#but his angst potential is like 9000 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sopewriters · 5 years

Text

dream within a dream

Pairing: Yoongi X Reader ; Jungkook X Reader

Genre: smut, angst; college au

Word Count: 9000

Note + Warning(s): unhealthy relationships, somewhat dub-con in the middle. additional warning for potentially shit writing because this was completed through multiple short bursts

music inspo: demons + nervous

title inspired by Edgar Allen Poe’s poem. Hehe.

His name is Min Yoongi.

You notice him on the first day of your Intro to Calculus class. He’s sitting in the furthest seat from the front, hunched in on himself with his glasses perched precariously on his nose as he skims through some sort of book. Even as he does that, he looks stunning; all sharp edges and dark, gorgeous eyes.

You figure it must be your math textbook and, for a brief moment, pity this beautiful boy. No one ever buys those; he’s clearly just blown his money. Looking closer, though, you’re immediately proven wrong.

He’s reading a rather large book, so it can’t possibly be math. You can see EDGAR ALLEN POE emblazoned across the cover in fancy lettering and so, you realize with a start, he must be reading poems. He’s even got a little pencil in his hand, letting it run over the ink printed into the pages, and you wonder—

“What’re you looking at?” An elbow jostles you uncomfortably underneath your ribs, and you start a little in surprise; your friend is looking at you with a question in their eyes.

“Nothing.” You hope to god your cheeks haven’t given you away. “I can’t wait to leave, that’s all.”

“Relax!” They laugh, mirth sparkling in their eyes, “We haven’t even started class! It’s probably not even that bad.”

“I know.” You chance a glance back at the boy, eyes widening when he looks up, meeting your gaze head-on; it’s electric and you let your eyes drop immediately. “I’ve got a good feeling.”

He always sits in the same spot. Wearing those same glasses as he doesn’t pay attention to lecture, as he pours his efforts onto the words branded into that lumpy book he constantly carries around. As he looks at the book like it’s the center of his world.

You wonder how it’d feel like if he were looking at you someone like that. Would their heart beat out of their chest as that heavy gaze keeps them rooted to the spot?

Your finger taps against your wrist as you bite your lip, and you force yourself to look back to the front of your classroom.

You can’t stare at him, you tell yourself sternly, that’s creepy and completely unnecessary.

But you can’t stop your eyes from seeking out those emotionless features, those blazing eyes, the rings glinting prettily as they straddle those slender fingers.

You wonder what it’d feel like to wrap your hands around his. But that’s invasive, considering you don’t talk to him, ever.

You really should.

The first time you see him in a place that’s not the classroom, your footsteps falter as you freeze in surprise. It’s not as though you don’t know he exists outside class, it’s just that…seeing it with your own eyes is a little startling. Though, it shouldn’t be surprising that he’s in the library of all places.

You bite your lip when you see that he’s got that book of his with him, and that he’s writing again. Except, this time, it’s in a blank notebook splayed across the table. You don’t know what comes over you then—perhaps something in you subconsciously decided it was tired of the inaction—but your feet march you to the poetry section so you can grab the first book you find—a collection of Robert Frost. Your body steers you to the boy’s table, even as your brain screams at it to stop, let’s just leave now, and your hands drop the book on the oak wood with a soft thunk.

This obviously draws the boy’s attention, and he blinks up at you in thinly veiled surprise, the expression quickly filtering off his features for something a little more disinterested.

You say nothing, heart pounding ridiculously against your chest; instead, you just drop into the chair that you’ve just pulled out, and flip open the book, choosing not to answer the unasked question posed by your unwilling companion.

You try not to yawn, by the time you’ve finished the first poem. The words are jumbling up in your head, seared into the back of your eyes, and you wonder what was going through Frost’s mind while he wrote these… things. Poetry never makes sense, never will. You’ll probably never like it, so you don’t understand why you’ve done this to yourself.

“You’ve been staring at that page for a while now.” Whatever it is that you expect, it isn’t for the boy to suddenly speak up, an amused glint in his eyes. Oh, those pretty eyes. “Do you really like Frost that much?”

You have half the mind to ask how he knows you’re reading Frost, but luckily remember that it’s probably on the cover.

Instead of completely embarrassing yourself, you just shrug.

“A friend recommended me to start here.” You say, pulling the excuse from your ass. “I’ve never really read poetry before so.”

There. Not a complete lie.

There’s a pause as the boy narrows his eyes at you, and your throat dries up, goosebumps breaking out across your skin.

“What’re you reading?” You hope to distract him and are relieved when he takes the bait and gives you some much-needed room to breathe.

He doesn’t say anything, just tilts up his book so you can see the cover with a lazy smile tugging at his lips. It doesn’t send a jolt of excitement up your spine; definitely not. Your hands tremble as they turn over a page in your own book.

“Lovecraft?” You question as steadily as your voice allows, and thankfully the boy takes it at face value and doesn’t push it.

“Yeah.” The smile spears into something sharper, a smirk. “Fucking genius.”

The sound of his voice saying the expletive like that doesn’t do anything to stop the trembling in your arms, and the intense expression that crosses his cold features doesn’t help matters along.

“Probably not for my level.” You joke hesitantly, offering him an unsure smile.

The boy stares at you, and you take the time to glance over his dark locks, swept to the side. A beat later, he sets the book down, an indiscernible expression on his face as he inquires, “Would you want to learn?”

“Yeah, it sounds fun.” The smile doesn’t leave your lips.

Something lights in his eyes and you feel like you’ve made the right choice. Warmth courses through you as his smile turns more genuine.

“Yoongi.” He introduces himself, sticking his hand out, and you can’t believe this is actually happening. Sometimes, spontaneity really can pay off.

“ ________ .” You say back with a grin, and take the proffered hand.

It feels warm and right.

It’s when you’re trudging back home after a particularly devastating writing class that you run into Jeon Jungkook.

Your back aches—especially the area between your shoulders—and you can’t wait to collapse into your bed and hopefully regain some sense of feeling in your muscles. The strap of your backpack feels tight as you slowly make your way along the sidewalk, face betraying how exhausted you are.

Your earbuds are comfortable, having been popped in at the very start of your journey back home, and you tiredly bob your head to the soothing rhythm of the song being blasted through them. In this world, it’s just you and the music filtering through your ears, and—

“Fuck, look out!”

You’re barely given time to react when a hard, warm body crashes into your own, sending you crashing onto the pavement with an undignified squawk leaving your lips.

“Fuck!” The same voice says again, and while you’re normally a reasonably tempered person, you’re tired and want to go home, damn it. “I’m so—”

“Fuck off.” You say brusquely, picking yourself up off the ground and whirling around to stare the guy in the eye. He’s easy on the eyes, dark, ruffled hair and smooth skin, but your knees ache and your elbow stings and you’ve got a huge zero in your patience reserves.

His eyes widen, like he can’t believe what you’re saying, and a quick glance tells you that he’s carrying a skateboard; that only serves to fuel your anger, the flames flickering in your eyes.

“You think that just because you can zip around on your pretty little skateboard wherever you want, that it gives you the right to nearly mow someone down!” Your voice pitches as you grow more agitated, the sun making your skin prickle uncomfortably. “Well, new flash: it doesn’t. Fuck you, man.”

The boy’s staring you with shocked eyes—ha, like he didn’t expect to get called out on his bullshit—before an anger stirs up in his dark brown irises. That’s exactly the kind of reaction you should’ve expected, honestly.

“Okay, you don’t need to be such a bitch about it.” His mouth, pink and soft, twists unprettily as he stares heatedly at you. “It was a fucking accident—”

“Oh, was it?” You mock, crossing your arms defensively as you let your rage swim free. “You have fucking legs, so you might as well use them, you entitled little prick.”

His eyes narrow, and you can see his jaw clench, and stare smugly back at him, eyebrow raised. He’s not actually going to punch you or anything, not unless he wants his ass reported. And, honestly, you’re not afraid to do exactly that.

“Fuck off.” Is all he says, mirroring your words from before, as he grabs his skateboard and brushes past you towards one of the buildings, and you laugh scornfully at his retreating back.

“Yeah, run away!” You call spitefully, bristling as the boy doesn’t even bother calling anything back. “Rude ass little—”

You cut yourself off with a huff, stomping your way back to your building, closing the door shut behind you with a loud slam. Dropping your stuff on the ground, you let yourself fall onto the sheets face-first, wondering why on earth you always have to deal with assholes.

Not Yoongi though, obviously. Yoongi’s…he’s nice. A little intimidating, a little cold sometimes but, ultimately, a decent guy. Not like some people who go around running people over with their skateboard.

Alright, enough thinking. You need to relax and forget all about this horrible encounter, and the most obvious thing you can do right now is ignore the mountainous pile of homework you’ve got to do and go watch a bunch of vines. Or something.

It’s only two and a half hours later that you realize—

“He was going to say sorry, fuck!” You whisper-yell in horror, planting your face in your hands and bemoaning, “Why do I always have the shittiest luck?”

Of course, you receive no answer. And, this time, maybe you don’t deserve it.

“You okay?” Yoongi asks you one day, as the two of you sit across from each other in companionable silence during library hours; the fact that he even cares enough to ask sends warmth blooming in your chest.

His eyes are blank, as they peer at you over the pages of his newest book, another one of Poe’s collections, and it makes you both uneasy and a little heated under your skin, sparks sizzling as they race to the very tips of your fingers.

“Yes.” You say, then frown. “No. Not really.”

“Oh.” Yoongi says, and turns back to his book. You bite your lip, and he sighs. “It’s okay if you want to go home early today.”

“Oh.” You parrot similarly, and nod a little listlessly. “Yeah, I think I’ll do that.”

You shove your books into your bag, standing with little trouble even as the weight on your back tries to pull you back down. You linger a little uncertainly, waiting for Yoongi to look up from his book; which he eventually does, with an eyebrow cocked.

“Bye.” You give him a smile, and he gives you a non-committal sigh in return. Taking that as your cue to leave, you walk out of the library, headed straight home.

It still feels a little surreal, honestly; you can’t believe Min Yoongi actually hangs out with you. It feels a little like being star struck, every time you’re in his presence; and, how could you not be? Min Yoongi looks like he’s been crafted lovingly from the hands of God himself, and is certainly smarter than he is gorgeous—and that’s saying something.

But even the giddiness of spending time with Yoongi can’t inflate your mood long enough. You’re not even half-way home when you bite your lip, guilt beginning to stir up in you as you recall that boy from a week ago; the one who knocked you off your feet, quite literally, with his skateboard. Regardless of your temper at the time, you shouldn’t have snapped, and you really want to apologize; but, now that you’ve worked up the resolve to do that, he’s nowhere to be found.

As though on cue—and, seriously, is your life a drama waiting to happen? —a yell sounds out; this time, you’re not tired, and you’re actually prepared to essentially dive aside to not get run over. The sound of wheels hurtling along a sidewalk can be heard, and feet drag against the ground to slow themselves down.

“Oh, it’s you.” A familiar voice says, displeasure evident. You look up in slight disbelief to see the boy from last week, like he’s just magically appeared because you just thought about him. “Are you actually going to let me apo—”

“Sorry!” You cut him off, making his eyes go wide; your eyes, on the other hand, quickly drop down, trailing past the rips in his jeans easily to land on his ratty sneakers instead. “I was in a terrible mood last week and I took it out on you, and that was unfair of me I know, I’m really sorry—”

“Whoa there, slow down.” Hands come to grasp your shoulders, and concerned eyes peer into your own; you shift uncomfortably until he gets the message, letting go of you rather quickly with burning cheeks. “Uh, sorry. But no, it’s alright, don’t worry about it, I guess.”

It’s strange, seeing him so weird and quiet. Granted, you’ve only seen him once, and he was yelling at you, at the time, but he doesn’t really seem like the kind of person who’d be withdrawn at all.

“No, it’s really not.” You frown, diverting your attention to what’s happening at present. “I shouldn’t have done that, even if I was tired.”

“Well.” He says after a moment, “What do you want me to say?”

It then occurs to you that you have absolutely no idea.

“Um,” You draw out, eyebrows knitting together as you try and figure something out, “Let me buy you coffee?”

At his wide eyes, you quickly backtrack with, “N-not like that, I meant... as a-an APOLOGY!”

“Alright, alright, I got it!” He laughs, eyes crinkling up; and you notices he looks a little bit like a bunny when he does that. “Calm down!”

“I’m calm!” You insist, making him devolve further into snickers; you sigh, knowing you’re probably already going to regret this. “Anyways. Coffee, tomorrow at 4?”

“Sure.” He grins disarmingly at you, and you roll your eyes at his suave moves. “I’m Jungkook, by the way. Jeon Jungkook.”

“I’m ________ .” You offer, and that’s that.

Except, you realize the next day, that’s not that at all. You hate yourself for doing this to yourself; you’ve entirely forgotten that weekdays at 4 are reserved solely for library time with Yoongi. And, there isn’t a time of the day when you’d ever consider missing out on it.

Yet, here you are.

Guilt churns away at you as you cautiously eye Yoongi during math class, in the morning. As usual, he’s penning something in his journal, those same glasses sitting precariously on the bridge of his nose, and just the sight of him is enough to send sadness broiling in your gut. You can’t believe you’re going to do this – but you’ve done this to yourself, so you have to stick it out.

Class drags on and on and, as it does, the anxiousness brimming in your gut rises, higher and higher until your hands are shaking on your thighs.

You’re going to do this.

You intercept Yoongi before he can even leave, dismissing your friend’s startled call of your name with a wave of your hand; the boy comes to a stop before you and raises an eyebrow.

“I won’t be able to make it to the library today.” You say in a huff. Yoongi’s impassive expression remains unchanged. “But I’ll definitely be back tomorrow!”

“Okay.” Yoongi shrugs, shifting the strap of his bookbag on his shoulder and tilting his head. “If that’s all…?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah!” You stumble out of the way, something uneasy turning in your heart as you watch him leave. Biting your lip, you ask yourself what you even expected; Yoongi’s obviously come to associate library time with actually reading and not hanging out with you. It’s fine, expected even.

You just need to try harder.

“What was that about?” You startle when your friend’s voice sounds out from behind you; spinning around, you give a bashful chuckle.

“He’s my library buddy.” You confess to them. “You remember I told you about him?”

“Oh. Oh.” They seem unimpressed for the most part, and you catch up to them as they begin walking out. “He’s Min Yoongi, huh?”

“Yeah.” You grin at them, but it falters when you see a strange expression twist their features. “…what’s wrong?”

“Hm? Nothing.” They shake their head, pushing open the door. “Nothing at all. Excited for your date?”

“It’s not a date!” You exclaim, and they laugh, clearly not buying it. “It’s not, oh my god!”

You only have eyes for one person, after all.

“Sure, if you say so.” They smile good-naturedly. “Let me know how your date with Jungkook goes, yeah?”

“It’s not a date.” You huff out again, annoyed. “But whatever.”

“Scary.”

“Shut up!”

“Hey.” You hurry to where Jungkook’s sat, sliding into the booth opposite to him. “Sorry for changing the location so last minute.”

“It’s fine.” The evening sun casts a light that softens the lines of his face, highlights the warmth in his eyes as he shakes his head with a small smile. “I was in the area, so it actually worked out.”

“Oh, good.” You let out a relieved sigh. “Apparently the coffee house is being remodeled now; I only found out today. Sorry again.”

“It’s fine, don’t sweat it.” His grin grows. “Besides, a diner works for me. Feels more like a date this way, huh?”

Not this again.

“Shut up, you aren’t funny.” You grumble at him, hiding your face behind the menu as he shakes with laughter. “Anyway, did you find something you want?”

“I’ve already ordered.” He says with a straight face, and cracks up at the indignation on your face. “Nah, I was just messing with you! I only got here a couple of minutes before you did.”

“Cool. Choice of drink?” You ask tersely, already regretting this. To think, you could be sitting in peaceful silence with Yoongi directly across from you…

“Don’t be like that.” Jungkook sighs, though amusement still flickers in his golden-brown irises. “Anyway, I’ll get some fries and banana milk.”

“What?” You stare at him, stupefied. Your earlier irritation has been struck in one fatal blow.

“It’s on the menu.” He shrugs and, to your shock when you squint at the offending words, he’s right.

What kind of diner…?

“Oh wow.” You say, eyes wide. “Okay then.”

Calling over the waitress, you rattle off your orders in succession, watching her leave with an air of satisfaction because – hey, you sounded like a Competent Adult, for once.

Then, Jungkook laughs softly. “A chocolate shake, really?”

“Hey, you got banana milk.” You defend. “And besides, chocolate shakes are good for all ages! They’re a classic! They can’t ever let you down! You could literally give me one any time of the day and I’d drink it, they’re that—”

“Okay, okay.” He holds up his hands in surrender, and your cheeks heat when you realize you’ve been blabbering on about chocolate shakes, oh my god. “Hey now, none of that. It’s cute when you ramble.”

“I’m sorry.” You groan, dropping your head on the table with a muted thump. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Nothing’s wrong with you, oh god.” Jungkook reaches over and ruffles your hair lightly, making you perk up and glare at him. “Anyway, tell me about yourself. I feel like we’ve only really just yelled at each other, and that’s not a lot to go on.”

“Right, well, there’s nothing much to say.” You say unsurely, still in the process of patting down your hair. “I’m majoring in ___________, I hate college right now, and the only thing that makes it all bearable is—”

You cut yourself off, cheeks burning. You can’t believe you were about to say Min Yoongi, right to a stranger’s face.

“…chocolate shakes?” Jungkook offers quietly, wearing a knowing grin as you duck your head bashfully.

“Yeah. Shakes.” Your hands twist into your shirt anxiously, and desperate to change you ask, “what about you?”

“Oh, there isn’t much for me to say either.” His fingers drum at the table. “I’m an econ major, but I’m only really doing it for my parents. What I really want is to be a pro skateboarder.”

Your eyes widen, and your first instinct is to laugh; this guy can’t be serious, can he? But, then you see the earnestness in his eyes, the determination in the set of his mouth and the retort dies on your lips.

“That sounds really great.” You say sincerely, looking right at him. “Do you have any idea how you’re going to get there?”

There’s a pleased curve to Jungkook’s lips as he leans back. Thanking the waitress as she sets down your drinks and food, he pops a fry into his mouth. “It’s all about getting good, first. I can’t be super rusty and expect anyone to take an interest in me, can I?”

“I guess not.” You acquiesce with a half-smile, taking a sip of your drink and – ah, heaven on earth. This is true nectar.

“That good?” Jungkook’s voice cuts into your daydream. “You look like you’ve just experienced nirvana.”

“Maybe.” You shrug, unable to be embarrassed right now. “Too bad you’ve only got that banana milk, huh?”

“Hey, don’t diss the subtle flavor of my banana milk!” Jungkook defends playfully, eyes crinkling as he smiles. “Anywho – tell me more about yourself. What classes are you taking this semester?”

And, as you begin to regale him with tales of your misfortune with your Intro to Research professor, time seems to fly by. At the end, you’re loathe to leave, and he notices, smile showing all teeth.

“We can meet the day after tomorrow.” He promises, squeezing your shoulder amicably. “Around five, same place?”

“Sure.” You agree; and this time, that really is that.

There’s something different about Yoongi today.

His gaze isn’t liquid as usual, doesn’t gloss over you as it usually does. Instead, it feels dark, almost heavy, as you take your regular seat across from him.

You bite your lip, heat stirring in your chest at the sight of Yoongi’s eyes, so black, so bottomless as they seem to devour you whole.

“What… what did you pick out today?” You ask hesitantly, breath stuttering when his gaze doesn’t shift away.

Finally, his eyes cut away, and you can breathe for a moment.

“Tennyson.” He answers, tone curt; then, he looks up again. “But you’re not really interested in that, are you?”

You freeze. “What?”

Yoongi snaps his book closed, leveling you with a look. “I know you didn’t come here for poetry, that day. You’re here for something else entirely, aren’t you?”

“N-No, that’s not it—” Your lungs seize up in your chest, and your head pounds. “Yoongi—”

“I don’t mind.” He says nonchalantly, and that puts a swift stop to your stutters. You can only watch as he types something into his phone, barely able to react when your phone buzzes quietly in your pocket. His voice is low, hushed as he leans over to your side of the table, “come to the address I texted you tonight, 7PM. If you do, I’ll assume we’re on the same page.

“If not…” He trails off, getting up, and you can only watch as he, for the first time, properly smiles. “Then I guess this is good bye.”

He leaves, just like that, and it takes you all of ten minutes to muster up the courage to look at your phone: and find that he’s sent you a location.

To an apartment. His apartment.

Oh lord.

He greets you at the door with a lazy smirk, beckoning you in with an easy curl of his fingers.

“Did you find the place easy?” You can barely hear his voice over the pounding of your heart. You’re in Yoongi’s apartment, and you can hardly believe it; much less the reason you’re even here.

“Y-Yeah.” You only remember to answer when Yoongi clears his throat. “I could, th-thanks.”

You let out a startled noise when hands come from behind you to cup your hips and draw you into a firm chest.

“Hey, relax. It’s just me.” Yoongi’s soft voice breathes into your ear; and it definitely does not help you relax, of all things. The blush that rises to your cheeks is the strongest it’s ever been. “God, you’re so fucking pretty. C’mere.”

His hand comes to tilt up your jaw, and you can feel the heat of his body as his lips slide over yours, soft, and so, so hot. It’s like he’s devour you, and you’re helpless to do anything but let him, let the soft caresses he showers on your sides mold your body to his, soft sounds leaving your lips as he trails his mouth over your throat, hands rubbing at your thighs.

It’s all too much, and you don’t even realize you’re moving till you’re falling backwards, hitting the mattress with a moan, Yoongi’s shirtless form following suit. Hazily, you reach out a hand, and give a small whine in protest when his hand intercepts yours, pinning you down by the wrists as he lavishes more kisses on your puffy lips.

“Are you tested?’ He breaks away, sliding his hands under you to cup your ass, drawing a low moan from your throat as he slides your jeans off and the chill slowly begins to seep into your skin. That quickly changes when Yoongi’s hands run up your legs, igniting fire in your veins.

In response to his question, you shake his head, something tight in your chest when he clicks his tongue.

“Do that soon.” You can’t hold back a gasp when he cups your crotch, fingers rubbing against the wet patch in your underwear. “I really want to fill you up here; I bet you’d feel so good around me, too.”

The thought of Yoongi actually filling you up makes your knees grow weak, your legs tremble. His touch, in itself, is fiery hot, and you wonder how it’d feel to have him cum in you, would it burn? You don’t get to think of it for very long, legs parting easily when his fingers dig under the elastic of your underwear, stroking cleanly over your folds, before dipping lightly into your hole.

You can’t help but tighten instinctively, wanting them to stay inside, and can’t even find offence in the way he chuckles because he obligingly slides them back into you and, god yes, twists them just so.

“You like this?” He teases you, hand sliding under your shirt and scorching your skin. “Tell me how much.”

“Feels so good, amazing.” You gasp out obligingly, hips twitching as you try to get those fingers of his deeper in you; a dry sob breaks from your throat when his hand leaves your chest to pin them down instead. “Yoongi, please—”

“Not yet.” He leans over you to take your lips with his; and the sight of his sculpted body arched over you like this makes the blood rush to your head dizzyingly fast, and you grow embarrassingly slick around his fingers. “Oh? Now you’re just dripping, aren’t you?”

You shake your head and choke on a whine when his fingers cease all movement.

“Want to try being honest with me?” His voice is significantly colder than you’ve ever heard it be, and it lights a panic in your chest that won’t go away.

“I – I am!” You squirm, panting when Yoongi begins massaging inside your hole again, sweet relief, but not enough. “I’m wet, just for you, I swear—”

“Good.” He cuts you off, and tears actually brim your eyes this time when pulls his fingers out easily. “Oh, none of that. It’s not fair that I’m doing all the work here, right?”

Staring uneasily at him, you shake your head. He… has a point there. He’s the one who’s been touching you; you haven’t done anything in turn yet.

“Exactly.” Yoongi scoots against the headboard, fiddling with the zip of his pants and pulling out his cock, giving it a lazy stroke. You stare unabashedly, heat pooling in between your legs; this is going to be inside you soon. “I need you to get this nice and wet for yourself; we don’t want it to hurt, do we?”

You shake your head, crawling in between his legs at his prompting. Dazedly, you wonder if there’s something you need to ask about right now – something you need to confirm before you take him into your mouth – but then he’s cupping the base of your neck and drawing you closer to his cock and all thoughts are being wiped from your mind as your mouth falls open and—

You gag at the girth of it as it slides in, hot and heavy on your tongue, struggling to breathe.

“Breathe in through your nose.” Yoongi’s voice is breathy, and you take his advice the best you can, mouth dropping further open as you inhale and exhale sharply through your nose. “Good girl. That’s what I like to see.”

Warmth effuses through your chest at the praise, and you suck at his cock with renewed vigor, wanting to hear those words again.

“You like when I tell you when you’re being good for me?” You startle momentarily when fingers slide over your hole, moaning quietly around his length as he rubs between your parted legs. This feels so incredibly dirty, somehow, but you don’t protest because it still feels so good, and, moreover, it’s Yoongi.

You’d do anything for him.

“Or would you prefer I let you know just how good of a slut you are?” You almost quake at that, and can practically hear the smile in Yoongi’s voice. “Alright then; option B it is.”

A hand cups the base of your neck again, though the fingers don’t stop rubbing at you, pushing your head down to accommodate more of his length in your mouth. You gag silently around it, tears springing into your eyes from the way it hits the back of your throat—and then you can breathe again, pulled into his lap.

“You would’ve looked so good with a mouthful of my cum.” He rubs at your lips, until they’re nearly oversensitive, twinging. “But there’s always next time, isn’t there?”

It’s only when he grinds upwards that you realize the head of his wet cock is pressed against your covered hole; your knees tremble as you continue to straddle him, trying your best not to collapse onto his chest.

There’s the sound of plastic crinkling; Yoongi’s knuckles brush against you as he slides on a condom with practiced ease, and his hand presses down on your lower back. Your eyes roll into your head when he pulls aside your underwear and finally slides into you; oh god, the heat, it burns so good and you don’t want it to ever stop.

“That good?” His chuckle reverberates as you collapse onto his chest, unable to hold yourself up. “Figures that a slut like you would lose her mind at the sight of a cock. Would just anyone do, then, as long as they make you feel good?”

Horror fills you at the mere thought and you quickly shake your head, a breathless “n-no!” leaving your lips. It’s only Yoongi, you want like this, “only y-you, Yoongi, please.”

“Ah, you sound so pretty saying my name like that.” A pleased hum makes your chest flush with warmth. “I really want to cum inside you, now. I bet it’d feel good for you too; sluts like that, don’t they?”

You dimly wonder what it’d feel like to feel his cock without anything in the way; you tighten around him at the thought of how warm it’d be inside you, how it’d make your head go deliciously blank.

“You want that too, huh?” He rolls his hips, making your mouth drop open in unbridled pleasure. Your nerves sing at every touch, growing closer and closer to the edge. “Get tested tomorrow, then, and come over again. I’ll make you feel even better.”

Tomorrow? Hazily, you think to yourself that there’s something you’ve promised to do tomorrow; but then he hits that spot in you, the spot that makes stars explode behind your eyes, and your mind goes blank.

“I – ah, Yoongi, oh god – I will!” You promise, and he rewards you by flipping you over, mouth put to work on your bruised skin.

Your arms link around his broad back, and your mind drifts.

This must be heaven.

“So, you had sex with Yoongi?” Your friend looks at you incredulously, the next morning. “Girl, are you insane?”

“What’s wrong with that?” You frown, sipping at your chocolate-flavored drink. “I mean, yeah, it wasn’t really what I had in mind, but this works too!”

“You’re unbelievable.” They shake their head, and something in you grows cold. “It isn’t like you to settle—”

“What, just because I’m sleeping with him, I’m unbelievable?” You fight to keep your voice low. “So, what, am I a slut to you too?”

“What?”

“I don’t know, you tell me!” You grip tightens around your cup, the only sign of your simmering rage. “I’m not settling for anything, you don’t understand! Besides, he’ll see things my way soon.”

“Really?” They raise an eyebrow at you, and it rubs you entirely the wrong way. You’re not stupid, the way they make you seem. “To me, it looks like he wants something with no strings attached – tell me, how exactly is this going to end well?”

“It will.” You stare resolutely at your cup.

“Wow. Great answer.” They say, sarcasm oozing from their words, before they grow serious. “Look, I care about you, okay? I don’t want to see you make a mistake—”

“I’m not a child.” You snap, finally. “I’m tired of you being so condescending all the time; you aren’t better than me, so just keep your damn opinions to yourself!”

Your friend stares at you with wide eyes, but you can’t bring yourself to care, too incensed.

“I only told you about this because you’re supposed to be my friend.” You say reproachfully, hands curling into fists. “Friends are supposed to encourage and support each other; why can’t you do that?”

“Because this is obviously not a good decision for you!” They burst out, frowning. “I’m not about to support a decision that’ll only hurt you.”

“Wow.” Your chair scrapes against the floor as you stand up. “Wow. Fuck you, man.”

You grab your drink, ignoring the startled look on their face, and walk away. Paying no heed to their shouts of your name, you pull out your phone, dialing a number.

The line rings, until an unfamiliar voice picks up.

“Hi.” Your voice is firm. “Is this Keystone Hospitals? I’d like to make an appointment.”

This time, Yoongi greets you at the door with a smothering kiss, and you barely make it past the doorway before he’s sliding a hand up your skirt and rubbing at your favorite spot. It doesn’t take much longer after that for your underwear to slide down your bare legs, for your skirt to be rucked up.

“Ah! Mm, Yoongi.” You gasp out, hands cupping the base of his neck so you can kiss him properly as he massages you between your legs. “We’re – oh – not even inside yet—”

“Sorry, you looked so good I couldn’t wait – you should wear skirts more often.” He molds his body against yours; a perfect fit. “Did you get the results?”

You can’t take in enough air to answer as Yoongi grinds against you, thrusting his clothed erection against your bare folds, until he pulls away expectantly.

“Yeah.” You grin breathlessly at him. “All negative.”

“Good girl.” A pleased tilt to his lips as he kisses you again, makes you fall limp in his grasp. “Let’s celebrate that, shall we?”

“Please.” You mewl sweetly, and don’t utter a word of protest when he lifts you up and takes you there, right up against the wall.

“That was good, wasn’t it?” Yoongi grins at you, and you can’t help the flutter in your chest as his mouth moves lazily against yours when you go in to kiss him.

“Mhm.” You agree, fingers unthinkingly sliding in between your legs at the feeling of cum slipping out. It really did feel as good as he promised, and you can’t wait to feel it again and again – as many times as he’s willing to let you. “Could I use the shower?”

“You could.” You pause, knowing from his tone that there’s something he intends to follow up with. “But, I think it’d be much sexier if you went home just like this. You’d like that too, right? Knowing my cum’s inside as you walk around, with none the wiser, feeling it dripping with every step you take?”

Your cheeks heat up, and your hand rubs lightly at your crotch; you’ve never thought about it before, but…

“O-Okay.” You approve, bending over to grab your panties and sliding them on. It feels a little weird, but the thought of making Yoongi happy bolsters you on; it takes hardly any time to get your skirt on after that. “Is this… is this okay?”

Yoongi smiles softly at you, causing flutters to erupt in your stomach.

“Come here.” He beckons you forward, and you slide into his lap like clockwork, sighing at the feel of his warmth. “You’re such a good slut for me, baby; this is absolutely perfect.”

You sigh out a pleased little hum, and breathe in his scent; muted, musky – entirely Yoongi. “I’m glad.”

“Alright, you should get going.” He sets you down gently, stretching. “We should do this at the library next time – Sunday? Hardly anyone’s going to be there.”

“In public?” Your cheeks burn red. “I – I don’t know, Yoongi, that just seems—”

“Hey.” His hands are warm – always so warm – on your cheeks, though his gaze is cool. “Do you trust me?”

“I – I do.” You admit reluctantly, rewarded with a soft kiss.

“Good girl. If you trust me, you won’t need to worry about it; just meet me there this Sunday, at seven – okay?”

“Alright.” You lean in again, wanting to feel Yoongi’s soft lips again, and sigh in satisfaction when he meets you halfway. “I’ll do that.”

It’s only when you get home that you even bother to look at your phone – and your eyes grow wide, ice spreading in your chest. Eleven messages from Jungkook, and two missed calls.

Fuck. Fuck.

You could hit yourself – you were supposed to meet Jungkook today, that’s what you’d forgotten. Wasting no more time, you immediately call him back, heart in your throat.

‘Finally realized I exist again?’ He picks up, but his voice is the very opposite of its usual cheeriness. The worst part is, you can’t blame him. ‘What do you want?’

“I’m so sorry.” You rush to say, lungs rattling in your chest. “I swear, Jungkook, I never meant to ditch you today, I just got – really sidetracked and it was wrong of me not to let you know, I just—oh god, I’m so sorry.”

‘…that was a really shitty thing to do, you know.’ He says quietly.

Your eyes water. “I – I know.”

‘I waited there for two whole hours.’

The tears spill over. “I’m sorry.”

There’s a sigh, and the slight rustle of fabric – clothes? Blankets, maybe? You aren’t too sure.

‘Don’t do it again.’ He says finally, and the pressure on your chest eases somewhat. ‘I was pretty bored with just banana milk for company.’

“I won’t!” You promise, a relieved laugh erupting from your throat; he’s forgiven you, how’s he so kind? “I swear, I won’t! I’ll – I’ll make it up to you; does tomorrow sound okay?”

‘My, my, plans on a Friday night, when you should be hitting the books?’ Jungkook teases, and the sound of it is so familiar it makes you collapse onto your bed. ‘Nah, I’m free, but only till six. I’ve got skateboarding after.’

“That works for me.” You assure him, “and I won’t randomly disappear this time.”

His laughter is genuine, crinkly over the speaker. ‘That would be nice.’

Your semester quickly flies by, just like that.

You still haven’t spoken to your friend since that day; they haven’t even bothered trying to get in touch with you. If they really cared as much as they said they did, they’d have tried checking in by now, you tell yourself. You’d do it yourself – but they were in the wrong, and you refuse to bow down to their whims, not when it’d send out the wrong message.

You still meet up with Jungkook; going to that diner has become a near-daily event, by now, and you never tire of hearing his laughter at a particularly witty joke you’ve cracked or wheezing until your chest hurts when he talks about embarrassing skateboarding errors he’s made in the past. You’ve taken up drinking soy milk, much to his chagrin; when he asks you why, you just give him a half-shrug and say it’s time for a change.

There’s no way in hell you’re telling him it’s to make yourself look better for Yoongi. Speaking of which…

You’ve started spending nearly every night at Yoongi’s place; you’ve even got a portion of his closet reserved for your skirts and dresses, and a smaller section for your blouses. You’ve come to realize he really likes you in them; it might be the fact that he can appreciate your legs, or maybe it’s the fact that it’s just so easy for him to dip his hand between your thighs – but, either way, he has no complaints and neither do you. Most nights are spent in his arms, filled with him inside you and you’re almost there, you can feel it.

As you enact your plan, you notice that Yoongi’s lost the cold, brittle edge in his eyes that always seemed so ever-present; it’s given way to a softness in his gaze when you make him breakfast, or gift him a book of poems or a plushie he really wants and the sight of it sends a happy thrum up your spine every single time.

Everything’s almost perfect.

Until it’s not, of course.

“I really like you, ________. Would you – would you go out with me?”

Jungkook isn’t looking at you, eyes on the pavement, and that’s for the better because you don’t even know what to say. You can only imagine what kind of expression you must be making because when he looks up, he bites his lip and drops his head back down.

“I’m sorry.” He apologizes then and, for some reason, that makes you so impossibly sad.

“Don’t – don’t say that.” Your voice wrangles its way out, breathless. “But – how? Why would you even like me, it just doesn’t make sense—”

You cut yourself off when warm, calloused hands grasp your own, impossibly gentle.

“Don’t say that about my feelings, please.” His eyes are resolute, earnestness shining through. Almost vindictively, the sun casts its light on his handsome features again; only, this time, there just something incredibly tragic about it. “They’re genuine. And I can’t say exactly why I like you, ________, just that I do. I look forward to every time I get to hear your terrible jokes, every time you go on a rant about how unfair your professors are; I look forward to being with you. It’s comfortable, and it makes me happier than I remember ever being.”

Your mouth is dry, and you lick your lips unthinkingly.

“I – I don’t know what to say.” You try, voice coming out hoarse. “I just – oh, um, wow. I’m flattered, but—”

“But you don’t feel the same way.” There’s a sad curve to Jungkook’s mouth, and your hands feel cold when they’re dropped. “It’s alright, I understand.”

“I’m sorry.” You blurt out, trying to make this better, somehow. “I mean, you could be feeling friendly feelings and – and I’m sure you’ll find someone—”

“________.” He holds up a hand, making you stammer to a stop. “Please don’t.”

“…I’m just making it worse, huh?” You say dully, and he gives you a pained chuckle.

“Yeah, a bit.” He agrees, sighing heavily. Your heart weighs down in your chest, and you bite your lip, trying to keep a lid on your emotions. “And you don’t need to blame yourself – it’s not your fault, okay? I just… I just—”

“Need some time?” You offer quietly, and watch as he takes in a deep breath and nods. “That’s fine; whatever helps. I’m only sorry that I’ve hurt you.”

“It’s fine.” He shakes his head, taking a tiny step back. The sight of his downturned lips makes your heart hurt. “I just – I guess I’ll get going then. See you around someday, ________.”

“Yeah. See you.” You quietly watch his retreating back, unable to explain why tears burn at your eyes, sobs catching in your throat before they can fully escape. Turning around, you stumble back inside your dorm, falling onto the bed.

Jungkook’s gone.

You visit Yoongi’s place near constantly after that – some days even pass without you even stepping back into your room. The sight of his dark eyes is almost enough to patch up your bleeding heart, and you reach for that relief with your hands outstretched.

“He confessed to you?” You nod from where you’re nestled into his side. “Oh, wow. I didn’t expect that.”

“Neither did I.” You admit quietly, watching as he disinterestedly flips through the pages of Plath’s Greatest, as though on autopilot. “I told him I already like someone else, though.”

Your chest burns as you wait for him to ask; just ask, and I’m all yours.

“Oh?” His fingers stop mid-flip, before they resume their movement. “I see. That’s too bad, then.”

…he didn’t ask.

You deflate, but shrug anyway, not wanting to let it on. You’ll just have to work harder, then, and get him to actually notice you. Then, maybe everything will work out.

“Do you mind if I go home?” You ask softly, and Yoongi shakes his head, unconsciously lifting an arm to let you slip out from his side. You feel cold immediately once you do but do your best not to show it; there’s no reason he would mind – you clearly aren’t contributing much just by sticking around, after all.

“Bye.” He waves a hand and you answer in turn, slipping out the door.

The next time he invites you over, you vow to yourself, you’re going to do something about this.

Except, the next time he contacts you is over two whole weeks later. You’ve spent this entire time with a cold anxiety gripping your chest; wondering what you might’ve have done that could’ve ticked Yoongi off, wondering what you could possibly do to make everything better, to earn his forgiveness.

Which is why when your phone buzzes in the middle of your class, and it’s Yoongi’s contact that shows up, you waste no time in shoving your things into your backpack and leaving in a hurry. Your fingers shake as they fumble with the phone and slide to accept the call.

“Yoongi?” You ask hesitantly, something hopeful in your chest at the thought that he might be calling to tell you to come over, to tell you he’s in the library or – or something.

There’s only silence, and a sharp intake of breath.

‘________.’ It really is Yoongi’s familiar, gravelly voice that filters through. But there’s something – something’s off, and it makes your stomach clench. There’s a hesitation in his voice that was never there before, and it feels wrong, so wrong it makes you sick. ‘I’ve been thinking and I need to tell you – I don’t want to do this anymore.’

The world moves like molasses. So do the words that leave your mouth.

“What… are you saying?”

Your heart pounds. He’s joking. He’s joking. He’s got to be joking, this is – this is a trick, right?

‘I – I don’t want to have sex with you anymore.’ Yoongi confirms your worst fears, and you brace yourself against the wall. ‘But, ________, it’s not—’

You can’t listen to this, can’t just let him rip your heart out like this, and you waste no time in hanging up. Through your blurry vision, you see Yoongi’s caller ID pop up on screen again and cut the call again. The tears trail down your face, dropping on your screen as you block Yoongi, not wanting to see anything that could remind you of him right now, not when you’ve been such an idiot.

Your friend was right.

Sobs leave your throat and you wipe at your tears, grabbing at the straps of your backpack and sprinting out of the building, uncaring at how you must look right now with your cheeks wet and hair flying about wildly.

You just want to go home.

All you want to do – all you feel you can do, right now – is throw yourself onto your bed and cry and sob and scream into your pillow until your voice runs itself hoarse. And, you don’t know how, but you ultimately reach your room and get to do exactly that.

You try to reach for your phone to call your friend, before your fingers spasm and stop, and the phone falls out of your slack grip. How could you forget? They don’t like you anymore. You can’t talk to them, not after you’ve driven them away. And you can’t call Jungkook anymore either, not after he’s asked for space, and oh god, what have you done?

No one likes you anymore.

Eventually, you manage to peel yourself off the covers and stumble to your bathroom, dry sobs leaving your raw throat at what you finally see in the mirror; puffy, swollen eyes, mouth bleeding from teeth dug in too deep, splotchy, discolored cheeks.

Unsightly. Is this why Yoongi stopped liking you? Why everyone stopped liking you? Or maybe it’s because of you; you being such an idiot that you’ve made everyone hate you. Is this really what you deserve?

Your fingers are white as they grip at the sink, and you sob hysterically into the mirror – you can’t tell yourself that you don’t.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, voice nearly entirely lost, as you drop to the bathroom floor and hug your knees to yourself. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

I’m sorry.

Please forgive me.

There’s no one around to hear you.

Min Yoongi [5:54PM]

______ please, pick up, let me explain.

Please

I think I’m fray. It means I don’t feel sexually attracted to you anymore because I’ve come to really like you... romantically.

Min Yoongi [6:01PM]

Please pick up?

I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but I didn’t know.

Min Yoongi [6:09PM]

______?

Min Yoongi [6:15PM]

Yeah, true, I guess it is pretty weird.

Sorry.

[messages not sent]

yoongi’s actually not an asshole this time - well, not completely anyway. fraysexuality is a real thing, yes - it’s part of the gray spectrum - but it’s admittedly obscure.

written by: midnight!

#bangtan bookclub #kwritersworldnet #bangtan-writersnet #kkreationsnet #kreativewritersnet #yoongi smut #yoongi angst #min yoongi smut #bts smut #jungkook angst #jungkook smut #min yoongi angst #bts college au #pls don't hurt me i tried #sigh #writing is Hard

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flightyrock · 6 years

Text

Laundry Day

Summary: It’s laundry day for a certain pair of half ghosts. But when Vlad digs deeper than he should, he finds more than dirty laundry, testing the bonds between father and son.

A shameless fluff fic in which Vlad is too hard on himself (as usual), Daniel does his best to reassure him, and Vlad proves he is father of the year material.

Featuring: accidental naps, hugs galore, and rambling internal monologues.

Characters: Vlad Masters, Daniel Masters

Tags and Warnings: Father/son relationships, Backstory, Emotional fluff/pain, Really Long Flashbacks, invasion of privacy, miscommunication, allusions to suicide, hopelessness, fake science, grey ethics, fake medical jargon, dehumanization, Vlad’s special brand of angst, mild body horror, clichéd tropes, happy ending, cuteness

If you’re concerned, feel free to PM me and I will be more than happy to provide a detailed summary or tell you what parts to avoid. All of the iffy ones, save for the emotional hurt/comfort, only last for a few paragraphs. Most of them are contained in the flashbacks, which are in italics. But on a whole, it’s father/son fluff and feels. Be safe!

Word Count: ~10,500

I’ll also make this available on AO3 for your viewing pleasure, since I know some people (myself included) prefer that format better. But tumblr makes it easier to share, so that won’t be linked for awhile; I’m thinking a week?

Some notes before we dive in, since this is the first fic I’ve written in this particular universe, so there are a few (read: a lot) of things I need to cover. Explanation and story under the cut!

Update: This isn’t posting right, so I’m going to remove the links for now. If this works, I’ll make a separate post with the links.

This fic takes place in what I’ve nicknamed the “Perfect Son AU,” an alternate universe to Danny Phantom where Vlad successfully created a clone, which he named Daniel. It’s a working title, and someone else might have already come up with something better, but I’m running with it for now.

I did not create Daniel; he was originally introduced as an unnamed character along with a possible future version of Vlad in Butch Hartman’s second “Danny Phantom: 10 Years Later video.” All we’re told is that he’s a mixed clone of Danny and Vlad.

Of course, this premise has tons of potential, and several artists have created content for him. I fell head over heels for @schnivel‘s interpretation; the designs and characterization are just incredible, and gave me that creative itch. I live for that cute picture of Vlad and Daniel at a Packer’s game. There are also a bunch of doodles, and the tags provide fun details, hinting at character dynamics and firmly establishing Daniel’s presence in-universe. The rest of his art is awesome, too; it’s incredibly expressive (facial expressions and body language are always SPOT ON), and he has some really neat OCs, so be sure to check him out!

Schnivel also took the time to chat with me, and answered many of my questions regarding Daniel’s characterization. Thank you so much!

I discovered that other artists loved this version of the character as well, and during one of schnivel’s discussions with prom during one of @promsien‘s streams, she had the fun idea that Vlad knits Daniel sweaters, and heaven help anyone who ruins one of those.

Needless to say, this (and other details surrounding the fallout) gave me…ideas. This incident is only hinted at in this fic, which started out as a cute 1500 word fluff piece I thought up on the bus back to school after Thanksgiving break. But then plot and angst snuck in, and the characters just weren’t quite right, so four rewrites, 9000 words, and about two months later, here we are; the longest piece I’ve ever written.

Keep in mind that this is just my interpretation of schnivel’s canon, based on details from several sources, so the events described here may or may not have occurred; essentially, it’s a fanfic of schnivel’s AU.

This story takes place after about a year after Daniel’s creation, in the transition period between schnivel’s 16 y/o and post puberty designs. While not necessary to enjoy the story, I strongly recommend taking a look at these before you begin reading; you won’t be sorry. Some other quick details to keep in mind:

1. Daniel is still in high school, and is enrolled in Casper High.

2. Daniel =/= Danny

3. Yes, Daniel knows Danny and they do not get along.

4. Vlad and Daniel live together, and share a healthy (and frequently adorable) father/son relationship. They get along incredibly well most of the time, and genuinely care about each other. Vlad is finally happy (mostly), and it’s my favorite thing ever. Do me a favor and do not tag this as ship, please and thank you.

5. Danny is not in this fic, but he is referenced a couple of times; once, confusingly, as Daniel. (I’m sorry; blame Vlad.) It’s not mentioned in this fic, but he doesn’t call Danny “Daniel” anymore, for obvious reasons.

Alright, enough notes! I’ve rambled long enough! Kudos to you for reading this far; I do think the context is necessary to fully appreciate this story, so if you skimmed, I completely understand, but I urge you to check out the five-point list and links [sorry guys, removed these to see if they were the problem] above. And remember to check out @schnivel and @promsien. Thanks, guys! So, without further ado, enjoy!

“Daniel, laundry!”

The amiable call echoed off the interior walls of a luxurious but tasteful mansion overlooking Amity Park; walls that had changed extensively in the past year. Previously, the nondescript barriers existed out of necessity, stabilizing the considerable load of the structure and dividing too much space into too many cold, empty rooms.

One wall in particular, located between the entry and the main staircase, changed dramatically, and now proudly announced to visitors that two shared the space, and quite happily at that.

An eclectic selection of frames housing amateur photographs were mounted artfully in a quantity bordering on excessive. From this, an outsider could reasonably assume that the curator was either an overly-enthusiastic hobbyist or a new parent.

In this case, both assumptions would be correct. Indeed, most of the photos focused on a single boy, specifically, a teenager, sporting unique, striped locks and a smile.

But this wasn’t your average, awkward, get-me-out-of-here, oh-my-god-are-we-still-not-done-taking-pictures-yet kind of smile that most teenagers plastered on instinctively to escape the camera: No, this was a genuine, candid expression of happiness that would make any photographer worth their salt dissolve into blissful tears. It would have been hard to believe the boy was truly a teenager, if not for the distinctive, almost puppy-like proportions that suggested there was still growing left to do.

He was occasionally joined by an older gentleman wearing a smile of his own; more guarded, but no less genuine. In these photos, the boy veritably beamed at the camera or the man himself, expression all the brighter in his company, leaving no doubt just who was responsible for cultivating such joy. Likewise, the boy coaxed the man out of his shell, steadily transforming a shyly quirked corner of the mouth into a joyful grin as the series progressed.

The gentleman in question was currently strolling around the house, dressed casually in socks, slacks, and a button-down. His sleeves were neatly rolled above the elbows, exposing muscular forearms that strained to maintain an awkward hold on the large basket of casual wear. His burden couldn’t have been too cumbersome, however, as he took a moment to admire the photo wall, as he always did.

He shifted the basket, clamping it against his left hip with the same arm, freeing his right to compulsively straighten an already perfectly-aligned portrait of the boy, providing an excuse to linger.

It was one of his favorites; a candid shot he had snagged during one of their first snows together. He was quite proud of it. Daniel kneeled on the plush window seat, dwarfed by the dual floor-to-ceiling windows. His features were alight with childlike wonder and the soft, winter sun, breath fogging the glass as he peered out of the pane, entranced by dancing flakes. Vlad’s eyes grew misty, recalling cold, damp clothes, laughter, and hot chocolate His shoulders softened a touch, mouth pulling upward fondly.

The reverie was broken by an uncomfortable burn in his forearms as the basket slipped slowly downwards under gravity’s influence, prompting him to readjust his hold and resume his search.

It was that time of year again; the relentless heatwave had broken at last. Residents of Amity Park gave a collective sigh of relief, enjoying cool days and brisk evenings just shy of uncomfortable as summer gave way to autumn. Full suits were no longer suffocating. And football season was in full swing.

In short, life couldn’t be better. There was something invigorating about the crisp, cool air that accompanied the changing seasons, putting Vlad in the rare mood to do some tidying. Housework was a small pleasure he had rediscovered recently; busy hands left the mind free for reflection, something that Vlad wasn’t as eager to avoid these days. The reason for this? Well…

“Daniel!” he called again, perplexed by the continued lack of response from his young charge. No, his son, he reminded himself, distracted for a moment by the thrill of excitement and anxiety that still shot through him at that thought. Against all odds, he was a father.

He savored the feeling as he searched, peeking around the corner to the living room on a whim, and bit back another call. Warm affection swelled in his chest at the rare and, admittedly, adorable sight.

His son, Daniel, was sprawled lengthwise across the couch, out like a light. Sleep had hit him hard and fast; the awkward position of his limbs was telling, and looked anything but comfortable.

A socked foot was braced on the floor while its twin was slung over the couch’s far arm, still trapped in a sneaker, laces tangled from an abandoned attempt at removal. One arm hung limply to the side, while the other was likely going numb, trapped against the back and beneath the Maddies, who were taking full advantage of their human’s compromised position.

The opportunistic felines were curled up on the half-ghost’s broad chest, passive-aggressively close to one another, soaking up the warmth. Like many cats, they managed to radiate smug bliss even from the depths of slumber, much to Vlad’s amusement.

He really couldn’t blame them. Naps for Daniel were a rare occurrence, after all; the boy rarely slowed down long enough.

But Vlad had almost forgotten what else autumn meant; school was once again in full swing. A ridiculous amount of coursework accompanied Daniel’s ambitious class load, pushing the limits of an already-taxing daily schedule.

In addition to coursework, he participated in several extracurricular activities, made time for friends, and dedicated himself to a rigorous training and tutoring regimen of Vlad’s own design. No wonder the boy was exhausted.

Not that he had so much as hinted at fatigue, eager to prove himself.

Vlad mentally shook his head, pride mixing with fond exasperation. He had, admittedly, forgotten just how difficult it was to be a teenager (though he thinks he can be excused for this oversight given that it’s been over twenty years since then; twenty long years). He vaguely recalled expectations to tackle a workload any self-respecting, paid employee would strike over.

Daniel, like many teenagers, did that and more with only a fraction of useable energy at his disposal at any given time, resources diverted to accommodate the emotional and physical stress the body underwent as it matured. Puberty had hit Daniel late and with a vengeance. The boy had been shooting up like a weed lately, the gap between his cuff and ankle widening at an alarming rate (not surprising given the state of the pantry at the end of any given week; the teen had to be burning through massive amounts of energy in the process).

As his coach, Vlad had noticed he was struggling physically; his center of balance shifted so rapidly he just couldn’t keep up. Daniel’s frustration was all but tangible at times, face heating with anger and humiliation when he fumbled through warm-ups and drills that had once been simple. Recently, more often than not, he left their practice sessions drained and irritable, shower doing little to dispel a dark mood that carried over into their evening lessons.

Vlad wondered if he was sleeping enough.

Judging from his current state alone, the poor boy needed all the rest he could get. Vlad quelled a rush of remorse for pushing him so hard, reminding himself that Daniel had set the pace.

Insisted, really. He was normally eager, almost desperate, to improve, diving into training with a single-minded intensity that rivaled Vlad’s own. Daniel had protested furiously when Vlad had suggested they take it a bit easier during the school year, pushing himself even harder.

Vlad chuckled fondly; Daniel was his son, after all. But perhaps he could persuade him to revise their schedule to an every other day kind of thing; in hindsight, it was a bit ambitious to have lessons and physical training on the same day…

Musing about schedules, he set the basket aside and approached, debating whether the merits of repositioning gangly limbs into a more comfortable position outweighed the risk of waking the boy.

No, better to let him rest. He was young, after all; he probably wouldn’t suffer from the stiff neck Vlad wouldn’t admit to getting if he slept at the demonstrated awkward though, admittedly, impressive angle. (His neck definitely did not twinge in sympathy. He wasn’t old.)

He settled for carefully prying off the remaining shoe before unfurling a fuzzy throw that hung over the back of the couch, settling it gently over long legs, careful not to disturb the felines. They, of course, would have no such qualms about waking Daniel in their subsequent bid for freedom should they be trapped beneath the heavy fabric.

His fond gaze migrated upward upon completion of his task, settling on Daniel’s face, relaxed in slumber. It was a rare treat to observe his son in such a peaceful state, and he was somewhat tempted to take a picture (too bad his camera was in his room).

Daniel looked so young this way. The man’s eyebrows bunched, oddly nostalgic as he took in the boy’s strengthening features, an early sign that he wouldn’t be one for much longer. Soon, soft lines would vanish completely, giving way to the strong jaw and defined cheeks that were already taking shape.

He would miss these days. Vlad felt an irrational surge of longing and loss, feeling absurdly cheated out of the early years, of a tiny Daniel smiling at him, of endless questions and childlike wonder (which was absolutely insane, considering he didn’t even like children. There was a reason he’d decided to create a teenaged clone). But if that was the case, Vlad supposed he wouldn’t be the Daniel he knew now. It was probably for the best.

He sighed, and ran a gentle hand through thick stripped locks, marveling at the silky softness as it slid through his fingers. It really was getting long, Vlad thought idly, scratching lightly across the scalp, delighted when the crease between Daniel’s eyes smoothed, and he sunk deeper into sleep with a content sigh.

Vlad lingered for a moment before withdrawing reluctantly, gathering up the basket again with a sigh of his own. A nap would do the boy good, he reminded himself, so he’d best leave Daniel to it.

Of course, this meant he was back to square one with the laundry. He was looking for Daniel in the first place to gather his dirty clothes so Vlad could start a load or two before dinner.

Well, perhaps he could still do that. He could always take a detour into the boy’s room himself. He was certain Daniel wouldn’t mind the intrusion; after all, he was simply retrieving laundry, so he wouldn’t be there long.

Decision made, he turned back, pausing to empty his basket in the laundry room before ascending the stairs once again to the wing that housed their personal quarters, hesitating for a moment before cracking open the door and entering Daniel’s room.

It was strange, being here without the room’s main occupant. He felt a bit like an intruder. The space was shockingly well-kempt for belonging to a teenager, not that he was surprised; Daniel was hardly your average teenager.

As expected, his dirty laundry was in the hamper, and Vlad wasted no time in sorting through it.

Something was off, though. Vlad lived with his son, so of course he noticed that Daniel had started sweater season as soon as he no longer ran the risk of suffering heat stroke. That meant there should be about two weeks’ worth of ripening knitwear, as none had been sent out recently. But there were none to be found in the hamper, and, despite the fibers’ natural resistance to sweat and grime, it was certainly time for a wash.

Most, if not all, of Daniel’s sweaters were handmade, knitted by Vlad himself, so required special care. He supposed Daniel could be keeping such garments separate in a display of caution. Conscientious, as always.

Not that it was necessary; Vlad only hired the best, and, of course, always ran a brief inspection of the sorted garments before they were taken to the proper cleaning facilities. Details meant everything in his line of work, and his appearance was one of many he monitored personally. Sure, he was a billionaire, and could afford purchase a new wardrobe any time he wished, but it hadn’t always been this way. He was taught to take pride in his possessions, and waste was unthinkable; far be it for him to neglect his roots.

Shaking himself out of his musings (he certainly was distracted today), he got back to the task at hand; finding the sweaters. He supposed he could simply wait and ask Daniel during their evening session, but leaving the job half-done would bother him.

Vlad was a completionist to a fault, and knew that if he put this off, he ran the risk of losing his productive mood. Not to mention the thought of the laundry sitting half-finished would torture him all evening; it would have been better to have not started at all. And he wouldn’t wake the boy. But this also toed the line of invasion of privacy.

He weighed his options, and decided that a taking a brief look couldn’t hurt; he was already here, after all. In such a neat space, there weren’t exactly an abundance of hiding places.

He checked the walk-in closet first. A thorough search left him baffled by the complete lack of sweaters, dirty or otherwise. He had checked the drawers (meticulously folded), hangers (formal wear was sorted by degree of formality then color), and even the floor (his shoes were lined up so perfectly he put showrooms to shame).

Daniel clearly treasured his possessions, and Vlad felt a rush of pride. His son kept his space in perfect order, and everything had a logical place. Except for the sweaters, it would seem. Which didn’t make any sense.

His frustration grew as he continued to pace the room and failed to find a single one. He was running out of ideas, and was uncomfortable at the thought of exploring much further. On a whim, he ducked his head under the bed, admittedly feeling a bit foolish; this was one of the oldest clichés in the book.

But his eyes were immediately drawn to a large cedar chest, a copy of the one he himself used for keepsakes. He had forgotten the boy had one as well; Daniel had been delighted with the gift, especially when Vlad had shown him the contents of its twin in his private study.

Vlad slid the heavy container out, running a hand across the sanded, weighty lid, hesitating for only a moment before giving in to his curiosity and lifting it before he could change his mind.

Sure enough, here were Daniel’s sweaters. He let out a breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding. Mystery solved. The quantity bordered on insane, way more than he remembered making, Vlad observed somewhat sheepishly. What could he say? He was a stress knitter.

But he was particularly fascinated with the way the garments were packed. Despite the large quantity, each sweater was folded with a degree of precision that spoke wordless volumes of care. Handmade garments often had quirks; small flaws that made each piece unique, making it nearly impossible to pack them away neatly. Daniel had somehow managed it by treating each sweater as an individual, modifying his folding technique slightly to ensure optimal fit. Even the dirty ones were carefully folded, and placed on the smaller, right-hand side of the central divider. It made his closet look sloppy in comparison.

Reluctant to ruin what was clearly several hours of work, Vlad carefully flipped through layers of sweaters, separated with tissue paper, the garments growing smaller as he descended. He was sure most of these didn’t have a hope of fitting Daniel any longer.

One stood out from the others, though. It rested at the very bottom of the heavy chest, and was individually wrapped, obscured by many layers of delicate tissue and tied loosely with string. This deviation from the established system sparked Vlad’s curiosity further, overriding common sense, and before he knew it, he was carefully removing the wrappings.

He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but it wasn’t this.

He drew in a sharp breath, unnerved, and delicately traced the ragged edge of a black-rimmed tear with shaking fingers, transfixed. It extended downward from right shoulder to sternum in a great slice, like it had been severed with a hot knife.

Bafflingly, someone had also gone to great lengths to attempt repair; the edges were joined with neat, if pointless, stitches. Only the lack of patching material revealed that this was a rush job. Admirable effort, but an exercise in futility nonetheless; nothing could hope to fix the charred edges.

The garment was utterly ruined. No wonder Daniel kept this one covered so well; it likely brought back unpleasant memories, but the boy clearly didn’t have the heart to get rid of it.

Upon closer inspection, Vlad realized he recognized this sweater. The vague unease grew into a feeling far more unpleasant.

It was the first one he’d ever made for Daniel, not that he’d known that at the time. It had been started with his own dimensions in mind, but modified on a whim; gold and green, stitched together with hands bathed in the eerie green glow of the incubation chamber.

He had been a different person then, twisted by hatred and blinded by his obsession with the Fentons.

Each stitch had been formed in bitter anger, to keep him grounded, patient. Clicking needles helped to cover up the maddening hiss of the central air system and the relentless beep of monitoring equipment.

He knew at his core that this would be the last plot, his last attempt to take what was rightfully his; should he fail yet again, the fallout would be devastating. He would be unable to stop himself from giving up, from descending irrevocably into madness. Because at the end of the day, hate was all he had, his only constant along with his pride. But hatred took energy, and he was tired. So tired.

Lips curled in disgust as he ran the clumsily-constructed fabric sitting in his lap through his fingers, reliving the turmoil through the record of amateurish mistakes that littered the garment. Each pucker and twist, invisible to the untrained eye, glared at him accusingly, reminding him of sins he could never atone for. Made him sick with guilt as they whispered to him, reminded him of a time when Daniel had been merely an “it” and “the clone,” a tool he had every intention to use for revenge.

He was practically living in the dim, sterile, underground room, on standby to respond in a moment should the clone destabilize again. He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept in his own bed (he kept a cot down here), gotten more than two consecutive hours of sleep, or eaten something more substantial than the occasional protein bar. He carefully refrained from imagining the state of the companies he was neglecting.

But this stage of the project was too unpredictable to leave unattended, the clone’s outline in the cloudy fluid filling the tube bobbing peacefully up and down, blissfully unaware that its existence could end in an instant. But he wouldn’t let that happen. He would have his prize. With a completely obedient half ghost by his side, he would rule. He had taken no chances, had combined a stolen sample of the Fenton boy’s DNA with his own. It was his ultimate weapon. No one would be able to stop him. No one could keep him from his rightful place.

But throughout human history, it is in moments like these that astounding things can happen. Picture a person building a perfect pyramid, finally reaching the absolute top, standing on that tiny, sharp pinnacle, at the very highest they can go.

It is when we are at this peak, feel the most unstoppable, have the firmest foundation, are the most confident in our convictions, that the smallest breeze can topple us over and force us to rethink the foundations of our self-constructed realities as we fall, force us to shift our reality; rebuild, or cease to exist.

It is the small things that shake us to the core, that have the power to change us forever.

Be it stroke of luck, fate, divine intervention or pure coincidence, one such moment occurred in that sterile lab when a rare set of circumstances coincided. The fluid ensconcing the clone ran clear for several minutes, reflex prompted new eyes to flutter open, and Vlad happened to look up.

And looked into a familiar set of blue eyes that he hadn’t seen anywhere other than a mirror since his mother had passed away all those years ago (he had searched for her desperately after he learned the nature of his transformation, to no avail). They may have been obscured by fluid, but the shape and shade were unmistakable; they were her eyes. His eyes. Staring unseeingly back at him.

It was…disturbing, to say the least. Blame it on sleep deprivation if you will, but he felt his mother’s eyes cut right through him, accusingly, judging him for his behavior in her absence. Forcing himself to do something he had done his very best to avoid, in a way only she ever could.

So Vlad Masters took an honest look at himself for the first time in several decades.

And he wept, because he knew that she didn’t like what she saw, was disappointed in him. He had known this, on some level; it was why he had been putting off this realization for years. But, he was surprised to find that she wasn’t disappointed he had fallen so far; no, because she knew and he knew now, too, that he had fallen. Which meant that he was capable of picking himself back up and hadn’t. He had chosen not to, had chosen temporary comfort over the harder but healthier path. But he could do better. He would do better. If not for her than for himself.

And on that paradigm shift, he rebuilt his world. The eyes closed.

And Vlad, with fresh eyes, truly looked into the face of the being he created for the first time. But dread overtook him when he realized he wasn’t seeing the face of a clone. No, instead, he was looking into the face of a child.

It took him back to the first time he had met young Daniel at the college reunion, blindsided by an irrational rush of paternal pride and unspeakable longing to get to know this boy, realizing that he wasn’t, didn’t have to be alone anymore. (How wrong he was).

That familiar, fierce longing again surged to the surface, become part of his world once again. A desire he had buried long ago when the hopelessness simply became too much to bear.

All he had ever wanted was someone to love.

He thanked everything he could think of that he hadn’t started the programming, that is, the brainwashing, yet. And he wouldn’t. He’d keep the basic learning protocols, so the boy could communicate, have basic knowledge about the world, but nothing else. If he wanted a son, he’d earn his trust and affection the old-fashioned way. The right way.

But he was forgetting something. New hope warred with sick dread. But why? What threatened his happiness now? Because this being he created wasn’t a tool, this was a child. His child. So still. So fragile.

The realization opened the floodgates, and he fought to keep the rush of panic at bay. What had he done!?

Once again, in a display of arrogance and ignorance, he had put someone at risk. He already cared too much about the boy, was once again on the verge of losing everything. Because the child, Daniel, was dangerously unstable. He could die.

Vlad couldn’t let that happen.

For the first time in years, he was truly terrified of the consequences of failure. Because he wasn’t used to consequences. In an instant, the project had evolved into a horrible tightrope walk between life and death. He hoped the anxiety wouldn’t kill him first.

It was touch and go for a small eternity. Vlad lost sleep, hair, and his lunch to far more close calls than he cared to recall. He was certain he aged about twenty years that month, trapped in a micro-hell of his own design; he still had nightmares about that innocent face devolving into ectoplasm, but awake, screaming in agony from the confines of the tube at a pitch that made his hair stand on end…

Vlad mentally shook himself. No. He thought about this quite enough at night, no sense in dwelling on it during waking hours as well.

Preoccupied with the stressful task of keeping Daniel alive, sleeping in the lab even after the boy had stabilized out of sheer paranoia, he realized he was woefully unprepared to care for a child; embarrassingly so. He panicked when Daniel emerged from the tube, realizing he hadn’t given a thought about basic needs. Like clothing, for example.

His “newborn” was freezing; his small frame shook uncontrollably in the thin sterile gown as he was propped upright on a cot so Vlad could monitor his vitals, a pile of medical blankets doing little to combat the chill. The boy was in tears; uncomfortable and confused, agoraphobic and overwhelmed by this strange new world, so Vlad had grabbed the completed sweater instinctively and helped the boy into it, hoping the warm weight would ground him, rambling about inconsequential things to distract from the alarming machines as he worked to reattach feeds and wires.

He cringed; in hindsight, he had risked further overstimulation that way, and the outcome could have been disastrous. His palms still grew slick with cold sweat, and his blood pressure skyrocketed whenever he thought about everything that could have gone wrong, all the mistakes he had made in those early days. He cursed his stupidity.

Vlad shook off his self-disgust in favor of gathering up the old sweaters, having forgotten his original task, otherwise occupied with the chaos of his memories. They didn’t fit Daniel any longer, so there really wasn’t any sense in keeping them.

It was embarrassing how amateurish they looked now. They were an unwelcome reminder of a time when he was at an absolute low. He just wanted them gone. Especially that first one. The marred fabric seemed to mock him. Yes, better to dispose of it, and bury the anxiety and fear that came with it.

He gathered his legs under him with mild difficulty, surprised to discover he was a bit stiff—he had been kneeling on the floor longer than he thought—and glanced up at the doorway.

Only to lock eyes with Daniel, who stood, gaping, in the doorway, hand frozen in an abandoned attempt to straighten tousled locks. Tension radiated from his too-still frame, and wide eyes flickered from confusion to shock to panic.

Vlad froze as well, uneasy; he had never seen this look in the boy’s eyes before, and never cared to again. Sick dread pooled heavily in his stomach as all other thoughts evaporated; he knew without a doubt that something was very wrong.

“Dad,” Daniel whispered, hand dropping abruptly. “What are you doing with those?”

His gaze lowered, fixed on the pile of sweaters in Vlad’s arms. Vlad looked down as well, and blinked, bemused by the sudden lack of sweaters there.

Daniel hugged the garments to his chest tenderly, like a young child would cuddle a favorite stuffed toy for reassurance after a scare. In moments like these, Vlad was reminded of how new to the world the boy really was; it was too easy to forget when he wore the skin of a teenager.

A familiar, irrational stab of loss joined the budding guilt and self-loathing; that strange yearning for early years that never occurred.

Nostalgia must be a theme today, he thought idly.

Reason returned as he watched Daniel drop carefully to his knees a deliberate distance away to begin refolding the stack. Vlad’s inquisitive and concerned gaze was studiously avoided as the boy focused entirely on the task at hand.

Careful hands guided handmade fabric into precise creases reverently, deep blue eyes gleaming with a look of concentration so intense, it might have been comical under different circumstances. If he didn’t recognize the carefully constructed front for what it was.

Upset was an understatement; and despite an admirable effort, Daniel was unable to conceal the slight tremble that made his hands clumsy and slow, an obvious tell that only intensified the harder he tried to hide it.

Overall, he gave the impression of one who had survived a close shave. As the shock slowly abated, Vlad’s mental alarm bells became more insistent. This reaction was a bit extreme, even for someone experiencing the emotional fragility that was part and parcel of an unplanned nap. Something wasn’t quite right; he was missing some crucial detail.

“Daniel, what…” Vlad trailed off, at a loss, hands reaching toward the boy helplessly, then falling short, uncertain. “What did I—”

“You were going to get rid of them, weren’t you.”

It wasn’t a question. The words were tight, clipped. His eyes remained fixed studiously downward, even though it was obvious that he wasn’t truly looking at the abandoned sweater in front of him, fists clenched in an a futile attempt to suppress trembling fingers.

Daniel abruptly rocked back on his heels and wiped roughly at his face, shattering the invisible barrier between them, allowing Vlad to finally take action. He scrambled in his haste to close the gap.

He gathered the boy clumsily into his arms, and Daniel practically melted into the firm embrace before returning it fiercely, clinging to him in turn. A striped head filled his peripheral vision, resting its comfortable weight on his shoulder, and soaked the light fabric covering it in warm wetness.

It was unclear how long they remained that way, respecting an unspoken agreement to set aside the circumstances for awhile in favor of comforting another; indulging in the unique security that came from holding a kindred spirit close.

After a while, Daniel pulled away reluctantly, sniffling wetly and wiping halfheartedly at his nose. Vlad produced a fresh handkerchief and settled into a cross-legged position, facing the teen, waiting patiently for him to collect himself while he gathered his own thoughts.

“I apologize, Daniel,” he began, slowly, when the sniffles had eased, and the boy settled into a similar position, rolling edges of soft fabric anxiously between his fingers as he met Vlad’s gaze.

“I didn’t mean to upset you. I know that I am at fault here, but I do admit that I’m not entirely sure what exactly I did to cause you this much distress. Regardless, I should not have been in your room or searched through your things without your express permission. I knew better, but I did it anyway. I invaded your privacy, and for that, I am sorry.”

Daniel maintained eye contact, reddened and puffy appearance doing nothing to diminish the sincerity evident in their depths.

“I forgive you.”

There was no hesitation. The honest declaration mowed through Vlad’s emotional barriers, and his vision blurred as identical blue eyes prickled with tears of their own.

He bit his lip. His mistakes had long entrapped him, clinging fast and weighing him down. Experience taught him that, once made, he would never be rid of them. This knowledge, this fear, were iron shackles. It was his curse. But this boy…

Never before had he known such forgiveness.

Daniel absolutely hated to see his dad cry. There was just something fundamentally wrong about seeing someone you cared about in distress. So he was quick to reassure, hoping to fend off the flood and the inevitable interrogation.

“There’s really no harm done. They’re all here, they’re safe.”

Honestly, this assurance was just as much for himself. Of course, he would have forgiven Vlad regardless of the outcome; his dad was way more important to him than keepsakes, but this had come completely out of left field.

He had always been so careful, and seeing his collection spread across the floor had been the last thing he had expected after trudging upstairs to finish his homework before training, cursing himself bitterly for falling asleep.

He had really only meant to rest his eyes for a second or two, having gone distractingly cross-eyed while undoing his laces, falling instead into the deep kind of sleep that left one feeling fuzzy-headed and irritable upon waking instead of rested.

Daniel looked over at his favorite sweater, the one he had taken the most care to preserve. As always, fury at the damage was tempered with fond warmth. He flushed lightly, briefly recalling the circumstances of its repair.

His dad, who had since pulled himself together, followed his line of sight, brows drawing together in confusion, focused on the blackened article.

“Why keep these? Most are much too small, and this one,” he pulled the garment closer, “is damaged beyond repair.”

Daniel’s hands twitched instinctively, ready to come to the rescue at any moment.

Honestly? The thought of getting rid of them had never even crossed his mind, so he hadn’t. And he felt much too strongly about the garments to ever consider it.

But his dad was looking at him expectantly, obviously waiting for an answer. He had no idea how to put his jumbled thoughts and feelings on the matter into words, so he called upon the time-tested art of stalling.

“But you made them for me,” he settled on a basic truth, trying to buy a bit of time as he scrambled, struggling to string his thoughts into a pattern his dad would accept.

“I can make more, you know,” Vlad pointed out reasonably. “There’s no sense holding on to something that’s outlived its usefulness. At this point, they’re just clutter—”

“They’re important to me!” Daniel snapped, and Vlad blanched, drawing back in shock.

Daniel’s eyes widened, immediately regretting his outburst.

He didn’t mean to yell at his father! But that statement hit distressingly close to home. It was like Vlad wasn’t talking about the sweaters at all. For a moment, his nightmares were playing out before his eyes…

He forcefully shoved his insecurities to the back of his mind in favor of running damage control; he had hurt his dad, and he looked on guiltily as his father struggled to school his features into a neutral position.

“I’m sorry, Dad!” Daniel rushed to explain, mentally kicking himself for his tone.

“I would never get rid of these. I just can’t. You spent so much time on them, and it makes me feel cared for, kind of important, you know?”

He traced the hem of the special one, eyes softening as his face heated up, but he was determined to get this out before he could talk himself out of it. “Not to mention they’re basically portable hugs. You’re with me all day this way.”

He hadn’t exactly wanted to give quite that much away. But if he had to choose between his pride and his dad, his dad would win every time. It was the truth, after all, and he knew he had made the right choice when his dad’s eyes softened, and he was swallowed in his embrace once again.

Daniel had learned a long time ago that his father’s hugs went beyond the physical; they were part of an extensive nonverbal language, expressing what words simply could not.

Because he maintained a stern public image, a necessity in his line of work, most people didn’t realize that his father was a very emotional man. Daniel had seen how often he was misunderstood and slighted by his peers (to Daniel’s fury) because they never experienced this.

For someone who claimed to have little experience in the area of affection, he sure didn’t act like it. Daniel still had no idea how he managed it, how exactly he coordinated the variations of timing and pressure into such clear but complex expressions. This time, Vlad was conveying relief, awe, gratitude, and as always, more than anything, love.

The guilt intensified, sitting heavy and low in his stomach. He didn’t deserve this. He’s such a hypocrite, furious when others fail to appreciate his father, but hasn’t he done the same thing? Vlad cared so much, almost too much, about other people; he would do anything for the ones he loved, for Daniel. Anything. And yet, Daniel was upset because he had tried to declutter.

Of course, Daniel is fully aware that this isn’t exactly the reason he’s upset, but he’s very careful to avoid the thought. Now is not the time to think about this. It’s much easier to tell himself he’s simply sentimental. Nothing else.

Vlad’s grip tightens almost imperceptibly, seeking reassurance, and Daniel pushed aside the painful train of thought, eager to provide it.

He returned the embrace fiercely; he loves his dad more than anything, and he was determined to convey this. He knows he can’t hold a candle to Vlad’s raw skill in this area, but that doesn’t stop him from trying.

He must have succeeded to some degree, because he feels his dad relax a bit. Daniel sighed, settling his head once again onto a broad shoulder, still a bit damp from earlier, and takes the opportunity to burn this moment into his memory, to add it to his collection.

He savored the slight tickle of grey locks on his upper check, sprung loose from their ties; the pleasant burn of cologne mixed with a scent that was simply Vlad drying his sinuses and coating the back of his tongue; the unnatural heat radiating through his silky shirt, warm and comfortable. For a small eternity, he knows nothing but safety, comfort, and love, and basks in the feeling.

They eventually break apart and, once again, take a moment to collect themselves before Vlad looks again to Daniel’s favorite sweater.

“What happened?” he ventured, concerned by the implication that someone had attacked his son in human form (and rightfully so), but reluctant to upset Daniel further.

Daniel gathered it up with a sigh, reluctant to delve into complicated memories again. He began to refold the garment, grateful for the excuse to avoid eye contact as he, fumbled for an answer that would satisfy his father, struck with an annoying sense of déjà vu.

“I took care of it. Doesn’t exactly fix this, though.”

Vlad sighed; he knew that truth all too well.

They kneeled there awkwardly for a moment, neither entirely what to do, caught in that strange limbo that followed any major argument; that period where you tell yourself everything’s okay now, but you know deep down that it’s a lie. Because the cycle of injury, apology, and forgiveness isn’t some magic fix, and no relationship pops back to how it was before even though the issue has been resolved. Things weren’t really okay yet, and they probably wouldn’t be for a little while.

Honestly, the invasion of privacy didn’t sting nearly as much as his own insecurities; he’d move on. But would Vlad?

Daniel glanced surreptitiously his father. Vlad was an expert at the practiced neutral face, but Daniel knew better; his poor father would be beating himself up about this for days.

Sure, he was still a bit shaken, but nothing had happened. Vlad was just too hard on himself. He had been a mess for weeks that time he had broken Daniel’s nose after opening a door too quickly, despite the fact it had healed without a scare in a matter of days. He had hated the way his father had tiptoed around him, hated that tortured look in his eyes as the incident no doubt looped in his mind, on repeat; over and over again.

If only there was a way to reassure his dad that he still had Daniel’s trust, a way to break through his uncertainly. He played with a loose hem pensively, cursing the circumstances that had led Vlad to rummage through his sweater box in the first place…

Sweaters. It was so obvious.

He gathered up the unwearable sweaters into a neat pile again. He was embarrassed by how reluctant he was to go through with this, but if he had to choose between his dad’s happiness and sweaters that didn’t even fit anymore, well…

There really wasn’t a choice at all.

He got to his feet, and hefted the pile (there really were a lot of them), depositing them in his father’s arms. He smiled wryly as his dad looked down at the pile, bewildered, before raising his gaze and quirking an eyebrow inquisitively.

“Take them.”

Vlad blinked, lips parted slightly to respond, before they shut again. He glanced to the side, brows furrowed in concentration as he tried to reconcile the large volume of mixed messages he had received that afternoon.

“What?” he asked, settling on the explanation that, somehow, he had simply misheard.

“Take them.” Daniel maintained firm eye contact, staring into blue pools identical to his own. “You were right, they don’t even fit me anymore.”

“But, Daniel, those are yours,” Vlad sputtered, intelligently.

Daniel smiled softly.

“They were. But now I want you to have them.”

Vlad looked helplessly at the pile, as if it held the answer to the puzzle that was currently throwing him for a loop.

“But why, Daniel? You told me you love those sweaters.”

He left his father on the floor and walked to the door, grabbing his backpack on the way. He’d do some homework at the kitchen table for a while, give his dad some time alone to process. He paused in the doorway, a melancholy smile pulling at his lips as he gave his answer over his shoulder.

“I do. But I love you more.”

><><

This particular project normally would have taken months; Vlad had it done in one. But not because he had rushed; no, he made absolutely certain it was perfect. Nothing less for Daniel. He didn’t sleep much anyways.

Daniel’s demonstration had the intended effect; knowing he still had his son’s trust even after his mistake meant the world to him.

It had been a shock, at first. He hadn’t known what to think when the boy handed his treasured pile of clothing over with barely an explanation. It had been more difficult than he’d like to admit, allowing his son to walk away after sharing such a sentiment, leaving him on the floor to collect his thoughts. But after the shock (finally) wore off, the implications of the gesture warmed him to the core.

(He also was trying his best not to dwell on the implication that someone attacked Daniel. His son. In human form, no less. Because if he thought about that for too long, it took him to a dark place. He trusted Daniel. He did. But surely it hadn’t been out of line to investigate the incident himself, not that he found anything, to his frustration.)

By the time training had begun that evening, Daniel appeared to have forgotten all about the incident. To the untrained eye, that is. Vlad had to give credit where credit was due; he had admirable focus during training and finished all his homework, but he’d caught a glimpse of him with the cedar chest out again later that evening on his way to bed; reorganizing.

Vlad truly had no idea the boy was so fond of the sweaters. He could have kicked himself. He thought he knew his son so well; how had he missed something so important to him? Sure, he always beamed and hugged him whenever Vlad presented him with a new one (which may have contributed to the vast number now that he thinks about it, hmm…) but then again, Daniel always thanked him for gifts, equally delighted be it a motorbike or a new toothbrush.

In hindsight, though, the favoritism for knitwear was obvious, in the way his eyes would light up just that much brighter, how he’d wear it the very next day. And his words…

They’re basically portable hugs. You’re with me all day this way.

He had replayed this exchange countless times over the past month, the warmth in his chest just as strong as day one. Never before had he known such happiness. Such love.

His eyes prickled a bit. It was strange kind of responsibility, to have such a significant role in the happiness of someone else. He both cherished and feared it in equal measure, terrified he would wake up one day, and he’d realize he’d imagined this whole thing. Or worse, that he would drive Daniel away himself one day, just like every other important person in his life. He’d be alone again.

For years, he chased a mirage of this feeling, feeding his obsession with a woman who would never return his affections, and later, her son. At some point, he had given up, resigned himself to a lifetime of loneliness and swore revenge instead. He had cursed his failures, then.

Now, he thanked whatever power was responsible for those failures; any “victory” he may have achieved during that time, which now felt like lifetimes ago, would have been a mockery of the affection he craved, a mere taste that would have eventually driven him mad with longing. Daniel had freely given him what he’d never dreamed could exist. And it meant the world to him.

He didn’t deserve Daniel. But for some unknown reason, he had decided to stay. He was the first person who had chosen Vlad above all others, and Vlad longed to show him how much he meant to him.

He would continue to make the boy sweaters. Socks. Hats. Scarves. Heck, he’d learn how to sew properly and make all his clothes, if it meant this much to him. But one step at a time.

On that note, Vlad put the finishing touches on the piece, feeling the strange mixture of melancholy and satisfaction he experienced whenever he completed a long-term project.

And to his delight, it turned out much better than he had hoped. He had conducted extensive research regarding design and technique; it was pretty far out of his comfort zone, and he only had one chance to get it right. But it was worth it. Anything for Daniel.

He took a moment to appreciate the fruits of his labor before packing it away with the utmost care.

Everything had to be perfect.

><><

Something was up. Daniel’s eyes narrowed as he watched his dad make breakfast. The change was subtle. Only someone who saw the man on a daily basis would notice the difference; he was almost twitchy, movements sharp and almost harried as he fixed Daniel’s plate.

His Dad placed the food in front of him with a quiet “good morning” and a tired smile. Daniel noted the bruises under his eyes were darker than usual. Daniel thanked him before focusing on his plate, inhaling sharply at its contents.

Pancakes. In fun shapes.

Oh no. It was worse than he thought.

He kept stealing glances at his dad as he ate, watched him worry at the handle of his coffee mug and pick at his own pancakes. Daniel hated to leave him like this, but really, there wasn’t anything to be done when Vlad was in one of these moods. And his dad wouldn’t want him to miss school.

If he lingered a bit during his goodbye hug, his dad didn’t comment. Just bid him to have a good day, like usual.

Daniel tried to go about his day as he normally did, but was unable to shake the concern for his father. They texted as per their habit during his lunch break, in between laughing with his friends, but Vlad seemed a bit…distracted, he supposed.

(His friends could have told him that Vlad wasn’t the only one, but, like all good friends, they didn’t comment, opting instead to respect his privacy, confident that he would talk when and if he wanted to.)

Needless to say, Daniel wasn’t entirely sure what to expect when he crossed the Masters’ threshold that afternoon, hanging his jacket on the rack and shouldering his backpack, anxious to check on his father.

“Dad, I’m home!”

No answer.

He deposited his keys in the dish, and moved through the entryway, calling twice more, trying not to worry when he was met with silence.

While uncommon, it wasn’t unheard of for Daniel to get home before Vlad. But with the mood his dad was in that day, he was on edge. Normally, he would text Daniel when he was working late.

Daniel sighed, running his fingers lightly along the wall of pictures as he made his way down the hall and up the staircase, deciding to distract himself with a bit of schoolwork while he waited for his dad to get back. He hoped he was alright.

Daniel deposited his backpack beside his desk, taking a moment to kick off his shoes before pulling out his phone to text his dad, making his way over to sit on his bed, glancing up to check the height (his muscle memory wasn’t the most reliable these days; he was running into furniture and walls so often that his dad often joked about childproofing) only to stop short. There was already something sitting there.

It was a box of medium size, just short of being too large to hold comfortably with two hands, wrapped simply but neatly in white paper. Resting on top was a light green envelope, with his name inked in gold in a familiar hand.

He furrowed his brows, perplexed, and set aside his phone to pick up the envelope. Unless he was very much mistaken, this was a present from his dad. Strange.

Not that surprise presents were an unusual occurrence; on the contrary, his dad loved giving him gifts, much more than Daniel enjoyed receiving them. The quantity had been truly ridiculous at first. It took a while for him to convince his father to relax, admitting that while he appreciated the thought and attention, he felt guilty that he was unable to reciprocate. So they had compromised, agreeing to save gifting for special occasions.

Of course, Vlad pushed the boundaries of this rule, but it made him so happy to do nice things for Daniel that the teenager didn’t have the heart to call him out. As long as he didn’t go overboard, Daniel had decided he could live with the occasional surprise.

He picked at the flap of the heavy paper envelope.

But, unlike any other time his dad gave him a gift, he wasn’t here. Daniel knew from experience that the real fun of gift-giving came from watching the recipient’s reaction.

And his dad’s absence was clearly intentional. Vlad was a master of presentation; the private location combined with the open and inviting position of the box and envelope was not coincidental. Not to mention his unusual absence from the house at large. And no audience meant no pressure, no need to control his reactions with the feelings of other in mind, free to be himself.

Which meant it was a gift intended for Daniel and Daniel alone. He was touched. And intrigued.

He finally managed to get a thumb under the tight seal, prying the glue apart slowly, careful to leave the envelope intact. He pulled out a sheet of simple off-white stationary, revealing a message in his father’s distinctive hand.

Daniel chuckled a bit; for someone so detail-oriented, his handwriting was atrocious. He sat down, and began to read.

Dear Daniel,

I apologize for violating your privacy and your trust about a month ago. I have no excuse. I allowed my curiosity to overrule my common sense and overstepped your boundaries. Worse, I used this knowledge to impose my will when it was neither wanted nor necessary, failing to respect your space, and by extension, you. I am sorry, Daniel, for this, and any similar past missteps that I failed to recognize.

I cannot promise you that something similar will not happen again; I promise to try my best, but as much as I pretend otherwise, truly, I have no idea what I’m doing. You are the first person I have shared a space with in over twenty years, and those past examples did not end well. Despite my best efforts to the contrary, I successfully drove away everyone close to me. I hurt people. I’d like to think that I’m a bit wiser now, but I know that’s not entirely true.

To be completely honest, I’m terrified, Daniel. You are my only son. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I hurt you as well. And I did hurt you, that day. Others have left for far less.

Imagine my surprise when you forgave me so easily. I simply couldn’t believe that it could be that easy. You know that I trust you, Daniel, but you have to understand that years of evidence to the contrary are not so easily ignored.

And then you decided to prove that there were no hard feelings; you gave the subject of my betrayal back to me, as a sign of good faith. Your prized possessions. Given freely.

I suspect you don’t have any idea clue how truly special you are. So selfless, so kind. If I hadn’t had such an involved role in your creation, I never would have believed that you were my child.

So thank you, Daniel. Thank you for being you.

Daniel blinked back tears, taken aback by the forthright nature of the letter. It was just so honest, so Vlad that he wasn’t sure if he should shake his head or cry. Honestly, he was a bit disappointed; he had thought that his show of trust with the old sweaters had been enough to assure him of Daniel’s sincerity, and relieve him of guilt.

He loved the man, but it killed him how stubborn he could be. He didn’t need to apologize again; Daniel had been tired that day, and overreacted, reading farther into the situation than he should have. They were just a bunch of old sweaters. This was his dad. Why couldn’t his dad see that?

He decided to move on, rubbing at his eyes, unable to suppress a snort at the next line:

Now, because I know you, I’m certain that unlike every other teenager in existence, you read the card first. So do me a favor, please; open up the box before you read the rest.

He shook his head. No one knew him like his dad. He’d worry about the implications of his predictability later.

For now, he took the box into his lap; it had heft, but wasn’t heavy, per se. He turned the package over, searching for the seams, and methodically pried tape away from the wrappings, careful not to tear the paper, savoring the anticipation.

He set the paper aside, and grasped the lid of the oversized white cardboard clothing box, prying it away from the bottom half, and brushed aside green and yellow tissue paper. His hands began to shake.

He was greeted with something familiar, yet new. He traced the old knit pattern, yarn soft from wear, but freshly laundered. He tried a couple of times to lift the bulky block of fabric from the box, but it was packed tight, and he was unable to find purchase. So he gave up and turned the box over onto the sheets instead, then unfolded its contents, eager to see the piece in its entirety. He gaped.

They were all here. All of his old sweaters, the ones that he had given to Vlad that day. The ones that he reluctantly put aside one by one when he could no longer slip into their warm embrace. He had mourned the loss of the memories that went with each one, resigned to enjoy them as mere keepsakes.

He didn’t regret giving them to his dad, but he had missed them.

Here they were, but not as they were; the torsos had been divested of the sleeves and divided in half down the sides, former front and back forming large patches that were sewn methodically onto an oversized sheet of ultra-soft fabric. Parts of the sleeves had been repurposed into artful borders to separate individual sweaters. The construction had been stuffed lightly, and formed a type of quilt.

Overall, the effect was stunning, striking a perfect balance between respect for the past and celebration of a new era.

As far as he could tell, every salvageable part of his collection had a place.

In the middle, framed like a piece of art, was the front of his favorite sweater. His first one, complete with mar and repair job. He traced his friend’s handiwork reverently, taking a moment to reflect before taking action.

He arranged the quilt on top of his comforter, admiring the personal touch it brought to his space. He itched to burrow under it immediately, but he knew better; there was no way he’d be able to avoid falling asleep right now if he was that warm.

It was, without question, the most thoughtful gift he had ever received. So much time and care had been poured into this. He had no idea how his dad had managed to organize the diverse collection into the aesthetically-pleasing and functional piece of art resting on his bed. He felt a rush of concern for his dad. When had he found time to sleep this month?

With a jolt, Daniel remembered that he still had half a letter to read.

He bit his bottom lip, conflicted, and decided to take a calculated risk; he burrowed socked feet under the quilt and shimmied down to his hips, sighing in delight. The warm weight was unbelievably comfortable, and his feeling of nostalgia only intensified with contact. He had missed this. His dad’s voice colored the rest of the text.

Life is full of change. I often did my best to resist it, believing it could bring only pain. You have taught me that this isn’t always the case. Change can bring pain, but it often brings benefits as well. Especially when it brings about growth.

Take your sweaters for example. You were, and still are, incredibly fond of them, despite the fit becoming uncomfortable as you outgrew them. To continue to grow unhindered, you had to take the small sweaters off.

You’ll continue to grow in many different ways. I look forward to seeing who you will become.

But you will find that you will outgrow more than old sweaters in the course of your life. Mindsets, routines, places. At some point, you’ll realize that they’re no longer as comfortable as you remember, but moving on can be hard.

When you reach the point of no return, Daniel, you must promise me you won’t linger. Trying to fit into that “old sweater” again, as tempting as it is, will only bring you pain.

I regret to say I speak from experience. I was stuck, for many years, trying to fit into my own “sweater,” denying the restriction because it was all I had. I was stuck, longing to change my circumstances, but unwilling to release my hold on the “then” and embrace the “now.”

It was painful, to say the least. I wallowed in anger for years, refusing to share blame, placing it fully on the shoulders of my friends, pushing them away. Then I wondered why I was always unhappy and alone, with only my dark thoughts to keep me company.

I was still that person when you came along. No hope, intent on using you as a tool for revenge and conquest. But you were greater than I ever dreamed, far more than I could ever hope: A person. My son.

It terrified me; you were too good for this world, too good for me. And I was ashamed, thought myself unworthy to be your father, terrified I’d ruin you. That I’d fail you.

Please don’t make my mistakes. Make your own. Grow. Live.

Let this quilt remind you that it’s okay to remember the past, but not to dwell on it. With some imagination, your memories can grow with you. The past has its place, but life can only continue when you let go.

You taught me this, Daniel. Let me return the favor.

And no matter what else in your life may change, you can rest easy with the knowledge that I will always be here for you, for as long as you’ll have me.

I am so proud of you, son. I can’t wait to see what kind of man you’ll become.

I love you.

-Vlad

An ugly mix of tears and snot streamed unchecked down Daniel’s face, dripping off his chin onto his shirt, arms carefully outstretched to preserve the letter.

Sure, parts were a bit embarrassing. And sad. But while his dad expressed his love often enough verbally, it was a different experience altogether see it in writing. It felt more authentic, somehow. Perhaps it was the deliberation that was required to record such a sentiment on paper; completely separate from the heat of the moment. Sincere.

Today had been a roller coaster of emotion, from pancakes to quilts; he was exhausted.

When he first slid under the blanket, he had thought he’d never want to get up, reminded of his dad’s embrace. But now, he found himself longing for nothing less than the real thing, confident he knew where his dad had been hiding under the circumstances.

In his haste, he elected to phase out from under the quilt, pausing only to set the letter carefully on his desk before phasing through several walls into Vlad’s private study.

Sure enough, there he was. Daniel barely registered that the man was staring blankly, hunched over an old photo album before it was lost from sight as he released the transformation and buried him in a hug from behind, over his shoulders and the desk chair.

Vlad tensed at first, so lost in thought that he hadn’t heard the boy come in.

“Thank you,” Daniel whispered.

Vlad relaxed, closing the book before turning around with a tentative smile.

Daniel let go, and Vlad stood so he could hug his son properly.

A/N: Thanks so much for reading! I hope you had just as much fun as I did writing it! I’m pretty new to writing fiction (I normally write research papers), so I’d appreciate any feedback you’d be willing to give me. Feel free to point out any mistakes or oversights! Overall, I’m really happy with how this turned out. I guess fifth times’ the charm and all that. I was concerned about the pacing being too slow, so I’m curious to see what you guys think.

I’m also open to requests! Feel free to hit me up. I have a few more shorts planned in this universe, namely, the story of how Daniel’s favorite sweater was damaged and an, admittedly, crack-ish short where Vlad and Daniel react to the sketch that started it all (Vlad commissions a family portrait, but has mixed feelings about the result); but after that, nothing’s planned, but I do have a couple of vague ideas.

Thanks for reading!

#flightyfiction #danny phantom #fanfiction #vlad masters #daniel masters #au #this got really long #oops #long post #tumblr didnt like it the first time #i hope its fixed #update: progress has been made but it still doesnt show up in search #maybe its the links #i might try a link-less version later #here it is #if this fixes it ill post the links seperately #technical difficulties

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