered.

Jason hauled himself upwards with difficulty. His body felt so heavy. Every muscle hurt. “We are chasing him?”

“No, he is chasing us.” Dick pointed a thumb towards the back. “We’re, uh.” His whole face twitched. “We’re towing the Joker behind us. Skulker keeps trying to harpoon him to get him back.”

The ship jerked violently. Jason looked over to the vampire pilot, who was serenely unaffected by the violent subject matter.

He took a moment to experience childlike wonder. What had Danny done while he was unconscious? How had he pulled this off? Was it an elaborate proposal? If so, he didn’t need to try that hard, goddamn. Jason had an empty ring finger.

Jason considered all of this and tried to be cool about it. “What’s the end goal?”

Dickie leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and make deadpan eye contact. “We are going to take the Joker to a private prison in the Infinite Realms run by a cowboy ghost named Walker, and I am going to oversee transfer paperwork to give to Inspector Gordon.” He said it all like it made some sense. “Can’t have the Joker disappear without a record.”

“...Right,” Jason said, remembering that bit of information. He inserted as much disdain as possible into his voice for the sheer fun of it. “You’re a fucking cop.”

Dickie flinched.

“That’s right,” Danny said, pleased and impressed. “How did you know that? I found him at the police station and he said he would help out. This is my estranged godfather vampire, Vlad.” He gestured at the driver. “And I’m Phantom,” he said, despite being obviously Danny Fenton in a superhero transformation.

“...I’m Jason, but you can call me honey,” he said.

Dick choked on air.

Phantom flushed a very pleasing teal.

Jason flung an arm over Danny’s shoulder and reeled him in. He might have also leaned on him a bit, but that was the blood loss talking. He wasn’t swooning. “Tell me about this prison and how you feel about gold versus silver.”

Drake made a gagging sound.

“No, shh,” Dickie said quietly. “I want to see where this is going.”

[hailsatanacab]

A Persuasive Argument - dpxdc

"Great!" Danny says, clapping his hands together to get everyone's attention. The dinner table falls silent as everyone looks towards him. It's a full house today and, honestly, Danny's a little nervous. "I'm sure you're all wondering why I gathered you here today."

"It's dinnertime. In our house." Duke mutters, while doing a very bad job of concealing his yawn. He holds his fork poised over the braised beef, but, just like everyone else, still looks towards Danny before tucking in. It's intriguing enough to wait.

"Yeah, no one misses Alfie's dinner." Dick says, with a brilliant smile that Danny can't help but return.

"Precisely! What better time to talk to you all than when you're all actually here!"

"Wait, I thought you came round to work on our English essays?" Tim asks, blinking owlishly.

"I'm afraid I've lured you here under false pretences, Tim."

"This is where I live."

"I would still really appreciate help on that essay though, I mean, what the hell is Hamlet even about? I just don't get that old time-y language, like 'Hark! A ghost hath killed me!' - absolute rubbish, what does that even mean?"

"The ghost never kills anyone in Hamlet, he's there to tell Hamlet that he was murdered. Have you actually read it?"

"No, but it sounds like you have. Tim, I want this guy to help me with my essay instead. I know for a fact that you haven't read Hamlet, either."

"So? We don't need Jason, I've read the Sparknotes."

"Hi Jason, I'm Danny, pleasure to meet you, summarise Hamlet in three sentences or less."

"Am I auditioning to help you write your essays? I can't believe you’ve gone through your whole school life without reading it, it’s good!"

"Hamlet, along with a number of other classics, was banned in our house because it portrayed ghosts as intelligent and sympathetic beings rather than evil, animalistic beasts. I didn’t even get to see The Muppet's Christmas Carol until last year with Tim! It was surprisingly good, and I hate Christmas because everyone always argued and it sucked. But we're getting off topic. I—"

"No, no, please go back to that, because what the fu—"

"Boys, please." Bruce interrupts, looking to the world as if he wants to hang his head in his hands. "Danny, you were about to say something?"

"Oh, yeah, Mr. Wayne! Thanks!"

"Please, call me Bruce."

"Well, that very succinctly brings me to my point, because I'd actually really like to call you dad."

Nobody says a word. Nobody even blinks, all as shocked as the other, watching open-mouthed as Danny pulls his laptop out from beside his chair. Bruce can definitely feel a headache coming on.

"Before you say anything, I've prepared a 69 slide PowerPoint presentation on why you, Bruce Wayne, should adopt me, Danny Last-Name-Pending. Please save your questions, comments, and verdict until the end, thank you."

[stargrillzz]

𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘪𝘱𝘦 Summary: The most popular and hottest girl...into Stiles? Note: I'm watching Teen Wolf again because it's literally my comfort series and my crush on Stiles was just reborn (never died).

"He seemed very desperate," my best friend tells me.

"Poor boy, maybe I should help him," he laughed.

"Are you kidding? He's weird."

"Danny, I know, weird and kind of clumsy, but he has something...I don´t know what it its but..." I leaned against my locker, looking at Stiles in the distance, he seemed to be talking to Scott somewhat desperately.

"Maybe you are a kinky" He says.

"What the fuck does that mean" I look at him confused "what kind of kink".

"Oh, come one! don´t act as if you are not turn on by the fact that he´s a loser, in every sanse of the word, and you are the hottest girl".

I think about it a lil bit "I mean, yeah" my gaze just looked for the virgin boy "but he´s also like...really hot"

"So...you're going to do it" Danny smiles.

"Of course I'm gonna do it, for some reason his life depends on having sex...and I don't want him to die, it's a small favor" I smiled.

…

third person pov

"Stiles, I'll have sex with you."

Stiles opened his mouth in shock, not believing what he had heard. Scott, on the other hand, looked around, waiting for some hidden camera to come out or for everyone to start laughing because there was no chance that the hottest girl (and the cheer captain) would even know who the hell Stiles is.

"Danny told me something like your life literally depended on it, I honestly don't care" you moved closer to the human resting your hands on his shirt and getting closer to his face "I´ll help you out" you whispered.

He didn’t answer, he was frozen looking at you in shock.

“Only if you want to…” you moved away a little.

“YES!” Stiles screams “I mean, ‘m sorry, ye-yeah” he stuttered a bit, he was nervous.

You smiled.

...

"I DON´T KNOW MAN, SHUT UP, UR MAKING ME EVEN MORE NERVOUS!" Stiles screamed at his best friend, who couldnt help but not belive what just happened "maybe she´ll come to me when school is finished".

"Ain´t no way she wants to be seen with you" Scott just was in denial.

"Are you jelous, I mean what the fuck is wrong with you, thowing me a bad vibe all the time..."

Stiles was interrupted by the girl that is goin to take his virginity in a couple of hours "I´m sorry, I´m so silly" you laughted "forgot to tell you, my parents are on a work trip, so...Im home alone" you got even closer "you can fuck me as many times as you need, u know, just in case" you take a look at his lips, he took a look at your entire body, the cheerleader suit was definitely hot.

He could´t take it anymore.

"Why all of the sudden u want to have sex with me, do you want me to do you homework or..."

"Of course not Stiles, I´m doing grat in every class" he was surprised "you are hot, something about you is totally attracting me to you" you simply confessed "you need to have sex, and I want you to fuck me, so simple".

...

"Wow this is...like a fucking castle" he says looking around.

"Do u like it?" you looked at him while trowing your stuff into the gigant couch " I dont, it get lonely somtimes".

He looked at you, felt you sadness.

"Your parents are not around so much?" you just shacked your head as a no "well my dad is always working, and Im honestly dealing with a lot of things but...".

"You can come over whenever you want" you interrupted him "and also you can come to my house whenever u want"

Fuck, he loved your twisted sense of humor.

"Come here, I won´t bite...yet" you grabbed his heand and pulled him to your room upstairs.

You made him sat in your bed while you closed the door "so, why would you die if you don´t have sex" you asked wlking trowards him.

"I-I...I mean, is really hard to explain, like..." you saw how he was thinking so hard on what to say.

You walked in between his legs and started to guide his heands all over your body. Starting with your legs, a little bit under your skirt, your waist.

His breath was getting hard each time, just looking his heands touching -almost- every inch of you.

"You don´t need to tell me, don´t worry" you whisperd "just fuck me".

The last station for his heands were your tits, big and natural. Eagerly he started to touch 'em as much as he could, pressing 'em and feeling all of it. His dick getting harder with evry touch.

You legs surraunded all of him, sitting on his lap, you started to move slowly and, for him, painfully on his cook.

"Wanna see them" you touched you own tits, and all of the sudden, you top was nowhere to be found.

And Stiles, was far gone.

"Oh my god" he said out of air, leaning his mouth on your tits and making you feel so good. His heands on your ass at the same time, lifting your skirt.

"Stop moving like that please, I can't take ir any longer" he begged you.

"Don't" you simple said, then you kissed him.

You moving even more on his dick, the kiss so passionate, you being half naked was definitely too much for him. He came on his pants whithin seconds.

"Dont worry, it's okey, we have plenty of time" you smiled at him, biting you lip.

He just couldn't help it, and started kissing you again, soft, cute, but at the same time filled with passion and need.

"Stiles?" you separeted a lil bit. He just made a noise and looked at you "fuck me, right now, fuck me" .

As best you could, you pushed him towards the headboard of your bed, leaving him half-sitting with you on top of him.

In just seconds, both of you are were naked. Stiles was hugely surprised when he saw how you brought your face closer and closer, looking with desire at his dick. "May I?".

"Fuck yeah" he sights biting his lip in desire.

It was so big it barely fit in your mouth, but sucking on it was the best feeling you'd felt in a long time. Stiles couldn't even open his eyes; he was too turned on to even form a word. You were rigth, he's so hot.

You pulled his member out of your mouth and crawled towards him "Now I'm going to ride you, and I want you to fuck me as hard as you can"

And fuck...he did.

"Oh my god, Stiles!" you moan "Oh yes, right there" you looked at him smiling, with your eyes rolling back every time.

"Do you like it?" he asked bouncing into you even harder "you feel so good, damn, so tight" he said.

" God don't stop, please! harder!" you screamed.

And suddenly, his phone rings.

[dcxdpdabbles]

I reread Dauntless Matchmaker recently and I love it, could you please make another part? Either that or another part for One Hell of a Bellhop, Legal Compensation, or Mr Flavors Soda, any of the above would be great, your choice ^-^

Danny skips up the stairs towards Wayne Manor's front entrance with a binder, a few notebooks, and his laptop tucked away in his carry bag. Humming under his breath, he raises his hand to knock. Before he can touch the wood, the door swings open to the beaming face of his fake boyfriend, Tim Drake.

"Hi!" The other gasps breathlessly. He adjusts his cardigan from where it had fallen off his left shoulder. Danny has noticed something about Tim. He was always so nervous and clumsy. The poor thing was taking his heartbreak badly.

"Hi, Tim." Danny grins. He holds up his NASA theme bag with pride. "I brought the stuff!"

His boss' brother lets out a string of nervous chuckles that slowly dissolve, coughing when he chokes on his spit. Alarmed, Danny started smacking his back in hopes of helping. He wishes he could say this was a one-time thing, but Tim, unfortunately, does this often.

"Master Tim?" Alfred calls from down the left hallway.

"I'm fine! Everything-cough-hack- everything is fine!" Tim screams back, entirely red and looking a tad bit mortified. Clearing his throat, he straightens to full height, back pin straight and looking every bit the young gentleman of his standing. "Shall we move to the viewing room?"

Danny knows he's only trying to save face, so he only smiles and steps inside. As they had agreed on two weeks ago, Danny loops his arm through Tim's, pressing himself close to the other's side, just as Alfred walks by.

The aged man seems pleased to see them so affectionate, which Damian said Danny had to play up because otherwise, it would not be believable. Tim only dated men and women who showed their care through physical touch, and he was often seen holding hands or looping arms with his partners.

As it is, Tim does his part well, beaming up at Danny. He was taller after hitting a second growth spurt, but sadly, he seemed to take after his mother rather than his father. Danny was only two inches taller than Tim.

On the other hand, Jazz grew like a weed. Once it became apparent, she took after Jack in height. Dan's appearance gave Danny hope that he would break the six-foot mark in a few years—you know, if the madness and devouring Plasmius didn't affect his development too much.

"What are you showing me today?" Tim asks as they stride past Damian. The younger boy makes a face, the same one Danny made whenever Jazz brought over a boy, and they were being sickly sweet. He offers his boss a smile in return, watching those intense green eyes roll.

"I brought evidence of why Yetis' healthcare is far superior to ours." Danny pats his bag with a satisfied smirk. "Nothing beats Frostbite."

Tim melts. "That's amazing. I can't wait to hear all about it. Then we could go get dinner. How does Divine Palace sound?"

"The upscale restaurant? I would need to change before I'm allowed in there. It has a dress code, doesn't it?"

Tim snuggles closer. "You can borrow one of my suits."

"You know it's bad luck to wear someone else's clothes?" Danny tells him they have just arrived at the viewing room. The projector is set up, and Danny is waiting to plug in his laptop. A sizeable plush couch is pushed in front of the large empty wall, where Tim plans to curl up and watch Danny's presentation.

Meeting someone who adored all the educational information about Ghosts and their culture was lovely. Danny's parents were more interested in the aspects of biology and anatomy than the sociology and anthropology he studied.

After he finished his slide show—sadly without pictures as ghosts disrupted the camera—he would show Tim his notes, which the two could flip through together on the couch. Since his PowerPoint lacked images, Danny settled for some drawings and blurry photos he had stored in his binder while exploring the Zone.

He started it when he was fourteen, gradually growing over the years.

"Why's that?" Tim asks, throwing himself on the couch and crossing his legs underneath him. He places his elbow on the meat of his thigh and leans his head on his hand, his eyes never leaving Danny.

They seem to be shining, utterly captivated by the Halfa.

"It makes it easier for ghosts to overshadow you," Danny answers promptly, unzipping his bag to take out the materials from his bag. He had to look away from his friend because the way he was staring was making him a bit flustered.

"Overshadow?"

"It's another way of saying possession, but it's more politically correct." He responds, plugging in the wires to his laptop and watching the lock screen of his computer appear on the wall. "My sister's first boyfriend attempted to do that to her. Gave her some of his girlfriend's stuff so she could form around her and use Jazz as an anchor to stay on this plane."

"And you saved her before he could succeed," Tim sighs adoringly.

Danny puffs out his chest. "I did!"

Tim pressed a button on the side of his couch. At once, the thing expands, pushing the backrest down and expanding the bottom until it forms an even flat surface. Danny initially thought it was a recliner, but apparently, rich people had couches that could turn into beds in seconds.

He lays flat on his stomach, kicking his feet and leaning on both hands as he smiles like a loon at Danny. "That's amazing."

Danny bites his lip, trying to be modes,t but it's hard when he's being praised by someone like Tim Drake.

"Well, it's just what a good brother does. All I really had to do was use his bad luck against him, and really, Jazz sort of snapped out it when he tried to punch me," He babbles while scrambling to log into his account. He needs to do something before he bursts from all the giddy, mushy feeling in his chest. "It was nothing compared to when I had to win a pie-eating contest against Baker."

"Hmm?"

"Baker is a pasty theme ghost that is shockingly powerful. He locked me in a battle for five days before I convinced him to switch to a food theme contest." Danny laughs, shaking his head at the memories. "I was stuck in bed for a day with the biggest stomach ache, but I won that day. And victory was sweet."

Tim swoons.

Just as Danny is booting up the presentation, his superhearing catches the whispers of Tim's other siblings from the hallway. Damian had instructed him not to let anyone else in the household learn the truth of his contract because it would eventually get back to Alfred.

After meeting the man, he completely understands the paranoia.

"Who is that?" He's pretty sure that's the oldest Dick.

"Tim's new obsession." Answers Steph with a smirk in her words. "Apparently, he's some paranormal-obsessed conspiracy theorist."

"Why does he always go for the crazy ones?" Jason sighs dramatically.

"Have you seen Danny's biceps? Were it not for his health issues, I would have thought Tim found a secret off-duty hero."

Danny hastily focuses on his first slide, trying not to show his fear. Tim continues to watch him kick his feet and play with some of his hair. He has a habit of twirling his hair. Tim almost always does that whenever Danny sees him.

[ew-selfish-art]

DpxDc AU: Justice League requires all of its youngest members to list at least one adult emergency contact in case something happens out in the field- And Lancer did tell Danny to put his number down if he needed help!

Lancer wanted to call CPS, wanted to call them for years, but something was wrong with his beloved town and the government agents that came were always… ill mannered. To say the least. So with the young Mr.Fenton appearing wounded in his class on multiple occasions, sleeping through lectures even more often, Lancer felt himself gradually accept that no other adult was going to step up to protect this child.

He figures out his Identity as Phantom and it makes his rage boil hotter than Dante’s sixth layer of hell. Danny refuses to abandon his parents (who continue to hunt him unknowingly), and he refuses to let any of his ghostly responsibilities fall wayside (this CW fellow is a real piece of work!).

But for all the things he expected when he told Danny that he could be trusted and could help- Ms. Manson and Mr.Foley coming to him for help, patching wounds, offering snacks and covering for Danny when attacks occurred in class- he hadn’t expected the Justice League to be knocking on his door.

Lancer blinked at the appearance of Batman in his classroom after the final bell, but then his stomach dropped.

TELLTALE HEART THATS THE BATMAN!!

“Phantom listed you as his emergency contact. Have you had any recent communication with him?” The deep, gravel voice startled Lancer.

Lancer checks his phone, Danny had skipped class today; and while Lancer was working with Danny to get him after school lessons and tutoring for all of the hours he missed, it was uncommon for him not to respond at Lancer’s text asking for a confirmation of his safety.

“Not in 24 hours, but I can message him again.” Lancer is shaking as he types on his phone to team phantom-Who wouldn’t be nervous at both the implications of Danny’s safety and the Batman??

Superman flies into the room from the open doorway, “No luck, without a heartbeat I can’t find him. Where ever they have him it’s lead lined or he’s keeping himself invisible.”

SCARLET LETTER ITS SUPERMAN!?!

Danny doesn’t reply to Lancer, and neither do Danny’s friends.

“He has two team members with whom he is inseparable, if none of them are responding then all three have been accosted. I’m coming with you until we find them.” Lancer declares and while he’s sure that Batman is unimpressed, Superman gives him a sad smile and nods.

Thus Lancer joins the Justice League for a day, Helps to save Team Phantom and Informs the takedown of an illegal government agency.

Batman also slides him some adoption papers and a card for a lawyer if Lancer decides to formally adopt Danny. Lancer also wins a Wayne Excellence Award for Teaching that year but he’s pretty sure the money is unrelated to Danny’s alter ego- after all, Lancer is a fantastic teacher.