#because the audience needs it. because he needs it. because the show is called the bear and the bear is devouring himself right now

[miscalculatedsheep]

Noah Mullins on their neurodivergence and Orpheus

Question: "I want to know, when you were rehearsing, there's some bits that make the audience giggle. Did you think that was gonna happen? Just like little things like 'did you hear me call your name' or something and you’re like 'no.'"

"That's been really interesting. I always bring this back because it's just so relevant in my show, but I am neurodiverse. And so when I was a kid, I had this weird thing – and I promise this is relevant – I had this weird thing that when I was in school, if someone was laughing at something that I was doing, it was because I thought they were laughing at me, not with me. So when we got into the rehearsal room, I had made it really clear in my head that Orpheus was on the spectrum, of some kind, and I was really holding on to that. And so when we needed those moments of laughter, I really struggled at first. I was like, I just don't want people laughing at him. It just would break my little self's heart if that was the case. And so it took a second, I'm not gonna lie, I was missing the beat a lot in rehearsals, and it was our directors and everybody kind of nudging me in the right direction, getting what they needed out of it, because we need a laugh in this show. It's too much. And so what I ended up finding was for me, Orpheus in Act I is deeply unmasked. Right? He's just existing, he just does whatever. And when I'm unmasked, I'm so funny. You know what I'm saying? It's like I might not even be trying to be funny, but it'll just, you know, it's quirky, it's something interesting, and it's actually not something that people are laughing at, it's just like, how cute is this moment? Or whatever it is. And it took me a second to actually be okay with that in myself. And so once I got to the other side of it, it was a really healing process to just be okay being more myself. And so then when you get into Act II, Orpheus is very masked. So all of that kind of stuff starts to go away a little bit, he's a little bit less funny in Act II. But I love those moments now because I've accepted that being unmasked is a really beautiful thing and something we can all celebrate. And that's what that laughter means to me now but it took a second, I'm not gonna lie."

From ENCORE: EP 21: Abigail Adriano & Noah Mullins' mythical love story, 1 Jun 2025

[the-most-humble-blog]

<div style="white-space:pre-wrap"> <meta villain-integrity="final-boss-coded"> <script> ARCHIVE_TAG="THE_SHREDDER::SLAUGHTERHONOR_VS_MOUSEMORALS" EFFECT: retro myth-making, masculine psycho-coding, shellshocked nostalgia overload </script>

🛡️ BLACKSITE SCROLLTRAP — I Don't Care What the Rat Says. Shredder Didn't Give a F==k.

---

Hello again, children of nostalgia. This one’s for the boys who remember Saturday morning violence as theology. This one’s for the girls who secretly preferred the villain’s voice. This one’s for the men who still carry Shredder’s ghost in their jawline.

Let’s talk about the only ninja warlord who ever mattered.

Before social justice ninjas. Before therapy-coded villains. Before corporations started putting trauma in every backstory like it was soy in protein bars.

Shredder didn’t care about your feelings.

He didn’t blink. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t ask for a flashback.

He was here to shred bloodlines and leave orphans. Not resolve anything. Not teach a lesson.

He showed up for violence and legacy. The two most masculine religions on earth.

—

Now picture this:

Your criminal empire is dissolving. Your top soldier got body-slammed by a skateboarding turtle. And the only being who still knows your fighting style is a f**king rat living in piss water with four reptilian TikTok-aged sons.

Do you back down?

Do you log off?

Do you cry?

No.

You climb a rooftop.

In full chrome armor.

Knowing you're about to die.

And you fight four mutant martial artists — not with gadgets or tech — but with rage, precision, and the ghost of feudal Japan pulsing through your blood.

He didn’t use poison. Didn’t ambush. Didn’t whine about fairness.

He walked into the moonlight like a villain carved from black steel and said:

> “Let’s f**king go.”

—

Shredder didn’t ask for justice. He embodied vengeance without explanation.

Did he lose? Of course.

That’s why he’s mythic.

He died in a trash compactor. Like a war god fed to the machine. It took New York’s full mutant might to put him down.

Even his defeat was more cinematic than 90% of Disney finales.

—

Let’s break this down, because most of you forgot how real this was:

✅ 4 superhuman teenage ninjas ✅ 1 rat who’s literally his spiritual rival ✅ His entire army of orphaned street kids gone ✅ No weapons upgrade ✅ No backup ✅ Just honor, spikes, and suicidal testosterone

He showed up anyway.

Shredder wasn’t a villain. He was a warning.

He was the blueprint for final bosses who don’t monologue. Who don’t heal. Who don’t ask the audience to understand.

He was the ancient masculine archetype wrapped in violence, grief, and steel.

—

And now?

You’ve got Reddit users calling him "one-note." Blue-haired nostalgia reviewers acting like he was too mean. People who think “depth” means a villain has to cry about their parents.

You’re soft. And the world knows it.

Shredder didn’t do interviews. He didn’t podcast. He didn’t write a Medium essay about his mental health.

He trained. He conquered. He shredded.

And when death came?

He met it in armor.

Not in a hoodie. Not in a flashback. Not in an apology.

—

> You train for decades in the deadliest art on earth. > You kill your rival. > You build an army from the angry and forgotten. > You mutate yourself with alien ooze. > You look God in the face and swing anyway.

And you want to talk to me about moral nuance?

> He didn’t lose. > He ascended.

That’s not a villain. That’s a doctrine.

—

So go ahead. Get excited for the next female-coded lightsaber moment. Pretend Shredder was too violent. Pretend your childhood villain was too shallow.

But when the final battle comes? When you're outnumbered and drowning in softboy excuses?

You’ll hear the steel echo in your bones — and realize you needed him.

More than you ever needed the rat.

===

🧠 More masculine-coded warfare posts: https://www.patreon.com/TheMostHumble

⚔️ Mythic villains. Ritual memory. Scrolltrap rhythm as a weapon.

🧬 Stop apologizing for the era that raised you. Honor is a fcking blood sport.

</div> <!-- END TRANSMISSION [HONOR SHREDDERED — COWABUNGA WAS NEVER ENOUGH] -->

[sweetness-and-the-sour]

First of all, your friend is that like scary-smart, huh? Because I wasn't really aware about me being Neurodivergent when I started the show (it was a little after it premiered) when I claimed Diego as my king and I've been diagnosed with ADHD since then so that's hilarious.

NEVER apologize about going on a Fandom rant with me. Trust me, I love that kinda shit. I love talking about shows and characters that speak to me and this freaking show was my comfort creature for ages. Me and a friend planned to go as Klaus and S1 Viktor to a con years ago but we had to back out last minute and that still makes me sad.

As for the Homewrecker Duo, both need to be hit in the head with frying pans. Hard. Yes, I understand that they didn't mean to get lost. Yes I understand that Five is mentally older than his body, blah, blah, fucking blah. But it was wrong. Plain and simple. Even if you don't wanna call it cheating, it's just nasty. He willingly got with his brother's wife my dude. The mother of his children. That doesn't send off alarm bells in Five's head? Did Old Timer get a lobotomy during the six years we jumped forward and we never got informed? And I have my own issues with Lila for other reasons. I could go on a whole rant on this.

Luther and Allison.....to me it felt more like clinging to a safety net than anything else. Luther didn't really know anything else and Allison's plans for her life backfired so she went running back to what she remembered. (It's still weird as fuck, dont get me wrong but I think they mainly did it to tie into the comic.) Then Sloane came along and I adored her. HE MADE A MIXTAPE FOR HER.

The ending is a whole other thing I have an issue with, even if I was glad that we got to see cameos of past characters (Hazel and Agnes, my loves!) But the message royally pissed me off so I was numb when I watched it and I refuse to go back to it. You were a brave soldier to willingly rewatch it for your friend. And honestly? When most of your audience agrees that the deleted scenes were some of the best parts of the whole season, that pretty much just says everything about the writing and editing done at the time. All I'm saying.

If you wanna talk more, my asks are always open or shoot me a dm if you feel up to it. Hope you have an awesome day/night!

One of my dearest friends and I are going to start watching the last season of TUA tonight.

I've seen it. She hasn't. She has no spoilers, other than knowing there's one mystery "arc" I hated (read: Five x Lila).

She's told me before she doesn't want to know if a show is bad. She initially convinced me to watch season 1. I (re)watched 2 & 3 with her, as her first time she watched either, so this is the norm.

I said watching 4 with her would be "cathartic" when she suggested it as our next show.

Pray for me. Pray for her. To the higher power of your choice. We'll need it.

[blackjack-15]

kay right carmy al-anon speech let's go

"before i came to al-anon i was a cook. i'm still a cook i guess, just a different kind of cook" this for me is a really, really sad peek into how he thinks of himself. there are so many carmys, broken up by where he is and who he is and what's happened to him

also he says "cook" not "chef", probably feeling "chef" is pretentious -- probably due to his extended family's reactions to him being a chef

also he introduces himself as "Carmen" here, not Carmy, which is interesting. i'd love to know how he introduced himself in NYC, b/c in ep 1 we see him introduce himself to syd as "Carmy"

"let it rip" we've heard that so many times in the background as sort of an auditory hallucination from carmy that it makes sense that it was Mikey's phrase

the knowledge that carmy has a speech impediment is not even a little surprising -- he still has hesitation markers, especially when stressed, and it prolly reinforced the idea to richie et al that he was a baby

bad at school, bad at paying attention, bad with women, bad with humor -- he's hurling these one after another and, again with The Bear's excellence in hearing what characters don't say, you can get the sense that he thought Mikey was good at all of these things, and how could Carmy even begin to compare?

"I just wanted him to say good job!" oh honey

"and I think it's clear that me trying to fix the restaurant was me trying fix what was wrong with my brother" there's the thesis statement of s1, and Carmy coming to that conclusion makes so much sense -- out of his siblings (including Richie), he's the quiet, introspective, sensitive one -- an artist's temperament with a pugilist's temper. he knows what he's doing, he just can't express it, can't fix it

"that restaurant has, and does, mean a lot to people. it means a lot to me" -- it's why he reacts the way he does when sugar (and, implied there, his mother) blames the restaurant and says it makes people unhappy. to him, this restaurant isn't just an obligation, or a f//k-you from Mikey, or a distraction, or a place where he can cook -- it's something that Means something, it's a constant, it's an institution. i don't know how Mikey felt about it-- we may find that in S2, we might not -- but Richie and Carmy love the restaurant the same amount in different ways, and as long as that's true, some form of the Berzatto family restaurant will exist in Chicago

a final note for that speech -- it's an incredible performance, first of all, but that's obvious. it's also an incredibly risky scene, especially in a half-hour show (which The Bear is, despite the runtime of eps 7 and 8), to point the camera at an actor for seven minutes straight and say "go".

in any TV that's risky, in half hour tv it's riskier -- that's 1/3 of the show's runtime! -- and in a show that relies on movement, chaos (organized or otherwise) and quick cuts like The Bear does, it's incredibly risky. it pays off in full here, and i'm clapping it out. a+ for all involved

[fire-on-fuel]

I will never be able to make myself feel bad for syril mostly because the fact he never noticed he was being manipulated is completely due to the fact that he assumed the empire (the isb mind you) was a useful force for order. you think the isb is looking for outside agitators?? mr already-witnessed-a-civilian-massacre-and-dating-an-isb-supervisor?? he never had to believe the empire was good, just that they wouldn't treat him as disposable. it's all ego

[3nderstar]

.

[raywhitfield92]

I might get a lot of hate for this, but I want Helluva Boss to explore the myriad of reasons cis women get abortions. I want it to be explored in a healthy way

Because I feel in the current climate (especially politically) people don't want to ever think of the possibility that a woman won't want children. Millie isn't happy about this news.

And I'd absolutely love for Millie to not tell Moxxie she had an abortion, I want her to feel guilty about it and talk to Blitzø about it, worrying that if Moxxie knew he'd hate her.

And I want Blitzø to convince her that because he loves her he would support her no matter what. And when she tells Moxxie he just says "it's your body so it's your choice, but next time let me know so I can help you through this."

Not all cis women want nor can physically have children. We need to talk about abortion in a much healthier way than the current climate allows.

Edit to add this:

Okay so while replying to someone it made me think, what if they tied this in to Stella's backstory? Very early on we see that Stella seems kind of distant towards Octavia.

If Stella is a woman who was forced to have a child when she didn't want one, her personality towards Stolas and Octavia becomes more apparent.

She spends more time with her brother than with Octavia.

she even calls her "an egg"

and "his daughter" instead of ever calling her Octavia or even her own daughter.

This could be a good way to explore how a person who was forced into a mothering role could act, and explains her distaste for Stolas' strength of actually doing something against the Ars Goetias authority.

Stella in this moment sees Octavia crying, but if we look at her eyes closely she isn't watching the television, she's looking at Octavia and smiling at the fact she's in pain.

Stella thinks she's proven here that it's impossible/was impossible to ever go against the status quo, that her wishes of ever disobeying the Goetia is futile and she's proven to Stolas and Octavia that it was always impossible.

I think a plot like this could really help the audience understand childfree people from a different perspective, and what  could happen if you force a person who wishes to be childfree to have a child.

She could even have been mentally unwell/unstable after/before giving birth, which effects how she reacts towards people.

We as a society need to stop pressuring people into doing things our grandparents did just because it's what is expected of you.

This whole show is about generational trauma and breaking free from it, so I can see the show going this direction if it chooses to.

What do you think of this idea, and of it tying into a possible Stella backstory?

[txrully]

WATASHI NO AIDORU SAMA!

summary: IN WHICH BLLK BOYS DATE AN IDOL!

characters: isagi yoichi, bachira meguru, itoshi rin, nagi seishiro, mikage reo, chigiri hyoma, hiori yo, shidou ryusei, itoshi sae, michael kaiser, alexis ness.

warning: fem! reader implied

isagi yoichi

isagi is in awe of you. your determination, charm, and the way you captivate an audience—he’s lowkey your #1 fan. he’s also the boyfriend who overthinks everything. is he doing enough? are you eating properly? is his goodnight text too basic? but when you’re overwhelmed by the pressures of being an idol, he’s the one who brings you back down to earth with his soft smiles and reassuring words.

when he attends your concerts, he tries to keep a low profile, but the way he beams when you glance at him gives him away every time.

"yoichi, they caught you smiling like a lovesick puppy in the crowd."

"but you looked so cool up there! how could I not?!"

"next time, at least wear sunglasses."

"then how will you see me cheering for you?"

bachira meguru

bachira lives for the drama of dating you. the glitz and glam? he loves it. sneaking into your dressing room mid-rehearsal? absolutely. he thrives on making you laugh, especially when the idol world feels too suffocating. he even suggests the most ridiculous disguises when you want to go out, like matching frog hats or dressing up as old people.

he’s also not shy about flaunting your relationship, sending chaotic selfies to your fan club and saying, “aren’t we cute?” yeah, he’s banned from your socials now.

"bachira, stop posting pictures of us!"

"what? they love me. look, 10k likes already!"

"i will revoke your access to my phone."

"awwww :("

itoshi rin

rin doesn’t care about fame, but oh boy, he cares about you. the media knows him as the stoic, no-nonsense soccer prodigy, but behind closed doors, he’s your biggest supporter. he secretly streams your performances and even sets your songs as his alarm (though he’ll deny it if you ever find out). when you’re busy with schedules, rin shows his love in quiet ways—making sure you eat, sending random texts like, “don’t overwork yourself. i mean it.”

but paparazzi catching him sneaking into your concerts? yeah, that’s not part of his plan.

"you know they saw you, right?"

"tch. who cares?"

"rin, they’re calling you my biggest fanboy on twitter."

"...well, they’re not wrong."

nagi seishiro

nagi finds your idol schedule exhausting just hearing about it. but he loves you, so he makes the effort. he’s the type to show up to your rehearsals half-asleep, holding your favorite snacks. when you’re performing, though, he’s laser-focused, recording every moment because “you look cool up there.”

he also doesn’t get jealous often, but when a fanboy gets too enthusiastic, he’ll casually sling an arm around your shoulder and deadpan, “she’s taken.”

"sei, were you napping backstage?"

"mm. comfy couch."

"you’re unbelievable."

"but i got your favorite chips."

"...okay, forgiven."

mikage reo

reo is the ultimate boyfriend-slash-manager. need help with your contract? done. overwhelmed with schedules? he’s already booked a spa day for you. he’s your rock in the chaotic idol world, always reminding you that it’s okay to take a break.

he also spoils you shamelessly—designer dresses for red carpets, private dinners after concerts, and the fanciest bouquets delivered to your dressing room.

"reo, you didn’t have to buy out the whole bakery just because i said i liked their croissants."

"but you deserve the best."

"...i’m keeping the chocolate ones."

"all yours, my love."

chigiri hyoma

chigiri gets it. as someone constantly in the spotlight himself, he knows how draining it can be. he’s always there to hype you up, whether it’s helping you perfect a dance move or rehearsing lines for interviews. when you feel insecure, he’s the first to remind you of how talented and beautiful you are.

his favorite moments are when it’s just the two of you—no cameras, no fans, just quiet walks or lazy afternoons.

"hyo, do you think i’m doing okay?"

"you’re doing amazing. and even if the whole world doesn’t see it, i do."

"you’re too sweet."

"only for you."

hiori yo

hiori loves your passion for performing, but he worries about how much it takes out of you. he’s the type to leave little notes in your bag—"you’ve got this!" or "don’t forget to eat!"—and surprise you with coffee during long rehearsals.

he doesn’t love the spotlight, but for you? he’ll put up with it, even if it means sitting front-row at your concerts surrounded by screaming fans.

"yo, are you okay? you looked uncomfortable out there."

"yeah, i’m fine. just not used to being around so many people."

"next time, i’ll get you noise-canceling headphones."

"i’ll wear them if they have your voice recorded on loop."

shidou ryusei

shidou lives for the chaos of your idol life. paparazzi? fans? scandals? bring it on. he thrives on being the center of attention, especially when it involves you. he’s the boyfriend who gets caught sneaking onto stage mid-performance just to blow you a kiss.

he’s also fiercely protective, ready to throw hands with anyone who disrespects you. but when it’s just the two of you, he’s surprisingly soft, reminding you why you fell for him in the first place.

"ryu, you can’t just interrupt my concerts!"

"what? they loved it. besides, i missed you."

"you saw me five minutes ago!"

"five minutes too long."

itoshi sae

sae isn’t the best at expressing his feelings, but his actions speak volumes. he doesn’t show up to your events often, but when he does, it’s with flowers in hand and a rare smile just for you. he admires your dedication but worries you’re pushing yourself too hard.

he’s also your harshest yet most supportive critic, always giving honest feedback because he wants you to be your best.

"sae, was my performance okay?"

"it was good. but you can do better."

"...you could’ve just said you’re proud of me."

"i am. but you already knew that."

michael kaiser

kaiser adores the spotlight, and dating you? it only adds to his charm. he loves flaunting your relationship, whether it’s through matching outfits or casually mentioning you in interviews. he’s cocky, but his support is unwavering, always hyping you up like your personal cheerleader.

he’s also lowkey competitive, challenging you to see who can trend on social media first after a big event. spoiler: you always win.

"kaiser, stop refreshing twitter."

"i need to know if we’re trending."

"you’re ridiculous."

"ridiculously in love with you."

alexis ness

ness is the sweetest, most wholesome boyfriend. he’s constantly in awe of your talent and works hard to make you feel appreciated, from writing you letters to learning your favorite songs on the piano. he’s also your biggest fan, always gushing about you to anyone who’ll listen.

he gets flustered when fans recognize him as “your boyfriend” but secretly loves it.

"ness, are you blushing?"

"n-no! i just—your fans are so nice."

"you’re adorable."

"not as adorable as you."

© txrully :: 2024

do not copy, translate or plagiarize my works.

[dandelionjack]

“Dark Doctor” moments used to have him face consequences — after 12 messed up by manipulating her like an experiment in Kill the Moon, Clara told him she didn’t want to travel with him anymore. Donna refused running away with 10 in the Runaway Bride because he frightened her by drowning the Racnoss and told him he needed someone to stop him.

here, Belinda just mildly chastises 15 for “scaring her”, he says he “scared himself”, and it’s “fine”? after he went on a mad power trip and started physically torturing a traumatised kid who lost his family in a genocide?? it’s so… out of character, not even the sudden cruelty that happens sometimes when he lets himself go, but the lack of narrative repercussions.

genuinely disturbing in a new way that Doctor Who has never been. it made me feel like this show wasn’t my friend. he’s edged close to it at times, but he’s never been an outright *villain* before.

there were so many other ways to resolve this that would have been more Doctorish — going back in time and dismantling the corporation before it got the chance to raid the planet Hellia, or rescuing Kid’s family when he was a child so he never becomes a terrorist hell(ion)bent on revenge, literally anything.

physical, lethal threat like this is never the Doctor’s MO. even when he chains the Family of Blood forever, it’s an exceptional case, and they’re objectively 100% evil hunters, not morally complex freedom fighters from a planet that was decimated by capitalism. here, the Doctor doesn’t condemn the genocide — he is written to condemn the victims. the THREE TRILLION number is comically large to make sure that the audience doesn’t feel too many moral qualms.

this episode literally feels like Zionist propaganda. i am disappointed in Juno Dawson beyond measure, beyond words. i loved her audio dramas. this is such a shame. episodes like these make me embarrassed to call myself a Doctor Who fan. and on a day when the genocide is escalating, as well! Palestinian journalists tweeting that this is the bloodiest day since it began! disgusting. fucking atrocious.

[guardianspirits13]

And look. Netflix has cancelled a lot of beloved and well-received shows over the years. This is far from their first shameless cancellation.

But this one really feels like a tragedy in a way the rest really haven’t, for me.

If you have not seen it, this show has some of the tightest writing I have ever seen. It explores so many ideas and character arcs in the span of eight episodes, and there is not a dull moment to speak of. Every line feels intentionally crafted for the character it is assigned to, and the actors never fail to follow through.

Speaking of the actors, almost the entire main cast are in their breakout roles but you would never know it because they are phenomenal. Need I remind you that everyone’s favorite homosexual from hell (sorry, Cas) is played by George Rextrew, and is his first onscreen role beyond acting school. It’s easy to forget that considering how seamlessly he melts into such a nuanced and uniquely expressive character.

Steve Yockey, the director/writer/producer who made this show happen deserves accolades for his brilliant creative direction and an adaptation that took an under-the-radar comic property and made it into the show stopping narrative of cycles of violence and abuse and learning how to grow from your past and be loved as you are. In EIGHT EPISODES.

The cinematography is also stunning and combined with the sharp editing decisions make it just as visually impactful as it is narratively.

I have not enjoyed a show as thoroughly as this once perhaps since season one of Daredevil like, a hundred years ago. I’ve watched other shows, I’ve liked other shows, but none without a healthy dose of criticism. I struggle to find something bad to say about this show because it is just that good.

Now I’m not going to go into the fact that this show was unapologetically queer and that Netflix has a history of cancelling any show that features a gay character that isn’t either comic relief or has two lines. However, it is hard not to notice that the less divisive a show is, the more market appeal that it has, and Netflix definitely cares more about a majority audience of passive users with autopay subscriptions than they do a dedicated fanbase excited to have something to call their own.

To quote Bo Burnham, “Art is dead.”

[exhuastedpigeon]

The fight starting over groceries and quickly spinning out to what they really needed to talk about – grief and loss and how neither of them are handling it well was so good I can't stop thinking about it. Because they weren't talking about their grief with each other!

Buck was using a psychological assessment to ‘measure’ everyone’s grief instead of just ASKING HOW THEY ARE. He wasn't talking to them about how he's feeling alone and lost. He saw grief like it's a thing you can quantify and measure.

So the fight started over who was supposed to get the groceries and quickly moved on to Eddie getting the job offer in El Paso and him letting Buck find out from someone else (even if he was going to tell him, he put it off for so long that Buck found out from Ravi).

Buck making that about him ("did you not think I'd be happy for you").

Eddie throwing how Buck is grieving back in his face ("making it all about you again").

Buck being extremely passive aggressive and saying "sorry I'm sad Bobby's dead".

Eddie snapping at Buck about how they all lost Bobby and how Buck never asked what it was like for Eddie to find out about Bobby while he was 800 miles away.

Eddie letting his grief bottle up because he felt guilty for not being there and because he hadn't talked to Bobby in a couple of weeks.

Not having a resolution at the end of the scene and letting Buck (and the audience) think Eddie left without clearing the air or saying goodbye.

That kitchen fight scene was so masterful because it took all of the things they weren't talking about and put them on the table.

And then to have Buck walk into the house thinking he'll be spending the night alone with his sadness only to have Eddie still there, to have Eddie call himself a dick, to have Chris there, to have Pepa there cooking them a family dinner.

The resolution was never going to be some perfunctory apology because that's not who they are (and that's boring TV). There's a reason we never saw Buck apologize to Eddie about the basketball game and it's because the writers are assuming we're smart enough to know all is forgiven. Having Eddie's apology be with actions, not words is so fitting for his character and for their relationship.

Having that apology be Chris is even more important. This isn't Eddie driving across town with Chris to cheer Buck up, it's Eddie getting Chris there on a last minute flight because he knows seeing Chris will help Buck (will help all of them, really). He knows Buck is feeling alone in his grief and like he's losing his family so Eddie made sure to show Buck he isn't alone and that his family is right here with him.

I love when a show lets the characters be flawed and messy and makes resolutions fit the characters. Really great work from 911 on this one.

[cbeargyu]

WISHES COME TRUE

SUMMARY: you’ve always been the quiet, bookish type — hidden behind oversized sweaters and your secret smut blog. yeonjun, the golden boy of the dance department, was supposed to be just a harmless crush... until a steamy story accidentally lands in his hands. now, your fantasies are no longer just fiction.

PAIRING: soft dom!yeonjun x fem!reader

GENRE: slow burn, smutty tension, university!au, angst, fluff, eventual nsfw (suggestive)

WARNINGS: suggestive themes, language, emotional tension, power dynamics, accidental exposure of private writing, crying, emotional vulnerability, soft dominance, yeonjun being too hot to handle, loss of virginity, unprotected sex.

WC: 4,8k

NOTES: i wish yeonjun would make my fantasies come true too...😞

you were a literature major at university—one of those girls who always seemed quiet, thoughtful, always with a book tucked under her arm or a notebook filled with scribbled ideas. you had chosen literature because, for as long as you could remember, stories had been your whole world. fairy tales, classic novels, poetry, fanfiction—especially fanfiction.

it had started innocently enough in your early teens: writing about your favorite movie characters falling in love. but as you got older, so did your stories. they evolved—bolder, darker, more explicit. the kind of scenes that made your cheeks flush even though you were the one writing them. you never said it out loud, of course. no one would ever imagine it of you.

you were the quiet girl in class, after all. the one with oversized sweaters, round glasses slipping down your nose, a soft voice, and a shy smile that made people underestimate you. but at night, in the glow of your laptop screen, you were someone else. your blog had grown into something much bigger than you'd anticipated. a loyal following of readers eagerly awaited your weekly updates, devouring every steamy, forbidden chapter you posted—always right on schedule, even with your hectic academic life.

and then there was choi yeonjun.

he was in the contemporary dance program—effortlessly popular, magnetic in every sense. tall, with dark hair that curled slightly when he sweat after practice, his ears lined with silver piercings, his eyes sharp but kind. he had a way of walking into a room and drawing attention without even trying.

you’d met him in a way that was both perfectly ordinary and somehow surreal. he’d started showing up at your department’s literature fairs. it surprised you the first time—someone like him, flipping through romance novels with genuine interest, not just killing time. but there he was, every time, stopping by the table you were in charge of, smiling that easy, sunlit smile that made your stomach twist in quiet panic.

“any recommendations today?” he’d ask casually, leaning over the table just close enough to make you forget how to breathe.

you tried to keep your voice steady. “uh—if you like slow burn… this one’s pretty good.”

he grinned. “you always know the good ones. you read a lot, huh?”

you’d just nod, cheeks warm, heart sprinting. he didn’t know. god, he couldn’t know.

your conversations never lasted long, but they left you dizzy every time. he’d wave at you in the halls with that same bright energy, calling your name like you were already friends. you weren’t, not really. but you liked pretending.

and when you were alone, writing late into the night, your mind would wander. you’d think about him—his hands, his voice, that little smirk when he caught you staring too long.

you knew exactly what kind of character he’d be in one of your stories. and you had plenty of ideas.

it all started when yeonjun announced that he was planning a showcase for the contemporary dance department—an open performance where students could display their personal choreographies. he needed help designing the pamphlets that would be handed out to the audience, and for some reason, you were the first person he thought of.

“you made those posters for the lit fair, right?” he asked one afternoon, catching you off guard in the hallway. his voice was casual, but his smile was bright, genuine. “i really liked the way you put them together. they had this… soft, poetic vibe. it matched the theme perfectly.”

you blinked up at him, heart stuttering. he remembered that? “i– yeah! i did,” you mumbled, trying to keep the surprise out of your voice. “i’d love to help.”

he grinned, like it was no big deal. “awesome. can i get your number? i’ll text you the details.”

you handed him your phone before you could overthink it. and when he tapped in his contact info, you felt a strange flutter in your chest. he told you he’d need it by next wednesday. today was friday—plenty of time.

saturday came, and as usual, it was supposed to be your sacred writing day. the day you sat down with your laptop and your coffee and let your imagination spill into a new chapter for your loyal readers. but today... you couldn’t focus. yeonjun’s face kept flashing behind your eyes. his voice, the way he smiled, the soft dip of his collarbone when he leaned in closer than he needed to.

so, instead of working on your usual story, you opened a new document. just a little spin-off, you told yourself. a character named yejun, inspired by him, paired with your unnamed female lead. it didn’t mean anything. it was just for fun.

your fingers moved quickly over the keys, each word making your face burn a little hotter. you described him in detail—his body, his voice, the way he would whisper dirty things between soft kisses. it escalated fast. soon, the bed sheets were tangled, the clothes gone, and “yejun” was doing things to the protagonist that made your thighs clench under the desk.

you bit your lip, trying to suppress the heat pooling low in your stomach. your skin was flushed, breath a little too fast. god, it was just a story. just fiction.

but every line felt real.

too real.

when you finally finished, you closed the file with shaky fingers and stared at the screen, guilt washing over you like cold water. you’d just written a full-blown smut piece about your classmate. someone you knew. someone who’d smiled at you in the hallway just days ago.

he’s never going to know, you told yourself, shutting the thought down. your blog was anonymous. your secret was safe.

you shifted gears, finally starting your actual chapter for the week. when it was done and posted, the familiar flood of comments poured in. the joy from your readers was like a warm blanket, grounding you again. they loved it, as always. you loved them. they were the reason you kept writing.

by the time sunday night rolled around, the guilt had faded into the background, replaced by the sudden panic of realization—you still hadn’t started yeonjun’s pamphlet. you checked your phone. a new story on his profile. something about drinks with friends. he was still out, probably.

you rushed to open your design program, pulling up the notes you’d made. soft color palettes, modern typography, minimalistic but expressive—something that reflected the rhythm and movement of contemporary dance. you made one version. then another. kept tweaking the alignment, changing fonts, shifting images.

finally, at 2:34 a.m., you saved both files. sleepy, but satisfied. you dragged the two pdfs into your chat with him, barely thinking. you typed out the message:

“hi yeonjun! i made two versions, choose whichever you like best :)”

and hit send.

except… you hadn’t just selected the two designs.

your stomach dropped as you saw the third file still hanging in the message bubble. the one labeled: “yejun_x_fmc_draft01.docx”

it sent.

you stared at the message for a second, read it over just to make sure it sounded polite enough, and then closed the chat. satisfied, you shut your laptop, stretched your sore arms above your head, and let out a sleepy sigh. it was late. too late. your body ached from sitting in one spot too long, your eyes heavy. slipping under your blanket, you let your head hit the pillow, completely unaware of the very wrong file you’d just sent to yeonjun.

you fell asleep thinking about fonts and color palettes—clueless to the chaos waiting in your inbox.

yeonjun had been scrolling through his phone lazily that night, the apartment quiet except for the occasional hum of cars outside. it was past two in the morning, and most of his friends were either out partying or already passed out drunk. he, on the other hand, was comfortably sprawled out on his bed, hoodie thrown somewhere on the floor, phone in hand and thumbs working through unread messages. when your name popped up with a new chat, he blinked sleepily, expecting a simple "here are the flyers" type of thing.

maybe a couple of PDFs, a casual "let me know which one you like better." he smiled a little to himself. you were cute, in that quiet, bookish way. sweet. unassuming. kind of awkward, but endearing.

he tapped on the files without thinking.

the first opened fine—bright colors, clean design, silhouettes of dancers mid-pose, your signature soft aesthetic all over it. he liked it. clean, expressive. you were talented.

he clicked the second, expecting more of the same.

but then he saw… text. not a flyer. a story. his brow furrowed as he scrolled further. the format was familiar. narrative, dialogue. descriptive paragraphs. curiosity sparked, and his eyes began to scan the words.

“yejun’s fingers traced slow, burning lines down the curve of her waist, his voice low and thick in her ear. ‘you’re so quiet during the day,’ he murmured. ‘but in my bed? you’re a fucking mess.’”

his heart stopped.

his mouth went dry.

at first, he thought it was just a coincidence. a character named "yejun"—close, but not quite. but as he kept reading, the illusion crumbled. the description was too specific. too detailed. tall, black hair, piercings decorating both ears, cocky smile, flirty attitude, reads romance novels like a secret guilty pleasure—fuck, it was him. it was him on those pages. and you? the girl in the story? that was clearly you. no question.

his stomach twisted into knots.

his brain screamed that this was wrong, that he should stop reading, that this was invasive and inappropriate and god, disgusting. this was a violation of boundaries, wasn’t it? some kind of parasocial delusion—was this how you saw him?

but his eyes wouldn’t stop.

line after line, paragraph after paragraph, you painted a vivid, searing image of the two of you tangled in sheets, dripping with heat and tension. “yejun” had you beneath him, fingers curled into your thighs, lips murmuring filth against your throat while you begged for more. he could hear your voice in the words—he could see the way you might look, squirming beneath him, wide eyes glassy and pleading.

his hand gripped the phone tighter. he didn’t notice how his breath had gotten shallow. he didn’t notice how hard he’d gotten, straining against the loose fabric of his pants.

“she moaned when he spread her open, kissed the inside of her thighs like she was something sacred. ‘i wanna ruin you,’ he growled. ‘wanna fuck you so deep you forget your own damn name.’”

he hissed through his teeth, biting down on the inside of his cheek. fuck. fuck. fuck.

he shouldn’t be aroused by this. this was someone else’s fantasy. someone he barely knew. someone who wore glasses too big for her face and oversized cardigans and always tucked her hair behind her ears when she got nervous. someone shy and innocent and sweet.

except—no. apparently not. not so innocent.

his cock throbbed against the inside of his waistband. his face was flushed deep red, part shock, part guilt, part something far more primal. and still, he couldn’t look away.

you thought about him like that.

you imagined him taking you apart, fucking you senseless, making you cry with pleasure.

and now… he couldn’t stop picturing it either.

you didn’t realize a thing.

monday came and went, and you went about your routine like always—classes, notes, reading during lunch, replying to your blog comments in quiet corners of the library. the only thing different was that yeonjun hadn’t replied to your message. not even a “thanks.” he’d left you on read. that was unusual for him.

you saw him in the cafeteria once—just once. he was walking with some friends, laughing at something, tray in hand. you smiled instinctively, raising your hand in a little wave like you always did.

but he didn’t wave back.

he didn’t even look at you.

he walked right past, as if you weren’t even there.

you froze, hand mid-air, cheeks heating up with embarrassment. something was wrong. you could feel it in your gut.

and yet… you said nothing. you told yourself maybe he was just busy. maybe you were reading too much into it. but your heart ached anyway.

by wednesday, you couldn’t take it anymore.

you saw him sitting alone inside the dance studio, stretching, sweat-dampened hair clinging to his forehead. the doors were unlocked. you hesitated only a moment before stepping inside, chest tight, hands balled into anxious fists.

"yeonjun," you called softly, walking toward him.

he looked up, his face unreadable.

your heart dropped.

no warmth. no smile. no teasing glint in his eyes.

"why have you been ignoring me?" your voice cracked, but you kept going. "if you only needed the pamphlet, you could’ve just said so. you didn’t have to pretend like you liked talking to me."

he didn’t answer at first.

he stood up slowly, towering over you, and for the first time you felt… small.

not just in height. in everything.

he pulled his phone from his pocket.

"what's wrong with me?" he echoed, voice low. "shouldn’t i be asking you that?"

you blinked in confusion, taking a step back. “w-what are you talking about?”

he held the phone up to you.

and there it was.

your story.

the wrong file.

your face went completely cold.

your mouth opened, but no words came out. panic flooded you, head spinning, knees weak.

"this character,” he said calmly, almost cruelly. “it's me, isn’t it? same build. same personality. even the name.”

his voice wasn't angry—no, it was too calm. too quiet. too dangerous. your eyes flicked to the screen he held in his hand, your own words staring back at you with damning clarity. you couldn’t lie, couldn’t explain this away as coincidence. it was him. everything from the raven hair to the pierced ears, to the soft but commanding energy—the character had always been him.

"i... i can explain," you stammered, your voice barely a whisper, raw from emotion. "i didn’t mean for you to read it. it was a mistake, i—"

"it was meant to be private?" he cut in, taking another step toward you. "so private that you decided to send it directly to me?"

you flinched, your body screaming for you to run but your legs rooted to the floor. tears prickled your eyes, shame wrapping around your throat like a chokehold. your fingers curled into fists at your sides, not in anger, but in a desperate attempt to hold yourself together.

"i didn’t know i sent it. please, yeonjun, i didn’t want you to see that. i never would've wanted you to think—"

he stared down at you, his gaze dark. dangerous.

“you pretend to be so sweet. so quiet. like some shy little bookworm,” he murmured. “but you write about me like i’m your personal sex toy. like you wanna use me. ride me. make me beg.”

you whimpered, barely able to breathe, your eyes wide with horror.

you wanted to die.

you wanted to disappear.

his fingers tilted your chin up, forcing you to look at him. his thumb grazed your bottom lip.

but then his eyes darkened, jaw tightening, and he leaned in slightly. "the problem is," he said, voice low, "i can’t stop thinking about what you wrote. how detailed it was. how vividly you described it—me."

your breath caught. "yeonjun..."

"you wrote that you wanted me to hold you down," he whispered, his gaze dropping to your lips. "that you wanted to ride me until you couldn’t walk straight. that you dreamed of me moaning your name while you begged for more. and all that... from the quiet girl who blushes when someone says 'kiss' in class?"

your knees nearly gave out. your skin burned with humiliation and something else—something terrifyingly warm spreading low in your belly. you shook your head again, but there were no words left to give him. no excuses. you were caught. exposed. and he was standing there, looking at you like he was reading every single fantasy straight from your soul.

“you’re disgusting,” he said, voice low and rough.

your eyes welled with tears.

but then he leaned closer, and his breath ghosted over your cheek. his voice dropped even lower, thick with something dangerous.

“but the worst part?” he smirked. “the more i think about it, the more i want to make it real." he murmured. 

you gasped, a whimper escaping your lips before you could stop it. it was wrong. it was insane. and yet... the tension between you crackled like a live wire.

"yeonjun, i..." your voice trembled.

"you don’t have to say anything," he said quietly, his thumb brushing away a tear on your cheek. "but if you really meant what you wrote... i will make your first time unforgettable, better than your story, better than many stories, i will fuck you as hard as you ask."

your heartbeat stuttered. your mind screamed for you to step away—but your body leaned into him, trembling from something far deeper than fear.

“so this is what you think about when you see me?” his voice is low, controlled, almost amused. but there’s something dark swimming beneath it. something hungry.

you’re frozen in front of him, face hot and eyes watery with humiliation. your vision blurs as the tears start spilling over your cheeks.

“fuck,” he mutters, stepping closer, eyes flicking over your trembling frame. “you’re crying.”

you nod, too ashamed to meet his gaze.

“you’re embarrassed?”

another nod.

and then he laughs. it’s not cruel—no, it’s worse. it’s knowing. it's the sound of someone who's seen through every layer you tried to hide.

you whimper, thighs squeezing together at his words. that ache between your legs intensifies, shame curling up with desire in your belly like a knot pulling tighter and tighter.

he’s in front of you now, towering over you, his hand reaching up to cup your cheek—thumb brushing away a tear, so gently it makes your breath catch.

“and this part—” he whispers, pulling his phone from his pocket. “this part right here... where you wrote that he ‘pinned her against the mirror and kissed her until she forgot her own name, one hand gripping her thigh, the other buried in her hair, making her moan before he even touched her pussy.’”

you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block it all out.

“open your eyes.”

you do.

he leans in, lips ghosting over your ear.

“do you want me to do that to you?”

you pause. swallow hard. your silence is answer enough.

he chuckles again. “fuck, you’re cute when you pretend to be innocent. but now i know what’s under that little act. now i know what kind of slut you really are.”

your knees weaken. your panties are soaked.

“take it off,” he murmured.

your throat went dry. “w-what?”

he stepped closer, towering over you. the scent of his cologne and sweat from practice clung to him, heavy and dizzying.

“don’t make me repeat myself.” his voice dropped, gravelly. “hoodie. now.”

you hesitated, fingers curling at the hem.

your body moved before your brain could catch up. trembling fingers pulled your hoodie over your head, revealing your bare chest underneath—no bra, just skin, soft and warm and exposed to him.

“fuck, no bra? you were walking around like this, waiting for me to notice?”

he growled. actually growled.

“you walked in here looking like this…” his eyes roamed again, hungry. “thinking i wouldn’t notice the way your nipples get hard through your hoodie?

your stomach twisted, heat rushing between your legs.

“you act so innocent, baby, but that little mind of yours?” he leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “filthy.”

your cheeks burned. your thighs squeezed together.

“take off the pants too, those fucking pants hiding the slut you really are” he added, voice darker now.

you obeyed slowly, pushing down the waistband of your sweatpants, revealing your thin white panties already soaked through. the air hit your thighs and you shivered—whether from the cold or the anticipation, you weren’t sure.

yeonjun sat down on the bench behind him, legs spread wide, cock hard and pressing visibly against his sweats.

“come here.”

you stepped between his legs, every nerve in your body lit on fire.

his hands gripped your waist, pulling you closer until your soaked panties brushed against the bulge in his pants. he hissed at the contact.

“you’re wet already?” he whispered, almost mocking. “just from me talking to you like this?”

you nodded, lips parted in a silent gasp as he rubbed his nose along the curve of your breast, not kissing—just inhaling you. savoring.

“you know what’s crazy?” he murmured. “i remember every single thing you wrote. every moan, every word you gave that version of me… and now i wanna hear them come out of your mouth.”

his hand slid under the band of your panties, fingers slipping between your folds.

“fuck—so wet for me. untouched, huh? this little cunt’s never been filled?”

you whimpered, nodding, nails digging into his shoulders.

“good,” he groaned, pulling your panties down your legs. “i wanna be the only one who gets to ruin this pussy.”

he hooked your thighs over his, adjusting your body until you were hovering over his clothed cock, dripping against the fabric.

“say it,” he ordered.

“say what?”

his eyes locked with yours, deadly calm.

“tell me you want to sit on it.”

your chest rose and fell fast, lips trembling. “i… i want to ride you.”

“that’s not what i said, baby.”

you swallowed. heat flooded your cheeks, but your hips instinctively rolled against him.

“i want to sit on your cock,” you breathed, voice shaky. “please, let me ride you”

his head tilted slightly, lips curling into a smirk as he pulled his sweats down, cock springing free. thick. veined. already leaking.

“then prove it,” he rasped.

you didn’t even hesitate. you gripped his shoulders and lined yourself up, your slick dripping down the tip. his hands gripped your hips, steadying you.

“this might hurt, baby,” he whispers, brushing his lips against yours, “but i’ll be gentle. i’ll make it feel so fucking good you’ll beg me never to stop.”

he pushes in slowly, his cock splitting you open inch by inch. you gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders. he’s big—so much bigger than you imagined—and your body clenches tight around him.

“that’s it, princess. take it. let me feel that pretty little virgin pussy.”

you whimper, burying your face in his neck as he bottoms out, letting you adjust. he doesn’t move right away—just holds you, one hand cradling your back, the other gripping your thigh.

“you’re doing so good for me. so fucking tight.”

he let you sink down inch by inch, until you were fully seated on him, legs shaking. your head fell onto his shoulder, eyes squeezed shut.

he starts to move, slow at first, dragging you up and down on his cock with gentle rolls of his hips. you gasp again, tears springing to your eyes from the overwhelming stretch and pleasure.

“slow, baby,” he murmured, voice suddenly softer—but his eyes still burned with control. “i’ll go slow. i’ll stretch you out nice and easy, okay?”

you nodded, barely breathing.

“fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned. “so fucking perfect. this little pussy was made for me.”

you moaned totally lost in desire, little by little the pain disappeared and turned into pleasure.

“you’re doing so good for me,” he whispered against your neck, kissing you there. “being such a good girl while i ruin your first time.”

you whimpered, rocking your hips slowly, gasping at the overwhelming fullness. he filled every part of you—stretching, claiming, owning.

“don’t stop,” you breathed. “please, don’t stop.”

“fuck, you’re even better than i imagined. so warm. so wet. so fucking mine.”

his hands slid up your back, gripping your hair, pulling your head back just enough for your eyes to meet.

“then ride me, baby. ride me like you fucking mean it.”

his grip on your hips tightens as you start to move—slow, uncertain rolls of your body at first, each one drawing a sharp inhale from you and a low, rumbling groan from him.

his cock feels impossibly thick inside you, the stretch dragging along every nerve ending. your thighs shake from the pressure, the burn, the pleasure that's building fast and overwhelming.

“that’s it, baby,” he breathes, eyes locked on your face as you try to ride him, “you’re doing so fucking good. taking me so well… fuck, this tight little pussy was starving for cock, huh?”

you cry out when he shifts his hips up, thrusting deeper. your walls clench around him, and the reaction makes his head fall back against the mirror, a hiss leaving his lips.

“fuck—don’t do that unless you wanna make me cum already.”

his hands slide from your waist to your ass, grabbing handfuls of soft skin as he starts to guide you himself—lifting you, lowering you, bouncing you gently on his cock. your hands fly to his shoulders for balance, mouth open in a silent moan as he hits a new spot inside you.

“right there, huh?” he growls, pulling your hips down harder. “you like that, baby? you like being stuffed full of your senior’s cock in the fucking practice room?”

you nod frantically, tears stinging the corners of your eyes, not from pain anymore—but from the pressure building deep in your core, the knot tightening fast.

“say it.”

“i love it,” you gasp, rolling your hips now with purpose. “i love your cock—fuck—it’s so deep, i can’t—”

“yes you can,” he grunts, meeting your movements with rougher thrusts now, fucking up into you while holding you down. “you will. be a good girl and take it.”

you sob, pleasure tearing through you, sharp and desperate. your nipples brush his chest, slick skin against skin, sweat dripping down your spine.

“you’re such a filthy little thing, aren’t you?” he pants, dragging his tongue along your collarbone, biting down just enough to leave a mark. “acting shy in front of the others, but here you are—riding me like a fucking whore.”

you moan loudly, the sound echoing in the studio, your voice bouncing off the mirrors, filling the space. his hand slips between your bodies, thumb pressing hard against your clit.

“don’t hold back, baby. cum on my cock. i wanna feel this pussy squeeze me while you fall apart.”

your eyes flutter shut, and your whole body tenses as his thumb moves in tight circles, the thick drag of his cock hitting all the right places.

then everything snaps.

your orgasm crashes into you like a wave, stealing the breath from your lungs. your moan breaks into a cry as your walls pulse around him, milking his cock, your thighs trembling uncontrollably.

“that’s it, baby—fuck, that’s it, just like that,” he growls, holding you tight as your cunt grips him, hot and wet and spasming. “so fucking good for me.”

his rhythm falters, his breaths sharp.

“you’re gonna make me cum—fuck—where do you want it?”

you barely manage to speak, drunk on the high.

“inside,” you whisper. “please, fill me up.”

his hips snap up one last time, deep and hard. he buries himself to the hilt, a strangled groan ripping from his throat as he spills inside you, hot and thick and endless.

you both go still—bodies pressed together, hearts racing. his arms wrap around your waist, holding you to him like he never wants to let go. your walls flutter around his softening cock, the mix of your release leaking down your thighs.

he kisses your shoulder, slow and soft now, grounding you.

“you okay, baby?” he murmurs against your skin.

you nod, voice weak. “yeah… i’ve never felt anything like that.”

he chuckles gently, kissing your jaw.

“can i—can i ride you at your place next time?” you pant, nails raking down his arms.

he grabs your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“you wanna sit on daddy’s cock at home, baby? ride me like a good little slut while i fuck your brains out?”

you nod frantically, eyes hazy with lust.

“please… dominate me. make me yours.”

his grin is wicked. his thrusts grow rougher. deeper. the sound of skin slapping fills the mirrored room.

“you are mine, baby. every fucking inch of you.”

you sat there, still straddling him, your thighs shaking against his hips, skin flushed and slick with sweat. your fingers dug into his chest, trying to steady your breath, but the heat between your legs pulsed with every heartbeat — a reminder of what had just happened. he looked up at you with that same wicked smile, the one you once only imagined while typing your dirtiest fantasies late at night. except now, it wasn’t fiction. it was real. your filthy little story had come to life, every word, every whimper, every shameless desire — all of it played out on the floor of the dance studio, with yeonjun underneath you, hard and breathless. he had read your mind… and fucked it into reality.

[vanteguccir]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤSURPRISE PARTY TOUR: CAN I CALL YOU TONIGHT? * CHRIS STURNIOLO * BLURB

SUMMARY　::　Where during the Orlando show of the Surprise Party Tour, the Group Chat segment is interrupted by a call from Y/N to Chris, and who said him being on a stage, in front of so many fans, would stop him from answering it?

FEATURING　Chris Sturniolo x reader　REQUESTED?　yes.

WARNINGS　::　none.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

A/N²: Go stream LIKE ME right now!

The screen behind the triplets flickered as the group chat segment loaded in, the audience instantly cheering. This part was one of the public's favorites, mainly because it gave them the feeling of seeing a little more of the three's lives behind the cameras.

The screen displayed the first screenshot of their chaotic text thread. The crowd leaned in, ready to hear them narrating it.

Chris was already smirking when he noticed which one was it. He was sunken into the couch, one leg bent, the other hanging off the side, his left arm resting on the back of the arm rest. His mic sat comfortably in his lap as he bounced his knee.

Matt leaned forward a little.

"Oh god, this scared me so much." He said, leaning into his mic. "AC is on."

A few giggles rolled through the audience.

Nick sat on his solo couch across from them, completely deadpan. He leaned his mic up to his mouth, squinted dramatically at the big screen, then read aloud.

"Goodnight, I love you guys."

Matt added quickly, still scrolling through the screenshot with his eyes.

"And it’s set to 70."

Nick dragged the mic to his lips and repeated again in the exact same tone.

"Goodnight, I love you guys."

The crowd cracked up, especially when Chris’s laugh echoed through the mic.

Matt kept going.

"It was already at 71."

Nick glanced at the crowd with an exasperated gaze, then back to the screen.

"Goodnight, I love you guys... Matt, are you serious? Goodnight, I love you guys."

Chris was already leaning forward, giggling, eyes creased in joy as he grabbed the mic closer, gluing it to his pinkish lower lip.

"Okay, um..." He said through a grin, reading from the screen. "Matt, leave the AC alone. Nick, goodnight, we love you too." He read it in a light, soft voice, unsuccessfully trying to imitate her voice.

The audience chuckled, some screaming with the slight appearance of Y/N on the GC, but then something buzzed.

Loud and sudden.

Chris paused.

From his pocket, a low, rhythmic vibrating started up, followed by a specific ringtone that every real fan in the room knew belonged to one person only.

That dreamy little indie-pop loop.

Matt raised his eyebrows without even turning his head.

"Oh my god." He said, just loud enough for the mic to catch it.

Nick groaned, running a hand down his face.

"Here we go." He muttered, already sitting back in the couch like he was preparing himself to stay there for hours.

Chris blinked, laughing as he reached into the pocket of his grey sweatpants.

"No, wait, just hold on-" He pulled the phone out, looking at the screen, smile growing even bigger the second her name popped up, pearly teeth shining below warm lights.

Matt didn’t even need to see it.

"It’s Y/N. It’s always Y/N." He said, throwing his arms up.

Nick leaned into his mic and tilted his head to the audience, a bored expression resting on his facs.

"Y’all, we gotta pause the show real quick so Christopher can take a call from his missus."

The crowd started giggling, observing closely.

Chris didn’t care. He held up a casual hand to the audience, signaling for a quick second of patience and silence. Then he slid his thumb from left to right, brought the phone to his ear, and spoke in the softest voice ever.

"Hi, doll."

He was still smiling a boyish smile, head tilted a little, his voice low in contrast to the booming echo of the theater. The audience sat in stillness, just watching him.

He nodded, tongue peaking between his lips, still listening to the other end.

"You made it? That’s good." His eyes flicked to Matt for a second. "She’s in Boston. Just landed."

Matt gave him a thumbs-up. Nick stared at the ceiling like this was an everyday occurrence.

Chris kept his tone gentle, adjusting his body above the couch.

"Dinner with mum? Okay. Have fun with her, doll. Take care, alright?"

And that was when it happened.

As if Y/N wasn't already enough, at the mention of Mary Lou, the crowd collectively lost it.

Screams erupted across the theater.

Chris chuckled and pulled the phone slightly away from his ear. On the other side, Y/N’s voice got a little louder.

"Wait... what was that sound?"

Chris grinned.

"Hold up, baby." He brought the mic closer to his mouth and leaned forward again. "Alright." He said to the audience, voice playful and warm. "On three, can y’all say hi to Y/N?"

The fans screamed in agreement before he even counted.

He put her on speaker, flipped his phone toward the mic, and started counting.

"One, two, three-"

"HIIIIII, Y/N!!"

The theater shook. It was chaos. Screams, laughs, some people yelling "WE LOVE YOU!", the whole thing sounded like a stadium.

Y/N’s laugh echoed from Chris’s phone, loud and shocked.

"OH MY GOD! WHAT THE HELL?!"

Chris was laughing too, just beaming at her voice.

"You forgot what time it was, huh?"

"I forgot y’all were on stage! I thought it was, like... four."

Nick leaned into his mic, voice dramatically dry.

"It is. Four. In California."

Matt waved at the phone like she could see him, smiling widely.

"Hi, Y/N!"

"Hi, Matt! Sorry for interrupting the show!"

Nick added quickly.

"Don’t worry, Chris interrupted it for you."

Chris, with zero shame, smiled into the mic.

"She’s allowed."

Y/N’s voice still came through speaker.

"Tell everyone I’m sorry! I’m gonna go eat with mum now, okay?"

Chris was back to soft-mode, all sweet and boyfriendy, heart warming - as usual - with how Y/N called his mom 'mum'.

"Okay, love you. Say hi to her for me. And text me when you’re back home, alright?"

"Uh-hum. Love you. Bye, everyone!"

The crowd screamed again. Chris finally ended the call and tucked his phone away, looking dizzy and flustered.

Nick shook his head, pretending to scribble something in the air.

"Someone write 'Chris Sturniolo is whipped' on the big screen, please."

Chris shrugged, unapologetic.

"I am. And I’m thriving."

Matt leaned forward, grinning.

"Anyway! Where were we? Oh yeah. 'Matt, leave the AC alone'."

© vanteguccir

[spencersmopbucket]

Ocean Breeze | Finnick Odair x Reader

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader Summary: You, this year's victor from District Four, return home after your victory. Finnick takes an interest in your deep, seemingly impenetrable personality. You didn't plan on letting him in, but.. Finnick is Finnick after all.

Expert brutality. In every news headline, in every advertisement of the Games, those were the words in big, bold letters. And who was on display, fingers tinted with blood and scars on their face?

You.

You were this year's Victor. You'd fought through the games -- tooth, nail, and fish hook. You always scoffed bitterly at every photo and comment you saw of yourself, your e/c eyes narrowing with disdain and something almost close to pain. Despite being good at hiding it, it was still there. It ebbed and flowed, reminding you every day of who you now were and what you'd be recognized for.

You were Name Last-Name, the brutal Victor of District 4. Beautiful, graceful, but deadly. You were known for being undetectable in the daylight, but creeping through the shadows of the arena at night, striking whoever you stalked with expert precision and gruesome method. You'd even taken out three people at once, simply because they couldn't see you in the dark and weren't as swift as you were, so they couldn't grab you.

In interviews, you were stoic. Uncrackable. That itself became your personality to viewers. Unbothered, they thought. Unbreakable. Wrong, you often snickered to yourself. You just wouldn't show the sheep anything they could get off on.

You hated the Capitol. You hated Snow. You hated everyone that supported the Games.

You'd just gotten home to District 4 today, the fanciful life in the Capitol finally coming to an end for you. The sigh of relief that exited you when you finally touched feet onto the beach could've been heard around the world. You inhaled again, deeply, holding the salty air of home into your lungs. Your eyes gazed across the horizon, watching the waves crash.

It was a windy day. Your hair blew slightly into your face. Grabbing it, you tied it up into a messy bun and continued walking, your bare feet on the cold beach.

Finnick, in all of his time watching your interviews and performance in the arena, couldn't figure out exactly what he thought of you.

On Reaping Day, he didn’t recognize your name when it was called. Finnick thought he knew everyone in District 4 -- faces, families, fishermen. But when you stepped onto that stage, something about you struck him. Not fear, not drama. You didn’t cry or shake. You just walked, eyes ahead, spine straight, mouth set in a firm line. That calm silence unsettled him in a way he hadn’t expected.

You reminded him of himself, standing there years ago. Only younger. Quieter. And somehow, already hardened.

He started paying attention during the Capitol broadcasts. You didn’t perform for the cameras. You didn’t flirt with the other tributes or flash a Capitol smile. You just trained, and watched, and listened. Finnick noticed how your eyes moved -- never resting too long on anyone, but never missing a single detail. He recognized the calculation behind your stillness.

You weren’t detached. You were preparing.

Capitol audiences didn’t get it. They called you “stoic,” “unapproachable,” “cold.” But Finnick saw through it. He had worn the same mask. And the fact that you never let it slip -- not even once -- made him sit up straighter every time your face flickered on screen.

You didn’t charm the crowd on interview day. You didn’t cry. You barely smiled. And Finnick couldn’t look away.

While Caesar tried to pull something -- anything -- out of you, you sat with that unreadable expression, voice low and clipped, like you didn’t care if the audience liked you or not. You didn’t need them to. You weren’t looking for sponsors. You were preparing for war.

The Capitol called it a lack of personality. Finnick knew better. That’s not emptiness, he thought. That’s control. And maybe -- just maybe -- it scared them.

He’d planned to watch your Games the way he watched every set --disconnected. He couldn’t afford to feel anything. But when you moved through the arena like you’d been born for it -- slipping between shadows, striking with brutal efficiency -- he leaned closer. You didn’t fight for sport. You didn’t gloat. You just survived, again and again, with that same quiet fire.

And when you killed? You didn’t blink. But he saw it; the tiniest shift in your eyes after each one. Not pride. Not satisfaction. Just pain buried too deep to show.

The night you took out three tributes at once -- swift, silent, unseen -- he actually exhaled in disbelief.

Watching you win reminded Finnick of what victory really was: survival dressed up as glory. He saw it in your eyes -- that numbness, that quiet rage. He knew it well.

You didn't hear him at first. The wind swallowed the soft crunch of his footsteps in the sand, the rustle of driftwood beneath his weight. But then you caught the scent of salt and something softer -- like sugarcane and sea spray -- and your gaze sharpened slightly, turning over your shoulder.

Finnick Odair stood a few paces behind you, hands in his pockets, eyes on you instead of the ocean.

He didn’t speak right away. He just watched, quietly, like he wasn’t sure if you’d bolt or bite.

“You always walk like that,” he finally said, his voice smooth and low, tinged with something like amusement. “Like the ocean owes you something.”

You stared at him. Not cold, but unreadable. It was how you always looked at people now.

“And do you always sneak up on people?” you replied, tone even. No bite, no softness -- just a fact.

Finnick shrugged, offering a small, crooked smile. “Only when I’m curious.”

You turned back toward the water, letting the conversation settle into silence. But he didn’t leave.

He stepped closer -- not close enough to crowd, but just enough that you could feel the heat of him beside you, grounding in a way that surprised you.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured after a moment. “Not to me.”

You didn’t respond.

He glanced sideways at you. “But… I watched. Every second. You didn’t crack once. Not in the arena. Not on camera.”

Your jaw clenched. “And?”

“And I just wanted to say,” he paused, voice quieter now, “I saw what they didn’t.”

That made your eyes flick toward him, guarded but curious.

“I know what it’s like,” he said. “Coming back with blood on your hands and Capitol lies in your teeth. Everyone either wants to worship you or pretend you’re whole.”

You looked away again. The accuracy of what he said startled you. Like he could see you.

"Look, Odair," you sighed, the thick walls built up around you evident. "You can pretend you know anything about me, but--"

“--but I don’t, yeah, yeah,” Finnick cut in, his lips tugging into a crooked smirk. “Believe it or not, I’ve heard that one before.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You watched me on a screen. You don’t know a damn thing.”

He stepped closer, hands in his pockets, wind tousling his hair. “I watched you survive. Watched you outsmart half the Capitol’s little monsters. Watched you break records and a few rib cages.”

You didn’t answer, but your silence wasn’t dismissal. Not entirely.

Finnick tilted his head, studying you. “Let me guess. You hate the attention. Hate the interviews. Hate the fact that they all call you a ‘Victor’ when you feel more like a grave.”

You stiffened. He was getting too close to the truth.

“I didn’t come out here for therapy,” you said flatly.

“Oh, trust me,” he chuckled, “if I were offering therapy, I’d at least have brought alcohol.”

That pulled a small twitch at the corner of your mouth. Damn him.

“Why are you really here, Finnick?” you asked, arms crossed, voice low. “You don’t know me. You don’t owe me anything.”

“I don’t,” he agreed easily. “But I remember what it felt like. Coming back home and realizing the ocean didn’t wash off the blood. That the sand didn’t make you clean.”

You blinked. That was too poetic. Too real. And too annoyingly accurate.

“Besides,” he added with a wink, “I figured if anyone could match my pretty face and fucked up soul combo, it’d be you.”

“Wow,” you muttered, dry as the heat you fought in the arena. “Your ego’s bigger than the arena.”

“It’s well-fed,” he said smugly. “But you -- you’re starving for real conversation. Don’t deny it.”

You rolled your eyes, though your chest felt strangely lighter. He wasn’t giving you pity. He wasn’t afraid of you, either. He was poking the bear on purpose. Teasing the teeth.

“Careful,” you warned, but your tone had lost its sharpness. “I bite.”

Finnick’s grin widened. “So do I. Just ask the Capitol.”

He stepped beside you again, shoulder just close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him in the sea breeze.

“I’m not trying to fix you,” he said after a beat. “Hell, I’m barely holding my own cracks together. But I’m here. If you want that.”

You didn’t respond immediately. Just stared out at the horizon where the sun was starting to dip, orange spilling into blue.

“I’ll think about it,” you muttered.

Finnick smirked. “That’s basically a yes.”

You bumped his arm lightly with your shoulder.

“Don’t push your luck, pretty boy.”

His grin widened. “Wouldn’t dream of it. You like me, you just don't know it yet.”

The conversations on the beach became a small tradition as you softened up. Every few weeks, Finnick would seek you out, knowing exactly where you'd be. You were usually in the same spot, sitting on a blanket with a book. Sometimes the book was absent -- you just stared out at the waves instead.

He was proud of himself. He'd gotten you to tell him feelings, even secrets of your own. He'd gained your trust. He was your outlet, just as he'd wanted.

And the best part, to him at least, was that he'd managed to fall for you.

Finnick was a romantically charged person. He loved love. He loved old love. Slow paced tenderness where the process of falling in love with someone was barely noticeable until it was all consuming. And now, Finnick could barely ignore how much he wanted to tell you.

He knew it would scare you.

He opted not to use words. He used gentle touches, teasing, small flirts and comments. He used being a shoulder to cry on, collecting sea shells for you because you loved them, embarrassing people who made unsavory comments about your status as a Victor.

Finnick fell for you in the most beautiful, soft, slow way. As he got to know you, he found that you weren't some stoic gruesome person, just as he suspected. You were gentle, intelligent, funny. You were gorgeous, inside and out. You loved kids. You loved animals and the ocean. You had two little brothers, who looked up to you. You only had one parent -- your father, whom you adored.

He adored every single thing he knew about you, bad or not.

Today, he found you on the beach, per usual. But something was different. You weren't just sitting, spaced out or reading.

You were down by the water, laughing softly -- laughing -- as a stray dog jumped around your ankles, kicking up wet sand and barking at your playful swats.

You weren’t wearing your usual armor, either. Your hair was down, sunlit and wild in the breeze, and your face was open, warm, like someone who’d finally stepped out from a long, cold shadow.

You didn’t hear him approach, but somehow, you always knew when he was near.

“Should I be jealous?” Finnick asked, voice playful but quieter than usual, more careful.

You didn’t look at him right away. Just let your hand rest on the dog’s head and murmured, “Of a dog?”

“Well, he’s got your full attention and, apparently, your affection,” he said, lowering himself onto the blanket beside you. “That’s a lot more than I can say for myself.”

You smirked slightly but didn’t meet his eyes.

“You bring food,” you murmured. “He likes that.”

“Do you like that?” he asked, voice dipping just enough to make you still for a second.

You shrugged one shoulder, watching as the dog trotted off to chase a seagull.

Finnick didn’t speak again right away. The silence between you had become a language of its own. Familiar. Almost safe.

Then he spoke again, more gently.

“You’re different.”

You raised a brow at that, finally glancing at him. “Different how?”

“Softer,” he said, eyes scanning your face. “Not weak. Just… not hiding everything with your fists.”

You wanted to snap something back. Reflex. Habit. But the words didn’t come.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

You didn’t answer, just looked back at the ocean. The waves were coming in slower now. Calmer.

The silence fell, but not the kind that used to hang between you like a barricade. This one was gentle. Shared. He stood next to you, hands by his sides, looking out at the water the same way you were.

Then -- he felt it.

Your hand, brushing against his. A feather-light touch. Testing. Curious.

He turned his hand slightly, enough so that his pinky grazed yours. You didn’t pull away. In fact, your hand moved a little closer. You still weren’t looking at him, but that made it feel even more real.

“You’re quiet today,” he said softly.

“I don’t need to talk to you,” you replied, then added quickly, “Not in a bad way.”

He smiled. “I know what you meant.”

A gust of wind swept by, blowing strands of hair into your face. Without thinking, Finnick reached out, tucking them behind your ear.

You stiffened slightly -- not in fear, not in rejection. Just surprise. A moment of nerves.

His fingers lingered by your jaw just a moment too long. His eyes searched yours.

You stared back, caught.

“I think about you all the time,” he admitted, his voice barely louder than the waves. “And not just the version people know. You.”

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t look away.

He moved in -- slow, slow, slow -- giving you every second to back away.

You didn’t.

His lips met yours in the softest kiss you’d ever felt.

It wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t hungry. It was a confession. A question.

When you kissed him back, it was quiet but certain. Your hand pressed lightly against his chest, as if to keep him close but not too close, not yet.

When the kiss ended, Finnick rested his forehead against yours, your breaths mingling, hearts thudding in soft unison.

“I’m scared,” you whispered, honest in a way you hadn’t been before.

“So am I,” he whispered back. “But I’m here. Okay?”

You nodded, still not letting go.

Neither did he.

And that was enough -- for now.

[slimyshield]

the fact that it was Whitaker who found Robby. the fact that they made a point of showing that it could have been Santos who found Robby. Santos who has shown she is willing to go above someone's head if she thinks it's necessary. Santos who would have told someone - Dana, Abbot, someone - if she was the one to find Robby having a panic attack on the floor. she wouldn't have been crazy about it because she did go about reporting Langdon with tact and nuance (getting other ppls takes on Langdon and proof of drugs vanishing before she went to Robby!!) but she would have said something she would have mentioned something.

but instead it's Whitaker. who is empathetic, yes, and perhaps what he said was what Robby needed in the moment, what the ER needed in the moment, because they couldn't afford to have an attending tap out in the middle of a mass casualty event. but Whitaker is a young white man. a demographic the show has specifically pointed out is drowning in toxic masculinity. he is a young white man from Nebraska with multiple brothers, and it has been shown that he has the spirit but lacks the execution skills in terms of empathy and knowing what would be best for the patient holistically. so he says what he thinks Robby needs to hear, the long and short of which is put your emotions aside and get your head in the game, which the audience knows is not what Robby genuinely, actually needs in order to get better in the long term. and we see the direct results of that when after Robby stands he physically pushes Whitaker away. because that is what emotional unavailability does to men. it makes them reject each other in moments of weakness. like. the metaphor is so obvious and devastating. it's right there! he pushes him away! he pushes him away!! you think or maybe hope they're about to have a glorious heart to heart -- but Robby pushes him away, and so Whitaker leaves (with a nickname for Robby that, correct me if I'm wrong, is the first time we hear it; and he calls him captain. a military rank. which is. an insane decision from the writers. the military, which perpetuates toxic masculinity more than perhaps any other entity in the world). and Whitaker doesn't have the lack of respect for authority that Santos has, so when Robby comes to him later and says you won't tell anyone about this will you, he says no, I won't. where we have textual in-show evidence that Santos might have said no I won't and then gone to Dana or Abbot afterwards. and then Whitaker parrots Robby's horrendous, fumbling how do we deal with losing patients? push it down and never process it speech back at him. it's heartwarming! Robby smiles! and then you think about it a bit more and you just feel sick.

this is not an attack on Whitaker. I love him so much. it's just like. this is how the cycle of toxic masculinity is perpetuated. Whitaker isn't an asshole! he has buckets of empathy we have seen that! he is a bleeding heart! but it's still not enough. as a man he has been told his entire life to shut his emotions down and that vulnerability is to be avoided at all costs and he and Robby catch each other in a negative loop. the cycle is continued, unwittingly. GOD this show is so good

[confessedlyfannish]

Writing Prompt #13

"So?" Red Hood asks, arms crossed. "Was I right?"

"Yes," Phantom says, deepening his voice, "this is one of mine."

"One of your what?" Robin growls. Nightwing's hand on his shoulder is the only thing keeping him from invading Phantom's personal space, which, please, continue to do so Mr. Nightwing, Sir.

Phantom would take a deep calming breath if a) he wasn't trying to appear as otherworldly as possible which means no human breathing and b) if that wouldn't so obviously telegraph how uncomfortable he is in the Batcave surrounded by the entire Batfamily.

Next to him Red Hood shifts in slight discomfort. His ties to the spectral realm mean he's picking up on Danny's unease even if he can't fully translate the feeling. Which is good. Danny needs to maintain what little control he has over this situation.

"There's a gh-spirit in my...realm," Phantom says, letting himself drift gently to the other side of Batman's medical table which just coincidentally puts more distance between him and the the rest of the clan staring him down. Black Bat leans forward and he violently suppresses a flinch. "They're known as Nocturne. They wield power over dreams. Their signature is all over this."

And Danny means that literally. Their ecto-signature couldn't be more apparent if they'd written it in sharpie across Batman's suit. This is what Jason—Red Hood, because Danny couldn't have been dealing with a simple civilian case of ecto-contamination, nooo, he's got to have connections to the superheroes Danny has spent the better part of his afterlife avoiding—managed to pick up on, even being the low level entity that he is.

At which point he'd called Phantom in, even though Danny had spent the better part of two weeks trying to intimidate the guy into never contacting him, Ruler of the Spirit Realm (lightning crash!), again, but here is his calling card just in case (thunder and creaking noises!!), but again, you should never use it unless things are very serious, OoOoOoOo~~~

Damn it. It's been like 10 days.

"So how do we fix it, Your, uh, Ghostliness?" Nightwing says, ducking his head in a sort of half-assed supplication when Phantom turns to him. Nightwing glances at Jason for affirmation who shrugs out of the corner of Danny's eye.

"Phantom is fine," Danny says, waving his hand and letting his upper lip curl in an expression of distaste. "Remember, it's like you're Vlad when Dad offers him a glass of eight dollar wine!" Jazz's voice reminds him. Robin growls lowly, likely meaning he's nailing it. He looks away dismissively ("Honestly, it's like you're Vlad, anytime, ever." Sam notes dryly) and thanks god he doesn't have a heart in this form because it would be beating so loud right now.

Beside him, Jason scratches compulsively at the back of his neck. Huh, his anxiety is manifesting physically as an itch. Good to know.

"You can't fix it," Phantom says. "I can."

"At what cost?" Red Robin asks. "Red Hood mentioned you'd want something in return?"

Frick. His other contingency to keep Jason from ever contacting him again. Phantom had lightly hinted his taste du jour was, uh, souls.

Something Red Hood has apparently let slip, because now Robin shakes off Nightwing's hand, puffs out his chest and declares "I will trade myself for my father's safe awakening, Spirit!"

The other members burst into denials which almost covers up Danny floating sharply back and saying "What? No!!!"

Key word: almost.

Danny coughs as they stare at him.

"That is to say, I have no desire for a child," he puts a bit of snarl into it, showing fang. The mood in the room plummets drastically as Nightwing gently grabs Robin by the arm and pulls him back to his side.

"We see," he says. He steps forward more assertively, placing himself in front of the others, all of which are now eying him warily. "Then, is there a gender you prefer?"

It takes a second to click in Danny's head and then he swings his head wildly away from his audience to hide his reaction, nausea and embarrassment turning his face bright green. "Fika Kristo," he mutters in Esperanto as quietly as he possibly can, pinching the bridge of his nose.

He gives himself a moment to settle and game plan before turning back around. "I have no desire for any of you, and it matters not. In this instance, a deal need not be struck. Nocturne is my subject, and they have done this without my permission." Danny blinks, eyes widening. "Not—not! that I would give them permission to do such a thing. In the first place. Ahem."

"Okay...so you'll do this for free?" Jason asks. "Seems like a bad business practice since you also fixed me up for nothing—"

"What he means to say, Your Majesty, Phantom, is thank you!" Signal says in a rush as Nightwing starts, "Wait, Hood, what do you mean—"

"Enough!" Phantom says loudly (nearby bats take off and Jason's itch migrates to his forearms) "I have little time," read: he has a test tomorrow and he's only one-third of the way through the study guide "And I grow tired of this...dilly-dally." Frick! Is that an old-timey word?

"Of course. Thank you again, Phantom." Nightwing says stiffly, eyes still narrowed in Hood's direction.

"Wait, sorry, Phantom, Majesty, I'm Spoiler by the way," the purple-caped vigilante Danny already knew was Spoiler says. "How do we keep this from happening again? To any of us? Is there a way to defeat this Nocturne?"

"Moreover, why Batman?" Red Robin asks. "Why would a spirit from another dimension want him asleep?"

Phantom sighs. "Nocturne was trying to send a message. To me. Through you," he says, nodding at Red Hood. "They...how do I put this. They like attention. Being the spirit of uh, dreaming, they don't receive that attention. And you were in my realms for quite some time. And they wanted...attention."

The lackluster explanation sits for a moment before "They were jealous? Of me?" Red Hood asks skeptically.

"It's more complicated than that. Your...physiology," Danny puts it as delicately as possible, watching regretfully when Red Hood still stiffens at the mention, "Is particular. You gather attention in our realm. And having my attention is...special. But not!" He says to the group at large, a touch panicked, "Romantic!"

Jesus, he's never gonna hear the end of this from the others.

"Anyway, I will ensure it does not happen again."

"By paying them attention," Spoiler says under her breath, wiggling her eyebrows at Black Bat, Red Robin shooting them both a glare. Nightwing ignores them in favor of staring at Red Hood and Phantom. Danny is unsure what Red Hood has disclosed about how he knows Danny, but now he feels confident the answer is close to nothing.

Before Nightwing can ask whatever uncomfortable thing he's about to ask, Phantom disappears. Invisibly, he hovers over Batman's sleeping body and silently apologizes for the intrusion before intangibly slipping into Batman's REM realm and finding the man...oh...

Probably thirty minutes later he reappears to the group, who all perk up at the sight of him. Their eyes bounce from him to Batman; who does not move, to the monitor; which shows no change in his brain activity.

"I'm going to need your help," Danny says to Jason, getting to the point.

"Why? What can I do?"

"It's easier if you come with me," Danny says, grabbing his arm.

"Come with—"

Danny wastes no time in turning them both invisible and flying them into Batman's mind.

"What the—" Red Hood twists and turns, taking in the hallways of the manor. From afar, they can hear the tinkling of a piano. "You, I had your word—"

"This isn't where you think it is," Danny says hurriedly. "We're in your—Batman's dream." He walks quickly down the hallway, towards the music. Jason follows.

"What?"

"The way to break a dream spell is to wake the dreamer. You can't do that externally so you do it internally. Usually you wake the dreamer by turning the dream into the nightmare, scaring them awake."

The hallway stretches on longer than realistic, the dream attempting to divert them. But it can't outrun Danny. His power seeps into the halls, ice creeping along the paneling and freezing the way behind them.

"Batman, however, is hard to scare."

"So you want me to do it."

"What? No." Phantom shoots him a confused look. "Why would I—Ahem, The other way is to convince the dreamer they are dreaming. They break the dream themselves."

"Alright..." Jason says slowly, now keeping pace with him. His breath forms a cloud as he speaks. "And you think I'm the person to do it? I'm not the one he listens to you know, that's more Nightwing's schtick, or hell, anyone other than me."

"This isn't just Batman's dream, Jason," he says. Hood's eyes narrow at his real name, but now the truth is necessary. "This is The Dream. The perfect life. Everything he could ever want."

They're approaching an opening on the right side of the corridor. A bright light emanates from it, alongside the noise of stumbling piano keys and laughter, deep and male and unrecognizable. The Dream.

"Thomas Wayne," Jason breathes. "You want me to convince Bruce it's worth walking away from the center of his universe? It'd be easier if I put a bullet in their chests."

Danny stops abruptly before the doorway, turning to face Jason.

"You know, I fixed you," he says, head cocked. "Those feelings you felt, you shouldn't be feeling them anymore."

"I...I don't."

"Then why do you act like it?" He lets himself drift up, reaching beyond their planes of existence and extending a metaphysical hand to Jason's spirit. It shivers away. "You don't have to hide behind what was."

"I'm not hiding! And I don't have to explain myself to you!" He tries to move forward but Danny puts a hand out and he cannot move past it. He growls in frustration.

"I'm grateful to you, but with or without the Pits I'm fucked up. This is just who I am. This is just what he made me."

"You've never asked why I look like this. But did you know my form is malleable?" Phantom says, letting his legs shift into a tail, letting two eyes become three. "What I believe is what I am."

And then he takes several steps back, putting the doorway between them. "From here on out, the Pits can't tell you how to think or feel. Your decisions are wholly your own. Starting with this one."

Jason stares at the doorway, then Danny.

"I won't make you," Danny says simply. "And if you desire, I will retrieve Nightwing instead."

Jason scratches at his arms, grits his teeth, and stomps through. The light resolves into the sitting room, massive windows letting in sunlight so bright it streaks yellow-white across the room. Bruce sits on the maroon versailles couch next to Cassandra, who sits cross legged, excitedly watching Alfred pour her a cup of tea. To their right, in the open space, Damian barks instructions at Tim on handling a katana. Stephanie and Duke sit on the ground besides the coffee table, homework sheets sprawled across the surface, suffering their way through a calculus problem.

Bruce, smiling softly, looks across the room to where the atrocious playing is coming from. Red Hood follows his gaze.

Sitting at the piano, trying to play while Dick distracts him with a pair of chopsticks, is Jason. He puts a hand on Dick's face and shoves, both of them hitting the wrong keys.

"Get—away—dumbass!"

"No, see, it's a duet! Jay!"

"That's not why it's named—" and Jason Todd-Wayne tips his white-tipped head back and laughs.