#he's hiding something

[nocturnebite]

⟡ 𝙒 𝙃 𝙀 𝙉⠀𝙒 𝙀⠀𝙒 𝙀 𝙍 𝙀⠀𝙒 𝙃 𝙊 𝙇 𝙀 ⟡ {pt. 1}

⟡ 𝙒 𝙃 𝙀 𝙉⠀𝙒 𝙀⠀𝙒 𝙀 𝙍 𝙀⠀𝙒 𝙃 𝙊 𝙇 𝙀... Before the secrets, before the silence — there was only him. And it was enough. Until it wasn’t.

⋆˙⟡. tw: emotional tension || subtle trauma hints || bruises/ injury mentions || secretive behavior || slow-burn angst ⋆˙⟡. pair: ?? jungwon x female! reader ⋆˙⟡. wc: 1.47k

⋆˙⟡. ash's notes: kinda angsty kinda not.. hate me later ദ്ദി(ᵔᗜᵔ)

Jungwon seemed like the embodiment of perfection — in the way he studied, in how he treated others, and especially in how he treated you. To him, you, along with a few close friends and family, meant more than anything else in the world. 

Growing up with him felt like living in a constant state of comfort and security. Like the world was just a little softer when he was around. He made even the smallest moments feel special, whether it was sharing quiet afternoons, walking home together after school, or laughing over the silliest things. With Jungwon, everything felt safe, easy, and full of meaning — like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

Over the years, those moments started to linger a little longer. His laugh stuck in your mind more than it used to, and the way he’d smile towards you during conversations made your heart stop without warning. It was slow, almost unnoticeable at first — but somewhere between your late night talks and shared secrets, the comfort began to feel like something deeper.

And then, one day, it just sorta… happened.

If you’re being honest, you knew it would happen from the moment you first met. Your first day of school. You had the unfortunate luck of walking straight into one of the hardest tests of the semester, barely knowing where your next class was, let alone how to solve question seven. You remember muttering under your breath, frustration bubbling up, when a soft voice beside you whispered, “It’s C. Trust me.” 

You glanced over, startled, and saw him — calm, confident, a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’d just broken some sacred rule and enjoyed it. That was Jungwon. Helpful in the quietest, most unexpected ways. And from that moment on, he never really left your side.

Now, years later, that same boy sits beside you — his hand in yours, your heart still skipping when he laughs. From a look held a little too long, a touch that lingered, and suddenly, you weren’t just childhood friends anymore. You were his, and he was yours — as if it had always been leading here, right where you both belong. 

You still smile when you think about the day he finally got the courage to ask you out. It wasn’t flashy or rehearsed — it was so him. He could barely stand still — shifting from foot to foot, hands fidgeting with the sleeves of his navy blue hoodie. He fumbled over his words, eyes darting around looking everywhere but at you, and somehow he managed to make it the most perfect moment. He said it, plain and simple, like it had been on the tip of his tongue for years.

“I… I like you.”  He blurted out, then immediately looked down, like he couldn’t believe he’d actually said it. “I’ve liked you for a while, actually. I just… didn’t know how to tell you.” 

His voice was soft, shaky at the edges, but so sincere it made your chest ache.

And when you said yes — barely louder than a whisper — the way his whole face lit up, cheeks flushed and eyes wide with disbelief, made you fall for him all over again.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

For a while, everything felt perfect. Being with Jungwon was easy in all the right ways — late-night calls, quiet dates, shared dreams about the future. The kind of love that felt steady. Safe.

But even perfect things cast shadows.

It began with the little things — a bruise here, a cut there. Back in school, you didn’t think much of it. He was an active teenage boy; injuries happened. “Soccer,” he’d say. “Ran into a desk.” You believed him. He always said it with a smile, casual and convincing. He was Jungwon — the golden boy. What reason did you have to doubt him?

But after graduation, things changed. Life slowed down, and the little things became harder to ignore. The bruises were darker. The cuts deeper. His excuses stayed the same, but now they sounded too polished, like lines he’d memorized.

You started to notice more. The way he’d wince when lifting his arm, or how he favored one side when he walked. How his phone would buzz late at night and he’d tense before quietly silencing it. How he’d disappear without explanation, then return hours later pretending everything was fine. He still smiled, still laughed — but lately, even that felt like something he was holding up, not something that came naturally.

You didn’t want to pry. You didn’t want to accuse him of something you couldn’t name. But deep down, you knew: he was hiding something. And whatever it was… it wasn’t small.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

It was supposed to be a simple night. Just the two of you — dinner, maybe a late movie, walking home with your fingers laced together. He picked the place himself. Said he’d meet you there. He always did.

But for the first time ever, he didn’t show.

At first, you thought he was just running late. Jungwon was always careful with time, but maybe something came up. Maybe he got caught up helping someone — he did that often. But the minutes dragged on, and your messages stayed unread. Your calls rang and rang, going straight to voicemail.

That had never happened before.

The pit in your stomach grew heavier with every passing minute. You didn’t even remember making the decision to leave — your legs just carried you, almost automatically, toward his apartment. You’d only been there a handful of times without him. Never like this.

The streets felt too quiet. Cold. You could’ve sworn someone was watching you — a prickling at the back of your neck, the kind that made you quicken your steps and keep your head down. But nothing followed. No sound, no movement. Just shadows that seemed a little too still.

You let yourself in with the spare key he’d given you months ago. The place was dark, unusually so… silent. You called his name once. Twice. No answer.

Your heart pounded as you made your way to his room. Empty. Bed unmade, curtains drawn. No sign of him.

You sat on the edge of the mattress, phone in hand, thumbs hovering above the screen as you sent message after message — all unanswered. Worry gnawed at you like a slow ache.

And then — a sound.

The window creaked open. You looked up just in time to see him climbing through, one leg over the sill, the other dragging behind him with a stiffness that made your breath catch.

His hoodie was soaked, clinging to his skin. Blood — not a lot, but enough to make your stomach twist — was smeared along the side of his shirt, a fresh gash across his brow.

He didn’t see you at first.

He stumbled forward, exhaling sharply, hand clutching his side. Only when he turned toward the bed did he finally freeze — eyes wide, stunned.

You didn’t say anything at first. You couldn’t.

You just looked at him — this version of him you’d never seen before, all shadows and bruises and secrets — and he looked back at you, as if unsure if you were real.

Your voice came out barely above a whisper. 

“Jungwon… what the hell is going on?”

“I— I can explain.” His voice is cold. Raspy, like each word scrapes against something raw in his throat. There’s pain in it — not just physical, but something heavier. Something he’s trying too hard to hide.

You rise slowly from the bed, keeping your voice even. “Then explain. Because I’ve been sitting here for hours thinking something happened to you. You didn’t show up. You didn’t call. You’ve never done that before.”

He hesitates, still refusing to meet your eyes. Finally, he exhales. “I… I’ve been boxing.”

You blink. “What?”

“Boxing,” he repeats, a little too quickly. “It’s just a hobby. Something I’ve been doing after hours. I didn’t want to say anything until I was better at it.”

Your eyes drop to the blood soaking through his hoodie. The swelling around his eye. The way he’s standing like every movement hurts.

“That’s not from boxing, Jungwon.”

He winces — not from the pain this time, but from the way your words cut through the lie like glass. Still, he tries to hold the story together.

“I just had a bad session tonight. That’s why I didn’t answer. I left my phone—”

“In pieces somewhere?” you snap, more hurt than angry. “Come on. I know you.”

That lands. His shoulders drop, and something in his expression flickers — fear, maybe. Regret. You take a slow breath. Softer now. “Why are you lying to me?”

He finally looks at you. Really looks. And for a moment, all that calm, perfect composure you’ve known him for shatters.“I didn’t want you to worry,” he says quietly. “I didn’t want you to look at me differently.”

next

tl: (read rules before asking to be added ᥫ᭡. )

[aselia-arts]

he's hiding something

[bubblesthecow]

Watching Star Wars in chronological order is so funny.

Obi-Wan Kenobi really took one look at R2D2 in the middle of the desert and said “No, Luke, I’ve never seen this fucking droid in my life. Looks like a real bitch though. Not that I’d know. This is my first time meeting the asshole.”

No one in that whole franchise was Gatekeep-Gasslight-Girlbossing quite like “Ben” Kenobi, regular human-man.

[herenvibing]

a minor headcanon that I will die defending is that reigen initially assumed that mob’s supposed “psychic powers” were just how he rationalized his autism to himself. like here’s an obviously autistic kid, one reigen clocks immediately because he’s, well, reigen, and he’s talking about extra sensory perception and having powers he can’t control, powers that are scary. obviously, he assumes, this is something the kid picked up from his parents, a way for him to rationalize his alienation from other children— that no, you’re not “different”, you’re special (not even going into the parents who think their autistic children are like, aliens) and the other kids can see that you’re special and so they treat you like you’re weird and creepy and they don’t invite you to play and they whisper behind your back but it’s fine, because one day they’ll see how special you really are. and adult autistic reigen arataka, who was also probably-definitely bullied as a child, decides to nip that thought in the bud and gives the whole spiel, that no, “psychic powers” (autism) don’t make you special, and yes, they do make you different, and that’s fine because everyone’s different, and at the end of the day you have agency and you get to decide the kind of person you’ll be, so choose to be a kind one, and he sees this kid hanging off his every word as he tells him the kind of stuff he wishes someone had told him when he was so little and alone, and he mentally pats himself on the back and hypes himself up for another cigarette.

and then the kid makes a teacup float in front of him and he’s like oh. damn. can you kill ghosts

[rookanisstuff]

the victory ball

[starry-bi-sky]

I am loudly pushing the batdad agenda i am loudly pushing the— DPxDC Prompt

“Woah. You look like shit."

Granted, that’s probably not the first thing Danny should be saying to the guy that just bit the curb, but in his defense; he’s not running on 100% right now either.

The man -- tall, towering, and broader than Danny is tall -- whips around on his heel, black frayed cape flaring out impressively. Danny would've whistled in appreciation, but he takes the time instead to wipe the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing the blood running from his nose across his cheek.

"Sorry." He blinks widely, not even flinching as the man with the horns zeroes in on him. "That was rude of me. I have a really bad brain-to-mouth filter; Sam says its what always gets me into trouble."

And she's not wrong either, per say. His smart mouth is what landed him in this situation -- with blood blossom extract running through his veins and cannibalizing the ectoplasm in his bloodstream. Thanks Vlad.

The man grunts at him; a short, curt "hm" that shouldn't make Danny smile, but he does because he's somewhat delirious and probably concussed. The man keeps some kind of distance, sinking towards the shadows of Gotham's alleyway like he dares to melt right into it.

If it's supposed to scare Danny, it doesn't work. Danny's never been afraid of the dark; he's always been able to hide himself in it. He blinks slowly at the mass of shadows.

"You look hurt." The shadows says, blurring together around the edges. Danny squints, and licks his lips to get the blood dripping down his chin off. Ugh, he hates the taste of blood.

"I am." He says, "My godfather poisoned me. M'dying." The agony of the blood blossom eating him from the inside out looped back around to numbing a while ago, so all he feels is half-awake and dazed.

"Hey," Danny stumbles forward towards the man, a bloodied hand reaching out to him. "You-- you're a hero, right? You're not attacking me; which is more than I can say for most costumed people I've met." Maybe it's a poor bar to judge someone at, but he's already established that Danny's not in his right mind.

The man makes no change in expression, but Danny realizes blearily that it's hard to tell with the shadows on his face. He stays still long enough for Danny to latch onto the cape -- stretchy, but almost soft under his fingers.

He looks up blearily into the whites of the man's eyes. "Can you help me? I don't-- I don't wanna die." Again. He doesn't wanna die again. He blinks slow and lizard-like. "I mean- I'll probably get to see mom and dad again, but I told them I'd at least try and make it to adulthood."

There's a clatter down the street, and Danny's ghost sense chills up his spine and leaves a bitter, ashy taste in his mouth. He immediately knows who it belongs to even before the deceptively gentle; "Daniel?" echoes down the way.

"Daniel? Quit your games, badger, Gotham is dangerous for children."

Danny's mouth pulls back, and blood spills against his tongue. "Please." He rasps, and grabs onto the shadow's cape with both hands. "Please. He's going to kill me. Please--"

"Daniel? Is that you?"

His lips part, dragging in air to plead with the darkness again. He doesn't need to, the whites of his eyes narrow, and the cape whirls around him before Danny can blink. Soon swaddled in shadows, the Night lifts him up, and steals him away.

[sunsestart]

Did this super fast yesterday cause I needed to get the idea out my head

I miss him

Papyrus is many thing but he's not quiet...

[random-cockroach]

I am okay about them I swear Then they slid the hill like fricking surfers Spellbound au by Keferon, two suffering cutie-patoties and my fried brain because of it

[willosword]

Fake, facsimile, forgery.

[inkskinned]

you know, you know. no gods, no masters, no kings on pedestals. everyone is fallible. death of the author. you know! you are balanced about your intake of media - you allow the wiggle room, the grace, the gratitude, the skepticism. nobody above criticism.

but still. a weird gut-punch feeling, something akin to betrayal. you read the article. surprise! an author you love is actually: a serial fucking predator.

well, shit. what now. no, you knew he was a person (all people are), but now you're wondering - what have i overlooked by accident? what messages have i internalized that are strange and cruel? and also, like, what the fuck?

his actions lay a thick glaze on top of everything. like each place is now ruined, opaque in a new way. but okay, fine, you've done this before. you knew better, right? you've been betrayed by many a cherished childhood author.

still, this stickiness. fuck. can you pick up that book again. will you read it to your children. you've recommended it to others - will you ever do that again? and of course, of course, no parasocial relationships. you were theoretically above this kind of sentiment. but the artist informs the art, right.

so it's not something as clear-cut as feeling he owed you, specifically (a stranger) better behavior - just that you kind of, in a distant and odd way... sort of trusted him to do better. it's not like a real trust or something speakable, just the faint hope that the product (good books) was a thin representation of the soul. now it feels like the product (good? books?) was a mask. in some small or insignificant way, your previous support of this person lent them power. your money and your time and your laughter.

and the thing is - you have this terrible, echoing sensation. how many times will this happen? over and over. you find out that the singer you love is actually a predator. you learn over drinks that your favorite high school english teacher is in jail for what he did to her. you listen to the news idly and suddenly discover that a woman you used to idolize has been abusing her kids for an actual eon.

what can you touch without the static melting off. you can't even really complain about it too much (you were supposed to know better, and besides, you don't want the same re-split "it's not your fault, love what you love" basic advice), but now it's here. somehow, it feels like - you let him into your life.

it's not that things need to be pure or an artist has to be like, endlessly perfect, mindful. demure. it's more just this terrible truth that has been replayed through your veins so often it feels criminally vain. power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely. did you want any one person to be worth that power?

it's just that he wrote books where he seemed to understand that. he seemed to know about hierarchies and unfair systems and bigotry and privilege. you thought they were books about what it means to struggle. you thought they were about having power and still using it for good rather than for control. he spooned you a narrative of being a good guy, a kind soul. you fucking bought what that fucking monster sold.

maybe that's why they were fantasies, after all.

[superbat-lmao]

Before Jason makes his debut as Red Hood, he goes apartment hunting.

And the thing about Gotham is, all of the apartments that would make for good safe houses, are safe houses. The Bat’s safe houses. If Jason wants to set up shop, he’s got to get creative. This means being willing to look the other way about some things. Namely, living with other people.

Jason gets a roommate.

Sure, he’d found a couple of spots that fit some of the criteria he used for making safe houses, but not all apartments were equal. And having a semi-functioning civilian cover was useful. Sometimes.

All this to say that Jason responded to a craigslist post of some guy looking for a roommate. The post was written well enough, decent grammar and a fair enough price. Unlike some of the places he’d “toured.”

He has to trudge up a few flights of stairs to get to the place, because roof access is always high on the priority list, and knocks on the door. He waits a few minutes, hears someone check the peephole, and then the sound of at least five separate locks being undone.

With the door finally open, he gets a good look at the guy’s face. Too good of a look, actually.

Because the man who opens it is Dick Grayson.

[tiredfoxtf]

Prey among predators.

[hexbaiting]

@lokiusweek 2025 | DAY 5: PRAISE

[bluerosefox]

"Its a good plan! No-Danny dear listen it is-"

Hey.

A new Dead on Main idea.

But...

With like matchmakers Martha and Lady Gotham.

Like no really.

Lets say Danny finds their lair/ghost home one day while exploring the Infinite Realms, becomes friends with them, goes to them when he need actual parent advice (he loves Jazz and shes great but remember she herself is still a TEEN as well, not only that but she tries to look at things in a more logical standpoint of view because she's studying psychology). He really likes them cause of how nice and caring they are towards him and enjoys spending time with them.

So when Danny gets news that apparently he needs a 'ghost spouse' because he's now the Ghost King and its 'good for the Realms' according to the council of eyeballs. He goes to Martha and Thomas to vent about how dumb it is because he can't ask his friends to fake marry him because they aren't 'ghosty' enough. (They're liminal yes but not enough apparently, they need to have actually died for it to actually count)

Martha (I head-canon she's the brains of the Wayne family, like Thomas is smart no doubt but his smarts fall into medical knowledge) reads between the lines of those wordings and comes up with a plan.

It won't only help their young King but also it may just work out more than that if done right.

She goes to ghost side of Gotham City thats in the Realms and asks to speak with Lady Gotham the city spirit, there she tells the city spirit her plans and what is happening. Lady Gotham listens and grins at the idea.

A few days later, a stressed out Danny (whose had to deal with 'suitors' the eyeballs have been sending him) is in the ghost side of Gotham City meeting Martha for some ecto-coffee and as he's waiting at the cafe/bookstore they were going to meet up at, a portal opens up and Lady Gotham herself fly's over and dumps a stunned Red Freaking Hood at the table.

She books it after that and yells "Its now up to you Martha dear! Have fun!"

Martha appears giggling in a third seat between the two stunned young adults at the table.

[guardianspirits13]

Doodles while I binge the FMA live action movies. Will never get over them btw

[plagueislost]

something about wing au jason has me enraptured once again. weeping angel? angel of death? fallen angel? much to think about…