#Jazz was to small to really remember it | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

somnoir · 7 months ago

Text

Ghost KingConsort?

Prompt: Demon Twins AU where the ghost king is summoned and claims his appearance is that of his beloveds. Shenanigans of a vindictive dead twin.

Danyal Al Ghul escaped from the league. The Lazarus Pits were never merciful but for once, they were. The pits were merciful to him as the green swallowed him and spat him out miles away from that place.

Danny can't forget his first death, the sword in his gut as Damian cut through him. The title of heir was reserved for only one of them and the spare was no longer needed. He supposed it was yet another mercy upon him, knowing that the title of spare was not simple. He would have been Damian's spare—spare parts.

Danny remembers his second death. The electricity that killed him over and over again as the ectoplasm spilled from the artificial portal brought him back to life again and again. One second he was dead, the other he was being revived. It was torturous in every way possible.

It's been years since then. His parents were a difficult case, unable to accept that their darling child had died and continued to believe that Danny was being possessed by the menace Phantom. They hunted him, tried to rip him apart to 'free' their son. It took both himself and Jazz leaving with the help of Vlad (reluctantly accepted) for his parents to stop hunting. Their home that had already felt empty was even more empty now.

It's been almost four years since then. Danny had settled into his role as Ghost King, even when the crown of fire floated over his head then descended to be too big, too much—resting around his neck.

It's... Difficult...

CUT TO THE JUSTICE LEAGUE SUMMONING HIM!

Danny Fenton, nineteen and very much overworked from all the paperwork he had to sort through as Ghost King, finds a small tugging to his very being. A summoning he recognized, sighing loudly before he's answer to this visible desperation. Like it was a world ending issue.

And yes, it apparently was when the fabric of reality itself was tearing itself apart for some strange reason. As the ruler of the infinite realms—the king of the very domain that basically glued the multiverse—this was apparently the right call.

Dressed in all of his kingly regalia, Danny felt the crown of fire float up from his neck and burned over his head. His cape, cloak—whatever—was heavy and he blinked, green eyes boring into every soul present. He recognized the fractured soul of the laughing magician—one of his more irksome subjects that avoided taxes like it was the fucking plague. He really should tell Skulker to haunt his grandfather. Maybe even Youngblood would be suitable.

But aside from the laughing magician, his eyes settled upon a familiar soul, a familiar face. Danny blinks again.

Shit... He thought, staring at the masked yet horrified face of his own twin. Robin was nineteen as well by now, older, stronger—redeemed.

In the past, Danny would have cursed Damian to the seven hells and allowed the seven sins to have a bite. But Jazz was blessing. An older sister who made sure to heal him, to let him grow, to let him develop. He's forgiven Damian for his faults. They were children, brainwashed by a mad man. He's not too angry. Resentful and a bit vindictive? That was a given as he technically was the spirit of a murder victim. Of kinslaying.

"Hellblazer." The language spoken by the dead leaves his mouth easily. It can't be understood by the living, and it was barely understood who came back from death. But John Constantine was a different, more difficult case. One hell of a motherfucker that avoided death until the entity itself was ranting to both Clockwork and Danny about his escapes.

And John Constantine recognized his title regardless of the language.

The sad man in a trench coat stiffened, staring at Danny as he stiffly bowed. "High King Phantom." He greets, and attempt at respect. When there was suddenly movement, Constantine was quick to hiss at the others—glaring at Robin who looked ready lunge at them.

Oh, he can't help himself. This was funny. In the words of his own counterpart turned brother—He could make it worse. Jazz was going to nag him, true, but Danny was so. Utterly. BORED. Being Ghost King had a lot of entertainment, like how he got to fight people and basically hang out with people from the past. But it got... Repetitive. Normal Ghosts wouldn't mind with their eternal afterlife, but Danny was still half-alive. He was completely human—just a half dead one.

"Your majesty—" Constantine struggled to explain, "The universe... Do you know why portals have been opening, your majesty? Forgive my impudence but our world has been plagued by portals from different worlds, some even lead to the infinite realm."

"It's not uncommon for natural portals to the realms to open. Many of your dead like to visit." He smirked, "Many like to haunt those who've wronged them."

Constantine gulped, "Your majesty, would you, by any chance, be aware of why these portals are opening?"

Danny sighed. Well, he can't say he wasn't concerned. This was his world too after all, even when now. It was Jazz's world, where she still went to school, it was Sam and Tucker's world. It was his family's world. So yes, he is concerned.

"The portals to the realms are under my jurisdiction. They are natural and open in my places with thick and ambient ectoplasm." Danny drawls, "But these dimensional portals are strange. I'll check in with the Master of Time to see if someone is meddling with reality. It may not even be from your dimension."

He can only shrug at that, remembering how Dan had practically ripped through time with his madness and rage, tearing through the world to ensure his birth.

"I see, thank you for your understanding, your majesty." Constantine nervously says.

"Say, would you like to watch the battle royale for your soul?"

"Excuse me?"

"You're excused, magician." Danny rolls his eyes, "But you'd certainly enjoy watching people tear each other to shreds for your fucked up soul. I don't understand why people want it so much when the paperwork it comes with is a hell in itself."

"Your majesty," Constantine paled.

"I'm joking. I'll deal with this as quickly as possible." Danny paused, grinning as he made a show of offering his hand to the justice league. "I couldn't possible sit by and allow my beloved's world to crumble. He'd be devastated."

Constantine blinked. Everyone blinked. And then Danny turned to Damian and... Batman. Bruce Wayne. His father. At least he seemed to be treating Damian better than Jack did with Danny and Jazz.

"You must have recognized this face, yes?" Danny tilted his head. "You are his family."

"What have you done to my brother?" Robin—Damian immediately growled, like a feral cat as he unsheathed his katanas and aimed for Danny.

"Hm." Danny rolled his eyes, "He's well. Very much taken care of." Because yes, Danny was well fed and taken care of, especially as the Ghost King. "I've taken his form so I assumed you knew of him."

He dismissed Robin long before he could even speak, turning to Constantine once again. "Don't fret too much, John Constantine." The man in question flinched once his name was uttered in the language of the dead he could barely understand. "This will be fixed in a days time. If not, I will send someone to deal with it."

The Ghost King's appearance had been startling when they summoned him. A boy with a striking resemblance to Damian if not for his white hair. A twin? Bruce had sounded devastated at the implications. But Damian? He'd seen the ghost king and felt nauseous, unable to tear his eyes away from the eldritch being that wore his brother's face.

It took a lot of explaining once they were back in the cave. The duel, Danyal's death, the Lazarus taking him and he was never seen again. Everyone was... Well, they were devastated. Yes. Grieving a son and brother they never met. But the Ghost King has been summoned with a face similar to that of their father's, a face that was the exact same one to their brothers. The Ghost King who referred to the dead Danyal as his beloved.

It's the next day when they're back in the watchtower, anxiously waiting for any update. Constantine continues to curse under his breath, shaking his head before a portal rips through reality. Everyone stiffened, preparing for the worst.

A girl appears, a child. She's a spry little thing with glowing green eyes, flaming white hair, and a face that they immediately recognized.

"Sorry that I'm late! Times pretty bendy and we don't really keep up with it." The unknown laughs, "Well, short answer, Phantom has identified the problem and has attempted to apprehend it. Unfortunately, it's been a week on our end and the perp apparently fell into your world."

Time distortion—Constantine had mentioned it. But they stare at the girl who rambled about their supposed target until Batman cleared his throat, seemingly softer on the girl—someone who was visibly a child.

"Young lady, welcome to the Watchtower. Even id the greeting it late." Batman curtly yet gently says. "May I know your name?"

The girl blinked. "Oh! You can call me Specter, princess of the infinite realms! I'm Phantom and Danny's daughter."

It is then that the possibilities processes in their heads.

One. The Ghost King took the form of his beloved, aka the dead twin brother of one Damian Wayne.

Two. Damian's dead twin and Bruce's dead son might be the queen (consort?) of the infinite realms.

Three. Danyal and Phantom had a daughter. Damian and the rest of the Bar kids were uncles and aunts. Bruce was now officially a grandpa.

Damian faints on the spot.

#dpxdc #danny phantom #batfam #danny fenton #crossover #dc x dp #damian wayne #damian and danny are twins #nightwing #batman #Elle is going to fucking bother her uncle/brother as much as possible #Danny is a petty bastard #Batman might just kill himself #hes a GRANDPA ALFRED! A GRANDPA!

3K notes · View notes

tiny-space-platypus · 2 months ago

Text

A King and a Prince

Danny screamed.

He screamed and screamed, using his ghostly wail until his voice shattered and his throat was raw with the echoes of his own agony. He wailed even after the battle was won. After the last of the GIW had fallen, even after Vlad’s final, gasping breath had faded into silence. He wailed as Amity Park crumbled around him, as the last flickering lights of his home were swallowed by ruin.

It didn’t matter.

No one was left to hear him.

No one left to be farmed by his despair.

He had outlasted them all—the Guys in White, Vlad, even Pariah Dark himself. He had survived, clawing his way through blood and betrayal, only to realize, too late, that survival was the cruelest fate of all.

He had lost everything.

His home—reduced to rubble. His friends—gone and buried beneath the wreckage of the school. Their last standing ground from the GIW's control or maybe blissfully scattered to the winds. His family—torn apart, mom and dad dead by his hands. Not purposely but they had picked their side. Jazz dead by theirs attempting to protect him. Their laughter, the happy family they were, now just a ghost in his hollow chest. His city, his obsession, his afterlife—all ashes, all dust. And what had he gained? A crown of thorns, a throne he never wanted. The title of King Phantom, ruler of the dead, sovereign of a graveyard empire.

He built a council. He forged a government. He crafted a system that could run without him—because he could not rule, not when every decree tasted of blood, not when every whisper of his subjects sounded like the voices of the lost. Not when he was so lost.

So he vanished.

Not in triumph, not in secrecy—but in surrender. He would sleep. Finally really sleep. He would sleep for centuries, for millennia even, until the worlds forgot his name. Until the stars themselves burned cold. Until even the memory of his suffering was nothing more than a sigh in the dark. And maybe, just maybe, if he slept long enough… he would forget, too.

Fate, it seemed, had other plans.

Danny awoke to crying.

Not the wailing of the long-dead, nor the hollow sobs of forgotten spirits—but the raw, shuddering pleas of someone new. A voice too young, too broken, gasping between tears:

"Please—"

"Dad, I’m sorry—"

"B, you promised—"

Danny blinked slowly, his limbs heavy from his long sleep. His mind swam in fog, his body sluggish, as if moving through deep water. But the sound, a sound too familiar to ignore, pulled him forward, guiding him through the mist of his own exhaustion until he found the source—a boy.

A small, bloodied thing in a torn costume of green and red and gold, hunched over his own grave.

Danny’s chest ached.

Oh.

A newly dead. A child. One so much like him, once. Danny watched him for awhile. Days maybe? It had been such a long time since he had needed to keep track of time... He stepped closer, his voice soft as settling dust. "Hey."

The boy jerked upright, his masked face streaked with inky tears. "You—you can see me?"

Danny huffed a quiet laugh. "Oh, so he does talk."

The boy stared, trembling, his breath hitching. Danny knelt—not too close, not too far—and tilted his head. "My name’s Danny. What about you?"

The boy opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "My name? My name is… My name is…?" His voice cracked, panic rising like a tide. "My name—my name—?" He didn't remember. Not many ghostlings did.

"Hey, hey," Danny murmured, reaching out—not to touch, but to offer. With a thought, he summoned a little blob ghost, its form wobbly and bright, and placed it gently in the boy’s lap. The creature nuzzled against him, purring like a gooy contented cat. The boy’s hands stilled. Then, hesitantly, he began to pet it.

Danny smiled. "A name doesn’t have to be a name," he said softly. "It can be anything you’d like."

The boy swallowed. "...Robin," he whispered. "I’m Robin."

"Robin," Danny repeated, like it was something precious. "It’s good to meet you, kid."

A beat of silence. Then, small and scared:

"Am I dead?"

Danny’s core clenched. He let himself float just a little, settling cross-legged in the air, making himself smaller, lesser. "You are," he admitted gently. "I’m sorry, Robin."

The boy—Robin—choked on a sob. "Is that why Dad wouldn’t—why he didn’t—?" Danny didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Robin crumpled.

Without thinking, Danny reached out and gathered him close, tucking the boy against his chest the way Jazz had once held him so very long ago—after bad nights, after bad fights, after the world had been too much. "I know," he murmured, rocking him slightly. "I know. It sucks. It’s not fair. But you’re not alone, okay? Never alone." Robin shuddered, his tiny fists clutching Danny’s cloak of stars. Danny felt the threats forming, a soul bond. He had had one will Elle, with clockwork, with few others. A bond of trust.

Danny didn’t hesitate. He let his ecto unwind, warm and golden green and royal, and carefully, so carefully, began to mend the fractures in Robin’s soul. The pain, the fear, the jagged edges of a death too soon and too violent. The death of someone trying to be a hero—he took them into himself, replacing the hurt with quiet, with safety. Slowly, Robin’s breathing evened. His weight grew heavy against Danny’s shoulder.

Asleep.

Not that ghosts needed sleep. But children did. Danny exhaled, looking around the graveyard—at the other small, lost shades watching from the shadows. His chest tightened.

…He could help them.

Just for today. Just for now. He could make Gotham a little lighter. And maybe, just maybe, it would help Robin, too—to have something familiar.

Robin followed Phantom like a shadow—or, more accurately, like a small, determined firefly, darting after the king’s trailing cloak as he moved through Gotham’s gloom. Honestly the child was a little beacon of light. Bright like a little firefly.

At first, he simply watched.

Phantom moved like a whisper between worlds—guiding lost shades toward peace, nudging lingering spirits toward unfinished business, even coaxing the living, stubborn bleeding-hearted vigilantes, into just the right places at just the right times. They never knew they were being helped, of course. But Robin saw.

And slowly, he began to copy.

A nudge here—a whisper there. A flicker of movement to draw a grieving widow’s eye to a hidden letter. A gentle tug on a cape to steer a batarang just wide enough to avoid a fatal blow. Gotham, ever so slightly, began to brighten.

And so did Robin. So much brighter than the dead boy Danny had met. He had even taught the boy to change his form from his one in death to a Robin in life. He was so much brighter not covered in blood and debris..

Phantom watched, warmth curling in his core, as the boy—his little prince—blossomed. Robin laughed as he flew, spinning through the air like a fallen leaf caught in the wind. He chattered to the other ghosts, coaxing even the shyest shades out of their hiding spots. He guided lost souls with a patience that belied his age, his voice soft but steady—"It’s okay, you’re safe now"—and when they finally faded into peace, he turned to Phantom with stars in his eyes.

"Did you see! I did it on my own!"

Phantom ruffled his hair. "Yeah, kid. I saw."

And oh, the way Robin glowed.

He was happy here. Happy to help, happy to fly, happy to tuck himself under Phantom’s arm after a long night and murmur about all the things he’d seen, all the people he’d saved. Gotham was still dark. But now, there were pinpricks of light—like stars or tiny, stubborn sparks—where before there had been none. And at the center of them all, brighter than any ghost light, was Robin.

#danny phantom #batman #dpxdc #jason todd #robin jason todd #dc robin #part 1

2K notes · View notes

barnesonly · 1 month ago

Text

A Night from the Past

bucky barnes x reader

trope: friends to lovers, fluff to smut

summary: you take bucky to 40s’ themed bar

word count: 2355

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. curse words, dirty talk, praise kink, oral (f receiving), PiV.

Bucky Barnes was not a man easily surprised. Nor was he particularly enthusiastic about surprises.

But you were different. You always had a way of sneaking past his defenses with that damn smile and eyes full of mischief and sunshine. Usually such behavior annoyed him (as If annoyed wasn’t an understatement) but when it came to you… It was different. So when you told him to “wear something nice” and refused to explain anything else, he grumbled, groaned, and did it anyway.

Now, standing outside a nondescript building in Brooklyn with the soft golden glow of vintage sconces lighting the sidewalk, Bucky’s brow furrowed.

“This better not be a cat café again.” He muttered.

You snorted, tugging at his hand. “You liked the cat café. Mr. Whiskers fell asleep on your lap, remember?”

“That demon scratched me.”

“Because you tried to move!” You giggled. “Come on, Buck. Trust me.”

He sighed dramatically but followed. As you pushed open the door, the soft croon of Billie Holiday spilled out, rich and warm like honey in the air.

Bucky stopped in his tracks.

The inside was like stepping into 1941 — velvet booths, checkered floor, amber lights swinging low, couples swaying slowly to the music. A jazz trio played onstage in front of a deep red curtain. Waitstaff in suspenders and old-school dresses weaved through the crowd. It smelled like bourbon, lavender, and nostalgia.

“Surprise!” you whispered excitedly, smiling up at him.

Bucky’s throat worked, but no words came out. He just stared, wide-eyed.

“I found this place a few months ago,” you continued, gently tugging his hand. “Thought you might like it. I know it’s not the same, not really. But I wanted to give you a little piece of… before.”

He turned to look at you, eyes softening. “You did all this for me?”

“Well, yeah.” you said, beaming. “You deserve a night where your world makes sense.”

Something cracked open in him then. Maybe it was the music, or the effort you made, or the way you looked at him like he was still the man he used to be.

“…You’re gonna make me dance, aren’t you?” he muttered, lips twitching.

“Obviously.” you said, already dragging him toward the floor.

He let you lead at first, all stiff limbs and awkward fidgeting. But the music started to seep in. So did the memories. The rhythm. The feeling. And soon, Bucky Barnes — grumpy, tired, sarcastic Bucky was spinning you under warm lights, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re not too bad, Sergeant.” you teased as he twirled you.

“You’re lucky I like you.” he said, but it came out soft. Fond.

As the song slowed and faded into another, he didn’t let you go. Just held you close, one hand on your waist, the other tangled with yours. His forehead pressed lightly to yours.

“Thank you.” he murmured. “For reminding me I’m still part of the world.”

You leaned into him, swaying gently. The night wore on, but Bucky didn’t let go of your hand. Not once.

He wasn’t sure if it was the music, the golden haze of the place, or just you, but the weight he always carried felt a little lighter tonight. Like your presence wrapped around him like a warm coat on a cold day.

You had insisted on staying until the last song, and he didn’t even argue. That surprised both of you.

As the final notes drifted through the air and the band packed up, Bucky helped you into your coat with surprising tenderness. The walk back to your place was quiet, but not in a bad way — comfortable, like shared silence between two people who didn’t need to fill it with anything else.

When you unlocked the door to your apartment, Bucky hesitated on the threshold. You turned back, quirking a brow.

“You comin’ in, or are you going to brood outside like Batman?”

He huffed a laugh and stepped in. You grinned, throwing your keys in the dish and flicking on a lamp. “So, was it too much? The bar, I mean.”

Bucky shrugged off his jacket and set it neatly over the back of your couch. “It was… perfect.”

You blinked. “Perfect?”

“Yeah… Perfect.” he said, quieter now. “You made it feel like home. Like… like something I didn’t think I’d get back.”

You stepped closer, smile gentling. “You’ll always have a home here, Buck. You know I’m here for you, right?”

His eyes met yours, something fragile flickering in them. “You mean that?”

You reached up, fingers brushing his cheek. “Of course I do.”

Bucky exhaled a shaky breath he didn’t even know he was holding. His gaze flickered to your lips for just a tiny second. He leaned closer, and you didn’t even realize you did the same.

And suddenly you were kissing. Soft, sweet, a little unsure at first until Bucky’s arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you flush against him like he’d been waiting years for this. He kissed you like you were something he thought he’d never deserve but finally, finally had the courage to want.

When you broke apart, breathless and a little dazed, he rested his forehead against yours.

“I wanted this for so long.” he whispered.

“I know…” Your palm caressed his cheek. He leaned into your touch almost immediately. „and you’re really bad at hiding how much you like me,” you teased.

He smirked. “I never stood a chance, did I?”

“Not for a second.”

You tugged him gently toward the couch, and he followed without protest. Eventually, you both ended up tangled together beneath a blanket, your head on his shoulder, his metal arm wrapped around your waist like it belonged there.

For once, Bucky didn’t feel like the Winter Soldier. He didn’t feel broken. He felt human. Warm. Real. And maybe that was all because of you?

His fingertips brushed lazy circles over your hip as his flesh hand tucked under your chin, coaxing you to look up at him.

There was a beat of silence.

“You know…” he murmured, voice gravelly from the hour. „if you keep looking at me like that, I’m gonna do something about it.”

You raised an eyebrow and your smile curled slow and inviting. “Oh yeah…?”

He studied you for a moment, like he was making sure — really sure — but once he saw the certainty in your eyes, something shifted in him. His lips were on yours again, deeper this time, slower, like he had all the time in the world and planned to use every second kissing you breathless.

His hand slid up your thigh under the blanket, warm and deliberate. You gasped softly as his metal fingers cupped your jaw, angling your head just right as his mouth moved against yours with growing hunger. The kiss turned messier, needier, as he pulled you into his lap, your legs straddling him.

“You always this sweet,” he whispered against your mouth, “or do I just bring it out of you?”

“You bring out a lot of things.” you breathed.

He smirked, but it was soft around the edges, adoring. His lips trailed down your neck, kissing and nipping gently as his hands pushed under your shirt, fingertips warm and reverent. When he reached for the hem, you lifted your arms to help him peel it off.

“Fuck,” he exhaled when he looked at you — bare, blushing, trusting. “You’re beautiful.”

Your skin tingled as he kissed down your chest, his voice dropping low. “Been thinkin’ about this… thinkin’ about how you’d sound…”

Your hips shifted on his lap, and he groaned quietly, fingers gripping your thighs. “Lay back for me, doll.”

You obeyed, settling on the couch as he pulled the blanket over you again, shielding you from the cool air. His hands dragged your pants down slowly, reverently, kissing every inch of newly revealed skin.

“Gonna take my time with you,” he murmured, kissing the inside of your thigh. “Make you feel real good. You okay with that?”

You nodded quickly, breath catching. “Please, Bucky.”

The way you asked — so sweet, so open — he couldn’t resist. He spread your thighs, settled between them like he belonged there, and pressed a warm kiss to your core over your underwear.

“You’re already wet for me,” he rasped, dragging the fabric aside to run his tongue over your slick folds. “Such a good girl…”

The first touch of his tongue was slow, deliberate, like he wanted to memorize every part of you. He licked a long stripe up your pussy, then circled your clit with just enough pressure to make your hips jerk.

“Stay still for me,” he said, voice thick. “Let me take care of you.”

And you did. You let him eat you like he needed it — like he was starving. He used his fingers to part you, tongue flicking and sucking at your clit, slow at first, then faster as you moaned his name like a mantra. His metal hand gripped your thigh, anchoring you, keeping you right where he wanted you.

“Fuck, Bucky—don’t stop, please—”

He didn’t. He kept going, praising you and murmuring sweet nothings between kisses and licks.

“Sound so pretty when you beg,” he groaned. “Taste even better than I imagined…”

Your back arched, fingers gripping the couch as the tension coiled in your belly. He felt it, sensed it and doubled down, tongue moving in perfect rhythm until you shattered with a cry, thighs trembling around his head.

He stayed there through your orgasm, easing you down, licking softly as your body twitched with aftershocks. Then he kissed the inside of your thigh and rested his cheek there, content.

You blinked down at him, dazed and warm and utterly loved.

„Atta girl…” He chuckled, then crawled back up to kiss you, letting you taste yourself on his lips. „You’re so perfect like this… So fucking perfect.” His voice rumbled low against your skin as he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, like he was trying to tell you without words just how much he needed you.

Bucky brushed your slightly disheveled hair back from your face, metal fingers lingering at your jaw while the warmth of his flesh hand traced a line down your ribs. You shivered under his touch, still sensitive from his mouth, still floating in that hazy space between pleasure and craving.

“I want you, Buck…” you whispered, impatient and still needy.

He looked into your eyes like he was memorizing the way you said it. “Yeah?”

“Need you inside me, Bucky. Please.”

A sharp breath left him, almost a groan as he kissed your neck and said against your skin, “Fuck, baby…”

You watched him sit up enough to shrug out of his shirt, revealing strong shoulders and scars that told stories he never had to explain. He leaned back down to kiss you again, slow and messy, as he guided himself between your thighs. You could feel him now — hard and heavy against your thigh and your hips shifted instinctively, seeking more.

“Condom’s in my wallet.” he muttered against your lips, gesturing for you to reach his jacket that was laying somewhere beneath you.

You reached blindly for the jacket and found the wallet, and passed it to him with a grin. “Prepared, huh?”

“Wasn’t gonna assume,” he said, tearing the wrapper with his teeth, “but I hoped.”

You laughed softly, breath catching as he rolled the condom on. He kissed you through it — slow, grounding and when he lined up at your entrance, he paused, eyes locked with yours.

“Tell me if anything doesn’t feel good,” he said, voice serious beneath the arousal. “I mean it.”

“It’s you,” you whispered, hands cupping his jaw. “Everything with you feels good.”

With a low moan, Bucky pushed in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you in the best possible way. “Take all of it, baby… I know you can. You’re so good for me.” He whispered and your nails dug lightly into his back as he sank into you, filling you completely.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “You feel like heaven.” He stilled once he was fully inside, breathing hard against your shoulder. “Can I move?”

“Please…” You moaned out with furrowed brows from the overwhelming sensation.

He pulled out almost all the way, then rolled his hips back in with a slow, fluid thrust that made you gasp. He did it again — slow and deep and perfect. There was nothing rushed about it. He made love to you like it meant something, like he wanted you to feel every second of it.

“You’re takin’ me so well, sweetheart.” he murmured into your ear, voice thick with praise. “So warm… fuck, this pussy’s perfect.”

You whimpered under him, lifting your hips to meet each thrust. “You feel so good, Bucky—don’t stop, please, don’t stop—”

His rhythm stayed steady, controlled, but his grip on you tightened, like he was holding himself back from giving in completely.

“Could stay buried in you forever,” he whispered against your neck. “You’re so fucking tight.”

You met his mouth again, the kiss turning feverish, messy with love and heat. Every time he rolled his hips, he hit that spot that made stars explode behind your eyes.

“I’m close.” you breathed.

“Yeah? Let me feel you come again, baby. Wanna feel you flutterin’ around me.”

He brought his fingers to your clit, rubbing gentle circles as he fucked you just right, coaxing your orgasm with filthy praise and that relentless, perfect rhythm.

“That’s it… there you go… come for me, doll.”

And you did. With a cry muffled by his mouth, your body arched, pulsing around him, and he followed with a broken moan, hips stuttering as he came hard, buried deep inside you.

He collapsed over you with a quiet laugh, brushing your hair off your forehead.

“You okay?” he whispered, still breathless.

You smiled up at him, blissed-out and glowing. “Better than okay. I think I saw God.”

Bucky huffed a laugh and kissed your cheek. “Nah. Just me.”

#marvel #bucky barnes #barnesonly #mcu #writing #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #smut #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes fluff #fluff #oneshot #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction

1K notes · View notes

rrivlet · 3 months ago

Note

hi I would really like to hear the story of you getting kicked out of a museum for being a 9/11 fan

Okay, so lets set the stage here. 9/11 happens. I'm pretty young at the time, and I don't remember shit about it.

Several years pass. I don't remember exactly how old I was, but I wasn't even 10 yet. I develop an absurd obsession with Aviation Disasters. I watch a lot of Seconds from Disaster about this, eventually learning that Human Error is my least favorite cause of incidents because nothing funny happened to the plane.

However.

I learn about 9/11 in school and my first thought is "this is fuckin rad" because there was a big aviation disaster. I love that shit. I learn that this happened because it was deliberate. I then discard this information because it's no longer necessary. Queue the start of my 9/11 Simulation Era.

I use everything. Boxes, cans, whatever is stackable. A few times, I make a cardboard airplane. My parents are none the wiser because they just think I love airplanes (which is true, but only part of it). This goes on for some time.

Now, the museum I mentioned in those tags was called the "Imaginarium" or something like that. Childrens interactive museum. Lotsa fun stuff, and my family took me there often. One of the things they have here (which is, of course, my favorite exhibit) is a flight simulator cabinet.

One day, my obaachan takes me to the Imaginarium. I take my time, perusing through all the exhibits, making the big bubble, playing with the air cannon, all that jazz. All the while, I'm SUPER excited to get to the end, where the flight sim is.

The flight sim is running some version of microsoft flight simulator and is locked on a cesna of some sort. It has fully functioning foot pedals, throttle, and flight control. I eat this shit up every time for as long as whoever is taking me will let me. You probably already know the shape of this.

The space they have you fly over is like, a small city with surrounding countryside. As luck would have it, the city has two buildings of remarkably similar height next to each other. Sure, I'm piloting a cesna and not a passenger liner, but I don't care. I'm in the moment, I'm fucking crazed out of my tiny child MIND about 9/11, and I can do ANOTHER simulation. In my head, I'm the second plane. I get close enough to the ground (having played the simulator a lot, certainly enough to be familiar with the controls), and I set course, full throttle, for the Second Tower.

As I collide (and the plane bounces around because the game doesn't do exploding planes for some reason lol), I say aloud, and very audibly, "Oh my god, they hit the second tower." Or something to that effect.

It's maybe been 5 or so years since 9/11, so while it's not 100% fresh in peoples memories, it's near the surface of a lot of people's minds. The attendant at the counter not far from where I'm sitting looks at me after I say this, makes a 100% correct read on what I'm fucking doing and what's going on, looks at my obaachan and tells her in no uncertain terms that we need to leave and that "this disrespect cannot be tolerated here."

I don't go to that museum again for many many years, and when I do finally return (for a field trip or something), the flight sim is gone.

But it's okay because I pestered a great many of my caretakers (including my foster parent at one point) with my 9/11 sims, and I'd do it again in a fuckin caffeinated heartbeat.

#post of the tributary #ask #9/11

1K notes · View notes

on-the-clear-blue · 4 days ago

Text

Maddie looked down at the floating, giggling baby boy in front of her, and felt old guilt bubble up inside of her.

It had been at first time Jack and her had fought, disagreeing on theories and neither of them left the arguments at the lab, Jazz had just been a little girl then, barely tottering around with a big gummy smile.

They had tried to patch it up, to pretend that the words they said in their rants didn't hurt, but in the end...Jack had taken Jazz up state, vist his family for the summer and leaving Maddy all alone.

It really was a moment of weakness, she had met Clark Kent and it was a whirlwind of emotions almost instantly.

She had a type, sue her, big nerdy farm boys that stuttered when they got kissed, who looked at her like she was the only thing that ever mattered...

She saw Jack in Clark's sky blue eyes, and the guilt built up.

The romance was wild and fast, like a runaway train hurtling towards a cliff. They moved fast, skipping through the long talks and planning that she had with Jack, and going right to the down and dirty.

Even though she loved it (even though she loved Him) Maddie knew that she couldn't keep it up, she admitted in the end, that she was married, that she had a child and neither of them wanted to tare that family apart.

She still remembered the betrayed look on Clark's face when she told him, when he found out that she was cheating on her husband, the kind of hurt that echoed in her mind, those sky blue eyes that she fell so hard for were like icy flakes as she held her head in her hands and cried.

She didn't know what she had wanted from.him then, to fight for her, perhaps to even comfort her at that time, even though she had spent the last months living a lie. In the end Clark just stood and left, his shoulders tight and back straight, walking out of the small apartment that Maddie rented in Metropolis to get away from it all.

It was for the best, she knew that. When Jack came back they managed to work the relationship out, Jazz had been young enough not to remember the fighting.

And by the time that the baby bump started to form, she didn't doubt that it couldn't have been Jacks child.

(A lingering in the back of her mind, a dark nothingness whispered, "its not his. It's the man you toyed with and threw away")

She had managed to push those thoughts aaway, convincing herself that it had to be Jacks, that the child (Daniel, after her grandfather) would bring them together, mend the cracks even more.

When the boy was born she could only see His eyes. Not Jacks cloudy, ocean blues, but Clark's stark sky colored ones, the same small curl in his downy baby hair.

She had never felt more in love, and never had felt more disgusted in herself.

Maddie let Jack think Danny was his, trying to keep the grimace off her face each time she saw her husband, the man she had spent so long building up a new branch of science with, coo and tickle the child that was proof of her infidelity.

When the boy started to float, that was when she felt a pang of panic, she didn't have the meta gene, she had tested and double tested to make sure, and came to the conclusion that it was Clark. That Clark had powers and never felt comfortable enough to tell her.

(Little did she know, that on the day she told him, Clark had a ring in his pocket, his mother's simple band that held a small diamond, he had planned to propose, to tell her his biggest secret, but the words died in his throat at her confession, and the box now sat, in the dark corner of his bedside table, only to be gazed at with a sorrowful heart in days he is reminded of the woman he thought he knew)

It was when the boy, Danny was age 14, bloody and delirious, with scars in a Y shape across his chest that oozed green instead of red, when she had to pull him out from a lab that used her own technology to torture her son that she finally pulled out her phone, with shaking hands she typed out the same number that even after all these years she still remembered.

"Hello Kent residency! How can I help ya?" A young voice answered, and she could hear the cheery sunshine smile through the line.

("He has a family now. Don't you dare feel jealous Madeline, you did this to yourself")

"Hi there, is Clark there? I-i need to speak to him about something." She managed to say with an even voice, even though her heart pounded in her chest.

"Uhhh...yeah I think Dad is around. Lemme-oop here he is" there was a rustling as the phone was passed between hands, a whispered conversation.

("Who is it Jon? *I dunno Dad, just some lady asking for you?* sigh, dont just answer my phone son, now go help your mother, it isnt fair that she does all the house work")

There was a shuffle of feet and then- "Hello, Clark speaking, may I ask who is calling?"

That voice. It was deep but gentle and caring, smooth like velvet with a hit of that country still in him.

"Clark...its been a while....I-its Madeline. Please dont hang up. I am just...I just need you help with something." She hears a sharp drawn in breath, the perfect stillness that she could have thought that he had hung up until-

"What do you need." It was clipped, words controlled and even, though there was something behind held back, old emotions and hurt dug back up with just a simple phone call.

"After...our-our relationship. I got back with Jack. I am not...not calling to get back together. It's just...Clark I was pregnant. It...he was yours."

There was another drawn in breath, then a sound closer to a whimper than a sigh "W-what?" (On the other side, the Man of Steel was hunching over the living room coffee table, glasses thrown to the side as he massaged the bridge of his nose, breath speeding up as his brain raced) "How...how can you be sure it is mine..."

She presses her back agaisnt a wall, her head leaning agaisnt it as her eyes closed, "Clark. He can fly. And lift cars. And...and lived when thousands of volts of electricity ran through his body...I dont have the meta gene, neither does my parents or Jack and his. The only conclusion i can come is that..."

"He's mine..." Clark's voice was limp, sounding far away yet all the same still there.

Neither of them spoke for a few minutes, both clearly going though the motions, before Clark finally spoke "Why did you never tell me till now." There was a longing in his voice, one that Maddie couldn't fully understand.

"It wasnt until he was born that I knew for certain Danny was yours Clark. I didn't want to...to risk everything that Jack and I had built again after it all just to call you...I knew how much you had wanted to be a father but i...I was scared Clark."

The mans stuttered breathing was the only way that Maddie knew that he hadn't hung up, "I am only reaching out now that...that Danny is in danger. Things have been happening and...he needs to get away from Amity Park, the GIW have been hunting him. I have managed to stem most of the attempts but they are getting annoyed at the lack of results. I dont ask you this lightly Clark...but I have no body else to ask."

The line was quiet for a while, before Clark breathed out slowly, "I would love to meet him...a-and if he is in danger...i-i would be honored to take care of him."

---

Danny clutches his bag as he stares up at the tall condo, his nose scrunching up as he makes a face, "...Y'know mom when I said I wanted to cosplay Percy Jackson for Halloween I was thinking, more letting me dye my hair silver for the stripe thing and getting an orange t-shirt and a sword, less finding out my dad isnt actually my dad and getting shipped to New York..."

Maddie sighs as she rubs at her eyes, "Daniel...please. this is hard for me enough already. I really do not have the patience for the sass...Clark is a good man, he will take care of you while Jack and I take care of the GIW..."

Neither of them get the chance to respond as a tall man with curly black hair steps out from the condos entrance, flanked by a dark haired woman, a young boy with a big smile and a punkish looking teen that seemed to want to be anywhere else.

"Here they are Danny, the Kents."

#danny phantom #dc x dp #dpxdc #danny fenton #but not actually a fenton #clark kent #maddie fenton #jack fenton #good fenton parents #maddie hooked up with clatk when she and jack were taking a break and Danny happened #danny fenton is a kryptoian #maddie thinks he is a meta human #danny is going to freak the fuck out when he finds out he is half alien #Fanon typical violance to Danny

876 notes · View notes

chow0w · 19 days ago

Note

what would ancient nightwing fashion look like? because in darkstalkers book they had a lot of jewelry featured

Good question! After a lot of thinking, I finally have an answer and some art!

Nightwings and the Jazz Era

TLDR

I've come to the conclusion that ancient nightwing society would have the fashion of the Jazz Era. also known as the roaring 1920s, the Jazz Era was a time (1918-29) in the US which was characterized by new music, culture and swift economic growth. Following the end of world war 1, the frivolous partying, spending and inventing of the Jazz era is quite similar to the attitude of the ancient night kingdom - which was an international hub for trade and art, as well as the inventor of written dragon language. Both the Jazz era and the nightwing kingdom also share the morbid similarity that they came to a swift, chaotic end - either through a stock market crash or a genocidal magician.

When creating this post, I focused mostly on 1920s fashion - but I did also take some inspiration from other sources, such as the adjacent 1910s and house of Dior. I was chasing any kind of style which I thought mirrored the artistic success of the nightwing kingdom, so these headcanons stray partially from the 1920s to include some of my own artistic liberties and ideas. I hope you enjoy, and maybe even remember Lackadaisy is a good franchise worth WoF crossover fanart.

Day-to-Day

Starting off strong with the everyday nightwing's attire - I wanted to consider how nightwing society functions and plan accordingly through fashion. Not only do they live on a nocturnal schedule, they also - surprisingly - do not have total night vision. Because of this, I think nightwing merchants would sport brighter clothing with small gold/shiny accents (if they can afford it,) in order to catch the attention of passing dragons in the night market. These clothes would consist of a chest piece with dethatched sleeves for better maneuverability, and use leather or fur to create distinct shapes in order to compensate for their lack of actual detail.

The non-storekeeping nightwing would not have any need to stand out in a crowd, and might choose colors that better complement their scales or scale patterns. Regardless, I think the chest piece + dethatched sleeve combo would be a staple feature of everyday clothing design, given that it's the easiest to wear and would allow nightwings freedom of movement.

Party Clothes

Ancient nightwing society was one that loved art, festival and music - so they would undoubtedly have clothes to compensate for their frequent celebrations. Here, I took direct inspiration from the 1920s 'flapper girl' fashion, which was a specific look worn primarily by young women who didn't care for traditional (religious) values. These garments would probably harder to manufacture and a little bit more expensive, using long feathers for the dress portion + silky fabric and lots of beads; imported from other tribes but tailored in the kingdom.

Clips and buckles could fasten these pieces around a dragon's neck, shoulder and torso - but there would absolutely be shorter variations made for those who don't appreciate the long train around their legs. A long string of pearls and a nice headdress would accompany this dress, which would've been imported from the seawing kingdom.

Noble Wear

Finally, the finest clothes of the kingdom. I wasn't really sure of how to go about this at first, but ended up coming up with some good ideas after considering the nightwings beyond their fashion. I think the nobles and royalty of the nightwing kingdom would've dressed more for art than wealth - by which I mean, they focused more on displaying themselves in an artistic manner than showing off jewels or physical wealth. For a society which values art so heavily, being seen as a piece itself would likely be a better indicator of status than adorning yourself in diamonds.

For this reason, I focused more on couture when sketching these clothes - intricate patterns, textiles and shapes which were handcrafted by a studio of dragons and assembled to be worn only once or twice. These garments would absolutely match the current topic or festival - and in spite of their status, nobles would still opt to follow the trends of the kingdom in their own way: using the same shapes, beads and pearls to create a high-class cousin to Jass Era fashion.

---

If you made it this far, thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed these headcanons as much as I enjoyed making them. My inbox is always open to questions, critiques and suggestions of any kind - so if you'd like to inquire about the lore/fashion of your favorite tribe, don't hesitate to ask!

A few people have asked, so I'll just make it clear: I love seeing the interpretations and discussions of my headcanons, and you are absolutely free to use these ideas if you so desire. My only request is credit on any of the things I came up with (not the 1920s itself, obviously) and that you tag me so I can see your awesome work!!

Later ( • ⩊ • )

#wings of fire #wof #art #character design #nightwing #nightwing wof #wof nightwing #darkstalker #legends darkstalker #wof fanart #wof fashion

609 notes · View notes

regonold · 1 year ago

Text

Danny gets deaged and heads to Gotham to find jazz at collage there's only one problem he knows where the collage is just now where jazz's class is

Enter one bruce wayne who genuinely just so happened to be there (he's pulling a brucie wayme stunt) seeing a small kid looking around worried so what does the serial adopter do? Well he goes up to the kid of course crouching down to ask if he's ok whats his name wheres his parents or siblings?

Now jazz, jazz all but raised danny she protected him from a young age and helped him with anything he needed and durimg her time at collage she had worried for him, with the amount of bull her parents spouted she wouldn't be surprised if danny up and left

So imagine her surprise when she spotted her baby brother de aged talking to some stranger and at that moment every instinct flared and she remembered every warning she read or heard about Gotham and she acted

Danny was just looking for his sister when some guy crouched down to talk with him after asking some questions danny heard a sound he was familiar with jazz running

Bruce really wasn't expecting to be kicked for trying to help a kid

Artistic representation of jazz kicking bruce\/

#dpxdc #dp x dc #dc x dp #dcxdp #ok look this whole prompt was just an excuse to have jazz deliver a flying kick to bruce #bruce: do you need help #danny: I'm lost im looking for my sister #bruce: well let me help you then #jazz seeing a strange man talk to her baby brother: ah so you have chosen death

3K notes · View notes

prttylittlesinner · 3 days ago

Text

Feathers & Fangs

𐦍༘⋆Warnings:Remmick being a creep(still a munch though dw),reader is a spicy southern gal,sexual harassment rizz,stalking behaviors,possessive sex,blood drinking,slight religious trauma,slight drinking,slight smoking,desk sex,coercion,squirting,manipulation,reader undresses herself for money and slight breeding kink.MDNI.

𐦍༘⋆Dark!Dom!Remmick x Burlesque Dancer!Reader

𐦍༘⋆ A/N: Oh my God! i cant believe i got 100 notes from my last story i am so glad y'all liked it.Here is another smut piece.Enjoy!

𐦍༘⋆Brief Summary:In the thick, sticky heat of a 1930s Mississippi summer, you'd finally landed your first gig,just a small corner bar tucked into the edge of the city, but it felt like salvation. Getting there hadn’t been easy, but patience had finally paid off. You’d run from your overbearing preacher father and the suffocating silence of that godforsaken town, chasing freedom and fresh air. And for a while, it felt like a fresh start… until Remmick began showing up. He never sat close, but you felt him,always. Lurking in the dark with eyes like a storm coming in off the Gulf. He never clapped. Never smiled. Just stared, like the songs you sang belonged to him... Like you did. And deep down, you were starting to wonder if he was right.

On a Saturday night, the moon had never shone so bright. Folks came from all around the city to crowd into the small, cozy bar,not just for the whiskey, but for the show.You’d dreamed of being a burlesque dancer for as long as you could remember,drawn to the glitter, the power, the way a woman could command a room with nothing but a glance and a slow sway of her hips. It wasn’t just about the tease; it was about being seen, truly seen, on your own terms.

Now, standing backstage in pink frilly garters and feathers, the low hum of jazz vibrating through the walls, you felt it: that electric buzz just before the curtain parts. Your name was on the lips of strangers. Your silhouette lit up in stage-lights. And for once, you weren’t someone’s daughter or someone’s shame...you were her. The woman with the stage, the spotlight, and all the attention.

But as the lights dimmed and the crowd hushed, your gaze flicked to the far corner of the room...and there he was again.

Remmick.

Watching.

Waiting.

Like he’d come to collect something he already considered his.

Taking a last drag from your cigarette and one last sip of that throat-burning whisky,you quickly swallowed your nerves,the alcohol slowly settling in.

You stood under the flickering glow of the vanity bulbs, making the final touches to your costume,a sinful but delicate vision of lace and temptation. The soft ivory fabric clung to your curves like it had been made for sinning, kissed with pearls and stitched with feathers that shimmered like fallen halos. Your wings, fragile and wickedly white, trembled slightly as you adjusted the straps, the sequins catching the light like stardust. A crooked halo perched atop your tight curls, just enough to mock the innocence you were never really trying to sell.

You could hear the muffled chatter of the crowd just beyond the curtain, their laughter bubbling with liquor and expectation. Jazz spilled lazily through the floorboards, slow and sultry, pulsing through your ribs like a second heartbeat.

You exhaled slowly, steadying yourself. The cue was coming. And when the curtain rose, you'd step out as something more than a girl in costume.

You’d become the fantasy. The fire. The fallen thing they all came to worship.

At the call of you're stage name and the recited song leaked through the bar, you waltzed on the platform,wolf whistles and hollers filled the vicinity.Your slow, deliberate hips swayed with a hypnotic grace, captivating every eye in the room...men and women alike, utterly spellbound."Well… hellooo Mississippi. It’s a pleasure to bless y’all with my presence tonight. Y'all ready to get a little naughty with this fallen angel?"

The crowd whooped, clapped, a few catcalls echoing from the back,but you kept your smile slow and deliberate, the kind that made hearts skip and mouths go dry. You took your time crossing to center stage, pastel heels clicking like a countdown, wings swaying with every sultry step.

The lights dimmed to a golden glow, casting halos across the smoky room. The band struck up a slow, devil-may-care rhythm,something that crawled under the skin and curled its fingers around the spine. You rolled your shoulders back, lifting your arms as the feathers unfurled behind you, graceful and ghostly.

Fingertips danced down your bodice, teasing the curve of your waist. A single garter snapped against your thigh, drawing a chorus of sharp, appreciative gasps. You winked, turning slowly to show off the full sinful silhouette of your so-called angelic self.

And then...just before your first layer dropped,you felt it.

That gaze.

Not like the others, hungry and cheering.

No, this one ignited.

You didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Remmick was quite the regular,a looker as well...with onyx black hair and that crooked smile that always spelled trouble.The other dancers have their hearts soar whether he comes in spilling his charms with that Mississippi-slick accent with Irish tones.And yet, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he came only for you. That suspicion quickly turned to certainty,he never stayed for drinks, never watched the other girls. He only ever showed up when you took the stage.

Your first encounter with Remmick was anything but pleasant. He didn’t offer a name or a handshake,just stood outside your dressing room door, murmuring his twisted devotion like a prayer. His voice was low, reverent, almost worshipful… and entirely uninvited."C’mon now, Songbird… don’t make me wait. Let me in, darlin’. I got a kind of love for ya that don’t fade, that clings to the bone. Fellowship, love… the kind ya feel all the way down. Just open the door, and I’ll show ya how good it can be...how good it can feel."Even though security herded him away.

Those words still burned you to the core.

Later…

The lights had dimmed, the crowd had roared, and now the stage sat quiet...scattered with glitter and discarded satin. You stood at its edge, breath still shallow, skin dewy with sweat and spotlight. Nothing left but your pasties, a sliver of satin underwear, and the hum of adrenaline still crawling across your skin.

You could feel their eyes on you still… but only one gaze mattered.

A cold shiver dragged across you're naked spine at the dark haired regular at the edge of the bar,sitting alone...always.Announcing your departure for your well deserved after performance break, you thankfully say "Y’all have been a divine little crowd tonight," you purr, sweeping a teasing glance over the room. "But this angel’s gotta take her leave,wings don’t spread themselves, sugar."

As you were taking your leave off the platform, you dared to lock eyes with Remmick, now standing like a shadow carved from moonlight at the back of the room. His expression was unreadable, but his stare was relentless,hungry, fixed, like it was tethered to your skin.

You gave him a slow, sultry wink, letting your lips curl into the kind of smile that could bless or damn a man. A final tease. A warning. Or maybe… an invitation.

The moment hung between you like a pulled thread.

Then you turned, letting your hips sway with purpose as you disappeared behind the velvet curtain, the echo of your heels clicking like a countdown.

But even offstage, out of the light, you could still feel him watching.

And something in you knew,you hadn’t seen the last of Remmick tonight.

Backstage, the lights were dimmer, cooler, but the air still clung heavy to your skin,thick with sweat, smoke, and the faint perfume of desire. You leaned against the vanity, wings slung half-off your shoulders, your chest still rising and falling with the high of performance.

“Damn,” you breathed with a laugh, dragging your fingers through your hair. “They ate it up tonight.”

You peeled off a glove with a practiced flick, tossing it onto the chair beside you. The mirror caught your reflection,flushed cheeks, lipstick slightly smudged, eyes glittering like mischief. You tilted your chin up and murmured to yourself, half-joking, half-wary:

“And there he was again. Lurking like a ghost with a hard-on.”

You stepped out of your heels, groaning softly in relief, and padded across the dressing room in nothing but your satin underwear and pasties. A shimmer of glitter still dusted your thighs, catching in the light.

“He’s got that look like he’d carve my name into his ribs if I asked nice.” You chuckled to yourself, but it didn’t quite reach your stomach. That same cold little flutter stayed there, coiled like a secret.

Then... The floorboard creaked outside the door.

Your voice dropped, quieter now, breathier. “You always watching, sugar? Or are you finally gonna knock like a gentleman?”

A pin-dropping pause came… then, like molasses slipping through cracks in old wood, that familiar Mississippi drawl oozed through the closed door.

“Ya gon’ keep talkin’ to the air, or ya finally ready to let me in, Songbird?”

His voice was low,smooth, smoky, and just a little too calm. Like a man who already knew the answer. Like he wasn’t askin’ for permission… just bein’ polite.

You didn’t answer right away. Your hand hovered near the doorknob, heart thudding against your ribs in a rhythm that was part fear, part thrill.

He chuckled on the other side, the sound deep and warm like bourbon gone bad.

“I watched ya up there tonight… all that lace and temptation, shinin’ like sin under those lights. Lord help me, ya make a man ache just watchin’.”

You swallowed, throat dry.

“You call that dancin’, or was that somethin’ just for me?”

There was a scrape as he leaned in closer,so close you could hear the whisper of breath against the crack in the door.You retreated to your vanity,hairbrush in hand,plopping down in your satin chair with a huff.

“Ya keep winkin’ at me like that, darlin’, and I’ma start thinkin’ ya want me to come in.”

You set down your hairbrush with a sharp scoff, turning towards the door,twisting half your body, head locked at the decorated wooden door that separates an angel and the devil.

"You don’t know a damn thing about me, Remmick. But I know plenty about men like you,always showing up with sweet talk and chains, tryin’ to tame a woman who’s finally learned how to fly."

Then Remmick went quiet.

The sudden silence unsettled you,he was usually all charm and chatter, a man who filled every crack in the room with his voice. But now... nothing.

And then, low and unexpected, his voice slid through the door like a blade:

“That what your daddy taught ya, huh?”

Your thin rose-colored robe flared behind you like smoke as you stormed to the door, yanking it open with a fury you didn’t bother to hide. And there he was,Remmick, leaning lazy against the door frame, that same damn sharp,sinister smile curling at the edges of his mouth like he’d already won.

“You smug, twisted bastard,” you spat, eyes blazing. “You don’t get to stand there throwin’ Daddy’s name at me like it means a goddamn thing. You don’t know shit about what I’ve crawled through to get here.”

You stepped outside into his space without hesitation, close enough to smell smoke, cologne, and a faint tint of iron.

“You think watchin’ me dance gives you the right to talk to me like you own me? Keep dreamin’, bloodsucker.”

Even in your anger, your eyes swept over him taking him in whether you meant to or not. A gold chain glinted against his pale skin, resting just above the exposed muscle of his chest, framed by a pale blue button-down left teasingly open. His sleek suede slacks hanged by suspenders hugged his frame with an effortless confidence, like he’d stepped straight out of a blues song and into your damn doorway.

Remmick raised his hands slowly in mock surrender, that devilish grin never quite leaving his face.

“Easy now, Songbird,” he drawled, voice smooth as molasses. “Ain’t tryin’ to start a war. Just makin’ conversation.”

He tilted his head, eyes gleaming with something darker...something knowing.

“I mean, it’s not exactly a secret, is it? Small town, big pulpit. Everybody knew ya daddy was the fire-and-brimstone type,screamin’ about sin on Sunday while his daughter snuck out the back in red lipstick and heels.”

He let out a low chuckle, slow and thick with wicked delight.

“You forget, sugar...I been watchin’ ya longer than ya think.”

Speaking of his eyes,through the storm of everything he seemed to know about you, you couldn’t help but stare. Up close, they were unnerving: pupils dilated wide, almost unnaturally so. For a moment, you wondered if it was just the dim, flickering light playing tricks, but then a chill ran down your spine,were they… red?

You were taken aback at first,his boldness, the way he knew things no stranger should. But then a slow smile crept across your face, fierce and unapologetic.

“Big whoop,” you said, voice steady and dripping with attitude. “You think just ‘cause you know my daddy’s a preacher, you got me all figured out? Honey, I’m more than that. I’m not ashamed,never was, never will be.”

You squared your shoulders, meeting his gaze head-on. “So go ahead, stare all you want. You’re gonna have to do better than creepy little tricks and half-remembered rumors to rattle me.”

He snickered,not at your fiery words, but at the way you’d forgotten to close your robe, leaving your supple, sweat-slicked skin on full display. The delicate pasties barely contained your breasts, and the thin satin of your underwear clung to your hips, shimmering faintly in the low light.

His voice dropped, thick with slow, dangerous seduction. “Careful now, Songbird… don’t want ta make it too easy for a man to get lost in all that.”

He stepped closer, eyes roaming openly, drinking in every curve you’d left exposed. “But I gotta say, ya wear that wildness...those delicate pieces,like they were made just for sinning. It’s wicked. And damn near irresistible.”

Your breath hitched at his words, heat blooming low in your belly. Instinctively, your thighs pressed together,slow, subtle, as if that tiny movement might ease the aching throb building between your legs. Or at least, you thought you were being subtle.

But Remmick’s gaze dropped, hungry and all too aware.

“Mmm…” he hummed, eyes glinting like embers. “There she is.”

He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, until the toe of his black boots brushed your bare toes. His tainted fingers ghosted along the edge of your robe, not touching...not quite...but close enough to make your skin burn.

“All that fire in your voice, but your body’s tellin’ me something sweeter,” he murmured, Southern drawl with a hint of Irish curling around the words like smoke. “Tell me, darlin’… ya gonna keep pretending ya don’t want me, or are ya ready to stop playin’ holy when we both know better?”

A sharp breath hitched in your throat, and you spoke before you could second-guess the desire laced in your voice."Door’s open, Remmick. Let’s see if your mouth matches your hands."

He didn’t wait for another invitation.He backed you through entry to the dressing room.The door clicked shut behind him, sealing you both in a room thick with heat, sweat, and unspoken hunger.

He looked at you like you were something sacred...and already his.

His hand rose, fingers brushing your jaw so gently it made you ache. Calloused thumbs traced the corner of your mouth, then dragged slowly down the side of your neck like he was memorizing the shape of you. Your breath caught.

“Ya sure, Songbird?” he murmured, voice rough and low, barely more than breath against your lips.

You didn’t answer with words,you didn’t need to. Instead, you leaned in and kissed him.

At first, it was soft,just a brush of mouths, hesitant and unbearably tender. But it cracked something open. Remmick growled low in his throat, and suddenly his hands were in your hair, pulling you closer, crushing your body to his. The kiss deepened, turned desperate, hungry. Your robe slipped further off your shoulders, forgotten, baring more of your flushed skin to the chill of the room,and the heat of his touch.

His lips moved like he was starving for you, tasting every part of your mouth with slow, deliberate strokes. Tongue, teeth, breath,everything syncopated, everything burning. You whimpered into him, arms wrapping around his neck as your bodies molded together.

His hands roamed...down your back, gripping your hips, pulling you against the hard press of him. You gasped as he ground into you, the sensation enough to make your knees threaten to give.

“Ya feel that?” he breathed against your mouth. “That’s what you do to me.”

You kissed him again, fiercer this time, fingers clawing into his shirt, wanting more, needing more. The air between you was thick with sweat, lust, and something deeper,something possessive, dark, and dangerously tender.

And still… neither of you pulled away.

You pulled back just enough to breathe, lips swollen, your chest rising and falling against his. His eyes flicked down to your mouth, then lower to where your robe had slipped halfway off your shoulders, hanging like a whispered promise.

Remmick's voice was a low rumble, thick with desire.

“Look at ya,” he murmured, brushing a knuckle across your collarbone. “All fire and fight, but underneath it… you’re burnin’. Ya know how long I’ve waited to feel that heat?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you met his gaze,steady, unashamed,and slid your hands down the rest of your flowing robe. The silk loosened, falling open like petals. Your bare skin gleamed beneath the dim vanity lights, dewy with sweat and stage heat, still adorned only in your glittering pasties and barely-there satin underwear.

His breath hitched this time.

“Goddamn, darlin’…” he muttered, eyes devouring every inch of you. “Ya stand there lookin’ like temptation made flesh. Ya really want me to believe ya ain’t been wantin’ this?”

You shrugged the robe from your shoulders and let it fall to the floor, pooling at your feet like a quiet surrender.

“What I want, Remmick,” you said, voice low and sultry, “is for you to stop talkin’ and touch me.”

He stepped into you like he’d been unchained, one hand tangling in your hair, the other gripping your waist with just enough force to make you gasp. His mouth was on yours again,hotter, deeper, and far less patient. Your back hit the vanity as his tongue slid against yours, and the world narrowed to the taste of him, the weight of his body, and the rough edge of his voice growling against your lips:

“You’ve got no idea what you’ve started, Songbird…”

You pressed your lips to the hollow of his throat, kissing your way down slowly...tasting salt, heat, and something ancient humming beneath his skin. He shivered under your touch, like even he wasn’t prepared for how much he wanted you.

“You burn too easy for a monster,” you whispered against him, breathless.

But it was you who trembled when Remmick sank to his knees.

His hands slid up your thighs, rough palms warm against your skin as he looked up at you through hooded lashes. Something in his gaze made your breath catch. His eyes,normally dark, smoldering,were glowing now. Deep, unnatural red. Lit from within like embers waiting to catch flame.

Still, you didn’t pull away.

Your thin robe had already slipped from your shoulders, leaving your skin exposed, glittering with sweat and stage dust. The soft glow from the vanity lights made you look otherworldly, your pasties and delicate panties clinging to your curves like remnants of some sacred costume. A halo once worn now forgotten.

You were still an angel...but there was nothing pure left between you now.

Remmick’s lips found your inner thigh, pressing reverent, open-mouthed kisses higher and higher. You whimpered, thighs tensing around his shoulders, your body already strung tight with anticipation. A low, dark chuckle vibrated against your skin.

“Ya feel that?” he murmured, voice hoarse with hunger. “Even angels can ache. Even angels want to be ruined.”

Then came the sting.

You cried out, not from pain, but from the way the sharp scrape of his fangs blurred straight into pleasure. A warm trickle followed the bite, and Remmick groaned, tongue dragging across the wound like he was tasting something divine.

Your breath hitched. Your head lolled back against the mirror. You moaned...long, low, and broken.

Somewhere in the haze, you registered the blood, the burn, his red eyes gleaming up at you like a predator halfway through a prayer.

But you didn’t stop him.

“So sweet,” he growled against your skin. “Like heaven tryin’ to forget what it was.”

You could’ve pushed him away. Could’ve screamed. But instead, your fingers tangled in his dark sweat-soaked hair, pulling him closer.

And in that moment, you weren’t falling.

You were offering yourself.

His fingers curled around the waistband of your thin,soaked, panties, dragging them down in one slow, reverent motion. You gasped, hips lifting slightly to help him, your breath coming in soft, shaky waves.

"Remmick..." you whispered, the name falling from your lips like a prayer caught between guilt and longing.

The fabric slid over your thighs, your knees, down to your ankles. He helped you step out of them, hands grazing your calves, your skin electric under his touch. When he looked up at you,eyes still glowing that unnatural red,you whimpered softly, thighs trembling from the way he looked at you. Like a man starving for salvation but choosing sin instead.

"Please..." you breathed, not even sure what you were asking for.

His hands smoothed up your thighs again, this time gripping you with more intent. His thumbs pressed gently into the soft skin just beneath your hips as he leaned in, his mouth hovering just inches from where you needed him most.

"Say it again," he rasped. "Say my name like that again."

You swallowed hard, breath hitching as your fingers dug into the edge of the vanity for support.

"Remmick," you whimpered, voice trembling. "God, you’re driving me crazy... I-I need you."

He let out a low, hungry growl in response, and kissed the inside of your thigh again,closer this time. So close you gasped, your hips jerking forward as a moan escaped you, high and breathless.

"You're shakin'," he murmured, voice like velvet and smoke. "Your body knows who it belongs to, even if your mouth keeps tryin' to argue."

You moaned again, louder now, head falling back as heat pooled deep in your core.

"Shut up and touch me, Remmick," you breathed, voice half-sob, half-command.

He chuckled darkly, hands tightening on your hips.

"As you wish, Aingeal. But once I start… I ain’t lettin’ ya go."

He then descended himself on your quivering,soaking cunt.You yelped as he used his tongue with quick precision,shaking hands urging to hold on to something found his sweaty onyx locks.He hungrily used his tongue to find your clit,his right hand inserting two fingers in your velvety heat,pushing in and out in a slow rhythm.His dark stubble tickling your inner thighs mixed in with the slight pain from his bite.

“Mmm… ya taste like sin, Songbird,” he growled, licking deeper, “and I swear,I’ll never get enough of this sweet little pussy.”

Remmick groaned against your soaked flesh, the vibration sending shock waves through you. His tongue worked faster now,more ravenous, more desperate...lapping and sucking like a man starved for divinity.

You cried out, back arching, hips rolling down against his face as the rhythm of his mouth and fingers pushed you higher.

“F-fuck—Remmick!” you gasped, fingers clawing into his hair. “Don’t stop—please, don’t you dare stop—”

He moaned at your plea like it fed him, fingers curling inside you just right, his lips locked to your clit with unrelenting purpose.

“That’s it,Aingeal ,” he growled between licks. “Let go for me. Cum on my tongue—I want all of it.”

Your breath came in broken gasps, thighs trembling around his head, that sweet pressure building fast,too fast,until it snapped. You came with a loud, shaking moan, crying out his name as your walls clenched around his fingers, your body shuddering beneath the weight of it.Squirting out your nectar which he so gracefully licked up,drool cascading his lower jaw.

But even as you collapsed back against the vanity, dazed and glowing, he didn’t stop.

“Told you,” he murmured against your sensitive, soaked folds, voice dark with satisfaction, “once I start...I don’t stop.”

You were still trembling...slick, flushed, breathless,your legs barely able to hold you up against the vanity. But Remmick didn’t give you time to come down.

He rose slowly from between your thighs, licking your release from his lips with eyes still glowing blood-red. The sight alone made your breath hitch again.

“Mine,” he growled, voice rough with lust and something deeper. “You understand me, Songbird? This pussy—” his fingers dragged through your wetness, making you whimper, “—this body, these sounds you make? They all belong to me now.”

You could only moan in response, thighs trembling at the sheer force behind his words.

Remmick stepped back just slightly, only to begin undoing his shirt,slow, calculated, like he wanted you to watch. Each button slipped free with the sound of rising anticipation, exposing the strong cut of his chest, his defined collarbones, and the sharp lines that dipped toward his waistband.

“You’re not the only one that’s been aching,” he muttered, pulling the shirt off and tossing it to the floor. “Ya walk around in those little costumes, dancin like ya don’t know what ya do to me. Like you don’t feel my eyes on ya.”

You swallowed hard, still breathless, gaze locked on the defined muscles of his torso, the low trail of hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his slacks. He watched you watch him, and smirked like the devil he was.

“Ya keep lookin’ at me like that,” he said, undoing the button of his slacks with one hand, “and I’m gonna ruin ya right here. Right now. Ain’t nobody comin’ to save ya, Aingeal.”

His pants hit the floor, and your mouth went dry at the sight of him throbbing,hard, heavy, and already leaking for you.

He stepped forward again, grabbing your waist, and pulled you flush against him,skin to skin, heartbeat to hunger.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he whispered against your lips, voice dark and trembling with control he was seconds from losing. “Say it, and I’ll make ya feel it everywhere.”

“P-please… Remmick, I’m yours...all yours… just… take me…”

That was all he needed. His smirk deepened, devilish and dark, as he bared his full set of fangs,a silent promise of both danger and desire. The air between you crackled with tension, thick and electric, as he pressed closer, hands framing your waist with possessive strength.

His eyes locked onto yours, burning with an ancient hunger as he whispered against your lips, “You belong to me,Aingeal.”

Slowly, deliberately, he aligned himself with you, the heat of his body pressing into yours, every nerve in your skin alight. The world fell away,the only sound your ragged breaths and the steady beat of two hearts colliding.

Then, with a careful yet urgent motion, he entered you.

The sudden force of his thrust made the entire vanity jolt, the edge biting into your lower back as the mirror banged sharply against the wall. The rhythmic pounding echoed through the room, each brutal movement sending a jolt of pleasure so deep it made your breath break into ragged moans.

Your hands fumbled behind you, trying to hold onto anything...him, the slick surface of the vanity, your sanity,but it was slipping, slipping fast. The wood banged again, louder this time, in sync with the rhythm of his hips, every thrust a violent declaration.

“Remmick—oh, God—yes, yes!” you cried out, voice wrecked, your thighs trembling, nails dragging down his back as your body surrendered completely.

“Say it again,” he demanded, breath hot and heavy, “Say who ya belong to while I’m buried inside this perfect fuckin’ body.”

Remmick moved with purpose, each thrust a declaration, each touch a vow. His hands roamed your back, pulling you closer, as he buried himself deeper into your core. The ache in your hips was fire and desire wrapped into one, and your moans filled the space between you,raw, desperate, unrestrained.

“You’re mine,” he growled, voice thick with lust and possessiveness. “Every inch of ya.”

His eyes darkened to a stormy crimson as he claimed you with a force that stole your breath away. Without hesitation, Remmick thrust deep and hard, the sharp heat of him filling you completely, setting every nerve ablaze. Your body arched instinctively into his relentless rhythm, breath catching in ragged moans that spilled from your lips.

“That’s it,Aingeal ,” he growled, voice thick with hunger and need. “You’re mine to take, mine to claim,mine to keep.”

You whimpered, lost in the fierce collision of pain and pleasure, the way his possessive hands gripped your hips like he was never letting go. His movements were brutal, demanding, like a predator marking his territory,unyielding and fierce.

His voice dropped lower, filled with a dark promise that sent a shiver down your spine.

“You’re made for m-me...to carry my mark, my blood, my legacy.”

Each thrust pushed deeper, more urgent, as if he was determined to bind you to him forever. Your moans grew louder, mingling with his low growls, filling the room with the sound of a desire that was as ancient as it was overwhelming.

Your breath hitched with every brutal thrust, your body trembling beneath his relentless rhythm. You clung to him, nails digging into the hard planes of his back as waves of pleasure and need crashed over you.

“Remmick,” you gasped, voice trembling but fierce, “fuck—don’t stop. I’m yours… take me deeper, make me yours.”

Your moans spilled out,loud and unrestrained,as the fire inside you burned hotter with each movement. Your hips pressed back against him, chasing that impossible edge, begging for more.

He growled low in response, eyes blazing with possession.

“That’s my Aingeal ,” he snarled, voice thick with raw hunger. “Made to bear my mark, to be mine in every way.”

You shuddered as his hands gripped you tighter, pulling you flush against his pounding heat.

“I want you to scream my name when I’m inside you, Songbird,” he demanded, voice a dark promise.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, breath ragged, voice urgent and dripping with desire:

“I will, Remmick—I’m yours. I’m all yours. Don’t stop. I need you to claim me.”

The room spun around you, the only truth the fire burning deep inside,the fierce, unbreakable bond forged in breathless moans and desperate whispers.

His thrusts grew more urgent, each one driving deeper, harder, setting your body aflame with need. You gasped and moaned, fingers clutching at him like a lifeline as waves of pleasure built in your core.

“Remmick,” you cried out, voice trembling with desperation, “please… don’t stop—I’m so close.”

His grip tightened, holding you firmly as he matched your rhythm with unrelenting passion. The room echoed with your gasps and his low growls, the heat between you rising to a fever pitch.

With a final, shuddering cry, your body tensed and released, a flood of pleasure crashing over you that left you breathless and trembling.Slick,white cream coats both of your inner thighs.

But he wasn’t finished.

Drawing back only slightly, Remmick’s eyes burned with dark desire as he pushed deeper, filling you completely, claiming you with a fierce possessiveness that stole your breath away.

“Mine,” he growled, voice thick and raw, “every last inch of ya.”

You trembled in his arms, the intensity of his presence overwhelming, the dark, hungry love of the vampire marking you as his forever.

As your climax began to ebb, Remmick’s fierce grip didn’t loosen. His breath was hot against your skin, his lips trailing a path up your neck with slow, torturous intent.

You shivered as his sharp fangs grazed your skin,then sank in, sending a jolt of fire pulsing through your veins.

The world blurred, your breath hitching in a mixture of pain and overwhelming pleasure. His crimson eyes locked onto yours one last time, filled with an ancient hunger and dark promise.

“Sleep now, my Aingeal ,” he whispered, voice soft and possessive, as the shadows pulled at the edges of your vision.

A/N:thank you for reading i'm gonna have at least 5 more smut fic released about Remmick and then soon start taking requests heheeh.Also fic was inspired by this song so listen while ya read my lil sinners tehee

#remmick smut #remmick x reader #sinners remmick #sinners 2025 #sinners fandom #prttylittlesinner posts #Spotify

469 notes · View notes

clockwayswrites · 1 month ago

Text

Dead on MAYn '25 Day 1: Jason meets Danny as a ghost.

cw: temporary character death, discussions of death

Danny didn’t know why any of them thought it would work. The first time had been a one in a million chance. He had lived. The one. This time, it was another of the other nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine possibilities.

He had died.

At least he had a grave this time.

Sure, it was a little surreal to be standing on the edge of it and watching the casket containing his dead body be lowered down, the sounds of sobbing friends and family around him, but he had a grave.

It was…. nice.

The fact that he didn’t really feel strongly about being dead bothered Danny a little, but that’s just the way it was. Maybe it was a ghost thing? Being half dead hadn’t bothered him too much either. It’s just… the way things were. Sure it sucked, and there were things he missed about being alive, but what could he do about it?

He had died.

The end.

Here lies Danny Fenton.

Beloved son, brother, and friend.

“No—no! Don’t put him in the ground, he’s not… he’s not dead! He’s just, he’s just… you’ll see. He’ll be back and—”

“Sam! Shut the fuck up!” Tucker snapped. He sounded angry in a way that Danny had never heard him before. “He’s dead! Jesus fucking Christ, he’s dead… and you killed him. He listened to you and now he’s dead! Why did we ever…”

Jazz wrapped her arm around his shoulders, pulling him close. Always the savior. “Hey, Tucker, it’s okay, come stand by us.”

But who saved her? She looked so pale all in black, like she was dead herself. Her red hair flames. Her eyes cold and empty.

“He’s not! He’s not…” Sam’s sobs turned muffled, drifted away.

Her parents were probably taking her away from the funeral, or at least towards the back of the surprisingly large crowd. Sam’s parents never did like him; he guessed that didn’t change even in death. Or maybe they just didn’t want Sam to make a scene.

Or maybe they were trying to keep her safe.

She had killed him, after all.

A little part of Danny wanted to go after her, to apologize for something that he hadn’t even done. He hadn’t tried to die. It just happened: nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine in a million. Why had that risk ever been worth it?

Was it love?

He had loved her once, he knew, in that reckless, fleeting way that only teenagers could love. Had she loved him back? Had she been unable to live without him? Had the risk been worth it?

Tucker was pressed against Jazz, their heads bowed together. Mom stood next to them, looking so small. Dad loomed, a hunched gargoyle of grief.

No.

No, the risk was never worth it.

What had she been thinking?

What had he?

“Amity Park gathers today to morn one of their own, taken too soon away from us,” Mr. Lancer started from where he stood behind the gravestone and next to the oversize photo of the Danny who once was.

Alive.

Danny slid into his gave, settled into the soft, damp earth, and closed his eyes.

For a time, Danny stayed in Amity Park—added another ghost to the slogan of ‘most haunted town in America’. It was hard. It was like without him, things fell apart. He’d never thought of himself as important before, but it was like he was some sort of linchpin.

At first, Danny was with his family a lot. It was home, after all. It was home with his stuff in his room that his parents wouldn’t go into and that Jazz spent too long in. Danny sat by her a lot as she held his NASA teddy bear tightly and told it about her day.

He stayed away when Jazz was with their parents. They only argued. About him. About his death. About their parents obsession to try and bring him back or talk to his ghost. Always about ghosts.

When his family argued, he visited Tucker. Tucker was different too. That laughing, vibrant guy that was Danny’s best friend was gone. This Tucker was angry and withdrawn. But Danny had to suppose that was fair. Tucker didn’t remember everything else—the before. No one but Sam did. Well, and the ghosts. All Tucker knew is that Sam had convinced Danny to walk right into his death for no reason.

It also didn’t help that a few weeks after his death, Tucker’s family started packing to move. His parents got jobs in another city. Another city in another state. It was better to be away from Amity Park and all the craziness, they had explained to Tucker. Tucker had then explained it to Danny’s grave while Danny sat silently and invisibly on the gravestone. Tucker was leaving—going to where Danny couldn’t follow.

Sam was gone too. Sent some where so that she could ‘get better’.

Or be less embarrassing to her family.

Danny didn’t think too much about it. In part, because he couldn't. The longer that he was dead, the more it was like his ties to life were slipping through his grasp. He felt sad about Sam—sad and angry and confused—but it was like a stray thought that sometimes came to his attention. Mostly he felt… apathetic.

Once Tucker moved way, Danny stopped thinking about his friend too. Even Jazz and his parents stopped holding his attention as their fighting petered out. Jazz had threatened to never speak to them again if they perused trying to contact Danny’s spirit. The risk of loosing both their children proved too much their parents. Last Danny had listened to Mom and Dad talking, they were even discussing going into green energy research. That would be good.

It also meant that Danny had to leave while the portal was still hooked up. It was troublingly easy to kiss Jazz’s forehead one last time. To brush his mother’s cheek. To rest a hand on his father’s shoulder. To say goodbye.

To leave.

The swirling green of the zone felt like coming home.

“Phantom, must you?” Clockwork asked wearily.

“Yes, I must,” Phantom answered with as prim an accent as he could manage. He was draped over a gear, letting it slowly tick down to his inevitable fall. “Because, my timeless friend, there is nothing to do around here.”

“Pandora—”

“Is in the middle of preparing for the tournament.”

Clockwork frowned. “Ghost Writer—”

“Is reorganizing his classification system. Dorathea is busy with ruling, Frostbite is too. Undergrowth I need to let cool off… there’s nothing to do,” Phantom said.

“Have you tried talking to the new ghost your age?”

“Of course I’ve—wait what? Who?!” Phantom dropped off the gear wheel and sped over to Clockwork, spiraling around the Ancient. “A ghost my age? A new ghost? Where are they? Do you think they’d want to talk?”

“I think that the only way to find out is to go talk to him,” Clockwork said dryly. “I believe that he has been lingering around the lighthouse.”

“Lighthouse! Got it, thanks CW, bye CW!” Phantom yelled as he sped off.

The lighthouse wasn’t one of Phantom’s usual haunts, but he could get he appeal of it. Somewhere isolated, up high, and built to be safe. Phantom gave the lighthouse a wide spiral, not wanting to scare the new ghost away.

“Hello? Clockwork said you were new!” Phantom called out. He ducked to avoid the beam of the light. “Anyone home?”

“Not my home,” someone said for somewhere.

“Oh, I mean, yeah, duh, just a saying. But don’t worry! You’ll start building your haunt soon. I can even help you with that. I scoped out all the spots when I started my own recently.”

Part of the dark shadows of the lighthouse seemed to practically peel away until the other ghost was standing there. He was short—shorter than Phantom even, and seemed to vanish even when Phantom was looking right at him.

“You died recently too?” he asked.

“Yep! I guess a few months ago? Time is weird here,” Phantom said with as shrug and drifted closer. “Anyways, I’m Phantom.”

“…Robin,” the other ghost said hesitantly. “I’m Robin.”

---

AN: I have a lot of feelings about the wish episode and Danny being turned into a halfa again. (No Sam ranting though, please, everyone is dumb when they're a high schooler.) I would love to add another two parts to this--but with getting sick I've not been able to. But maybe in time? Also, CW plotting? Noooooo, never. And go visit @deadonmayn to check out all the other entries!

#dp x dc #dead on main #deadonmayn25

517 notes · View notes

redhoodinternaldialectical · 4 months ago

Text

Counterintuitively, Jason trafficking drugs himself, and the way he treats drug dealers in general is actually one of the core reasons I do believe he has a real moral backbone.

In Lost Days we see him mention that he killed his small arms teacher because the smack he was dealing was poisoned. In Nightwing (2016) Annual #2 Jason is particularly violent towards their enemy because he cut his heroin with other substances, leading to his mother's first overdose. In Under the Red Hood, his most important rule is 'no selling to kids', and he is specifically employing people who do sell drugs to adults.

Playing a bit of Headcanon Jazz here - listening to the notes Jason doesn't play as much as the ones he does - It feels really notable to me that dealing drugs is not enough to get on Jason's shit list. On some level Jason thinks it's okay to deal drugs. Even more importantly: Jason doesn't at all imply that drug users are at fault - nor that they need to have the choice to use taken from them 'for their own good'. Heck, I can't remember any instance of him saying that doing drugs is a bad thing.

He has lived with and cared for someone struggling with an addiction that she died to, which would have made it really easy to take him in a 'no leniency, no tolerance, kill all drug dealers and burn all the crack so no one can smoke it' road. Yet that's the opposite of how he's operating.

And I'm putting all that together to get a Jason who firmly believes in harm reduction and that when it comes to drugs, people have a right to risk; they have a right to choose to use. I don't think it's too much further of a stretch to say that he thinks that those who do use should be supported by infrastructure ensuring that their drugs are uncut and properly dosed and that they should have safe places to use and well funded rehab options if they want to quit.

This whole thing is so important to me because it lies completely outside of his emotional conflict of 'I wasn't avenged'; it's proof that there was more to Jason's talk about running Gotham differently than simply killing people.

Factually, there are a huge number of criminal activities that could be used to improve the lives of vulnerable people.

I firmly believe that no government has the right to detain, imprison, deport, et.c. people fleeing violence and persecution in their country of origin. A criminal organization that genuinely had their best interest in mind who could provide access to new identities, jobs, housing, and paperwork for cheap could save and change hundreds of lives. Sex workers, especially survival sex workers who want to quit and move on to a new job, could benefit enormously from protection from the cops, and from landlords kicking them out, and the ability to get criminal charges purged from their records, and lots of other stuff. People who use street drugs need a lot of the same things, as do people who need access to medication but for whatever reason can't get prescriptions the legal way.

This is all stuff that is already a staple of organized crime - they just do it in ways that are insanely abusive and exploitative.

It makes sense that Jason would look at that and think he could make it work! Honestly I'd love to read a comic about him trying! He could be the pinnacle of Be Gay Do Crime! Sadly though, it's very unlikely we ever will, especially because his term as a drug lord was so incredibly short to begin with. Under the Red Hood, a tiny snippet of Robin (1993) and Green Arrow (2001) #69 - #72 is really all we get, and none of those really got into the politics of his organization either.

Tho, there is a tiny snippet we possibly see in Seeing Red, my favorite Jason run ever, and I will take any excuse to talk about it so here we go lol!

This is a comic in which Batman gets some things wrong about Jason, and might be straight up lying to Green Arrow in places too, so I don't think we can take his word for it when he says Jason is driving up the trade. Especially not when Jason hasn't given a single flying fuck about collecting wealth for himself in basically any other appearance ever.

Is he using drugs as a trading good to some capacity? Yes, that's a minor plot point here, however, I think justice is very present in his reasoning. I think Jason is being selective with which shipments he's keeping - testing each and destroying the stuff that's extra dangerous, making sure that what's getting used is as safe as it can be. Plus, he might be reducing the supply so that drug trade can't expand, while considering complete elimination to be flatly undesirable, since it could force users to go cold turkey, something that can be dangerous, or at least very painful.

Now, obviously this is still headcanon territory, we never really see into Jason's head about this specific topic, but I do feel like it's a reasonable way to fill in that gap!

Anyways, this is why I've never felt like Jason's disagreements with Bruce's methods were purely about his own emotional desires. There's too much else surrounding that which he clearly also cares about.

#jason todd #damian's tomfoolery #very awkward ending but oh well lol

757 notes · View notes

mokulule · 4 months ago

Text

Haunt is where the Heart is

Fandom: DP x DC Ship: Dead on Main (Jason/Danny)

Summary: Danny is down on his luck. He meets Jason. Both of them are a bit weirded out by their own behavior, but it works out in the end.

Chapter 1

Danny sighed and rubbed his forehead tiredly. He leaned on his elbows at the tiny kitchen counter in his one room apartment. He crumbled up the final notice in his hand.

He was out of options. Damn Skulker just had to find a way to Amity when he’d just managed to find a job willing to give him a chance and that was that; he was out of a job before he even got his first pay check, whatever he had earned was deducted to cover the damages.

It was a week ago they turned off the utilities and in two days he was out of an apartment entirely.

He slid down on the cold floor and looked up at the mold that had started to creep in on the ceiling after the tenant above him had a broken pipe.

Dread coiled in his stomach in a way that had nothing to do with the mold or the cold or the fact he’d charged his phone at the library the last week because he had no power and everything to do with the thought that he might have to move back home.

Home, a house wired to kill him the rest of the way… He shuddered at his core at being back there, always alert, never knowing what tweaks his parents had made to the defense systems and whether they remembered to make an exception for his oddly high ecto-signature.

But what choice did he have?

His parents would be delighted, they still didn’t understand why he moved out. Especially not for that sad excuse for a flat. Especially not when he could follow in the family footsteps. They didn’t require a high school diploma from him after all. He could just hear his mom: really Sweetie, it is for the best.

He could help reassemble the portal, for some reason they just couldn’t seem to get it working.

He closed his eyes wishing himself away. To Sam and Tucker who were thousands of miles away and not even in the same direction, but he had asked them to follow their dreams. To Jazz who used to serve as a buffer between him and their parents.

Maybe he should have broken the portal from the inside, stayed in the ghost zone instead of this.

He should have left Amity when he had the chance, should have found a new haunt, but what if ghosts found a crack to slip through? Like Skulker had done. And well, now he couldn’t afford it.

His thoughts circled back to home, and he held himself tightly. He couldn’t go back there. But Amity was too small or rather the Fenton’s were too known for him to be homeless, it would be noticed.

He just didn’t have a viable solution.

Oo o oO

Five days later he sat in a diner at a rest stop a little way out of Amity, thinking if he widened his job search to outside the city perhaps he could find someone who would give him a job. With the ability to fly it wasn’t like the commute was a problem.

Officially he’d moved the few belongings from the apartment back to his parents house, but he’d yet to sleep there. He just couldn’t get himself to do so. Every moment in that house he was on high alert, and after trying for hours that first night he’d finally relented to his body’s need to get the fuck away and found an open box of packing peanuts in a warehouse to crash in - the fact that Danny kinda missed Boxy had been the topping on a very long day.

His parents didn’t understand Danny’s need to look for a job, but at least they hadn’t been overly insistent on keeping him at home.

He turned the page in Elmerton Times scanning the job listings for something without unreasonable expectations. Why did a cleaning job require three years of experience? Also did cleaning his parents’ biohazard of a lab since he was eight count?

With a frown he noted it down as a maybe.

The door opened and a young man looking to be around Danny’s age walked in drawing Danny’s attention, though at first he couldn’t tell why…

Sure he looked well enough aesthetically: fit, broad shouldered - but if a pair of muscled shoulders and a nice ass was all it took to draw Danny’s attention Dash would have been a contender. The leather jacket and motorcycle helmet was cool, but it reminded Danny of Valerie.

Really, Danny wouldn’t normally be staring at a stranger at all like this. He’d realized a couple of years ago that his crush on Paulina was just because everyone else was doing it, and young teen Danny had been desperate to fit in.

So what was it that made him stare?

The stranger turned his head revealing a lock of snow white hair in his bangs he was definitely too young for. He narrowed his eyes at Danny and Danny’s eyes widened in turn before he was quick to look down at the newspaper and his by now cold coffee.

Tension wound up his spine when booted steps approached his table ominously. Danny couldn’t decide what he was feeling. Embarrassment for staring? Fear? Excitement?

The stranger cleared his throat and spoke in a surprisingly pleasant voice.

“Can I sit here?”

Danny looked up with wide eyes, gaze running over the subtle lines that to his eyes clearly held concealed weapons before settling on the man’s face. There was a deceptively friendly smile on his lips, but his blue-green eyes were hard and assessing. A gruesome scar scar ran from the corner of his upper lip all the way up the left side of his face - Danny quickly focused back on his eyes before shrugging.

“Sure.”

Danny purposely went back to the newspaper noting down another maybe as the stranger sat dow across him, bumping Danny’s knees with his long denim clad legs. Danny’s heart sped up in his chest for no determinable reason.

“Looking for work?”

Danny looked up then looked pointedly back at the paper open on the job section. “Geh, what gave it away?”

He got a smirk in response that was more genuine than the earlier smile and his own lips tugged up in response.

“Guess, I asked for that.”

The waitress came over with a big plate of still steaming scrambled eggs, sausage, and bacon as well as a cup of coffee. Danny couldn’t help eyeing the plate. When was the last time he had such a substantial meal?

“I’ll have another of those,” the stranger told the waitress indicating the plate before pushing it across to Danny rumpling the paper in the process.

Danny looked at him surprised. He was about to open his mouth - to protest or thank him? He wasn’t entirely sure - but he got waved off.

“None of that. Just eat. You look like you need it.”

Danny frowned thoughtfully, but decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. At the first bite he moaned and leaned back as the greasy food hit the spot in his stomach.

The stranger let him eat for a while. He was observing Danny with a peculiar frown on his face every time Danny stole a glance at him. It didn’t take long for his own plate of food to arrive and Danny was glad for the distraction. Could it be that for some reason Danny was just as interesting to the stranger as the stranger inexplicably was to Danny?

Finally Danny pushed the plate away.

“So looking for work?” The stranger tried again after a moment of silence.

“I’m not doing anything illegal,” Danny said firmly crossing his arms and leaning back.

The man barked a short laugh in surprise.

“What makes you think I’d involve you in anything illegal?”

Danny’s gaze flicked pointedly to the barest outlines of the hidden weapons, before he raised an eyebrow.

“Point,” the stranger grinned tapping a finger thoughtfully on the table. What Danny would give to know what went through his head. Then he offered a hand towards Danny for a handshake.

Danny suspiciously took the glowed hand in his own and gave it a firm squeeze.

“Jason.” The stranger gave his name expectantly, and Danny felt compelled to offer his own, it was only polite.

“Danny.”

“Nice to meet you.” He said as he let Danny go.

“Remains to be seen.”

He grinned again at Danny’s sass. After a moment he pursed his lips thoughtfully before finally speaking.

“So here’s the deal. I’m moving back to my hometown and I’m looking for a roommate slash housekeeper to take care of the apartment when I’m gone since I travel a lot.”

Danny blinked in surprise. Then narrowed his eyes.

“I’m not having sex with you either.”

That stumped this Jason character, and Danny could believe the idea had not even occurred to him. That was at least one point in his favor and Danny relented.

“You gotta realize how weird and creepy this is? So what’s going on? We don’t know eachother.”

“I don’t-“ Jason rubbed his forehead, then leaned back almost as if taking a step back considering his actions. Hesitantly he said, “You seem a bit down on your luck, and I really could use someone to live in the apartment when I’m not around. A mostly empty apartment is easy pickings for break-ins. And it is big enough.”

He tilted his head, somehow the green in his eyes looked more pronounced when the light hit them like that. “And you seem trustworthy, somehow.”

“Well you don’t.”

He outright laughed at that. He really was nice to look at when he smiled, Danny mused. It made him look his age, took away the hard calculation in his gaze. Made him look less like some kind of hitman - which was Danny’s current theory as to Jason’s profession.

And - Danny supposes - there were worse jobs than being a live-in housekeeper to a hitman as long as he kept Danny out of his work. For one it would solve his housing situation - and just the thought that he was gonna have to go home to his parents' house at the end of the day to make an appearance crawled like skittering insects down his spine.

Once Danny was out somewhere more stable, he could also look for something new.

It didn’t solve his worry about the ghosts coming to Amity despite the portal being shut down, but while Jason did not at all ping Danny as trustworthy, there was still that something that drew Danny’s attention. Something he knew would eat at him if he left things at this.

“Okay, so say I agree, what then?”

Jason blinked in surprise clearly at this point not expecting Danny to agree - that made two of them.

“Uh, I suppose I give you the address. It’s in Gotham. You could ride with me, but you probably need to pack. Do you need funds for travel?”

He was already reaching inside his leather jacket and pulling out a roll of cash. Danny started laughing because this whole situation was ridiculous.

“I’m sorry,” he said, placatingly holding up a hand and trying to stop laughing, “I just can’t believe I’m doing this.“

Jason huffed. “I will give you that the entire situation is odd."

Their eyes met, two pairs of blue with a hint of hidden green. Danny couldn't help the smile that spread his lips. Jason rolled his eyes, but Danny could see him fighting a smile of his own.

Hitman or not, Jason seemed an okay sort - and, Danny mused, when taking a leap of faith it was a big advantage that one could fly.

Alternatively how early days Red Hood acquired a protector spirit for the fallback safehouse where he actually keeps his belongings.

Okay so I don't know when I will continue this, the future of this fic is still pretty vague in my head it's mostly like a mood of ace-spectrum Danny and Jason occasionally living together while Jason prepares to and eventually does upend the Gotham criminal underworld and everything goes up in fire.

Anyways, did you like it? Thoughts?

Edit: now with a masterpost you can subscribe to

#dp x dc #dead on main #haunt is where the heart is

576 notes · View notes

demonic0angel · 4 months ago

Note

anger management meet cute:

"Would mind doing me a favor. I'm having the worst blind date. Could you help me end it by pretending to be my obsessive, crazy ex and scaring them off?"

Jason stared at the beautiful girl in front of him. She looked at him earnestly, quickly glancing backwards at the bathroom, presumably where her date had gone, leaving her alone at the dinner table.

He blinked. “How’re you not sure that he just ran off while in the bathroom?”

She cringed, with a small shiver of disgust. “I think he wants to bring me home first.”

Jason also cringed. Damn. He gave a sigh and then nodded. “Alright, I’ll step out of the place and when I see him coming back, I’ll come in and drive him off, okay?”

She beamed, a sigh of relief leaving her as she took his hand and squeezed it. “Thank you. I know we’ve never met before, but I appreciate you doing this for me.” Her smile was small, but genuine and breathtakingly beautiful. Her hand was cool in his, but he could only feel the heat spreading through him as he flushed. (Honestly, whoever that stupid fuck was who disrespected her deserved to die.)

“Uh. No problem. My name’s Jason.”

“Jazz,” she said with a beam. With that, he quickly exited the cafe, rubbing his chest where his heart was doing backflips and somersaults. This was like something straight out of a novel and his face felt hot. Still, he quickly calmed himself down and tried to pretend like it was a mission. He took glimpses every once in a while into the window, watching Jazz fidget and look nervous until he spotted a man leaving the bathroom area and approach her, sitting down at the table with a swagger.

He said something that Jazz seemed to laugh nervously at, and then he reached over to touch her hair.

Yep. Showtime.

Jason slammed the door open and burst into hysterical laughter.

“Hah! I fucking knew it! I knew you were with some worthless bastard!”

Jazz and her unwanted date jumped. “J-Jason!” She said, though her tone was a little too relieved. (She was too cute.) Thankfully, her date didn’t notice.

“W-What the—?!”

Jason unsheathed his gun with a furious smile. “Didn’t I tell you, Princess? I told you that if you tried to leave me, I’ll kill whoever looks at you and then I’ll kill you too.”

Jazz pursed her lips, but didn’t look scared. Jason catalogued that reaction and focused on what she was saying.

“Jason! Please— he’s not part of this. You don’t want to go back to jail, remember?”

“Who said I’m going back to jail?” Jason said, approaching the table while keeping the gun pointed towards her date. Everyone else scrambled away with some panic, but everyone knew that Gothamites were crazy when in love, so they just watched warily. “We’re dying together, gorgeous. ‘Til death do us part, right? After killing this bastard, you and I are going to hell together, Princess.”

Jazz then blushed and then looked at her date, mouthing, “Leave.” Then she turned to Jason and said in a soothing tone, “I’m sorry, Jay, I just… uh, I just wanted to test something out. I’m still with you, dearest. Just let him leave, okay? He didn’t do anything wrong.”

Jason raised an eyebrow, cocking his gun. “Tch. Fine. He better be gone in 3… 2…”

The man quickly scrambled away. Jason watched him run out of the cafe screaming like a little bitch, before he pocketed his gun and then sat down in the empty seat across from Jazz. He waved a waiter, who nearly bolted over to their table to get his order.

Jazz blinked. “You’re staying?”

“Of course, Princess,” he smirked at the way she ducked her head down with a heavy blush. “‘Til death do us part. I’ll pay for dinner this time.”

Everyone stared at Jazz with horror and bewilderment, but she just giggled and said, “Thank you, Jason. I’d really like that.”

#dpxdc #dcxdp #dp x dc #dc x dp #danny phantom x dc #dp x dc crossover #ask #anon ask #jazz fenton #jason todd #anger management ship #hardcover ship #jason x jazz #its not that jazz would like to be killed but dying together sounds great to her lmaooo #theyre freaks your honor #ty for the ask!

466 notes · View notes

delusionsofgrandeur13 · 5 months ago

Text

good old-fashioned lover boy

a valentines weekend event fic!

jason todd x reader: ever the romantic: despite all his best attempts, none of his valentine’s day plans are going right!

content level: fluff so fluffy you could make a bed out of it and sleep for days

“with what..i most enjoy contented least..” jason shakes his head, pacing around the living room. “yet..in these thoughts? myself almost despising..c’mon, already!” he keeps muttering to himself, and from your position in the hallway, he looks extremely frustrated. you stifle a giggle, stepping out.

“jay?” you call, smiling warmly as you head his way.

“baby!” he starts, looking surprised. he puts up what look like jazz hands, before looking at his pose and dropping them, sheepish. “what’s up?”

“oh, nothing..” you plop onto the couch, pulling out your phone, waving it at him. “i did just get off of the phone with your brother, and he’s taking barbara on a little getaway. isn’t that sweet?”

jason nods, his whole demeanor having changed since the mention of dick. he waves for you to continue. because of course there’s more.

“well, he was wondering if we’d be able to dogsit haley.” you drop the news, almost cringing in anticipation of jason’s hard:

“no.”

“jay, why not? that dog is so stinkin’ cute and i have no problem with it.” he plops down next to you on the couch, and you blink up at him. “besides, it’s for valentine’s day! spread a little love!”

jason grabs your thigh, smirking. “oh, i’ll spread a little love, alright.”

“not if you’re gonna be this stubborn.” you roll your eyes, whacking his arm.

he sighs as you get up to go to the kitchen, dramatic as ever.

“fine.” he relents, and internally you let out a sigh of your own.

“good, because i already told him yes.”

your admission leaves jason groaning, but a small smile sits on his lips.

a few months prior:

“these ones, right?” the clerk looks up as packets upon packets of seeds tumble onto the checkout counter. she sets down her magazine, mumbling under her breath.

“camellia, tulips, coneflower, lily of the valley..” she shuffles through them, nodding as she goes. “yep, these should all work!”

“okay.” jason nods firmly. “i want all of them.”

february 13

haley’s happy barks are making you giggle, and jason suddenly can’t remember why he was ever opposed to the idea. if there’s an open tab on his search engine for the nearest shelter, well. that’s no one’s business but his.

you’re infatuated with haley, and jason snapped a ridiculous amount of pictures when you fell asleep on the couch with the dog snuggled up next to you.

later

you walk in as jason’s opening and closing the cabinets in the kitchen, a bit frantically.

“okay, flour, baking soda, sugar..”

“hey, baby. whatcha doing?”

jason jumps, turning around with a smile.

“hi honey! nothing, really. what are you doing?” he leans against one of the counters.

“uh..nothing? do you still want to go try that new pizza spot?” you walk up to him, resting your head on his chest and threading your arms under his. he wraps you up into a hug, walking you away from the kitchen. you giggle, your smile scrunching up your eyes.

“jay, where are we going?”

“why, to go get ready, of course?” he says, playing serious.

even later

you’re scrolling on your phone, looking for gifts for your boyfriend for valentine’s day, when he pops his head into the bedroom.

“i’m going to head out to the store, babe. do you need anything?”

you cock your head, sort of confused. you and jason almost always go get groceries together, unless one of you is at work or something. you set your phone down, thinking.

“the only thing i can think of is that we might be running a little low on eggs?”

jason nods, coming in to plant a big kiss on your forehead.

“sounds good,” he says, grabbing his jacket as he walks out. you settle back into bed, eyebrows furrowed. weird.

february 14th

“damn it, damian!” jason hoarsely growls from your apartment’s balcony, eyes locked on his flower pots. (or what was left of them) he’d gotten up early to get everything ready, and there was a batarang lodged into his pot, the flowers—he leaned over the railing—yup, on the sidewalk. great. now he’d have to buy you a store bought bouquet. which is fine, but seriously? he has half a mind to send a bill to bruce, he’s so pissed off. he didn’t even realize they were fighting over here last night, how could he not have heard?

he trudges down to the street with a garbage bag, carefully picking up the flowers—which had already been stepped on, to add insult to injury—handfuls of dirt, and the broken shards of the pot, dropping them all into the bag. an elderly woman strolls by, patting him on the back.

“such a nice young man!” she calls after him. he nods, raising a hand in acknowledgement. he doesn’t feel very nice right now.

jason cannot believe his ears right now. his voice is..gone? he spent weeks memorizing that sonnet for you, and his voice is a raspy, gravelly mess. you two had slept with the window open last night and it’d been pretty cold, but you liked that. he liked it, because the you’d snuggle up next to him. but he must be starting to get a cold or something. he hasn’t really talked yet today either, he’s been home alone while you’re at work. so far he’s just talked to the dog..which went extremely poorly. he tried to give haley a command, but just sounded like a teenager in puberty. he just knows if dogs could laugh, haley would’ve been cackling. ugh. maybe he’ll just save it for an anniversary. tying on an apron, jason grabs all the cake ingredients he needs, setting them out onto the counter.

the cake is baked, and it is beautiful. jason’s proud of himself, putting the final touches on the frosting, adding flourishes he didn’t even know he knew how to do. he sets down the piping bag, checking the time. you should be home from work anytime now. he takes his apron off, washing his hands. his shirt is..covered in flour, to say the least. he goes the bedroom to change, (into a different black shirt) coming back out when he sees disaster about to strike.

“haley, no!” jason shouts, except the dog can’t hear him if he’s lost his voice. haley jumps up, grabbing the end of the plate with her teeth. it bangs against the side of the counter, effectively flinging the cake across the room, onto the kitchen floor. jason slaps a hand over his eyes, groaning. the familiar metal of your key slots into the lock, and you open the door to…

what exactly is going on, anyways?

jason has a smear of what looks like flour on his face, haley is sitting, looking at you with her tongue out and her tail wagging, and there’s a cake. on the floor.

“jay..what?” you set down your bag, shrugging your coat off and dropping that too, heading towards your boyfriend. “what happened, baby?”

“i was trying,” jason sighs. “i was trying to make you a cake for valentine’s day. and grow you flowers. and recite shakespeare to you. but quite literally none of those things worked out.”

you smile, sending his heart thumping as you brush the flour off of his cheek.

“well, i don’t know about you, but i’m starving. and there’s some cake on the floor over there that looks, like, really good.”

jason rolls his eyes at you, a smile starting on his lips. you grab two forks, handing him one. he joins you on the floor, watching as you take a huge first bite. your cheeks puffed, you chew with wide eyes. jason chuckles, grabbing some for himself too. you swallow, grabbing his hand.

“jason. i don’t know how to tell you this, but you need to quit everything you’re doing and become a professional baker. this cake is insane.” you take another bite, sighing as you close your eyes.

“you’re ridiculous.” jason’s blushing, shaking his head. you shrug, scooping cake up and bringing your fork to his lips.

“yeah, but you like it.” you say as he nods, chewing. he swallows, beaming at you.

“happy valentine’s day, baby.”

“happy valentine’s day, jason.”

༄ For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings

That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

from sonnet 29, william shakespeare.

post divider courtesy of: @saradika-graphics

756 notes · View notes

swiggity-swexual-i-am-asexual · 1 year ago

Text

Basically, it’s discovered that to help stabilize Danielle, aka Ellie, it’d be best to have her be smaller. She refused to be turned into a kid by Frostbite/her own power ability, when Danny remembered the shrink ray his parents made. The side effect is that they’re kind of stuck as humans when they’re that small—they can use some ghost powers, but basically, it’s a weird side effect of the shrink ray. That’s canon, by the fucking way, lmao

Anyways, so Ellie agrees, and Danny will shrink himself with the ray to her size to help her out when needed/when she wants company her size, with Jazz, Sam, and Tucker occasionally helping out. Sam buys one of those really ornate Victorian dollhouses, with wooden everything, and Danny does some… renovations… so that it no longer opens and is a proper house. There’s still some oddities because it’s a dollhouse originally, but it was easier and faster to give her a home. One of the first additions was a water/wastewater system, followed like two hours later by an electrical system. Since it was so small, Danny was able to do it fairly quickly in his big size, occasionally going small and using the small window for using his powers to double check on things.

The water system had to be refilled every week, unless hooked up to a plumbing system in a house, which Danny made some outlets for in Jazz’s room—it was easier and had significantly less questions/didn’t stand out as much if placed in Jazz’s room. They usually did it every three days, though, as the plug-in process was still a bit… hinky. The tanks for holding the water were in the ‘basement’, which was mostly inaccessible from the inside of the dollhouse but basically looked like a big stand the dollhouse stayed on. Like someone ripped a full house out of the ground WITH the basement attached. There was a small access hallway down some stairs in the house for the clean water system, though.

The electric system was fairly simple, as it didn’t cost much energy to light a dollhouse and heat/cool water. There was an AC unit, Ellie’s request, but it hardly was used and was fairly efficient just due to pure size. It was fueled by ecto batteries, which Danny made sure had a few rechargability options—just because it was efficient energy didn’t mean it didn’t ever need recharging. There was a very small ecto filter, but due to its relative small size, was easy to clean and was fairly stable, so they had a whole closet of them just chilling out, both filled and empty. The battery itself could be charged by ecto sources, Danny’s own blood, or ambient ectoplasm gained by using something that looked like a solar panel and a satellite dish had a child that the batter could be placed in. The hookup also allowed for like… normal D cell batteries.

They would buy dollhouse furniture, and occasionally just buy the big version then shrink it down. Ellie had a huge old house to herself, basically, might as well go ham. And she had a fun time with the designer doll clothes Sam liked to get, although the cheap doll clothes from the store were also fun. Best option was just buying normal clothes and shrinking them, but using things that were already small or just making stuff using normal sized objects was fun.

At some point, though, the Fenton siblings decide to go on a trip. Ellie begs to be taken along, and Jazz agrees—there’s a doll showcase in Gotham, and Jazz wanted to see if anything caught Ellie’s interest. Danny, having a room in the dollhouse himself, also went along. Might as well make it a sibling’s trip, right?

Ellie can be full size for small chunks of time, which they did while exploring the expo. They found some cool things to add, and some doll clothes Ellie was far too interested in trying on, as well as some to force on Danny later. He sighed, but like—that’s his little cousin-sister, he’d put up with it. After all, he learned how to plumb an entire (miniature) house in two days when she refused to move in until it had a fully functional bathroom, so.

Anyways!

They have a fun time, and sure, lugging the relatively giant dollhouse was a PAIN, but it was Ellie’s home, and some stabilizing tech made it relatively safe to move without risking everything freaking breaking. They load everything in again, and the dollhouse is now restocked with clothes, tiny furniture, and a lot of shrunken supplies—some foods are just hard to work with full size, and are easier to shrink, okay? Also soap, paper goods, pencils and pens, books, etc. Jazz loads the thing into her car, and Danny offers to stay with Ellie in the dollhouse—so Jazz gets them in, and shrinks them down, holding onto the shrink ray in the meantime.

All is going relatively well in Gotham traffic until there’s a rogue attack.

Go figure.

Jazz ends up unconscious, and Danny and Ellie can’t do anything before the rogue is taken care of and a paramedic team comes up. They hide back in the dollhouse, listening as the medics say she seems to be okay, just unconscious. A relief, but now they’re taking Jazz away. Fenton luck states she’s one of the few actually injured. The Bat Brigade comes by, and Batman notices that there’s a wallet for one Danny Fenton. Red Robin confirms that Jazz was likely here with at least two other people, based on the ticket stubs for the expo. However, there is a strange lack of social media presence, Danny doesn’t have a photo ID, and there’s no way of knowing for SURE that it was just Danny with her, if it was just two other people, or if Danny was in the car with her. Still, as they can’t find him but DO have his sister and his wallet, they assume he might be missing, possibly kidnapped.

The Gotham PD of course take in the car, although it’s pretty trashed. Knowing well and good that the dollhouse and such things are actually quite expensive, Commissioner Gordon mentions that it wouldn’t be a bad idea for Batman to maybe hold onto the Fenton’s things that *aren’t* related to the investigation.

Batman just takes everything. Including a rather peculiar looking gun that seems to have sustained some damage during the attack and car crash.

Gordon sighs. Figures.

So, Danny and Ellie end up in Wayne Manor. Most of the things end up in the Batcave, but Alfred insists that they place the doll things upstairs in the manor proper—the cave isn’t *that* damp, but doll things are small and delicate. So, upstairs they go.

At first, it’s fine. Danny and Ellie are fine in the dollhouse, and it’ll be at least a week before any of the systems NEED to be worked with.

Then Ellie ends up with a massive migraine. She gets them, on occasion, a sort of growing pain. Usually, they just shrink some medicine for her as she needs it, because she’s like—twelve. While they did have some medicine that had been pre-shrunk, when they were stocking up in Gotham, it turns out pain medicine was more expensive there. Not by much, but they figured—they’ll just stock up in Amity Park, they’ll be there in two days.

Haha. Nope.

So, Danny finally has to venture out. He lucks into finding the first aid kit—why there was one in the main living room, he’s not sure—and is currently working on trying to get open the blister packet of an ibuprofen when Alfred finds him.

Alfred stares at this tiny boy with a tiny make-shift knife trying to get into… over the counter pain medication.

Danny stares at this butler guy who had very gently cleaned the outside and noted the strange fact that the dollhouse did not open.

Danny waves at Alfred.

Alfred waves a tiny finger back.

“Hello,” Alfred says softly, which is fantastic because loud noises could get painful—part of the reason for Ellie’s headache was an argument between Tim and Damian. “How do you do?”

Danny hesitates, before he makes an exaggerated so-so gesture.

“You understand me?”

Danny nods—it’s rare for people to understand what he’s saying when he’s 5 inches tall.

“How wonderful,” Alfred smiles. “And how can I help our young guest tonight?”

Danny gestures to the blister packet.

“Pain medication? Isn’t that a little bit large for you.”

The teen thinks for a second on how to communicate. He points to the pill, then makes a slight show of pretending to grind something, like a mortar and pestle.

Thankfully, Alfred got the idea. “Would it be easier if I ground it up for you?”

Danny takes a moment to think before accepting with an enthusiastic nod.

“Very well,” Alfred says, taking the blister packet in one hand. He then hold his other out, palm up, like a platform. “Would you like to come with me?”

Danny ‘his survival instincts died when he did’ Fenton gets into Alfred’s hand.

Alfred grinds up the pill into a fine powder. Danny hands him a tiny bottle—still large in Danny’s hands, as it was not a shrunk bottle—that he had tied around his waist. Alfred fills it, and hands it back.

“I assume you came from the tiny house we have in our living room?”

Danny again nods. Alfred takes him there, setting him down outside the front door. Danny bows, and sure it’s Japanese as hell, and he’s white as all get out, but it’s a generally understood gesture of thanks. He hopes.

Alfred understands it just fine. “I bid you goodnight, then. Perhaps we will talk more, when you are feeling better?”

Danny hesitates, again, but he nods. Alfred had been nice enough, so far.

Danny heads in, quickly measuring out the medicine—shrunk pressure plates and scales and weights made what it was measuring relative—to him the weights on the hand balance scale felt the same weight. Ellie got her medicine, and they both went back to sleep.

He told her in the morning what happened. Ellie was strangely gung-ho about meeting this butler guy, and so—when no one else was around—, she and Danny went onto the tiny balcony as Alfred came in to dust.

“Oh my,” he said. “There’s two of you, now. Should I expect more?”

Both of them did an exaggerated ‘no’ dance.

“Very well, I don’t believe I’ve introduced myself. I’m Alfred Pennyworth, the family butler. Welcome to Wayne Manor.”

#dp x dc #dpxdc #dc x dp #danny phantom #prompt #I’m clearing out my notes and idk if I’ll continue this but figured it worked out well for a prompt?#do as you will

2K notes · View notes