#these are called masterposts or something right

[jkwrites-m]

Daddy Kookie (4)

Pairing: idol!Jungkook x female reader

Genre: childhood lovers to exes to lovers, parents au, smut, angst, fluff

Word Count: 8.9k

Summary: After Jungkook dropped all contact, Y/N was left broken - and pregnant. Seven years later, fate brings them back together.

Warnings: MDNI, Explicit, 18+, smut, angst, abandonment, young (teenage) pregnancy, resentment, guilt, anger, heartbreak, cursing, struggle, co-parenting, growth, comfort, vulnerability, domestic, resistance, hope, long-distance, confessions, secrecy, moving explicit: praising, kissing, riding, oral (f. & m. receiving), unprotected sex, phone (FaceTime) sex, 

A/N: hey friends, myb for the delay! i got sucked into a fic and had to finish reading before posting 🫶

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The worst part wasn’t the fight.

It was the stillness after.

He didn’t call that night.

Didn’t text.

Didn’t ask if I’d changed my mind.

He picked Eun Ae up like he said he would. Walked her home. Stayed for dinner like nothing had happened. She didn’t notice the way I sat on the other end of the table. The way his eyes barely touched mine.

We were polite.

Almost warm.

But never close.

And that, somehow, hurt more than yelling ever could.

I found myself watching him more than I wanted to.

The way he tied her shoes.

The way he helped her build the puzzle she was obsessed with this week.

The way he folded the laundry and left it in a neat pile on the edge of the couch- not assuming, not asking, just… there.

I missed him while he was standing five feet away.

That night, I called my best friend.

Told her everything.

“I think I’m testing him,” I admitted, voice thick with guilt. “I think I’m waiting for him to mess up so I can say I was right to be afraid.”

She was quiet for a beat.

Then said, “Maybe it’s not about being right. Maybe it’s about being ready.”

I didn’t respond.

Because maybe I wasn’t either.

═══════

I didn’t sleep.

Again.

I sat on the couch after Eun Ae went to bed. Headphones in, notebook open, staring at the same line I’d rewritten six times.

I wasn’t mad at her.

Not even close.

I got it.

She was scared.

I’d made her that way.

And it wasn’t her job to trust me.

It was mine to earn it.

So I wrote her something.

A letter I didn’t send.

A letter I folded three times and tucked inside my bag.

Y/N,

If you say no, I’ll stay. If you say not yet, I’ll wait. If you say never, I’ll still love you from wherever you are. Because it’s not about the city. Or the life. Or the dream. It’s you. It’s always been you. And I would trade all of it to be where you are.

- JK

I left it there.

In my bag.

Because she wasn’t ready.

And I wasn’t going to leave this time.

Not even if she told me to.

═══════

It was just a box.

Labeled “Old Stuff” in fading black Sharpie, shoved in the back of the closet I hadn’t touched since we moved into this place.

Eun Ae found it while looking for her art supplies.

“Mama!” she called from the hallway. “What’s this?”

I dried my hands and walked over, heart already twitching at the sight of it.

The top was half-off, papers spilling out- receipts, baby socks, polaroids, hospital wristbands.

And a journal.

My old one.

From the pregnancy.

Before the nausea. Before the ultrasounds. Before I knew if she was a she.

Back when I was scared of everything.

Back when the only person I wanted to tell had stopped answering his phone.

I picked it up slowly.

Felt the way it still remembered my hands.

Eun Ae looked up at me with wide eyes. “Can we read it?”

I hesitated.

Then nodded.

We sat on the floor, backs against the wall, pages turning beneath fingertips that barely fit across one line of text.

I skimmed, at first.

Then I landed on one.

“Week 13. I think I’m starting to love her. I don’t know how. I don’t know if I should. But she’s mine. She’s mine. And I’ll never let her feel what I’m feeling right now - alone.”

My throat tightened.

Eun Ae leaned her head on my shoulder. “Did you write all of this for me?”

“I did,” I whispered.

She smiled.

Like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Like she already knew.

And in that moment, I remembered every version of myself I thought I’d buried:

The girl who still hoped.

The girl who believed people could change.

The girl who loved Jungkook with her whole heart and never stopped.

═══════

Later that night, when the sky went pink and the apartment went quiet, I found him sitting on the front steps. Hoodie pulled over his head. Knees drawn up. Staring at nothing.

He looked surprised when I joined him.

We didn’t speak for a long time.

Then, quietly, I said:

“I’m not saying yes.”

He didn’t move.

“I’m not asking you to,” he replied.

I took a breath.

Let it sit between us.

Then added, “But I want to think about it.”

His head turned.

Eyes searching mine.

And for the first time in a long time…

He smiled.

Not because he’d won.

But because I’d let him in.

Even if just a little.

═══════

I didn’t tell him.

Not Jungkook. 

Not my best friend. 

Not even myself, really. 

I just waited until the apartment was quiet, until Eun Ae was tucked in and dreaming, until the hallway lights dimmed and the city softened behind the windows. Then I opened my laptop.

The cursor blinked back at me like a dare.

I stared at the search bar for a long time, my fingers hovering, my pulse skittering like it used to when I was younger and about to send a message I couldn’t take back. My heart said don’t. My hands didn’t listen.

Seoul elementary schools for international children.

The results came too fast, flooding the screen with photos of clean white hallways, polished shoes, little uniforms, beaming parents, perfectly translated admissions promises. I scrolled through three websites before slamming the tab shut like it had caught me doing something shameful.

But a minute later, I opened them again.

Maybe I wasn’t crazy. Maybe I was just… curious.

And maybe curiosity was enough for now.

I made a folder on my desktop and labeled it with a single letter: “E.” 

Vague enough to pass, quiet enough to keep. I bookmarked a handful of schools. A few had Korean-English bilingual programs. One had an art curriculum that made my throat ache in a way I couldn’t explain.

I wasn’t planning anything. I just… didn’t want to be unprepared if someday I did.

═══════

The next day, while Jungkook was out with Eun Ae, I did the same thing with job listings. 

Event management companies in Seoul. Nonprofits. One university venue- looking for a program coordinator. Nothing life-changing. Just possible.

When my best friend called that afternoon, she caught the tremor in my voice immediately.

“You sound distracted,” she said.

“I’m not,” I lied.

She didn’t buy it.

“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”

“About what?”

“Seoul.”

I didn’t answer.

“You’re allowed to want it, you know.”

“I’m scared.”

“I know.”

“I can’t do this again,” I whispered.

“You’re not,” she said, her voice soft but sure. “You’re not doing it again. You’re doing it differently.”

That night, I sat with a printed school application on my nightstand. I didn’t fill it out. I didn’t even reread it. Just folded it once and tucked it into my notebook, like something half-forbidden, half-holy. Then I lay back, watching the ceiling blur into dusk, and whispered to no one, “If I were brave, maybe I’d go.”

And something quiet inside me, something I hadn’t heard in years, whispered back:

Maybe you already are.

═══════

I didn’t ask where her head was at.

Not when I picked up Eun Ae that morning. Not when I saw the folded tension in Y/N’s shoulders. Not when she handed over a backpack and a juice box and said, “Have fun.”

There was something behind her eyes- a storm she was still naming. I wasn’t going to push her into clarity. Not this time.

So I gave her space.

And I gave our daughter the kind of day I’d only ever dreamed of giving her.

We went to the zoo again- it wasn’t new, but she liked the giraffes and the flamingos and the way the map made her feel like a pirate. She held my hand the whole time. Told strangers I was her dad with no hesitation, like it was a fact she’d always known.

We ate popcorn on a bench. Took selfies. Bought a postcard that she insisted we mail to “the living room,” because “that’s where Mommy always sits.”

She fell asleep in the car on the way home.

I didn’t carry her in right away.

Just sat there for a few minutes with the engine running, her head tipped against the window, her mouth slightly open.

And I thought about everything I’d missed.

First steps. First words. First fevers. First birthdays.

I would never get those back.

But maybe… maybe I could still make up for them in the ways that mattered now.

Later that night, after I put her to bed and folded the laundry she’d managed to scatter across the floor, I sat at the kitchen table with a blank notebook in front of me.

I didn’t know what I was writing it for.

Maybe for me.

Maybe for her.

Maybe for the woman sleeping behind a door I still didn’t feel brave enough to knock on again.

I wrote slowly.

Carefully.

No edits this time. Just truth.

I don’t want you to choose Seoul for me. I want you to choose Seoul because you believe something new could grow there. I know I broke us. I know I left you with the hardest parts. And even if you never move, never change your zip code or your heart-

I’ll still be here. Still showing up. Still trying to be the man I should’ve been the first time.

JK

I signed it.

Didn’t fold it.

Didn’t leave it out.

Just slipped it into my journal and closed the cover.

Maybe she’d read it someday.

Maybe she never would.

But at least I’d said it.

And sometimes, that has to be enough.

═══════

He lingered at the door.

Not like he was expecting an invitation. More like he was reminding himself not to hope for one.

Eun Ae was already in bed, curled under her blanket with her stuffed tiger tucked beneath her chin. Jungkook had brought her home an hour ago, quiet, calm, soft-eyed.

I opened the door before he could knock.

He blinked, surprised.

I stepped back.

“You want to come in?”

He hesitated.

Then nodded.

Didn’t say a word as he followed me inside.

We moved around each other easily now- like we’d been doing this a lot longer than a few weeks. He set his keys on the counter, pulled off his jacket, and slipped off his shoes.

I didn’t offer him tea.

He didn’t ask.

We just sat.

Side by side on the couch, no TV, no phones, no distractions. The lamp beside us hummed faintly. Outside, the city had gone quiet. A lullaby of sirens somewhere far off.

For a while, neither of us spoke.

I curled my legs under me. He rested one arm on the back of the couch, not quite touching, not quite distant.

Finally, I broke the silence.

“What’s it really like?”

He looked at me.

“Seoul,” I clarified. “Your version of it.”

He let out a breath, almost a laugh.

“Busy. Loud. Fast. Kind of beautiful if you slow down long enough to look up.”

I nodded slowly.

“And your life there?”

He shrugged. “Structured. Pressured. But it’s mine. Even the exhausting parts.”

I chewed on the inside of my cheek.

“I don’t want to lose this,” I said quietly.

“You’re not going to,” he answered just as softly. “No matter where we live.”

I tilted my head, searching his face. “And if I said I couldn’t do it?”

“I’d stay.”

“No hesitation?”

He shook his head.

“None. Because I’m not trying to win. I’m trying to stay.”

The lump in my throat came fast.

I looked away.

He didn’t reach for me.

Didn’t force it.

But his presence was enough, a gravity I no longer wanted to resist.

I leaned against his shoulder slowly, tentatively, and when he didn’t move, I let my full weight settle there. 

The familiar scent of detergent and something uniquely him, wrapped around me like a memory. Jungkook’s presence was a comfort I hadn’t realized I’d missed until this very moment. 

We stayed like that for a long time. 

The silence wasn’t awkward; it was understanding. 

I didn’t cry, though the weight of everything we’d been through pressed against my chest. 

He didn’t speak, but his stillness felt like a question, a plea, a promise all at once. It was as if we were having a conversation without words, our hearts speaking in a language only we could understand.

Eventually, I pulled away just slightly- just enough to see his face. 

His dark eyes were on me, calm and searching, waiting for something I wasn’t sure I could give. But when I looked into them, I saw the same man I’d fallen for years ago, the same man I’d swore away. And in that moment, I knew I wanted him back.

So I leaned in. 

And I kissed him.

It was soft, deliberate, like I was testing the waters of a river I once knew by heart. There was no panic, no tears, just the steady rhythm of our breaths intertwining. 

His lips were warm, familiar, and yet they felt new, like discovering something you’d forgotten you loved. 

His hands touched me like he was still asking permission, brushing my hair back, cupping my cheek. 

My body answered before my mouth could. 

I tilted my head, deepening the kiss, and his hands moved to my waist, pulling me closer. It was as if our skin still remembered what our minds were just beginning to relearn.

We moved together like we’d done this in another life, our bodies falling into a rhythm that felt both ancient and brand new. 

There was no rush, no need to prove anything. Just us, reclaiming what we’d lost.

He undressed me like I was fragile, his fingers tracing the curves of my body with a tenderness that made my heart ache. 

I undressed him like he was already mine, my hands mapping the lean muscles of his chest, the ink of his tattoo sleeve, the piercings that glinted under the soft light of the living room. 

His body was a canvas I knew by heart, and yet it felt like I was seeing it for the first time.

When we were both bare, he pulled me onto his lap, his hands resting on the small of my back. I could feel the heat of his skin against mine, the steady beat of his heart beneath my ear. 

“I’ve missed you,” he whispered, his breath warm against my neck.

I didn’t say anything, just pressed a kiss to his jawline, letting my actions speak for me. 

I shifted slightly, my legs straddling his, and he groaned softly, his hands moving to my hips. There was no urgency, just a slow, sensual exploration of each other’s bodies.

I leaned down, my lips brushing his as I whispered, “Prove it.”

His eyes darkened, and he flipped us, pressing me gently into the couch. “Anything for you,” he murmured, his mouth trailing down my neck, my collarbone, my breasts.

His touch was reverent, careful, like he was rediscovering every inch of me. I arched into him, my hands tangling in his hair, my moans soft and desperate.

But I wanted more. I wanted to feel him, to taste him, to remind myself why we’d been so right once upon a time. I pushed him back, my hands on his chest, and he let me take control, his eyes never leaving mine.

I slid down his body to the floor, my lips brushing his skin as I went. His hands gripped the cushions, his breath hitching when I reached his erection. 

It was thick, hard, and I smiled, knowing exactly what I wanted to do.

I took him in my mouth, slow and deliberate, my tongue swirling around the tip before I took him deeper. His hands tangled in my hair, his head falling back as he let out a low groan. “Fuck, baby,” he muttered, his voice thick with need.

I hummed around him, my hands gripping his thighs, my mouth moving in a rhythm that had us both gasping. 

I pulled away, my lips swollen, my breath ragged. “Your turn,” he whispered, pushing me back onto the couch.

He shifted, his hands guiding me back onto his lap, his mouth trailing kisses down my stomach, my thighs, until he was between them. His tongue was warm, insistent, and I cried out, my hands gripping his hair as he worshipped me with his mouth.

“Jungkook,” I moaned, my body arching off the couch. 

He groaned against my skin, his fingers teasing, his tongue relentless, until I was a trembling mess, my breath coming in sharp gasps.

When he finally pulled away, I was shaking, my body buzzing with need. 

I straddled him again, his hands gripping my waist as I positioned myself above him. His eyes were dark, hungry, but there was something softer there too, something that made my heart ache.

I lowered myself onto him, slow and steady, his hands moving to my breasts, his thumbs brushing my nipples. 

I rode him, my hips moving in a rhythm that had us both groaning, our breaths syncing, our bodies moving as one.

His hands were everywhere, his mouth kissing every inch of skin he could reach. He idolized me, his fingers tracing my waist, my hips, my thighs, like he was memorizing every curve. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice hoarse.

I leaned down, my lips brushing his, my hands tangling in his hair. “Say it again,” I whispered.

He looked up at me, his eyes intense, his hands gripping my hips tighter. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he said, his voice steady, certain.

I smiled, a silent answer, and kissed him deeply, our bodies moving faster now, the tension building, the pleasure coiling tight. 

His hands moved to my back, his fingers digging in as he thrust up to meet me, our bodies colliding in a rhythm that felt like coming home.

And then we were falling, our breaths ragged, our bodies trembling, as we came together, our cries mingling in the air. 

He whispered my name like a prayer.

I moaned his like a truth. 

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice breaking, his hands holding me tight.

And afterward, when the silence returned, it wasn’t empty anymore.

It was full.

Of us.

Still us.

Becoming us again.

═══════

I texted him after school drop-off.

Y/N: Can you meet us at the park?

It was simple. No buildup. No context. But he replied almost instantly.

Jungkook: On my way.

When I got there, he was already waiting.

Sitting on the same bench he’d sat on during that first zoo outing. Hoodie pulled up over his head, sunglasses in his hands, a slight fidget in his knee like he wasn’t sure what version of me was about to show up.

I walked over slowly.

He stood.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t assume.

Just looked at me- quiet and still and open.

I took a breath.

“This isn’t a yes.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

“I’m not ready to uproot everything. Not yet.”

“I know.”

“I need time. I need to make sure Eun Ae’s education is stable, that I have job options. I need to know I’m not doing this just because I- ” I stopped myself. Swallowed hard.

He didn’t flinch. “Because you what?”

I shook my head, refocused.

“This has to be about all of us. And it has to be real. Not rushed. Not romantic. Just… right.”

He nodded slowly, like every word mattered more than the last.

“And?”

I looked up at him fully now.

Met his eyes.

And let go of everything I’d been holding back.

“I’ve been thinking,” I said softly. “And I’m willing to try.”

For a second, he didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just breathed.

Then his shoulders dropped.

His hands loosened.

His face cracked open into the gentlest smile I’d ever seen on him.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He stepped forward- not to grab me, not to kiss me, just to be close.

“How long do you think you’ll need?”

“As long as it takes,” I said. “A few months. Maybe more. I need to go at our pace.”

He reached for my hand then, slowly, like he was still making sure I’d let him.

I did.

He linked our fingers. “Then I’ll wait. For however long it takes.”

I smiled.

Not because everything was perfect.

But because we were finally starting from the same place.

A place without conditions.

Without ghosts.

Without pretending.

Just two people who loved each other. 

Trying.

═══════

Eight months.

That’s what I gave myself.

Not six. Not twelve.

Eight.

Enough time to find the right job, prepare Eun Ae’s transition, apply for her school, sort financial documents, visas- everything. But not so long that I’d let fear talk me out of it again.

I made a list.

Typed it into my Notes app like it was a grocery run and not the first blueprint of a new life.

Seoul school research

Submit CV to three companies this week

Budget flight options for move window (March?)

Ask Jungkook if his house has a bathtub (non-negotiable for Eun Ae)

I laughed at that last one. Out loud.

Because this time, the future didn’t feel like a trapdoor.

It felt… possible.

And somehow, even more than that, it felt like mine.

Jungkook never rushed me.

Not once.

We FaceTimed every morning and every night. Some calls were full of updates, screenshots, “Can you believe Eun Ae lost another tooth?” Some were just silence. The soft kind. The kind that doesn’t ask for anything.

Some mornings, I woke up before the alarm and reached for the phone already smiling. Other nights, I fell asleep to the sound of his voice reading bedtime stories from halfway around the world.

He made it feel like he’d never left.

Like distance was just a word we didn’t let mean much.

The week I finally submitted three job applications, I didn’t tell anyone at first.

I just closed the tabs.

Let my chest fill.

And cried in the kitchen for exactly six minutes before reheating leftovers and helping Eun Ae with her math homework like everything was normal.

When Jungkook called that night, I didn’t say anything about it.

Just asked how his day was. Listened to him complain about a radio interview and laugh about Yoongi falling asleep mid-rehearsal. Watched his face relax when I told him he still talked too much with his hands.

We said goodnight the way we always did.

Him: “Sleep well, beautiful.”

Me: “Good morning, idiot.”

He grinned at that. Always did.

After I hung up, I walked to the mirror and looked at myself for a long time.

Tired.

Determined.

Not waiting for rescue.

Just building something brave.

Eight months.

And then we’d jump.

═══════

I bought the house three weeks after I got back to Seoul.

Didn’t tell anyone. Not even her.

It wasn’t big. I didn’t want big. I wanted quiet.

It sat at the edge of a park, tucked into the kind of neighborhood people usually outgrew into- peaceful, steady, with clean sidewalks and too many trees. The house had three bedrooms and an attic that begged to be turned into something. The walls were soft yellow. The windows wide.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it felt like them.

I took a photo from the front porch the first night the sun set through the trees just right and sent it to Y/N.

Jungkook: This might be the view from your coffee mug someday.

She didn’t reply right away.

But when she did, it was simple.

Y/N ❤️: Is there a bathtub?

I laughed so hard I nearly dropped the phone.

She remembered.

Of course she did.

I took a photo of the bathroom. Sent it.

Jungkook: Clawfoot. Definitely deep enough for mermaids.

She heart-reacted the message.

Didn’t say more.

She didn’t need to.

I started nesting, even though no one had said they were coming yet.

Bought a tiny desk and set it up under the window in the second bedroom.

Hung a corkboard above it with empty pushpins.

Labeled the WiFi “EunAeStar97.”

I knew it was risky.

I knew I was getting ahead of myself.

But every morning, I made two cups of coffee. Every night, I left the porch light on.

And every time I passed that tiny bedroom, I imagined laughter spilling out, crayon drawings taped to the walls, the faint smell of shampoo and cereal and new beginnings.

The members noticed I was different.

Lighter, maybe.

I didn’t say much about it.

Just said I had a house now.

A little closer to peace.

Namjoon stopped by once. Walked through the space, nodded slowly, then looked at me and said, “You bought this for them.”

I didn’t deny it.

He didn’t ask anything else.

═══════

That morning, I FaceTimed Y/N from the kitchen. 

No shirt, hair still wet from the shower, the good kind of tired in my bones. 

The Seoul sunrise painted the room in soft gold, a stark contrast to the darkness I knew enveloped her world.. 

Her face appeared on the screen, sleepy but smiling, her messy bun and the faint smudge of yesterday’s eyeliner making her look both vulnerable and impossibly beautiful.

“Trying to seduce me in 1080p?” she teased, one eyebrow arched. 

Her voice was thick with sleep, but there was a spark in her eyes that told me she was already playing along.

I grinned, leaning closer to the camera. “Always.”

She laughed, a soft, melodic sound that made my chest tighten. It was a laugh I’d missed more than I’d cared to admit. 

But in that moment, it felt like we were in the same room, her hand brushing against mine, her breath warm on my skin.

“You’re up early,” I said, my gaze lingering on the curve of her jaw, the way her lips parted slightly as she spoke.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she admitted, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Thinking about you.”

My heart skipped a beat. I hadn’t expected that. “I’ve been thinking about you too.” I murmured, my voice low and rough.

The air between us crackled with unspoken desire. I could almost feel her heartbeat through the screen, could almost smell the faint scent of her perfume. 

It was ridiculous, I know, but in that moment, the distance felt like a game we were both willing to play.

“I have to be quiet,” she whispered, glancing over her shoulder as if someone might overhear.

“Good,” I said, my smirk widening. “I like it when you’re quiet.”

Her cheeks flushed, but she didn’t look away. Instead, she propped her phone against her pillow, adjusting it so she could lie down in front of it. The camera angle shifted, giving me a view of her slender frame, the curve of her hip, the way her tank top clung to her full breasts. 

My breath hitched.

“You’re killing me, baby,” I groaned, my hand instinctively drifting south. 

I flipped the camera, showing her my other hand wrapped around my cock. It was already hard, throbbing with anticipation.

Her eyes darkened, her lips parting in a silent gasp. “You’re not the only one,” she murmured, her hand slipping under the waistband of her panties.

I watched, mesmerized, as she began to touch herself, her movements slow and deliberate. Her skin was sparkling in the dim light of her room, her fingers slender and graceful. 

She was a work of art, and I was her audience, her admirer.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” I whispered, my voice hoarse with need. “I wish I was there, wish I could touch you.”

“Me too,” she breathed, her eyes never leaving mine. 

Her hand moved faster now, her breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. “Tell me what you’d do if you were here.”

I swallowed hard, my grip tightening on my cock. “I’d pin you down,” I said, my voice rough with desire. “Kiss every inch of your body, eat your pussy until you’re screaming my name.”

She moaned softly, her free hand clutching the sheets. “Fuck, Jungkook. Keep talking.”

I did, my words dirty and desperate, painting a picture of everything I wanted to do to her, everything I wanted her to do to me. She was a vision, her body arching off the bed, her lips parted in a silent cry as she came, her fingers still moving in rhythm with her trembling breaths.

“That’s it, baby,” I praised, my own release building. “You’re so fucking perfect.”

She smiled weakly, her eyes fluttering closed as she rode out her orgasm. “Keep going,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

I didn’t need to be told twice. My hand moved faster, my breaths coming in ragged gasps as I imagined her there with me, her lips on mine, her body pressed against mine. 

“Y/N,” I groaned, my voice breaking as I came, my cum spilling over my hand.

She watched, her expression soft and satisfied, as I caught my breath. “Thank you,” she murmured, her voice heavy with sleep.

“Always,” I replied, my heart still pounding.

She got up slowly, her movements languid, and pulled on a soft sweater. “I’m going to sleep now,” she said, her voice already slurring with exhaustion.

“Okay,” I said, my gaze lingering on her as she climbed back into bed. “Sleep well, baby.”

I stayed on the line, watching her sleep, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. 

I waited until her breathing deepened, until I was sure she was asleep, before whispering, “I love you.”

The distance still hurt, but in that moment, it felt a little less impossible. She was there, and I was here, and somehow, we’d found a way to bridge the gap, if only for a little while.

═══════

It started with spilled juice on the rug.

Which wouldn’t have been a big deal if Eun Ae hadn’t also had a stomach bug and I hadn’t already been running on three hours of sleep and I hadn’t opened my inbox to three rejections in one morning.

I cleaned it.

Twice.

Then sat on the floor beside it and stared at the fibers like they owed me something.

By the time lunch rolled around, I’d cried once in the pantry, snapped at the delivery guy for ringing the bell three times, and put the dirty dishes in the fridge.

Eun Ae was a trooper.

Even sick, she tried to cheer me up. She scribbled me a card that said “Mommy I love you more than toilet paper,” and offered me half a cracker from her dry-stomach ration pile.

I kissed her forehead, tucked her in, and promised I was fine.

I wasn’t.

When Jungkook called later, I almost didn’t answer.

The screen lit up with his name - Jungkook - and I stared at it until it dimmed.

Then I picked it up and sat on the edge of my bed, legs trembling for no reason at all.

He smiled when he saw me.

“Hey. Almost thought you wouldn’t pick up.”

“I almost didn’t.”

“Bad day?”

I nodded.

Tried to speak.

Didn’t.

My eyes welled up faster than I expected, and before I could stop myself, I was crying. Not the dramatic kind. Just the quiet, tired kind. The kind that doesn’t have a beginning or end, it just is.

He didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t ask for details.

Didn’t try to spin it into something light.

He just watched me.

Waited.

And when I finally whispered, “I don’t know if I can do this,” he didn’t panic.

He just said, “You don’t have to. Not alone.”

That undid me completely.

Because for years, that’s all I had ever been.

Alone.

Even when I didn’t want to admit it.

Even when I thought I’d made peace with it.

I wiped my face, tried to breathe.

“Why do you love me?” I asked suddenly, not sure where it came from.

His answer was immediate.

“Because you’re you.”

“That’s not enough.”

“It’s everything.”

I closed my eyes.

Let his voice fill the room, calm and steady.

He didn’t solve anything that night.

He didn’t need to.

He just stayed on the line while I lay back against the pillows, and eventually, I fell asleep to the sound of his breathing through the speaker.

And I realized-

Maybe I wasn’t waiting anymore.

Maybe I was already with him.

═══════

I told them on a Thursday night.

I waited until the room felt safe.

It was Yoongi’s place- quiet, cozy, cluttered with comfort. We’d done this a hundred times. Late-night takeout, ridiculous arguments about who stole the last dumpling, J-Hope humming along to background noise none of us were really watching.

But tonight I felt it in my throat. The need to say it. The weight of her in my chest.

So I set my chopsticks down.

And said it.

“I have a daughter.”

Silence.

The kind that swallows the air.

Then Taehyung squinted at me from across the coffee table, a piece of seaweed stuck to his cheek. “Like… you’re raising someone else’s daughter?”

“No,” I said quietly. “She’s mine. Her name’s Eun Ae.”

More silence.

Jimin’s mouth opened. Then closed.

Namjoon looked down.

Yoongi didn’t move.

“She’s six,” I continued. “And she looks just like me. Big eyes. Dimple on the left side. She sticks her tongue in her cheek when she’s concentrating and she calls me ‘Daddy Kookie.’”

Still no one spoke.

“She loves drawing, and stuffed animals, and wildflowers. She’s obsessed with pancakes. She hates socks. She knows I sing for a living, but she doesn’t really care. She thinks my job is just being ‘silly on YouTube.’”

The corner of Jin’s mouth twitched.

“And Y/N…” I paused. Exhaled slowly. “She raised her alone. I left and she did everything without me. She’s the strongest person I know, and somehow she still lets me be part of their life.”

Jungkook, don’t cry. Don’t cry. Not yet.

“I don’t know how to deserve them,” I said. “I’m trying. Every day. But I keep thinking I’m gonna mess it up. Like one bad choice and I’m back to being the guy who blocked her number instead of answering the phone.”

Namjoon looked up.

“And you told her this?”

“I tell her everything now,” I said. “Even when I’m scared. Especially then.”

Jimin pushed his sleeve up. “So what happens next?”

“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “I asked her to think about moving to Seoul. She said she’s willing to try. So I need to make it safe. I need to make it real.”

Yoongi finally leaned forward.

“You need to tell the label.”

I froze.

“What?”

“They’re going to find out,” he said. “You should control the narrative. Get ahead of it. Tell them before someone else does.”

“And if they don’t want me to go public?”

Namjoon shrugged. “Then you decide what matters more- image or honesty.”

Jin nodded. “You’ve got us. All of us.”

That night, I scheduled the meeting.

═══════

No managers. No buffer. Just me and two senior reps behind a long glass table that made everything feel colder than it should have.

I told them the whole story. Not just the timeline. The heart.

The nights I spent wondering if Eun Ae had my laugh. The way she grabs my hand when she’s scared. The way she calls Y/N “Supermom” and how they make pancakes together every Sunday. I told them I wasn’t asking for approval. Just transparency.

They listened.

Took notes.

Asked almost no questions.

Then one of them said, “Jungkook… we understand. But this isn’t something we can advise you to share with the public.”

I blinked. “What?”

“We’re in a delicate position here. You’re the youngest member. The most visible. Statistically, the most desirable. Releasing news of a child now- ”

“She’s not news,” I snapped.

The rep didn’t flinch. “We’re prepping a new comeback. We’ve been planning toward this moment for over a year. If this story breaks, it won’t just shift your image. It will define it. You will become the father. Not the artist. Not the idol.”

My hands curled into fists.

“She’s not a scandal.”

“She’s not,” the other rep said, gentler. “But your personal truth is not always compatible with brand protection.”

I stood too quickly. My chair scraped the floor like a scream.

“You think I care about brand protection right now?”

“No,” the first rep said calmly. “But we do.”

And that was it.

No punishment.

No anger.

Just strategy.

Just the quiet re-packaging of my life into something marketable.

I agreed to wait.

Not because I wanted to.

But because I didn’t want her caught in the crossfire.

That night, when Y/N called, she looked tired but peaceful.

Her hair was braided to the side. She was lying on the couch in sweatpants, Eun Ae’s stuffed tiger tucked under one arm. There was a softness in her eyes I hadn’t seen since we were teenagers.

I almost told her.

Almost blurted it out- they said no. I tried anyway. I fought for us.

But I didn’t.

Because she was smiling.

And I didn’t want to put the weight of my disappointment on her shoulders when she was just starting to hope again.

“Hey,” she said. “You okay?”

I nodded.

“Yeah,” I whispered. “I’m okay.”

And maybe that was true.

But I still fell asleep feeling like I had swallowed the truth whole just to keep her dreams intact.

═══════

The job offer came on a Tuesday.

It was buried in my inbox between a coupon for 30% off sneakers and a school newsletter announcing a lice outbreak. The subject line was polite. Plain.

[Event Coordinator – Seoul Venue | Offer Letter Enclosed]

I clicked it three times before I really opened it.

It wasn’t just good. It was ideal.

A flexible schedule, bilingual staff, family health coverage, relocation assistance. They’d even included a list of school partners nearby for “your daughter’s transition.”

They knew.

They really knew.

I sat on the edge of my bed for a long time, the screen glowing in my hands.

My first instinct was to call Jungkook.

But I didn’t.

Not yet.

Instead, I walked to Eun Ae’s room.

She was in the middle of dressing her stuffed animals for “airport adventures,” complete with a plastic suitcase and pretend boarding passes drawn in crayon.

“Whatcha doing?” I asked gently, leaning on the doorframe.

“Packing for Korea,” she said without looking up.

I blinked. “You are?”

“Yup. I already told daddy I want to sit by the window. And I’m gonna bring him my drawing of the flamingo with the hairbow.”

I laughed. “He’s going to love that.”

She nodded solemnly. “It’s his favorite animal now. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

Later that night, after she fell asleep clutching the flamingo drawing, I sat at the kitchen table and read the offer again. Then printed it. Signed it. Scanned it back into my email.

The moment I clicked send, my hands started shaking.

Not from fear.

From relief.

We weren’t planning anymore.

We were doing it.

We were going.

I called Jungkook. He picked up before it finished ringing.

“Hey,” he said, breathless. “Everything okay?”

“I have something to tell you,” I said, trying to sound calm.

“Okay,” he said, voice suddenly soft, like he was bracing for a storm.

I looked down at the flamingo drawing still sitting beside me.

Then I smiled.

“We’re coming.”

Silence.

Then a soft exhale.

Then-

“You’re really coming?”

“Yes,” I whispered. “We’re moving. We’ll need a little time- school, housing, all of that. But it’s happening.”

He didn’t speak for several seconds.

Then I heard it. A sniff. Another.

“Hey,” I said, laughing now. “Are you crying?”

“No,” he said, very obviously crying. “Shut up.”

I covered my own mouth, tears prickling.

“We’re not waiting anymore,” I said softly.

He cleared his throat. “No,” he echoed. “We’re coming home.”

═══════

I didn’t cry when I gave my notice at work.

I thought I would.

I thought I’d hand in the letter and immediately feel like I’d cut off a limb, like the floor would tilt beneath me. But instead, my boss smiled softly, hugged me, and said, “You were never meant to stay small here, you know.”

That’s when it started to feel real.

The next few days blurred into boxes and donation piles, phone calls, emails, spreadsheets titled “Move Logistics – Seoul.” I canceled utilities. Sorted through years of receipts and forgotten drawers and memories I didn’t know I’d buried.

Everything was chaos.

But for once, it was the good kind.

Eun Ae wanted to pack everything.

Her shoes, her pencils, her stickers, the rocks she collected from the park last spring. She drew a sign for each box - “Korea stuff!!” with a million hearts. On her bedroom wall, she’d started a countdown calendar with pink stars and crooked numbers.

“Twenty days left!” she shouted one morning over cereal. “That’s less than a month!”

Her excitement made it easier.

So did my best friend showing up with iced coffee and too much bubble wrap.

“You know this is brave, right?” she said as she helped me wrap the last picture frame from our hallway.

“I know it’s terrifying.”

She smiled. “That too.”

The apartment started to look hollow.

The shelves were bare. The rugs rolled. The scent of our lives here slowly faded- replaced with the smell of cardboard and sharpie ink.

I took a break one afternoon and sat in the middle of the living room floor, sweat sticking my shirt to my back, a half-sealed box beside me labeled “Memories: Handle Carefully.”

I looked around.

This place had been everything.

A hiding place.

A womb.

A home when I didn’t know if I’d ever have one again.

And now we were leaving it.

Not because we were running.

But because we didn’t have to anymore.

That night, Eun Ae fell asleep on a mattress on the floor, curled up in a sleeping bag she insisted on using for “practice.”

I kissed her forehead and whispered, “You’re the bravest thing I’ve ever known.”

Then I stood in the doorway of her room and let the tears come.

Soft.

Steady.

The kind you don’t wipe away, because they mean something bigger than sadness.

They mean something’s ending.

Because something better is waiting.

═══════

The call came just as I was trying to fold a fitted sheet back into the drawer that no longer existed.

My phone buzzed against the counter, and I didn’t even check who it was. I just answered with a groan and said, “If you’re calling to ask if I’m emotionally stable enough to pack another box of toddler art and broken crayons, the answer is absolutely not.”

Jungkook’s face filled the screen, grinning like a kid who’d just gotten away with something.

“Well… I was calling to show you this.”

The camera flipped.

I saw a bedroom.

A real one.

Small but sunlit, with pale wooden floors and a big window framed in white curtains. There was a new bed- not too big, just right. In the corner, a tiny desk with a lamp shaped like a bunny. The closet had been left open slightly, and I could see three little dresses hanging up, all way too colorful to be his.

But what broke me was the wall.

A hand-painted mural stretched from corner to corner. Wildflowers- just like the ones Eun Ae always drew. Lavender, daisies, poppies, even sunflowers. All painted with slightly clumsy strokes and beautiful imperfections. At the center was a name in soft brush lettering:

Eun Ae

I covered my mouth with my hand.

“You painted that?” I asked.

He turned the camera back on himself, slightly shy. “It took me a week. I watched three videos and ruined two shirts.”

“You hate painting.”

“I hated not being there more.”

I sat on the edge of the couch, trying not to fall apart.

“I love it,” I said. “She’s going to lose her mind.”

“That’s the plan.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were doing it?”

He shrugged. “Felt better to show you.”

We sat in silence for a few beats. I could hear the cicadas outside his window. The faint hum of his fan. The way his breath hitched like he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure if he should.

“I miss you,” I said first.

His eyes softened. “I miss you too.”

“I keep waiting to feel… panic. Like this is too much. Like I’m making the same mistake again.”

“Are you?” he asked gently.

I shook my head. “No. I think… I think this is the first time I’m choosing something with hope instead of fear.”

He nodded, eyes never leaving mine.

“I don’t want to screw this up,” he said softly.

“You won’t.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

He turned the phone a little, showed me the living room- now filled with flat-packed boxes, open tool kits, a coffee table he’d clearly put together backwards.

“I’m learning how to do this,” he said. “Not just for you. For us.”

“You already are.”

He smiled, eyes crinkling.

I lay back on the couch and turned my screen so he could see the half-empty room behind me.

“Looks different,” he said.

“It’s happening.”

“I know.”

“Soon.”

“Not soon enough.”

We stayed like that for a while.

No pressure. No plans. Just breathing in each other’s quiet.

He kept the phone propped beside him while he started unpacking the box labeled KITCHEN – MAYBE??

I fell asleep like that, the sound of him humming to himself while putting mugs on the wrong shelf, the screen slowly dimming beside me.

And for the first time in weeks, I didn’t dream of the past.

I dreamed of that room.

Of flowers.

Of home.

═══════

It was supposed to be a junk drawer.

You know the kind- rubber bands, old receipts, maybe a pen that doesn’t work but you’re too sentimental to throw away.

But when I opened it, I found everything I hadn’t meant to keep.

The envelope with my ultrasound photo. Folded, faded, edges curled. A polaroid of me at twenty, holding my belly and smiling like I wasn’t completely terrified. A hospital bracelet with a worn name tag: “Y. L/N — MOTHER.”

And at the very bottom… the photo strip.

Jungkook and me, fifteen, crammed into a booth at the summer carnival. His lips on my cheek in the first one. Me laughing in the second. Our faces pressed together, blurred with motion in the third. The last one- just us looking at each other.

Frozen in time.

Hopeful.

Before the distance. Before the silence. Before the ghosting and the heartbreak and the empty nights filled with baby kicks and no one to share them with.

I didn’t mean to sit down.

But suddenly I was on the floor, that strip of photos in my lap, the others spread around me like evidence.

My chest hurt.

Not in the sharp way it used to. Not the crack. Just a slow, deep ache. A memory of pain.

I should’ve thrown it all away.

That’s what I told myself two years ago.

That’s what I told myself last month.

But I didn’t.

And now I couldn’t.

Because that drawer wasn’t just grief.

It was proof I survived it.

The tears came slowly.

One, then another. Not sobs. Not panic.

Just release.

I ran my fingers over the faded ink of a half-written letter I never sent. One I wrote the night I went into labor, when I still believed if I just kept writing, he might come back.

“I miss you. I wish you could see her. She’s already yours, even if you don’t know it yet.”

I folded it again, placed it back gently.

Then I stood.

Wiped my cheeks.

And grabbed the last empty box in the hallway closet.

I labeled it in sharp black marker:

“For Me.”

Not for storage. Not for clinging. Just a box of everything I lived through.

Everything I earned.

Later that night, I opened my journal.

The same one I’d started the week after Eun Ae was born.

And I wrote:

“I don’t know what will happen in Seoul. But this time, I’m not walking in blind. I’m not hoping for rescue. I’m not waiting to be proven wrong. I am choosing this. With all of it. With eyes wide open.”

Then I closed the cover, sealed the box, and tucked it in beside my suitcase.

═══════

We woke up early. Not because we had to, but because it felt like we should.

The apartment was almost completely packed. Just two suitcases left open by the door, a mattress on the floor, and a bag of essentials for the flight. Everything else was taped shut, labeled, and waiting for movers.

There was nothing left to clean. Nothing left to do.

So we went for a walk.

One last time.

I let Eun Ae choose the route. She picked the bookstore first.

The clerk recognized her instantly- the way kids who read aloud in every aisle tend to get remembered. She gave Eun Ae a free sticker and a hug that lasted two seconds too long.

Next was the corner coffee shop.

I ordered my usual. Eun Ae got the warm vanilla milk the barista always made her even though it wasn’t technically on the menu. He waved goodbye with both hands, said, “I hope your new place has extra whipped cream.”

Eun Ae giggled. “I’m going to Korea!”

He blinked. “Well, in that case… take a piece of our hearts with you.”

She didn’t understand it.

But I did.

Then the park.

The one where I used to push her on the swings until my arms ached and she screamed “higher!” like there was no such thing as falling.

We sat on our favorite bench. She counted the squirrels. I watched the sky.

I remembered the night I’d cried on that bench because her fever wouldn’t break. The morning I’d laughed because she’d pointed at a tree and called it “Mr. Leaf Face.” The first time she ran ahead without looking back and I knew, deep down, that I was doing something right.

We walked home slowly.

Stopped at every crosswalk we used to race across. Said goodbye to the flower shop, the deli, the place where she lost her first baby tooth and asked if the sidewalk was allowed to keep it.

As we rounded the corner to our building, she looked up at me and asked, “Mommy, are we going to miss this?”

I bent down to her height.

“Yes,” I said honestly. “But we’re allowed to miss something and still move on.”

She thought about that for a second.

Then nodded, very seriously.

“Okay.”

Inside, we didn’t talk much.

We packed the last of her crayons. Taped shut the toy box. She added one more heart to the countdown calendar and wrote “tomorrow = adventure.”

That night, after she fell asleep for the last time in our home, I walked room to room with bare feet on bare floors.

Every wall held a memory.

But none of them held me.

Not anymore.

We were ready.

═══════

The alarm went off at 4:00 a.m.

Not that I’d slept much.

Eun Ae had curled into my side all night like she knew we were crossing a threshold. She woke up the second I moved, rubbing her eyes with tiny fists, already smiling.

“Is it time?”

“Almost,” I said, brushing her hair back. “You ready?”

She nodded. “I was born ready.”

I laughed, but my chest ached.

The car arrived just after five. We double-checked the passports. The boarding passes. The suitcase with the flamingo drawing taped to the top like a flag.

The sun hadn’t risen yet when we drove away.

No big goodbye. No music. Just the quiet shuffle of tires over pavement and Eun Ae pointing out shapes in the dark.

“That one looks like daddy,” she said, pointing at a billboard shaped like nothing.

At the airport, everything blurred.

Security. Lines. Announcements overhead. I answered questions automatically. Smiled at strangers. Let Eun Ae pull her own tiny carry-on with stickers on every side.

It wasn’t until we were sitting at the gate, flight number glowing on the screen, twenty minutes to boarding, that I froze.

I had her hand in mine.

My passport in the other.

My heart somewhere between them.

And suddenly, I felt it.

That flicker of fear.

What if I was wrong?

What if it broke again?

What if this was another story where I gave everything and got left behind?

My fingers curled tighter around my passport.

I stared at the gate.

The world outside those windows looked impossibly wide.

Then I felt it.

A tiny hand on my arm.

I looked down.

Eun Ae leaned her head on my shoulder and whispered, “We’re going to Daddy.”

Just that.

No doubt.

No question.

Just faith.

And something inside me cracked.

Not from fear.

But from relief.

Because it hit me-

This time, I wasn’t chasing a boy.

I was joining a man.

Not starting over.

Just continuing what was always meant to begin.

We boarded the plane.

She took the window seat. Pressed her face to the glass.

The engines roared. The wheels lifted.

Clouds swallowed us.

And I thought:

This is the second time I’ve flown into the unknown.

But this time, someone’s waiting.

This time, I wasn’t falling.

I was flying.

═══════

prev ♡ next

MASTERPOST ♡ MASTERLIST

♡ requests are welcome ♡ taglist ♡

These characters are fictional and do not represent any real-life individuals. Their likeness is used solely for visual inspiration and does not reflect the actual person or their story.

═══════

Posted: 07/04/2025

Taglist: @mar-lo-pap @lovingkoalaface @whoa-jo @kiliskywalker666 @sucker4jeon @annpeachy-blog @kaiparkerwifes @nikkinikj @asyr97 @jjkluver7 @bammbi-jeon127 @kookoo-kachoo @angelsdecalcomania @kayswatanabe@kelsyx33 @tatamicc @llallaaa @chromietriestowrite @k1ll1ngcl0wns @jahnaviii @traumaanatomy @yu-justme @bangtaniess @roseda @xmiaacxio @magicalnachocreator @suker4angst @taetaecatboy @somehowukook @busanbby-jjk @ecomidnight @cuntessaiii @jungshaking @nbjch05 @baechugff @jakiki94 @songbyeonkim @smoljimjim @welcometomyworld13 @marihoneywk @fiddlebiddls @battlingmyowndemons @rinkud @withluvjm @singingjk @ficluvr613 @roseidol @looneybleus @ermno97 @rainandmatcha

[thevoidstaredback]

Masterpost

There was a hero that all of the Justice League knew about. They'd only technically been on the scene for a few years, but there were records of them and their heroism going back the oldest human records. They were probably even older than that! They were mentioned in every mythology, every civilization. Quietly, they called them a hero.

They had many names and many domains, but they were most commonly depicted as a psychopomp and/or messenger. Anubis, Hermes, Mercury, Morana, Charun, Xolotl, Valkyrie, Heibai Wuchang, Shinigami, Tarakeshwara, Gupan and Ugar, Isimud, Raja Indainda, and Sraosha were all names they were known by. Now, though, they went simply by Phantom.

None of the Justice League had had the opportunity to interact with Phantom, though not for lack of trying. Something always got in their way when they tried. Until now, that is.

None of the heroes technically remembered anything that happened, but Batman and The Flash had placed contingencies at the very beginning of the Justice League that could track whenever time was messed with. Could it tell them what happened or who did it? No. All it could alert them to was that something in the timeline had changed, though Batman was working on upgrading it for more details.

It was protocol, whenever time's been messed with, to check up on heroes throughout the world. Usually, this was just a quick check from the Watchtower, then a call to their non-emergency contacts, but occasionally a hero would drop by for an in-person visit.

Phantom had been harder to track down than a Bat playing hide-and-seek, and it was even harder to actually get into contact with them!

After two years of sifting through history and mythology books, Green Arrow had finally managed to track down Phantom.

Amity Park, Missouri was not the place he expected to find a being older than human records, but he's seen weirder.

Green Arrow showing up in the middle of Missouri alone would've raise more questions than it was worth, so he decided to bring along The Flash because it'd be less weird for the hero who actually lived in the state to be there. That being said, they both decided that showing up in full hero garb would attract a lot of unwanted attention, so they decided to go in their civvies before approaching Phantom at night as heroes. It would also give them a good amount of time to pick out a schedule, if Phantom had one.

Barry yawned as he stepped off the plane behind Oliver. "What're we doing here again?"

"I told you," Oliver said, "We're here to see Phantom."

Barry missed a step, nearly falling on his face. "You didn't say we were here to see Phantom!" he hissed.

"I didn't? Must've slipped my mind."

"You, sir, are an ass."

A huffed laugh from behind made the two turn around.

The girl was a teenager, probably in her last year of high school. She was dressed in a Nu Goth style. Her clothing was all black, though her choker and lipstick was royal purple. Her hair, too, was dyed black with royal purple bangs cut to a point in the middle of her forehead. Her earrings, just poking out from where they were covered by her hair, were of the lesbian and aromantic flags.

She raised an eyebrow at them. "What? You're having a conversation in a public area. I'm gonna laugh if you say something stupid."

Barry rubbed the back of his neck, "That's fair, miss..?"

She looked them both up and down obviously before locking eyes with Barry. "Don't deal with anything even close to magic, man, sharing names is, like, the first thing on the list of what not to do."

It was Oliver's turn to raise his eyebrow at her. "You deal a lot with magic?"

"My grandma's a witch. She taught me most of what I know."

"And the rest?"

"Sam!" The call would've cut her off if she had opened her mouth to answer. She turned to face a kid who was walking over from the direction of the bathrooms. "You're not harassing these guys, right?"

"Nope. Just having a conversation."

The boy looked skeptical behind his tinted glasses. "A 'me' conversation or a 'you' conversation?"

"A Danny conversation."

"That's worse."

"And you're only contributing to it."

The boy sighed, straightened out his shirt, then held out his left hand to Oliver and Barry for a handshake. "Ignore her, she's a jerk."

She snorted, but didn't deny it.

The boy was wearing black jeans, a grey shirt over a white undershirt, a grey plaid jacket, and a red beanie. His glasses were thick, black frames and the lenses were tinted just enough to not be considered sunglasses.

"No harm done," Barry assured, "You are?"

"Tucker," he answered, "You?"

"I'm Barry and this is Oliver."

"Cool, cool," Tucker said, "It was nice to meet you guys, but we've got a ride waiting."

"No problem," Oliver smiled, "It was nice meeting you, too."

They watched the two kids go until they were swept away by the crowd.

"You think we'll be seeing them again?" Barry asked.

Oliver smirked. "How much are you willing to bet?"

Barry laughed. "With our odds? Nothing."

"You're no fun."

Ignoring him, Barry continued on to the bag collection. "Let's just hurry up. Where're we going?"

"It's a town called Amity Park."

"Amity Park?"

"Yep,"

"Weird. I don't remember a town with that name in the state."

"Really?"

"Yeah,"

"Strange," Oliver hummed, "Let's follow the lead wherever it goes, then."

Don't say that," Barry groaned, grabbing his bag, "Because whenever someone says that, it takes forever to get anything done and I only have a week off, man."

"Then get a new job."

"Says you! You could by a small country and still have enough to buy this country!"

"You're confusing me with Bruce."

"That man's richer than god."

"And I'm not?"

"No. You're as rich as god, but not richer."

"That's a fair assessment."

Finding a taxi was easy. Finding one that would take them to Amity Park was a bit harder.

Amity Park, Missouri was in the same state as Central City, but Oliver refused to drive for that long, so they'd taken a plane from Central City Airport to Perryville Regional Airport. From there, they were going to take the state highway to MO-51, get off onto Pcr 917, and finally stop right in the middle of the road.

Another thing Oliver conveniently forgot to tell Barry was the Amity Park was in the middle of nowhere. It wasn't on any maps, no website with any allusion to it held directions, and no one who'd been there could say how to get there.

They did, eventually, find a taxi. Throw enough money at someone and they'll do what you want. However, the driver had stated, in no uncertain terms, that he would be dropping them outside the town and they'd have to walk in a straight line to get in.

The wording had been oddly specific. The two disguised heroes followed them to a T.

In the middle of nowhere, surrounded on all sides by trees, was the moderately sized town of Amity Park. There was a single road that cut through the middle, separating the residentials from the corporations.

(Corporations was a strong word. There wasn't a single Wal-Mart or Amazon Warehouse anywhere.)

On the way in was a sign that Oliver and Barry had both taken photos of and studied until they'd memorized it: Welcome to Amity Park! The Most Haunted Place On Earth watch out for Rogue Ghosts.

'Rogue' was an odd word to capitalize.

"I didn't even know this was here," Barry said in awe of the big green park in the middle of the road. It was the very center of the town and the main road wrapped right around it. "There's been a town here this whole time?"

Oliver breathed in deeply. The air was cleaner than anywhere he'd been, and he's been to some really clean places. There was almost a sweet quality to it, smelling similar to candied apples.

"How as a place like this even exist?" Barry asked. He was kneeling in the grass, examining it closely. It was an unsettlingly perfect shade of green.

"Your guess is as good as mine," Oliver said, "Come on, let's find somewhere to stay."

Part 2

[greenandsorrow]

Sunflower, in a field of roses.

CHAPTER 1: Soft Spoken

Cho Hyun-ju x fem!reader

🌻 Masterpost & Summary: click here

!!! slight age gap (not the main focus at all), blonde!reader, Hyun-ju's POV, misgendering, dysphoria themes, early transition struggles, co-worker tension, strangers to friends to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn, w|w

Quick note! The way you're described in this fic isn't meant to exclude. It's how Hyun-ju sees you. This might not even be how you really look like and that's okay. It's not about perfection, it's about perception. The blonde? Any shade you want. Natural or not. Let me have my brunette x blonde trope in peace.

This is just the beginning! An introduction. The following chapters will definitely be longer and flow smoother 🩷

A warehouse-style cosmetics company. Packaging department.

The job isn't glamorous. But it's clean. Most importantly, it pays. And no one asks too many questions.

The team manager has just introduced her to the rest of the staff.

"This is our new hire, Cho ...Hyun-ju. He'll be helping with the packaging and admin."

Her heart doesn't even sink. It plummets.

Hyun-ju freezes, her name sounding so right, yet the word he staining it like oil on paper. She doesn't correct him. Not in front of twelve people, not when her voice still doesn't sound how she wants it to. Not when she's wearing a hoodie because she's still saving up for top surgery. Not when her makeup's too light to register as "girl" and her stupid ID still betrays her.

No one says anything. A few of the guys glance at her and nod. One of the girls, the one in the expensive lash extensions, murmurs something under her breath and smirks.

A laugh, sharp and cutting.

Hyun-ju feels the heat rise on her ears.

Then the last person turns to look.

She hadn't even noticed her until now.

Sitting by the window, turning a gold ring around her finger.

Zinc alloy.

Her finger is turning green underneath, but she doesn't seem to mind. She doesn't need quality jewelry to establish herself. It's not part of some performed femininity, it's just a silly little ring she probably just liked and got for herself.

Assumptions, assumptions.

Warm light catches the ends of her hair. It's... long(er than hers). Seemingly flawless. Like a magazine girl but softer. A real girl. A natural girl. Her eyes are thoughtful. Not judgmental. Just watching.

Something clutches tight in Hyun-ju's chest. A breath held in reverse.

The girl tilts her head. Doesn't laugh like the others. Doesn't smile either –just studies her.

Then, a small, polite nod.

That's it.

But it's kind.

Hyun-ju's throat tightens.

Not from gratitude. Not even relief. Something uglier. Quieter.

Envy.

The kind of envy that shames you. That claws at your ribs in the middle of the night.

"She gets to just be like that. No limitations. No voice training. No surgeries on waitlists. No stares that scrape. She smells like flowers and gets to be soft. I'm always scared l smell like sweat and fight to be legible."

You say something to the girl next to you. The way you talk is gentle but fast. Easy. Like you never had to worry about the shape of your mouth giving anything about you away.

Hyun-ju looks away.

She shouldn't care.

She shouldn't feel this.

But then the scent hits her –your perfume, fresh and citrusy. It lingers across the room. And just like that, something deeper kicks up inside her. Something warm. Unwelcome.

A flicker of… desire, maybe. Or longing. Or just the ghost of something she never had and knows she won't.

And then you laugh at something. Loud. A little snort tucked into it. Real. Unguarded.

Hyun-ju feels her lips twitch against her will.

Maybe this place won't be that bad.

Cho Hyun-ju keeps her head down when she clocks in. Hair tucked under a beanie. Neutral sweatshirt, no makeup today. She's used to people calling her mister, young man. Pretending it doesn't sting.

But today, there's someone new in the break room.

She remembers you, but hasn't seen you since she started that day.

You are sitting by yourself.

Probably younger. Maybe foreign? Eyes framed by a soft, lilac eyeshadow today. Lips glossed in something faintly peach. Nails long, tapping against your cup.

"Hello" you say when Hyun-ju passes. Bright, intently warm. "You're new too, right?"

Hyun-ju blinks. "I guess. Kind of."

You giggle. "I'm Y/n or [...], for short. You can call me whatever. I'm useless at carrying cardboard boxes but I'm trying."

Hyun-ju nods, tries not to seem like she's staring the wrong way. Because she's not. But everyone expects her to anyway.

"The peachy lip-gloss girl...

She's the kind of girl that used to make high school unbearable. So pretty it hurts to date her. So confident in her own skin it makes me feel like I'm inside-out."

You're assigned to the same floor. Of course.

It's almost annoying. The way you're always asking questions. Making small talk. Laughing at everyone's jokes. You lean close when you talk, sometimes touching Hyun-ju's arm without thinking.

"Your skin is so clear" you say one morning, completely casual. "What do you use?"

Hyun-ju shrugs. "Soap."

"Rude" you laugh. "You should try this chamomile toner, clear skin or not. It smells like spring."

The casualness makes Hyun-ju ache.

At lunch, you sit near each other. You talk about whatever book you're currently reading, lipstick shades, how cramps nearly killed you yesterday.

Hyun-ju just nods. Smiles softly when it's expected.

She can barely hear the words over the sound of her own body screaming with envy. With want.

She doesn't know if she wants you, or wants to be you.

Wants the curves. The comfort. The way you fill the physical space around you like you have the inherited right to own it like that.

She tucks harder the next day, knowing she'll walk back home in the evening with thighs aching from the pressure.

That day, you run into each other in the locker room. Hyun-ju's just pulling on her shirt when the restroom door creaks and you come out of it.

You're in a pale bra, simple, lacey and sweet. No shame.

"Oops" you say with a grin. "Jumpscared you? I'm so sorry."

Hyun-ju turns away fast, swallowing hard.

It's not about what she saw.

It's about what she doesn't have... yet?

Later, alone in a stall, she stands with her back against the tile and tries to will her erection away. She stays tucked. Can't take it out. Can barely breathe.

She hears the echo of your voice outside. Laughing. Asking someone where the vending machine is. But she doesn't know this is your nervous laugh, and that she brought it out of you with just a glance.

Hyun-ju presses her palm over herself. Just to hold it down. Just to stop shaking.

She doesn't sleep well that night.

But she dreams of being soft. Seen.

And of your lips, curved in a smile as you offer her your lipgloss.

Thank you for reading! I appreciate you 🩷🌻

You can ask to be added to the taglist! Just shoot me an ask or reply ♡

Support your gal who's currently trying to survive uni. Every penny/euro means the world. Thank you so much! CLICK HERE [PayPal Link]

Sunflower by @kodaswrld and sparkles by @saradika-graphics.

Taglist: @euryalex @hyunjusbiggestfan @applepie1000

[veephoenix]

zutto — chapter twenty-three | wc: 2.6k | series masterpost | prev. chapter

Chapter summary: lia's first gallery exhibition!

Reading time: 10mins aprox.

Tags and trigger warnings: references to lia's past, a lil bit of anxiety, sexual references (oral sex), noah tells a tiny lie (he's carrying sth heavy in his pocket and lia can't find out about it yet), fluff

General trigger warnings: this work addresses and depicts issues related to addiction, abuse, & violence, contains explicit sexual content, and explores themes of childhood trauma. Reader discretion is advised. +18

Lia checked the clock on the wall again, her fingers absently scratching at the skin around her nails as the minutes crawled by. Noah was supposed to be here ten minutes ago. It was barely a blip, but her nerves didn’t care. The doors to the gallery would open in just under half an hour, and she wanted him there.

Behind her, Folio, mid-chew with a falafel crammed in his mouth, tried to ease her nerves.

“He’ll be here. He’s probably stuck answering the same question about the album title for the fiftieth time. You know how those label interviews go.”

Lia shot him a sharp look, but her irritation quickly gave way to preoccupation.

“I know he’ll come,” she said. “He texted earlier. But he was supposed to be here already and…” Her eyes flicked toward the catering table where Folio hovered. “Can you not eat everything? There won’t be anything left for the guests if you keep at it.”

“I had one falafel and a lasagna bite,” he said defensively. “Frame me.”

“I will. Stop eating. I’m starting to panic.”

“Look,” he said, nodding toward the gallery entrance.

Her heart leapt, but it wasn’t Noah at the door. It was Emery and Jolly, arriving hand in hand, all smiles and casual cool.

Where was he?

Noah had been booked for two back-to-back interviews at Sumerian Records that afternoon, which was part of the media cycle the label had lined up in preparation for the band’s album drop and upcoming tour. As the frontman, he usually got the lion’s share of press attention, and that included those repetitive, time-consuming interviews that tended to have him always running late thanks to overbooked schedules and sudden PR pivots.

Originally, when they got to know that those interviews were scheduled for the same day as Lia’s opening, it hadn’t been a problem. Lia told him to go. It was important—for him and for the band—and the gallery was already in good hands. She’d come in early to oversee final setup, check on the catering, and coordinate with the gallery’s director, Margot, who was currently making her rounds in stilettos and a sleek blazer, greeting early staff and adjusting little things. A receptionist sat near the front desk, fielding calls that had nothing to do with Lia’s exhibition and taking notes with a stylus on a digital pad.

It was ready. The pieces were mounted, the lighting adjusted… Still, it didn’t stop the way her stomach tightened. Noah had promised he’d make it on time, and that he’d make it up to her later that night.

She’d believed him.

She opened the door for Jolly and Emery, greeting them both with a hug and a smile. Emery immediately launched into compliments, eyes sweeping the gallery’s interior.

“Everything looks incredible, Lia. Seriously, congratulations. It’s so well put together.”

“Thanks, Em.”

Jolly scanned the space quickly and noted the obvious absence. He didn’t say anything right away, but the stiffness in Lia’s posture made it obvious. Without a word, he moved behind her and placed both hands on her shoulders, gently massaging as he nudged her further into the gallery, his eyes flickering curiously to the nearest pieces. 

“Relax,” he murmured. “He’s going to be here in a minute.”

“What if something happened to him?” Lia muttered, not quite managing to hide the anxiety in her voice.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, shall we?” Folio chimed in from a few feet away.

When she turned to look at him, she caught him with yet another lasagna bite in hand.

“Nick,” she said, voice sharp, “you’re going to pay for that.”

“Can I just purchase the drawing of the winged skeleton instead?” he offered with a shrug.

She rolled her eyes and was about to pinch his arm when the door behind her flew open.

Noah stepped in, his eyes finding hers immediately. He crossed the space in quick strides, brushing past staff without breaking pace.

“I’m sorry, Lia,” he said breathlessly.

In a heartbeat, she was in his arms, the rest of the room falling away.

“I didn’t expect traffic to be this bad. I got held up at the label.” 

That wasn’t entirely true.

The interviews at Sumerian had ended earlier than expected, and he’d had more than enough time to get here. But he’d spent the last hour tucked away at Cartier, picking up a small velvet box, a custom order he’d placed weeks ago. The weight of it pressed discreetly against the inside of his pants pocket. He risked it by keeping it with him because leaving it in the car was way more dangerous, and the thing had costed him a ton of money. He just hoped Lia wouldn’t get one of her impulsive ideas about undressing him the second they got back to her apartment.

“It’s okay,” Lia said, beaming now. “You’re here.”

“I am.” He stepped back and took her hand. “Let me look at you.”

He lifted her hand and gave it a twirl, making her spin slowly in place.

Lia wore a fitted, charcoal-gray plaid mini dress with long, slightly puffed sleeves and a sharp square neckline that framed her collarbones and shoulders, making her look elegant but not too serious. The dress hugged her waist before flaring into a soft A-line that ended mid-thigh. She paired it with knee-high black boots. She looked incredible.

Noah, in turn, was wearing a loose black T-shirt tucked neatly into black slacks that gave him a clean silhouette, accented by a black belt. Around his neck, he had his usual silver chain catching subtle glints of light. A matching silver bracelet circled his wrist. He looked… terribly good, in Lia’s opinion. Confident, slightly tired, a little late, but exactly right.

“You look unbelievable,” he said, still holding her hand.

“Thank you. It was your choice, after all”, she said, her smile breaking wide.

He leaned in and kissed her cheek, his hand brushing the small of her back and resting there like he never wanted to move it. 

The gallery doors opened to the public a few minutes later, and soon the space was alive with motion and chitchat. Many of Lia’s friends—who also happened to be friends and colleagues of Bad Omens, artists, techs, and crew members who had toured together—had shown up in full force. Those who weren’t out on the road or tied up with conflicting schedules made a point to be there, to support her. It was something that came naturally in their circle: artists showing up for other artists, no matter the medium.

As the evening progressed and more familiar and unfamiliar faces filtered through the room, Lia found herself overwhelmed, not precisely in a negative way. She received complements and questions of all kinds about her work. Some were somewhat personal, others more technical. A few inquired about her influences, about the cultural fragments some pieces displayed. She didn’t always have the answers. 

Every so often, amid conversation, Lia’s eyes would meet Noah’s across the room. Even while talking to someone else, he always seemed halfway tuned to her. There was a quiet kind of awe in the way he looked at her, a stillness that cut through the noise of the room. It steadied her in ways he probably didn’t even realize.

This was her first time exhibiting anything publicly (besides the stuff she created for Bad Omens), and despite having sketchbooks stacked high at home with a variety of themes on paper that were more personal and intimate, the ones on the walls tonight were still hers. She had been drawing since she was a child, and she’d never really imagined that her work would be hanging in a space like this. This show was a glimpse of her story. Of herself—if only a part. 

And people had shown up, interested in it, curious about it, and about her, as if she was special. 

She slipped into the rhythm of the event eventually, her initial nerves softening into presence. The conversations drifted from her artwork beyond more mundane stories. Ideas and deals were exchanged in front of her framed pieces. Some friends who hadn’t seen each other in months were reunited that night. There was laughter and hugs. 

At the bottom of it all, her art was the reason why they were all gathered there, and that made her really happy. 

It was everything she could’ve hoped for—except for the fact that she completely forgot to eat.

Everyone else was enjoying the catering she had carefully coordinated, eating from the little trays of appetizers placed on a couple of tables (fortunately, nobody noticed the missing lasagna bites). There was alcohol, but Lia paid no mind to it. She was so distracted by the whirlwind of faces and voices that she hadn’t touched a single thing since the food Noah had sent to the gallery earlier that afternoon. 

When Noah grabbed her arm and pulled her aside, the sun was already low in the sky outside, casting amber streaks across the floor with the rays that made it through the windows. Inside the gallery, the lights made the artwork feel somewhat magical. Lia was still looking at some of the pictures as Noah dragged them to a quieter corner, where one of her smaller pieces hung: a dreamlike depiction of a room overflowing with flowers, a little girl sitting cross-legged in the center, cradling something in her small hands.

Lia fixed her eyes on Noah and thought he was about to scold her for not eating. But he didn’t. He just took her hand in his, looked her straight in the eyes, and smiled.

“What?” she asked softly when he didn’t say anything.

“I’m proud of you.”

Her smile widened. She placed a hand on his chest and leaned into him a little. “You told me that this morning. When your face was between my legs.”

“I don’t think you heard me properly, my mouth was rather occupied then. But I’ll tell you as many times as I think it’s required,” he said, voice low, smile unfading. “I’m proud of you. This is incredible, Lia. This is what you were always meant to do.”

“They seem to like them, huh?” she said, glancing around the room. People were chatting, some about the art, others just catching up after long stretches apart. Some stood silently, contemplating the pieces with focused brows. Others just looked moved, uncertain. 

“They do. At the very least, they’re curious. And that’s what matters. Art isn’t meant to be beautiful. Some of these are,” he nodded at the piece beside him “but others are interesting. Some are weird and others dark as hell. A few are... too explicit and borderline illegal.”

“Those are the best,” she joked in a hushed voice. “And they’re kept at home.”

He made a face that made her laugh, and it was only then she realized he still hadn’t let go of her hand.

“I’m proud of you,” he said again, squeezing. “But I think little-you would be even prouder.”

Her smile faded into something wistful. That phrase alone conjured up a thousand afternoons in her mother’s crumbling house. The silence. The smell of dust and old flowers. Drawing alone at the kitchen table, her only company the scratch of pencil on paper and the little world she was building on the page.

“She would,” she whispered. “She is.”

They held each other’s gaze for a long moment. The noise of the room felt far away.

“I should’ve brought you flowers,” Noah said suddenly, motioning with his chin toward a nearby table where several bouquets and a few thoughtful gifts had been placed by friends. “Didn’t even cross my mind. Fuck.”

“Hey, no,” she said quickly, sliding her hand up his chest to cup his cheek. “That’s okay. You get me new plants almost every week. And you’re here. That’s what matters to me.”

“Well,” he said, his voice turning just a shade more serious, “I might not have flowers. But… I do have something else for you.”

Her brow lifted, curious. She tilted her head, her hand dropping back to his chest. “Oh?”

“I want to ask you something.”

The way he said it tightened something in her stomach.

“Ask,” she said, gently. Slowly. 

He took a breath, steadying himself. 

Lia noticed he was suddenly… nervous? Was that it?

“Are you interested in purchasing any of my pieces, Mister Sebastian?” she asked with a grin, an intent to soothe that tension she felt radiating from him.

He scoffed.

“I would buy all of them. But that wouldn’t be fair to how talented you really are, and they need to see that talent. But yeah, I would, just so you know.”

She shook her head, smiling. “Okay, so ask me the real thing.” Her fingers grasped the fabric of his black t-shirt, bracing herself unconsciously. 

Noah straightened his shoulders, the way he always did right before he said something that mattered.

“Considering all the work we’ve done with the band this past month, and how good we’re doing with the new album… And after talking to Sumerian today… They’re loosening the leash. We actually don’t have to grind that hard for the next couple of months.” He paused, glancing around them, then back at her. “And considering this… all of this,” he gestured around the gallery, “how good it’s going for you. And how you’re not that overloaded with work now that everything’s sorted—”

“Noah,” Lia said, eyes narrowing with interest.

“I thought maybe this would be the right time,” he said. “To find a place. To move in together. We could start looking next week. Take our time. Maybe be moved in by next month.”

He stared at her, chin slightly dipped, his eyes searching hers.

“You’re serious?” Lia asked, a disbelieving smile spreading across her face.

“Of course I am.”

She burst into laughter, soft and overwhelmed. Her hands flew up to cover her mouth as if to hold the emotion in, but two seconds later, she was launching herself into his arms, tiptoeing to wrap her arms around his neck. Noah caught her, hugging her back with that quiet strength she’d always relied on. Their laughter mingled, unfiltered.

She was so happy.

The kind of happy that made her heart squeeze and her breath catch. The kind of happy that felt surreal. 

As the hug deepened, Lia realized that the younger version of herself—the little girl who had grown up too fast in an unloved house—would’ve never believed this moment was real. Back then, love had felt fictional. Safety was a fantasy. And happiness… happiness like this had felt like a dream for someone else.

Now it was hers.

Tears welled in her eyes, but before they could spill over, a voice called her name, grounding her back to the room.

“Sorry to interrupt,” said Margot, the gallery director. She had a clipboard tucked under her arm. “But there are a couple of guests interested in purchasing some of your pieces, Lia Would you mind speaking with them for a moment?”

Lia blinked. Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. 

She glanced at Noah beside her, who still had one arm resting around her hip. His face mirrored hers: eyes wide, then a slow smile that took over, like he was watching his favorite scene in a movie.

“Of course not,” Lia replied quickly, her voice breathless with disbelief.

Margot gave her a grateful nod and stepped away to guide her towards the interested patrons. Noah leaned in, pressing the softest kiss to her temple before giving her a gentle push on the small of her back.

She started moving, but glanced back at him one more time. He was standing with his hands in his pockets now, his posture relaxed but proud.

And the look on his face…

It wasn’t just happiness. It was awe. It was pride.

It was that’s my girl written in every line of him.

I'm feeling so proud of her—of them— i might cry 🥹

— previous chapter | chapter twenty-four

Taglist:

@somebodyels3 | @respectfulrebel | @digitaldesiresx | @bluestdai | @lacy1986

@sweetwombatpizza | @missduffsblog | @shilohrosechicken | @jilliemiw86 | @alwaysfightforwhoyouare

@chey-h | @ferduttini | @dominuslunae | @todressabladeupinred | @tf-is-aesthetic | @pastelsswirlvangogh

[journey-of-daydreams]

Mission Accepted [Rewrite & Reader] [Platonic]

Feeling particularly downtrodden today, you go to Rewrite in an attempt to distract yourself. Surprisingly, they notice and attempt to help. Well... They're not good at it, and it's kind of frightening, but they try.

Type: Oneshot Genre: Fluff/Attempt at Humor Content Warnings: None Stage: 3 Ring

[Link to Rewrite & Reader Masterpost]

───{⭕⭕⭕}───

You're in Green Hills. The sun shines above you, but there's a light fog in the far distance, giving it a slightly darker atmosphere. Wind gently blows around you, birds are singing, flowers are blooming. The green fields stretch far and wide. Occasionally, in the distance, your view is obscured by a cliff face or a rock. Yet, no one else is around.

Everything is so empty and lonely.

Today was rough. Your mind is buzzing with unwanted thoughts and feelings. Things you wish you could get away from. The thoughts swirl around in your head, unresting. You can't seem to get your mind to settle.

In a weird, backwards way, you want them here to fill the void. Their presence is often overbearing and overwhelming, yet sometimes... It's welcome. Maybe it would distract you. Maybe they'd make you laugh.

Maybe you just don't want to be alone.

You know they'd come as soon as you called their name. They've done it before; All you had to do to summon them was say their name. Sometimes when you accidentally mentioned them by name in conversation and they'd appear, which was always startling.

But this time was different. This time, there was a weight to it. This time, you

You take a deep breath to prepare yourself.

"Sonic?" You call out into the nothingness.

Without a moment's hesitation, as if they were already watching, they manifest directly in front of you with a pop.

"Hello, friend!" They wave so enthusiastically their arm disconnects from their body.

"You rang for a game? A picnic? Karaoke? A race?" They ask with a rhythm to their words, very clearly eager to get the games started, now that you've invited them.

"Oh, I'm up for anything." You remark, a little unenthusiastically. ...Anything to get my mind off this, your mind thinks, but the words go unspoken.

Rewrite goes quiet, exaggerating a tilt of their head that their whole body follows. They squint, looking you up and down.

"You look like a cat dragged you through the river, friend," They comment. "What's your deal?"

Your expression immediately drops. You were hoping they wouldn't notice. You're surprised they did, really. Normally, they don't.

"It's nothing." You dismiss, averting your eyes and hoping they wouldn't pry further.

"You're lying." The tone is oddly flat and serious. It catches you a little off-guard. "You don't have to lie to me. I'm your friend, remember?"

"Right." You acknowledge with a sigh. "I just... Don't feel good. Emotionally." You explain, tone now quiet and soft. "I didn't want to talk about it, just wanted to stop thinking about it."

"Is that why you called me?" They ask. You nod lightly.

"Oh!" They hum, their model flinching slightly as if surprised. Their hands then clasp together. "That's wonderful!"

You stare at them.

"What." You mutter, deadpan. You weren't sure what reaction you were expecting, but them calling your misery "wonderful" wasn't it.

"You want my help! 本当に私のことが好きなんだね！I'm so happy!" They start bobbing back and forth in a bit of an odd, excited dance. "We really are friends!"

You think about their words for a second. "Oh." You state, relieved that they're apparently happy that you're coming to them for help as a friend... Or something. That's way better than what you thought.

Your mind wanders to their last comment. Friends?

Now that you think about it, you haven't actually referred to them as your friend before. They've always called you their friend, but you've never returned the same sentiment. Before, you would have never called them a friend. But now...

They have been honestly trying to appease you and keep you happy. It feels like they've been trying to make up for their past. They don't like reminders of their past actions, you've noticed... As if they're ashamed about it, maybe? Maybe they really are trying to be your friend.

After some serious thought, you speak again. "...Yeah, I... I guess we are friends."

Rewrite immediately perks up at this. "You're so sweet!!" Their arms shoot over to you and wrap around you, pulling you into a hug. The sudden momentum knocks the wind out of you, but you still smile at their reaction. Did hearing you say that really mean that much to them?

"Now!" They exclaim as they drop you from their clutches. "You called me for my help, yes? You want Doctor Sonic to heal your sad mind, yes?"

You raise your eyebrow at the 'Doctor Sonic' comment. "I mean, that depends. How are you going to 'heal my mind'?" You question, genuinely curious what that means.

"Mission accepted! Be not afraid, I am at your service!" They throw you a wink and an enthusiastic salute. They then put a finger to their chin, and tap their foot in a "thinking" animation.

You blink at them. They didn't answer your question at all. Still, you give them an intrigued smirk. It looks like they're planning something. Knowing them, it will be interesting.

...It also could be another hide and seek game. Hopefully not.

Suddenly, an exclamation point appears over their head and they make an "aha!" gesture. They trot closer to you, gently grab your hand and move it into a palm-upwards position.

They're about to give you something. You watch, transfixed, and a little afraid for what it might be.

"Here! A gift!" They drop a scared, confused Flicky into the palm of your hand. It wobbles on its feet like a newborn, looking confused as if it was just summoned into existence.

"Ah-" You stutter in surprise, quickly moving your other hand to support it so it doesn't fall. You're not sure what to think about this unexpected gift at first... Sonic watches you with hands on their hips, apparently proud of their gift.

As you stare down at the bird, it meets your eyes and chirps softly.

"That's cute." You comment approvingly.

"So you feel better?" Rewrite questions immediately, not giving you a single second for your emotions to settle.

"Well, I-" You smile awkwardly, unsure of how to politely tell them this wasn't nearly enough time to feel better... And that a single bird really doesn't help your mental state much. And also you're not sure what to do with the bird now.

"I mean, I like the bird. I feel the same, just with a bird now."

"That's no good! My job here is not done!" They exclaim, "There's still some lingering degression in you!"

"Degression?" You question.

Rewrite stares at you for a second, processing your question.

"...Depression." They correct themself. "Shut up, don't correct me." They demand as they poke you in the forehead.

"I wasn't!" You insist with a lighthearted smile. "I swear, I was just conf-"

"Shhh." They abruptly interrupt you with a shushing sound, emphasizing it with a finger over their own mouth. "I'm focusing."

You close your mouth and furrow your brows in annoyance. Focusing on what? They're just standing there.

As if on cue, they hold out their palms upwards to the sky. A light shines down on their hands. Sparkles start to form from their palms, and an object begins to manifest. The twinkling gets more intense, and then:

From the center of the light, a single ice cream cone manifests.

Two scoops, and it's your favorite flavor...

They grasp the cone and hold it out to you as an offering, but the bird is still resting in your hands. You go set the bird down, but as soon as you do-

"NO!!" Rewrite practically yells with intense urgency, startling both you and the bird. You freeze, holding the bird more tightly so it doesn't fall.

"Wh-What?!" You ask, alarmed by the sudden urgency of their tone.

"The Flicky will lose its effectiveness if you stop touching it! Think! Think!!" They're still yelling and gesturing wildly.

"Well, I- I can't hold them both at once!" You stutter, confused by whatever 'effectiveness' means, but too scared by their intensity to even think about questioning it.

"Sit down!!" They order with a finger pointing to the grass. Confused, you do so without question, sitting criss-cross in the grass, still balancing the bird in your hands.

Rewrite then sits directly in front of you, takes the bird out of your hands, and swiftly places it in your lap. They place the ice cream cone into your newly freed hand.

"There." They state, their tone of voice now completely calm. They're completely relaxed now. Unlike you, you can feel your heart thumping in your chest.

That... was really jarring. You need a moment to calm down.

As you take a moment to breathe, Rewrite watches you, scanning your expression. Their eyes dart from your eyes to the ice cream you're holding, and you realize they're waiting for you to try it.

You lick it once.

"Do you feel better?" They immediately inquire.

You can't help but chuckle, mostly out of bewilderment. "You really need to give me a moment to relax first."

They squint at you, but go silent.

"Thank you." You acknowledge with a smile. They're doing as you asked: Giving you a moment of silence and rest. This is something you've managed to get them to do for you on occasion. You're frankly shocked they can manage to sit still and quietly for a period of time… Though, they're not always patient about it.

You start licking your ice cream in peace. At least, as peaceful as it can be with them staring at you. You decide to ignore it and avert your eyes. Them staring at you ceaselessly and very intensely is just normal for them.

Your attention is caught by the bird cheeping from your lap. You look down at it, and it's looking up at you expectantly. It cheeps again. You can't tell what it wants.

You give it a little scratch on the head. It closes its eyes at the touch, shifting in your lap and laying down. You smile at it… It seems to have settled down itself, after Rewrite's screaming.

...Honestly, that whole... Situation has distracted you from what was bothering you, even if just for a little. Though, you're pretty sure being startled out of your thoughts isn't actually helpful.

You wonder if Rewrite intentionally made that huge scene to try to distract you, or if they were really that worried that the bird would lose its "effectiveness" on you... Maybe both. They are pretty weird sometimes.

…Okay, actually, they're pretty weird most of the time.

You're licking your ice cream in thought when you notice Rewrite's head tilt at you. Slowly, they stand up... and wordlessly start walking away.

You watch them curiously. They walk to the nearest patch of flowers, stop over it, and start gathering them. They collect the flowers in their hand, and...

Your heart skips a beat.

They're going to give them to you? That's... actually really sweet.

You continue eating your ice cream as they work. They're moving unusually slow... Well, slow for Rewrite, at least. They're moving about as fast as a normal person would, which is unusual for them. They're usually very erratic and quick on their feet. It seems very deliberate, though you're not sure why they'd do something like this. Maybe out of respect for your quiet time.

...

After about a minute of just watching them, they snap their head in your direction and begin walking towards you, holding something behind their back. You perk up in anticipation.

"Tada!" They exclaim proudly once they reach you, whipping out their gift: A flower crown.

It's made out of sunflowers, daisies, and a single blue flower you don't remember seeing before. They must have created that one, just for this.

They gingerly place the crown on top of your head, as if you were the most fragile thing in existence.

Out of nowhere, they pull out a tiny, shrunken down version of the exact same flower crown, and place it onto the bird's head. It chirps approvingly.

"You both look wonderful!" They wink and give you a thumbs up.

You give an honest, warm smile at the sight. This is sweet. They are trying pretty hard, even if they don't understand.

You have to admit, it does make you feel nice inside. Despite everything, they're watching out for you, as best as they can.

Rewrite is standing over you, examining your reaction. You meet their gaze and smile up at them. They tilt their head back at you.

"Well? How about now?" They inquire once again.

Your eyes soften and you look down thoughtfully.

"Yeah... I do feel better now.

...Thank you."

From where they're standing, a victory jingle plays.

"Mission success!" They announce with a cheeky thumbs up.

[somnoir]

Down Bad in Distress - Part 3

Part 2 | Masterpost

"Daniel, I heard from CW that your children are moving here." Alfred said one day.

Everyone immediately pauses, except for Danny who was happily doing the cooking while Alfred served the food.

"Danny's kids?" Tim narrows his eyes, glancing back at Jason. "Danny?"

"Yeah? Oh, right! Dick, you didn't tell them?" Danny asks, glancing over his shoulder.

Dick nervously laughs, "Slipped my mind. What's that about your kids?"

"Right, right. They didn't like being away from me all the time so they decided to move. I was hoping to enroll Ellie into Gotham Academy." Danny hums, serving Damian some vegan pancakes and patting the boy's head. "She'd be in your year, kid."

Damian scowls, swatting his hand away but it wasn't accompanied by the usual snark.

"And your son?" Dick asks, immediately being scolded by Alfred for talking while chewing.

"Dante takes a Mechanical Engineering course. It was harder for him to transfer since this would be his third year into it." Danny sighs, sounding a little tired just as he serves Bruce some coffee. "But my kid's stubborn as hell."

"How old are your children?" Bruce tilts his head, just as Danny swats away some dust of his shirt.

"Dan is 23 and Ellie is 15."

"Jason and Damian's age. Hm."

The aforementioned two immediately locked eyes, already mentally planning on tracking down the Fenton siblings. As per usual, Alfred beat them to it and quickly gave Danny an invitation.

"When are they arriving? I do hope that they can come for a meal." Alfred hums, patting Danny in the back.

"Today, actually!" Danny beams.

"You're not worried about your kids being in Gotham?" Steph asks, mouth still full. Danny doesn't even hesitate to pinch her sides when she does, making Stephanie yelp.

"My parents taught me and my sister how to fight at very young ages. My kids got the same treatment. Ellie has one hell of a right hook and Dan gets creative with whatever the hell he can use as a weapon." Danny snorts, "I got called by the principal once cause he stabbed someone with a pencil. Not that it wasn't deserved. My kid doesn't like it when people go after his friends."

"Gotham Material?" Duke asks.

"Gotham Material." Danny chuckles, "If a rogue attacks, my kids would go on with their day like nothing happened. Weird shit like that is normal back in Amity."

Ah, yes. The illusive amity park. Where everything is utterly strange. Tim still couldn't get a good background check on the small town in Illinois—a place that wasn't even marked on the fucking map.

"So..." Dick grins, "When do we get to meet them?"

Alfred clears his throat, "Would dinner suffice?"

Danny grins back, "I'll wrangle them here if I can."

The moment Bruce found out Danny had kids, something in his brain short-circuited. The knowledge alone was enough to make him reassess everything he thought he knew about his bodyguard, but hearing Danny talk about them? That was something else entirely.

Bruce had barely asked a question before Danny launched into a full-fledged monologue, his usual lazy grin stretching into something softer, brighter. Every word was laced with pride, every detail shared with the delight of a man who lived to brag about his kids.

In the span of two hours, Bruce learned more about Dante and Janelle Fenton than he knew about most people in his life.

Dante—the eldest—was a menace. An antisocial teenager with a violent streak that made Damian look like a well-adjusted honor student. Fights, trouble, a past full of missteps and regret. But Danny didn't speak about it with shame or frustration. No, he spoke with admiration, because Dante tried. He fought against his own nature, struggled to rein himself in, to be better for the people he loved.

"He’s a smart kid," Danny had said, his voice full of warmth. "Too smart. Built himself a motorcycle from scrap when he was sixteen—real Frankenstein's monster type of thing, but it runs better than my car."

Bruce had to physically stop himself from calling Jason right then and there, because if his second son found out a teenager had built the equivalent of the Batpod out of junk, he would never recover.

Then there was Janelle. Just as troublesome as her brother, but in an entirely different way. She wasn’t a fighter, at least not in the way Dante was. Her chaos was more... exploratory. She skipped class not out of defiance but because something else caught her interest. An adventurous child who saw a locked door and immediately wondered what was on the other side. A girl who thought parkour was a valid form of travel, who had given Danny a heart attack the first time he caught her flipping off rooftops like a circus performer—it reminded him of Dick when he was much younger.

"She stuck the landing, though," Danny had admitted, laughing. "I wanted to ground her forever, but I was also kinda impressed."

And the stars. Both of his kids loved the stars. Danny spoke of late-night stargazing like it was a sacred ritual, like tracing constellations in the night sky was an unbreakable bond between them. And despite the fact that Dante was technically an adult now, despite the fact that Janelle was a teenager with her own life and interests, Danny still spoke of them like they were his babies.

Bruce sat there and listened, absorbing every word. He asked questions because he wanted to know more, because watching Danny light up every time he got to talk about his kids was addicting.

It was attractive. Gods, it was attractive.

Danny Fenton loved his children unconditionally. Not just in the way he spoke of them but in the way he understood them. The way he knew them. There was no hesitance in his words, no uncertainty in their relationship. He knew their struggles, their strengths, their habits—he knew them in a way that made Bruce’s chest ache.

Because as much as he admired it, as much as he wanted to drown in the warmth of Danny’s love for his children, there was an ugly sliver of jealousy buried beneath it all.

Danny’s kids talked to him. They trusted him. There was no barrier, no invisible wall of hesitance between them.

Bruce had spent years trying to connect with his own children, trying to bridge the gaps that always seemed to widen no matter how hard he reached. He loved them with everything he had, but love alone had never been enough to stop them from pulling away.

Danny? Danny just had it. That easy, unquestionable bond. That foundation built on trust and understanding, not just duty or protection.

Bruce swallowed down the jealousy. He shoved it into the part of his mind where he buried all his regrets and let himself be smitten instead. Because damn it, responsible and loving fathers were attractive, and watching Danny Fenton light up over his kids was devastating.

Bruce isn’t surprised that after hearing Danny gush about his kids, he feels compelled—inspired, really—to introduce his own children to the Fentons properly. What does surprise him is how little convincing it takes to get his entire family to cooperate.

By the time he makes his decision, every single one of them is already waiting in the foyer, dressed, prepared, and standing with an air of near-military precision.

Bruce narrows his eyes, crossing his arms as he surveys them. "I wasn’t expecting compliance from any of you."

Damian, adjusting his hair in the reflection of a polished vase, merely scoffs. "Tt. You underestimate us, Father. We cannot afford to embarrass ourselves in front of Daniel’s family."

Jason, standing beside him, is… straightening his jacket? Running a hand through his hair like he's actually making an effort to look presentable? Damian barely spares him a glance before adding, "Todd, don’t mess this up. His eldest is the same age as you and Cassandra."

"Wouldn’t dream of it, demon brat," Jason grumbles, rolling his shoulders like he’s psyching himself up for a job interview.

Bruce is still processing this unusual display of readiness when Alfred arrives, a knowing, fond smile settling on his face as he takes in the scene.

"I must say," Alfred begins, hands clasped behind his back, "I am quite proud that none of you needed prompting. Daniel will appreciate the effort."

"You can count on us, Alfie!" Dick declares, beaming.

Steph and Tim follow up with matching thumbs-ups, their grins full of mischief but their intentions sincere.

"We'll be on our best behavior!"

Alfred simply nods, clearly amused but unwilling to acknowledge it aloud. "Very well—" Then a knock at the door interrupts, and his eyes flick toward the entrance. "Ah. It seems Daniel has arrived."

There’s a split second of calm before chaos erupts.

Bruce watches as his children all lunge for the door at once, elbowing, shoving, and stepping on each other’s feet in a desperate attempt to reach it first.

Alfred, with decades of experience in dealing with their nonsense, doesn’t bother reacting beyond stepping forward and opening the door himself. As soon as he does, he turns and pins the children with a look of utter disappointment.

The effect is immediate.

Every single one of them freezes mid-scramble, jerking upright like misbehaving students caught by a strict headmaster. With impressive speed, they fall into an eerily well-practiced formation, arranging themselves with the kind of poise that makes them indistinguishable from their usual gala appearances.

Bruce sighs. No. That won’t do.

Danny doesn’t do the whole stiff, overly formal thing. If they meet him like this, he’ll just laugh and call them out for it.

With a subtle wave of his hand, Bruce signals for them to adjust.

In an instant, their postures relax. Smiles become more natural—real rather than rehearsed. The atmosphere shifts from forced courtesy to genuine warmth.

Good.

Because if there’s one thing Bruce has learned, it’s that Danny Fenton can read through bullshit alarmingly well.

The first thing Bruce notices is that Danny isn’t in his usual suit. No high-collared, sharp-lined professionalism. Instead, he’s wearing something casual but still presentable—comfortable. It makes him look softer in a way Bruce rarely gets to see. More relaxed. More himself.

There’s a grin on his face, wide and easy, and a warmth in his eyes that Bruce has only ever seen in Alfred when the family finally gathers together after too long apart.

“Oh, you’re all here!” Danny laughs—laughs—and Bruce has to physically stop himself from reacting because—shit. That sounds good. No, not just good—amazing.

And then—

“My kids—Janelle, no! Do not chase after the turkey, and don’t pet Ace without permission! We are not kidnapping the dog—we have Cujo!"

Bruce barely has a moment to process that before Damian stiffens beside him, squaring his shoulders like he’s preparing to throw hands whoever is trying to steal their dog and turkey?

“Sorry,” Danny says sheepishly, stepping fully inside. “She likes dogs a little too much. Dante here is more of a cat person.”

Bruce doesn’t even have time to respond before Danny reaches back and pulls someone into the manor.

And—what the fuck?

For a split second, Bruce genuinely thinks Danny has somehow duplicated himself. But no. Not quite.

It’s another Fenton. Just younger. Scowlier. Broodier.

Dante Fenton is just as tall as his father, just as broad-shouldered and built. But where Danny is all easy grins and shameless affection, Dante is—well, Bruce can only describe it as Jason if he had a twin that was worse.

His arms are crossed, his expression set into a resting bitch face so perfectly executed that Bruce has seen lesser versions of it on Danny himself.

“This is my eldest, Dante—smile,” Danny practically hisses, pinching his son’s side.

Dante immediately hisses back like a feral animal, shooting his father a glare before half-assing the most reluctant, teeth-baring grimace Bruce has ever seen.

Bruce is so close to laughing.

But before he can even comment, there’s the sound of something small tearing across the yard, followed by—

“Ellie, come back here!”

Danny barely has time to sigh before bolting back outside, disappearing for only a second before returning—this time, dragging yet another Fenton into the house.

Bruce blinks. Another one.

This one’s smaller. Female. But still unmistakably a Fenton.

“This raccoon is Janelle,” Danny introduces, exasperated.

“I’m not a raccoon!” Janelle yells, pouting hard enough to make even Damian look impressed.

“You might as well be!” Danny huffs, already brushing off the dirt and grime clinging to her jeans, muttering to himself as he adjusts her hoodie and makes sure she’s not too disheveled. “Sorry,” he murmurs again, glancing up at Bruce like he’s worried he’s making a mess just by existing.

Bruce doesn’t even think before stepping forward, automatically ushering the Fentons further inside.

“No need,” he assures, as quickly and firmly as possible. “You’ve seen my kids, Danny. We have Steph.”

“Hey!”

Bruce barely registers Stephanie’s indignation because, frankly, he’s far too busy being weak over this whole situation.

Timothy Wayne-Drake has met a lot of people who love their parents. Some to a reasonable degree. Some to a concerning one. But he has never met anyone as downright possessive of their father as the Fenton siblings.

At first, he thought Dante and Janelle—sorry, Ellie—were just the skittish type. You know, new place, new people, a little wary of the freakin’ Waynes (which, fair). But, uh. No. That is not what’s happening here.

They are, quite literally, guarding Danny.

They don’t let him stay with Bruce for too long. They don’t let Danny play around with the rest of the Wayne kids unsupervised. There’s always one of them around. Always watching.

At first, it’s just funny. Like, ha-ha, protective kids, whatever. But then Tim starts realizing—

Dante and Ellie Fenton have instantly decided to be at least a little hostile to every single Wayne in the building.

Except Alfred. Because, obviously, everyone likes Alfred.

“So… Erm…” Duke, brave soul that he is, awkwardly tries to break the ice, clearly very aware of Ellie’s piercing blue eyes lasering into his soul. “I was just wondering why you two decided to move. I mean…”

“Oh, that’s simple!” Ellie laughs. Cute.

Then she grins. Not cute.

Sharp teeth. Way too sharp. Like her dad’s.

“Dad was away for too long. We didn’t like that.” Her grin widens. “And besides, Dad seems to be okay with staying in Gotham long term. Might as well move too.”

…Yeah, okay, that was definitely a threat.

There’s something in the way she says it. Something in the undertone.

Like she blames them. Like she’s implying they are the reason her father was gone for so long.

Tim resists the urge to raise his hands in surrender.

Meanwhile, Dante says nothing.

Which, honestly? Probably for the best. Ellie is friendly at least—sweet, in a way that would be reassuring if she didn’t just casually drop the most unsettling offhanded comments.

Dante, though? Dante is just vibing.

With Jason.

In the corner.

Where neither of them is speaking.

And Tim isn’t sure why that’s worse, but it is.

"Where are you guys staying at? Danny’s penthouse, or did you get a house?"

Steph plops into the seat beside Ellie, casually pulling out Uno—the game of friendship-ending grudges and betrayal.

"Jason crashed there once," she adds. "He still won’t tell us why."

Dante freezes. Stiffens visibly as he turns to Jason. His eyes narrow, analyzing. Jason immediately reacts in kind.

For a solid minute, neither of them says a word. Just—silent eye contact.

Then, like some kind of telepathic dude code agreement, Dante nods—approvingly.

Jason hums, looking pleased with that, and then just…turns back to the TV.

What the hell was that?

"Same place," Ellie huffs, like her brother didn’t just have a whole unspoken conversation with Jason. Then she perks up. "Oh, which one of you is in my year at Gotham Academy?"

Everyone, immediately and without hesitation, gestures to Damian.

"Demon Brat," Tim says, speaking for the masses.

Damian scowls, clutching Titus like the dog is his last anchor to sanity. Which, fair. Mostly because Ace—the traitor—has already defected, happily nestling into Ellie’s lap like she handcrafted him from scratch.

Ellie narrows her eyes at Damian, then grins. Wide. Too wide.

"Is that a katana?"

The room stills.

Every single person whips their head toward the katana Damian absolutely does not go anywhere without.

Then, hesitantly, they look back at Ellie.

Who has already stood up and is calmly approaching Damian like she isn’t about to start something.

"May I?" she asks, stretching a hand out.

Tim makes a mental note: this one is dangerous.

"Ellie," Dante finally speaks, voice flat but exasperated.

Damian snarls, holding the sword closer. "What makes you think I’d let you touch my blade?"

Oh, she’s smug now. That’s never good.

"I was in Japan for three months when I was twelve," she says, all nonchalant. "Met a lot of interesting people. Learned how to use and maintain katanas during that time."

Damian squints. "Prove it. How does one properly maintain a katana?"

Ellie tilts her head, almost like she’s insulted.

"You start with uchiko, obviously," she says. "Cotton ball, light taps, no rubbing. Clears out the old oil and dust. Then you use a nuguigami cloth—special cloth, not just any cloth—to wipe it down before reapplying the choji oil with an abura nugui cloth. Not too much. Just enough to coat. And for sharpening, you start with a low grit whetstone, move up gradually, and never—never—go for a high grit too early unless you want to ruin the whole edge."

She smirks. "That good enough for you?"

Damian stares.

Tim recognizes that stare. That’s the oh no, I accidentally respect this person stare.

Horrifying.

Bruce and Danny return just in time to witness what should be a nightmare scenario—Ellie handling Damian’s katana like it’s an extension of her own arm.

Damian, to the horror of everyone involved, is right next to her, calmly discussing proper forms and optimal grips like he wasn’t about to stab her five minutes ago.

Tim resists the urge to check if hell has frozen over. Give Constantine a call and everything.

Bruce, naturally, hones in on Danny with that same soft look he thinks no one notices. Gross. He clocks that shit immediately and blanches.

"Your daughter knows how to handle a katana?" Bruce asks, voice way too fond for what should be a concerned question.

Danny, like an absolute menace, doesn’t even blink. "Both of my kids like swords. Ellie just prefers the lighter and faster ones. Dante likes zweihanders and claymores." He waves a dismissive hand. Like this is normal dad talk and not insane assassin lore drop. "Never understood why you like heavy blades, though."

Dante, without missing a beat, defensively shoots back, "They just feel balanced in my hand, okay?"

Tim files that away under: Reasons to Stay on Dante’s Good Side.

Bruce, still doing the gross fond smile thing, tilts his head. "Did you teach them?"

Danny smirks. "I wish. Got a friend who trained me when I was younger. Dante pissed him off just to be taught, and Ellie followed by annoying him until he caved." He shakes his head, sighing like a put-upon father and not a man casually revealing that his kids harassed someone into giving them weapons training. "Least of the crazy shit they’ve done."

Tim immediately clocks the way Dick’s entire being lights up.

"Oh, do tell," Dick grins, leaning in.

Danny, like an absolute maniac, just shrugs and says, completely deadpan:

"Ellie once snuck out in the middle of the night, went missing for a week, and then I found her in Russia, fist-fighting an assassin just last year."

The room freezes.

Tim can physically hear the record scratch in his brain.

Danny, unbothered, continues, "Dante blew up my godfather’s car when he was about to open it."

Tim slowly turns his head toward the two Fenton siblings.

Who are grinning. The same grin. The same sharp, predatory flash of color in their definitely-not-normal blue eyes.

Oh.

Oh, no.

Tim knew Danny wasn’t human. That was accounted for.

Unfortunately, what wasn’t accounted for was the fact that Danny’s kids were also very much not human.

…He needs more caffeine for this.

[lynxgriffin]

Eldritchrune - The World Revolving

1 | 2

Story Setup Eldritchrune Masterpost

While exploring the ruins of Card Castle, Kris stumbles across a bound god of chaos hiding just under the surface...a foe way more formidable than any they've faced yet!

PHEW I swear, it feels like I've been working on this particular scene forever! Been distracted by many things...other comics, continued wrist troubles, winter break, etc... but finally, it's done and here! This one is probably the most gnarly one yet in terms of body horror, so heed the warning tags!

The latter half will be out tomorrow!

Alt text for these pages is under the read more:

Page 1

Panel 1 - A wide shot as Kris, Ralsei, and Susie make their way through the card kingdom castle…a wrecked ruin, with half-broken towers and ripped banners fluttering in the open air. Lancer sits happily on top of Susie’s head. “Are we there yet?” asks Susie. Lancer replies with a simple “No.”

Panel 2 - Closer on Kris as they look downwards. Something has caught their attention. In the background, Susie and Lancer repeat the exchange: “Are we there yet?” / “No.”

Panel 3 - Kris notices what looks like a trail of parchment torn into different shapes, leading down into a lower level of the ruins. 

Panel 4 - Kris begins to follow the scrap paper trail across large stones, straying off of the pain path through the castle ruins.

Panel 5 - Ralsei notices that Kris has wandered away from them. Susie and Lancer also look on in the background. “Kris? Where are you going?” asks Ralsei.

Panel 6 - Kris points at the scrap trail leading down into the rocks, still focused on it. “The old shopkeep, Seam…they mentioned something about a path cut from pages…”

Page 2

Panel 1 - Side view of Ralsei as he watches Kris descend down, and cautiously holds up a hand in warning. “It’s not wise to wander too far off-course, Kris!” he says. 

Panel 2 - Kris doesn’t seem to pay attention to the warning. In a wide shot, we see them following the trail down a series of large stone steps that seem to be shaped into a spiral. At the bottom of the spiral is another stone with unknown markings on it. “They said there could be something useful to us at the end of it…” Kris says.

Panel 3 - Wider shot of Kris now at the bottom of the spiral. Ralsei, Susie and Lancer watch warily from above, back on the main path.

Panel 4 - Kris approaches the stone at the center of the spiral. It seems to be covered in moss, but something else catches their attention first–

Panel 5 - Closer on the stone, it shows that it has markings on it: a cross, divided up into the four card suits. Kris leans in closer to observe and brush the dirt from the stone. “There’s something here…” they say.

Panel 6 - From high above, Ralsei sees Kris focusing on the stone in the spiral. “Kris? Hang on just a second…” he says, holding out a hand in warning.

Panel 7 - Closeup on Kris’s hand as they brush against the marked stone. Their thumb touches a trigger hidden on the side of the stone, which gives a sharp ‘CLICK’.

Page 3

Panel 1 - Kris lets out a surprised yell as very suddenly, they plummet down beneath the stone–

Panel 2 - Their yell continues as they vanish into what is revealed to be a sudden trap door, opened right below where they were standing. 

Panel 3 - The remaining Fun Gang look on with shock and surprise, and call out as Kris vanishes. Susie gives a shocked “Woah!” and Ralsei cries out “KRIS!”

Panel 4 - A vertical panel as Kris plummets down into open darkness, their limbs flailing. Light from above shines on them as they fall.

Panel 5 - With a grunt of pain, Kris lands on what appears to be a sandy hill–

Panel 6 - And continues to tumble down the hill, sand trailing behind them–

Panel 7 - Very wide shot as Kris’s fall continues, showing that they are sliding down an enormous sand hill, like the inside of an enormous hourglass. Only a single shaft of light shines from where they fell. Otherwise the area is empty darkness.

Page 4

Panel 1 - Kris’s finally slides to a stop somewhere in the sand. They grit their teeth, and try to get back onto their feet. 

Panel 2 - Kris suddenly springs back up, eyes wide in shock, as a strange, bellowing laughter booms around them: “UUH HEE HEE HEE…”

Panel 3 - Kris looks ahead of them…at the very bottom of the sand pit, like an antlion at the bottom of a pit trap, sits what appears to be a bulb, or a closed circus tent. 

Panel 4 - Wider shot as Kris gets to their feet, very wary. “Who’s there?”

Panel 5/6/7 - Multiple panels as the enormous circus tent moves, and begins to unfurl itself…showing massive hands made of bone and stretched tent material, like sinewy skin. Each bony finger is tipped with an enormous scythe. The creature lifts itself up enough to show the a jester’s head, hanging upside down from the bottom of the tent. The jester’s face sports slit eyes, multiple hoop earrings on its pointed ears, and a smile of jagged teeth. 

Panel 8 - Wide shot as Kris stands tiny before the enormous form of Jevil - a creature of bones and tent skin and scythes, balanced precariously upside-down over what appears to be a bottomless pit. Jevil looks at Kris and declares, “WELCOME, WELCOME, LITTLE LOST HUMAN! YOUR FREEDOM IS WITHIN REACH!”

Page 5

Panel 1 - Kris looks up in fear and confusion at the giant creature, and tries to step back. “What are you?!” they ask.

Panel 2 - Focus on Jevil’s upside down face as he grins back at Kris, and says, “A GOD, LOST HUMAN! A GOD OF CHAOS, CHAOS!”

Panel 3 - Kris stands small against the chaos god as he continues to grin down them. “COME CLOSER, AND WE SHALL ENGAGE IN SUCH MERRIMENT!”

Panel 4 - Kris eyes the enormous scythes at the end of the fingers, and continues to step back, extremely cautious. “A god, is it? I think I’d prefer the rest of my party be here for any ‘merriment’,” they reply.

Panel 5 - Jevil twists his head to the side with curiosity and glee, and replies. “I INSIST! I SEE YOUR SOUL DESIRES CHAOS! WHAT EXCITEMENT, WE ARE KINDRED SPIRITS!”

Panel 6 - Focus on Jevil’s scythe fingers as they begin to move through the sand, creaking with the effort. He is beginning to spin.

Panel 7 - Shot from above on Jevil as he spins faster and faster, the tent body and splayed scythe fingers blurring into a hypnotic spiral. The wind howls around him with the spinning.

Panel 8 - Kris jolts forward as the winds pick up around them. The spinning is creating a gyre, drawing them in closer.

Page 6

Panel 1 - Kris tries to slow their slide as Jevil continues to spin and spin, drawing them in closer. The winds and movement are hard to resist. “LET US PLAY, PLAY!” Jevil cries in delight. “TRUE FREEDOM AWAITS YOU!”

Panel 2 - Kris looks up at the revolving god, unable to stop their slide through the sand. The winds whip their hair and cowl around them. However…

Panel 3 - “If I can get past those blades and make the jump…” Kris thinks to themself, as the scene shows Jevil’s smiling face through the whirlwinds.

Panel 4 - Closeup on Kris. They grimace to themself as the wind continues to buffet them and pull them in, and finish the thought: “...One good swing should sever the head and end this!”

Panel 5 - Kris pulls out their sword as they continue to slide closer to the edge of the gyre. Jevil looks on as they say aloud, “I don’t know that I trust a bound god’s concept of freedom.”

Panel 6 - Jevil tilts his head down at them, still smiling as always, and replies, “BOO HOO  HOOEE HEE! AND DOES YOUR SOUL KNOW IT?”

Page 7

Panel 1/2/3 - Multiple panels as Kris slides down the sand, holding their sword at the ready. They ready their sword in another panel, back to the camera, facing down a laughing Jevil. The final panel includes a closeup of their hand gripping the sword, although their hand is shaking. Across all panels, Jevil continues to taunt them: “IN THE BELLY OF A ROAMING BEAST, IN THE OWNERSHIP OF A DEMON PRINCE, IN THE RIGID RULES OF YOUR LIGHT WORLD? IS IT THERE?”

Panel 4 -  The scythe fingers swing by in a blur as Kris slides into the gyre, and pulls their arm back, ready to strike with their sword–

Panel 5 - A black and white abstract panel - something sharp slices through the darkness, and strikes home.

Panel 6 - Closeup on Kris’s face as they look shocked into silence–

Panel 7 - And the camera pulls out to reveal that their sword arm is gone, sliced off completely at the shoulder. They can only look down at the stump where their arm once was in horror.

Panel 8 - Kris screams as they’re thrown helplessly into the center of the whirling gyre, blood streaming behind them from their severed arm. Jevil faces them with glee and declares, “NO, NO! YOUR FREEDOM IS HERE!”

Page 8

Panel 1 - The panels are jagged now, coming apart along with the world itself. Kris is trapped in the searing whirlwind, orbiting around Jevil’s spinning head. The world is a blurred tornado. Jevil cries, “A SIMPLE CHAOS IS ALL YOU NEED! UNRAVEL MIND, BODY AND SOUL!”

Panel 2 - Kris is subjected to the god’s command. They scream into the void as their body is unraveled in the gyre, starting at the stump and spreading out to the rest of them in strips of cloth, flesh and bone. 

Panel 3 - A massive panel as Kris is completely torn apart at the seams. Their glowing soul is revealed as their body is peeled away in stips from them, leaving only a few bones and muscles trying to stay together. 

As Kris is pulled apart, Jevil’s voice rings out: “SEE, SEE HOW ALL THE RULES AND ORDERS HAVE TRAPPED YOU? HURT YOU AND KILLED YOU?” In the strips of Kris’s body pulled apart are scenes that seem to confirm Jevil’s worldview: Empire guards chasing down Kris as a young child. Toriel kindly shooing Kris away from a pie they were interested in. Asgore keeping Kris from plants he knows are dangerous. Kris on the altar as they are sacrificed to the demon. Kris giving up their soul to Ralei. Kris being devoured by Susie. Kris trapped at a door by Mr. Society and Mr. Elegance, keeping them from advancing with rules. Kris being revived, again and again, by Ralsei’s control over their soul. “BUT HE HAS SHOWN ME, IT ALL MEANS NOTHING, NOTHING!”

Page 9

Panel 1 - The panels continue to be jagged and harsh as the rest of Kris’s body is completely obliterated in the whirlwind, leaving only their soul spiraling in the gyre. Jevil’s voice continues: “NO RULES, NO HURT, NO PRISONS FOR YOU! SHARE YOUR JOY WITH ME!”

Panel 2 - Kris’s soul begins to break under the strain of Jevil’s version of joy: a swirling mess of eyes, teeth, claws, screaming faces, beasts and sinew and armor. They all close in on their lost soul in a mess of chaos and madness.

Panel 3 - As the winds turn to pure darkness, Kris’s soul begins to dissolve in the gyre as well, broken in the relentless chaos. Jevil’s voice rings out once more: “SHARE YOUR SOUL WITH ME, A TRUE CHAOS, CHAOS!”

Panel 4 - As Kris’s soul is nearly dissolved and lost in complete blackness, another voice cries out: “KRIS!” From the darkness, Ralsei’s glowing eyes and fiery claws reach out to grab Kris’s soul before it’s lost. 

[sharkylass]

ALRIGHT, I ASKED FOREVER AGO, BUT WHO WANTS TO HEAR ABOUT MY ISA LOOPS AU?? | [MASTERPOST]

Heads up this contains a lot, and I mean A LOT of spoilers for In Stars And Time. Including: = Act 6 spoilers, including main mystery and secret encounter = Minimal Act 5 stuff = And a bunch of extra stuff that happens through Act 3 and 4. SO BASICALLY ALMOST EVERYTHING, FINISH THIS GAME COMPLETELY BEFORE READING (ESPECIALLY THAT ACT 6 ENCOUNTER, IT WILL LITERALLY BE THE FIRST THING I MENTION UNDER THE CUT)

With all those warnings out of the way-

IN REPETITION AND CHANGE

Initial Concepts:

I feel it's important to show these sketches because they were the first ideas I ever had. I wasn't even entirely sure I wanted to make an AU at this point, I didn't even know how I'd approach it. But I started sketching and it's been on my mind since- SO! Isa is stuck in the timeloop. I know what his wish is and he DOES have a Loop equivalent! The grumpy dandelion guy is Roboro (it/they/he). Their name is a very small play on Ouroboros and they call Isa "Seedling". However, this post is not about them, as I'm gonna talk about it and Isa's dynamic in a separate post. In short, Isa is his normal loud self up until Act 3, right? They beat the King, they reach the end, and whoops, the loop isn't broken. So now, what happens is that Isa starts getting his brains out. He starts thinking more analytically and tries to problem solve.

The more stuck he gets in his head, the less he's able to perceive his friends as real people, and more like them holding him back. Because even if Isa explains that he's smart, that they shouldn't be surprised if he says something, shock of all shocks, reasonable- They'll forget it the next loop.

So Isa is stuck with trying to portray his confident, loud, supportive facade- Which is fine! It wouldn't be the first time! But it progressively gets more and more frustrating, as he tries to find answers and simply looses the energy to pretend to be stupid.

TL;DR: Isa in the timeloop, unlike Siffrin, becomes more distant and cold rather then something more akin to Sif's mania.

NOW, MORE ART!!!

KILL KILL KILL:

I imagine Isa didn't have this encounter the same way that Sif did. Yeah, frankly, Isa is pissed with the sadness- But that's not why he goes through with this.

In this moment, Isa is trying to kill two birds with one stone. He's trying to get through this quickly, as well as reassure Mira that they can do this! If he shows how strong he is, then she'll feel safe right???

Poor Isabeau forgot that whenever he shows that he thinks ahead, he scares people. How could he forget that? How could he forget that he's inherently---

Family Quest:

I still think Odile is the one to call out to him (same with sus quest).

The hangouts I'm still figuring out, cause I don't think they'd too similar to base game- But, fun fact, at the end of this run, everyone agrees to keep travel together!

Isabeau brings it up, can't hurt if you can fix your mistakes right? And everyone agrees. The relief on Siffrin is the most palpable thing Isabeau has ever seen.

In this moment they love you. In this moment they all love you. In this moment---

Death Screen:

He loops back anyways. (This is one of the initial concepts that I ended up animating. This line in particular is when he reaches the end)

Act 5 Tarot Card:

NOW TO SEE MORE OF HIS PASSIVE AGRESSIVE SIDE

Thanks to @the-bitter-ocean for prescribing tarot cards to Isa (THEY ALL FUCK SO HARD) and for the RAW ASS LINE

If interacted with in act 5, predictably, Isa tears it apart. He doesn't need the divine judgement upon him, he's faced everyone's perception his entire life.

However, he tears it methodically. Tears it once in even pieces, twice, three times, and one of the pieces once more. In a way he isn't even getting his emotions out, it's like he's actively trying to tear it apart so it stops nagging him, like he wants to shut it up. Though, the Judgement card symbolizes rebirth, absolution and inner calling. In Act 6 he'd be able to look at it and find comfort and confidence in the card.

Act 5 Mirror:

And lastly, I have the Act 5 mirror picture. I haven't quite figured out how to make the normal ones work yet, however, I couldn't let go of the idea that Isa would not want to be in the picture.

The idea of seeing himself at all makes his head hurt and his stomach squeeze. The memory haunts him as he stands to the side and says the word. He didn't think the mirror would catch him.

AAAAND THAT'S ALL THE ART STUFF FOR NOW!!

I still have quite a bit of it to post, especially about Roboro, but I'm gonna leave it here for now.

I still gotta figure out the hangouts and potentially the dagger equivalent- but I have ideas for Bad Touch, the glass equivalent, and some extra little things that didn't happen in Siffrin's loops.

I needed to yap about this, because I've been slowly stacking up ideas and writing and I needed to share it at some point- If anyone read all this and has questions and stuff I fully welcome 'em!!

[clockwayswrites]

Rest of 26 birbness

to help sate your cravings masterpost

The door clicked open. “Over thinking things, Master Bruce?”

“Always,” Bruce replied softly and with a slight smile. He turned enough to watch Alfred enter the room with a tray of hot drinks and some light snacks. There was an odd mass of fabric on the edge of the tray that Bruce looked at curiously.

“A top for Master Danny,” Alfred said. After the tray was set down, Alfred held up the garment. It was and old Gotham Knights sweater, though Bruce couldn’t place who’s it was. His, likely, from the size. The back had been cut open from the bottom and up to provide wing slits. Alfred had mended on additional fabric and added button holes so that the sweater could be fastened under the wings. “Hardly the knit sweater that had to be cut off, but the modified sweatshirt will fit around his wings and hopefully keep him warm until we are able to procure something more professionally made.”

“Thank you, Alfred. I am sure that will make him much more comfortable,” Bruce said. It would have been hard to miss how much Danny didn’t enjoy his scars being on display.

“And less likely to become ill,” Alfred said as he passed Bruce one of the warm cups of tea with a pointedly raised brow.

Bruce took a sip.

“Now,” Alfred continued, “as I am sure that you have seen, your children are arriving in droves. I suspect even your not children will be here tonight to assure that all is well. To that end, dinner will be served at seven tonight.”

Bruce gave a little nod. “I will make sure that we are both there and sufficiently awake.”

“Please do so and remember that Master Danny may wish to have some time to freshen up before he has to face the gaggle that is this family.”

“Right.” Bruce said after a brief pause.

While he could certainly understand that the family was overwhelming, it hadn’t hit that Danny might still find them overwhelming. A silly thought. Danny had only been around a large amount of them twice: once as bats and once at the ballet. Bruce had to reluctantly admit that Alfred had a point and as Alfred had taken to calling Danny ‘master, Bruce did not want to risk any upset.

He set an alarm on his phone for half an hour before dinner just to be safe.

[notjustjavierpena]

(Mid)summer Loving

Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator

A/N: Yes, based on that new picture. I’ll call this my first contribution to getting railed in a sundress season. 

Summary: The last two years of being with Joel has transformed the both of you. Mostly him. For the better. 

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader/you (no y/n)

Tags: +18 smut, joel’s kink is being loved and appreciated, long haired joel!!!, healthy joel, established relationship, piv sex, size kink (it's big), rough, loud and desperate sex, dirty talk, praise kink, creampie, railed in a sundress season contribution, they are so soft for each other, bit of aftercare. 

Word count: 3.1k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55988128

(Mid)summer Loving

It happens when you hear him through the crowd of people in the community center. Your head whips in his direction, your eyes settling on the crinkles around his eyes as he laughs at something Tommy has said to him. He swirls the whiskey in his glass and downs it with slight difficulty because he is still smiling. 

You are only a table away, sitting with some of the women from your patrol group who gossip about potential suitors in the room, especially amongst the newcomers. However, you don’t really pay attention to what is being said because the love of your life sits across from you. It makes you able to admire him, struck by his transformation since he first came to Jackson and barged into your life. Your heart is so soft for him. 

The most obvious change is the hair. It’s gotten longer, the ends curling slightly in a way that softens his otherwise rugged appearance of big leather boots and tripled layered clothing. He used to have it shorter, and while you loved its fluffy bounce on top of his head whenever it was caught in the wind, it doesn’t compare to how it now frames his face by just brushing his collar in the back. It may be a subtle shift to others but to you, it means that Joel is more at ease with who and where he is, and that he has allowed change to find him.

His beard, too, has filled out. It is now thick and even, not at all the patchy scruff that you noticed the first time he talked to you by the rag pile in the trading center. He’d searched for fabric that could be used for shining the creations that he makes when seeking respite in wood carving. You had noticed the patch that resembled a heart first, your own heart skipping a beat as you forced yourself not to point it out to him immediately. That patch is gone but you’ll spend no time mourning it when the result is Joel looking healthier than ever, almost as if his body has responded to happiness with you by filling in all the gaps that heartbreak had left. 

Then there’s his face. It glows, despite his age, with a newfound youth, the signs of weariness and stress of years lived too hard it once bore completely wiped away. When you first met him, your heart had ached for his tired eyes, bags underneath them revealing all the sleepless nights and the burdens that he carried. The way they shine when they look into yours has your heart at ease and you can only hope he feels the same. 

Around you, the women keep chatting, talking animatedly and giggling while you sip your drink and stay silent until they are nothing but a low hum in the background. 

You only snap out of it when your name is said out loud. You furrow your brow, “Sorry?”

“I said that you don’t have to worry about things like this,” one of them chirps happily, “You already got your man.”

“Guess not, guess you’re right,” you chuckle softly and start to feel shy. You have never been one to be glaringly obvious in your happiness to the point where you display it at every opportunity but then Joel came along. He may worry about the gap of years between the two of you, often feeling undeserving of your love and attention but you only wish that he could see himself from your point of view. To you, he is everything. He doesn’t see how his presence calms and grounds you, how he makes you feel safe even in a world beyond repair. In his embrace, you feel even the biggest of anxieties and the worst of your challenges shrink into nothing. All he has to do is put his gentle, calloused hands on you and talk to you in that familiar southern drawl, and then your mind quiets down instantaneously.

However, if not his hands or his voice, his loving gaze also seems to do the trick. He suddenly turns his head in your direction, catching your eyes, and the sound of the lively conversations from each table mutes to nothing. He smiles at you and mouths a ‘you okay?’ at you. 

‘Save me’ you decide to mouth back at him, making a face to see him smile with amusement. He slaps his brother’s back before putting both hands on the table to push himself to stand. You didn’t think he would take it seriously but just the sight of seeing him approach you makes you want to go home with him. 

“Ready to go, honey?” He asks when he reaches your table, placing a hand on your shoulder and gently squeezing. 

“Hi Joel,” your friend group says in unison.

“Ladies,” he nods and they giggle like schoolgirls, “Gotta get this one home.”

You shake your head with a little smile at their reaction. Then you swing your legs over the side of the chair. Joel helps you up and a moment after having said your goodnights, you leave together like you’ve done for a few years now. 

Outside, people are scattered across the town square where a huge bonfire has been erected in the spot where the Christmas tree usually stands. Today is the annual midsummer celebration. Jackson is decorated with bundles of flowers that have replaced the painted eggs that tell people it is Easter. You smile at the memory of Ellie having been forced to join in on getting people in the spirit of Easter which had resulted in you trying to guess which of the eggs hanging from the sky had been crafted by the angry teen. You had decided that it might’ve been the one painted completely black.

Now, bright colors from nature hover above your head instead as you make your way down the main road. Joel holds your hand all the way home. He strokes the back of it with his thumb, feeling no pressure to fill up the silence between you as it has reached a point where it is comfortable. 

When you reach your shared house, Joel stops you by the front door instead of opening it for you in the gentlemanly way he always does. He stands in front of you, the porch light softening his features as he gazes at you.

“You seemed a bit distracted with your friends tonight,” he notes, “Is everythin’ alright?” 

“Just thinking about how lucky I am,” you answer with a smile, your voice sincere, “To have you.”

“I’m the lucky one, baby,” Joel huffs out a little laugh of disbelief, trying to brush off how flattered he always feels each time you say things like this. He gathers your hand in both of his, lifting it to kiss the back of it a few times, “Best fuckin’ thing that ever happened after the world ended.” 

“Don’t let Ellie hear that,” you tease gently. In your chest, your heart hammers against your ribs from being loved by him. 

“I’d never dream of it,” he steps closer with his eyes burning to get closer to you. You see them darken slightly as desire fills them and your heart jumps into your throat at the realization of what he wants. 

You. 

He wants you. 

That’s the one thing that has also changed since you met him; he has become much more untameable when he has you around. Who knew that his stamina was so impressive? Who knew that Joel Miller getting a confession of love - whether it consisted of the actual words or simply was said in your actions - would have him dragging you to somewhere private as soon as possible? 

“I love you, Joel Miller,” you say dreamily, pulling the trigger, “To the day that I die.”

And then suddenly Joel rips the door open so roughly that you’re afraid it might come off its hinges, pulls you inside along with him and slams it shut behind the both of you afterward. He locks it without hesitation, not about to be interrupted by any of your neighbors even if it’s most likely that everyone is out and about the town to be social. 

You are pressed up against the door next, his broad hands resting on your hips as he holds you against it. He bunches up the skirt of your sundress, groping your sides on top of the fabric, and you sling an arm around his back. Your other arm reaches up so you can cup the back of his head, your fingers sliding into the hair there. He has the perfect length for pulling these days - you should know - but you’ll wait for the right moment. 

His lips nearly bruise yours with how hard he kisses you, beard scratching your skin as he practically eats at your mouth to the point where your head swims and your belly swirls with hours of suppressed desire. You need him now, already soaked through your underwear and ready for him to be inside of you.

“Fuck me,” you whine against his lips, heart beating rapidly in your chest. So much that your breathing is already uneven, “Please, Joel, please.”

“S’alright, baby, I know whatcha need,” he rasps as his lips messily start descending on your chin, all the way across your jaw until his mouth attaches to your throat. You let your head bump against the door with a breathy moan, giving him access to bruise your neck too. He creates a purple mark that you will try to hide tomorrow during patrol to avoid interrogation on how Joel Miller is in bed. Only you can know. 

Your skirt falls down the slight amount it has been pulled up when Joel goes to unbuckle his leather belt. The noise of the metal sends a shiver through you, anticipation rising to your cheeks by heating them up underneath no touch. You look down to see the belt hanging open, him shoving the denim down around his thighs afterward and following up with his briefs too. 

The sight of his cock makes your mouth water. He is fully hard already, standing into the air at full attention and threatening to smear your pretty dress with his precome by poking into your belly if he dares get closer. You moan pathetically and he shushes you gently. 

“I know, sweetheart, I know,” he soothes you like he would a child that has scraped their knee. He curls his fingers in the fabric of your dress once more before hiking it up along your thighs until he can stuff the bottom of the skirt into the top of your dress, effectively holding it up so it doesn’t fall down over your soaked panties again. 

You grab at the sides of your underwear to shimmy out of them but Joel doesn’t exercise enough patience to wait for you to step out of them, so he hooks his fingers into the front. He finds your eyes when he feels how wet the cotton fabric is, doesn’t directly say anything about it but just shows you how full-blown his pupils are at the realization. Without warning, he yanks your panties to the side. 

Satisfied with his work, he makes you gasp as he bends his knees to reach down and splay his strong hands on the back of your thighs. He lifts you off the ground and wraps you around him, pressing his knee into the door to hold you up while guiding his throbbing cock into you. You moan desperately at the initial sting, brows furrowing with slight pain as he sheaths himself inside of you to the hilt. 

“Oh my God,” you whimper, letting his name fall from your lips in a helpless chant as he pulses from how your walls choke him as you strain to take him like you always do in the beginning. He might just split you open right here in the hallway when he starts fucking you. 

“Shh, you can take it,” he whispers with the most brutally gentle peck on your zipped lips, “It’s okay. She knows it’s big, baby, but she can take it. I always fuck ya real good, don’t I?” 

You nod helplessly, and fuck you, he does. It’s fast and hard and dirty. The poor wooden door rattles alongside the jingle of his belt buckle with each slam of his hips, the doorknob painfully gnawing into your lower back, and you fear the fabric of your underwear will snap from the strain that is put on it as it sits to the side. Sometimes you think you might even cut a hole in some of your pairs with how often Joel, still two years later, rushes to get his cock into you. There’s something oddly satisfying and offensive about just being able to bend over and let him see that all he has to do is push in. 

“That’s it, look at me, baby, such a good girl f’me,” he praises to get you back to him, not here to lose your attention to the way his cock feels inside of your tight heat. Your eyes settle on him again, your mouth hanging open to elicit pathetic gasps each time he knocks the wind out of you by driving his hips up into you and effectively pounding your g-spot. His face is so close to you; you can feel his breath and share it with him, can study every little imperfection in the form of tiny scars and dark lines that you hadn’t been able to see earlier from your seat a few tables over. 

“Joel,” you pant, digging your heels into the small of his back, clinging on desperately and angling your hips as he has his way with you. The slight adjustment has him going deeper, touching something inside of you that ignites the first sparks of an orgasm. Your nails claw, dig and scratch at his back in ways that would have been enough to draw blood if he wasn’t wearing a shirt, “Fuck, baby! Don’t— ngh, don’t stop.”

“You feel so good,” he replies with a groan, most likely powering through the exhaustion and strain on his body to make you feel even better. He is everywhere on you, his hands on your thighs, gripping and squeezing. He is everywhere in you too, his cock twitching inside of you each time you cry his name.

“I’m—“ you sob.

“Let go, baby, I can feel ya,” he growls when you dance around the edge of your orgasm because your fingers on both hands tangle into his beautifully chocolate hair, yanking harshly as impending pleasure knocks the breath out of your lungs. Your skin burns, your whole system halts and goes into overdrive at the same time until all you can do is shout silently at the ceiling. Your walls clench in mind-altering ecstasy then and your quietness is over, replaced by a relieved whine as you come on his dick. It is intense from how fast you’ve gotten there since he entered you, your body writhing as it is held against the wall. He fucks you through it, has you wailing as he chases his own high. 

You cradle his head during his last few thrusts, feeling his damp breath against your shoulder as he buries himself inside of your spent cunt and comes hard. It feels so good when he groans as he fills you up, the sound vibrating through his entire body. You whimper at the ceiling with the way he pulses deliciously with each breathy moan until he has no more to give you. 

He leans all his weight into you as he comes down again, holding you in place with his chest against yours to make sure that you won’t fall down and drag him with you. He gives you a moment and places a string of lazy kisses on your lips until he slips out of you with a soft sound. 

Carefully, he places you back down on the floor and eyes you as he does it to be certain you won’t collapse. He moves off of you when it feels safe to do so. 

“I say it back?” He asks as he leans against the door with you. Automatically, you tilt your head towards him. He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, turning his head a second later to fully look at your disheveled state. You have a hand on your chest to calm your breathing but it still matches your fluttering heartbeat. He still aches between your legs.

You look back at him, awaiting his words with short breaths, “Say what?”

He makes a gesture to the both of you, “Before what we just did happened. I tell ya that I love you too?” 

“No?” Your reply is almost a question. 

“Shame on me,” he smiles and turns his whole body so that he faces you completely, shoulder against the door. His eyes soften as he reaches out, his hand gently cupping your cheek. The warmth of his touch is nice when the sweat has started to cool you down, and you lean into his palm, feeling the roughness of his calloused skin against you. 

“Shame on me, indeed,” he murmurs, eyes on your slightly open mouth, “Because I do love ya. More than I can understand sometimes.”

“You don’t have to say it back every time, Joel. I know,” you try to brush off how much your body and mind buzz at the same time. 

He shakes his head slightly, his eyes never leaving your mouth, “No, I do needa say it. You deserve to hear it. I love you.”

You nod and reach to hold his wrist when he leans in to press a gentle kiss to your open mouth. Just a few minutes ago, the now-careful hands had been rough on your skin and his words had dripped with sin.

“Now, how ‘bout I take you to bed?” He asks and pulls your dress’ skirt out of the top, watching it tumble down and fall back into place around your knees. 

While you wait for him to get dressed again, fatigue seems to finally have caught up with you because you feel like you might collapse in your hallway at that suggestion. When it’s safe to do so, you let yourself fall into his arms and he catches you without hesitation. 

He scoops you up, goes upstairs with you in his arms, undresses you, washes you down with a warm flannel, and gets you into bed. You curl up on your side and after a while, after hearing his boots come off and the shuffling of clothes, the bed dips from his weight. 

The warmth of his body against your back lulls you to sleep. Oh, how simply he loves you. Forever doesn’t seem like a lot to ask for.

.

.

If you would like to follow my writing then go follow @notjustjavierpena-fics and turn on notifications 💖❤��

[jaewritesfic]

Melon!AU Part 2

If it had been anyone but Cass to suggest it, Bruce is certain that both Damian and Tim would have responded with an immediate and vehement, Are you insane?!

But it is Cass. It's Cass, so Damian makes a choked sound and bites out, “Help. The Pit Demon?”

Similarly, Tim chokes out, “I don't know about that one, Black Bat. I mean- it's- it looks-”

“Judging books?” Cass asks through comms, a gentle disapproval in her tone that rivals Alfred’s in effectiveness. Bruce himself feels a little cowed by it.

Diplomacy had not, after all, been on his mind before his daughter spoke up.

He should know better than to make assumptions, especially if she's right and the creature isn't as hostile as it seems.

That's still a very big if.

“Commissioner,” Bruce says lowly, turning his head. Gordon is lingering near the roof access stairway, having come up to brief them but seeming reluctant to even look down on the creature in the alley. “Have there been any casualties? Injuries?”

Jim falters, uncharacteristically rattled. Bruce can't blame him - there's a low level dread and an unsettling feeling just being in the same vicinity as the creature, and that's as a seasoned vigilante. Someone who faces death down regularly.

“Uh. No. No, it uh- it took some swipes at people who got too close, but it didn't connect. We backed off pretty fast and called you as soon as possible.”

Bruce blinks. “Not even any blood drawn?”

Gordon shakes his head. “Damn miracle. The thing is fast and those claws are vicious.”

He hears Cass hum into the comms, and he understands exactly why.

The thing in the alley is built to do damage. He has his doubts it was any kind of miracle that made it ‘miss’ any of the swipes it took.

Trying to scare them off indeed.

“Black Bat. What exactly are you reading off the creature?”

“Looking for exits. Desperate. Overwhelmed.”

Bruce hums. “Being cornered and desperate will make anyone or anything dangerous. We need to proceed carefully here. Even if it doesn't want to hurt anyone, that doesn't mean it won't if it thinks it has no other-”

The shadow that is Cass shifts in his periphery, and he looks up to the opposite roof just in time to bark, “Do not-!” as Cass steps off the roof and flips down into the alley.

Why are his kids so determined to give him a stroke?

Dick vaults up over the edge of the roof to join he and Tim, saying, “I'm here, what's-”

He cuts off and claps his hands over his ears with everyone else when the creature shrieks at Black Bat's unexpected arrival.

“Black Bat,” Bruce grits out, heart in his throat as he peers over the edge with ringing ears. “Retreat back to the rooftops now.”

One tap to the comm. No.

Bruce grits his teeth, fighting not to show his anxiety. It's not like Cass to refuse orders. Hell, he can't remember her ever disobeying an order in the field so blatantly.

The low warning noise the creature is making now is almost as bad as the shriek. Something about it sets off every alarm bell in his brain, like it was never meant to be heard by human ears. Almost a growl, almost a moan, something celestial and unfathomable.

Cass doesn't back up or get any closer. She raises a hand slowly in a little wave and says, “Hello.”

If it were possible to startle a fax machine, it would probably sound like the creature does as it jerks and snaps its mouth shut in surprise, lamplight eyes going huge and round.

Masterpost

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Virgin! Simon "Ghost" Riley

Warnings: 18+, Smut, Inexperienced! Simon, Virgin! Simon, Riding, Unprotected Sex, The Mask Stays On, No Pronouns Used For Reader Except 'You'.

Virgin! Simon who can hardly believe his luck as he watches and feels you ride him, your walls tight as you bounce on his cock, calling him your 'big guy'. His hands are on your hips, his own slamming up into yours in a rhythm you'd set for him.

He's sloppy. Unaccustomed to the euphoric stiffening of the knot in his stomach, pulling ever tighter with every slap of your ass against his thighs. Sure, he's had many an orgasm before, but never at the hands of another. Never so strong; a force of nature in its own right. He's breathing heavily - panting; you swear you can see him drooling from the corner of his mouth. Something viscous is filling you now. Not the full force of his seed, but a precursor to it. A warning.

The mask stays on (of course) during this exchange, but you can see the way he fights to keep his eyes open, to keep himself from betraying every sensibility and throwing his head back, screwing his eyes shut as his length is nestled inside you, a thick bump forming in your stomach with every thrust. Your hand slips down your front and you press it. Simon jolts, moaning between gritted teeth as you press, hard, harder still, forcing his cock into an even tighter position.

He's arching into you, the sensation of his veins and his bulbous tip throbbing against your insides enough to let you know that he's close.

You coax him. Goad him. "Y'gonna cum just for me, big boy? Gonna fuck me 'til I can't walk straight?"

He can't talk. Can't even think. For the first time in his life, he's fucked dumb. You can see it in the way his eyes roll back into his skull when you clench around him. Suffocate him. His hips stutter. His cock nudges something deep within you. You gasp.

It only took your calling him your "Good boy," to have him unravel before your eyes. He can't contain the strangled growl that is exorcised from him as he cums, deep and hard, thick, hot ropes of semen filling you. You can feel it, as if painting your insides white, bathing you in an unfettered warmth. His hands are cast-iron on your hips, pulling you down onto him as if to stop you from pulling away, to prevent even a drop of his seed from escaping you. He digs his heels into the bench beneath you, grounding himself.

And, as your orgasm sparks and ripples through you, you hunch over Simon, hands gripping his shoulders, squeezing him. You moan, long and loud, milking Simon for all he's worth. And now, between the sheets of his post-orgasm haze, he watches you, the ring of light above your head from the luminescent bulb of the changing room painting you as a saint in his eyes.

He's never going to let what you have - what you've shown him - go. No matter the cost. Not when this feeling of completion is steadfast within him, electrifying every fibre in his body, all the way down to his bones.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Masterlist [Continued] Masterpost Modern Warfare AI Masterlist

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[redflagshipwriter]

Snatching Snitches pt 4

Masterpost

“Father.” Bruce yelped as Damian appeared, like a wraith, at his elbow. His hand convulsed to hold the 105 page treadmill manual in his grip hard enough to tear the paper cover. His heart rate picked up in that instant as his hard-won instincts to fight were ruthlessly suppressed by his conscious awareness that he was safely at his home. Bruce could not strike. He strangled his impulses, if barely.

His son ignored the reaction entirely on, blithe about startling someone who might lash out. “I require transportation.” Fuck. Christ. He could have hurt Damian.

Bruce blinked and took a moment to come back to the real world as he put down the manual he was reading. “Ah…” He racked his memory for his sons’ schedules, trying to make this interaction make sense. Nothing came to mind at 6pm on Tuesday, so he gave up and asked, “Where to?”

“Titans Tower,” Damian instructed. He glowered, his green eyes shining in the lowlight. He was, Bruce thought, adorable. Bruce was still strangling panic at the intrusive thought that he might have harmed his baby. He took a deep breath and put away the frisson of fear in order to exist in the current moment.

He kept the resulting smile off of his face, as his prickly baby would not appreciate it. “Oh?” he said mildly. Bruce stood up and brushed dust off his trousers. “Are you going to meet someone?”

“I require a consultation with one of the trainers there,” Damian reported sharply. He was all but standing at attention.

Bruce went through a mental inventory in an instant– Raven. Damian had to be intending to speak with Raven to get a tracking spell or some such for his cat. That…

Well. She would probably tell him no, but it wasn’t his place to try to shield his kids too much from the world. Besides, Damian was a persuasive young man. Perhaps she could find his kitty for him.

‘I wouldn’t mind knowing where the cat went,’ Bruce thought privately. He fetched his keys for the car in the right city, ready to escort Damian through the transportation relay to San Francisco. ‘Even if he wasn’t heartbroken, it’s troubling that a cat managed to get from Bristol to a bus depot in Gotham Central.’

That was somehow more upsetting than the fact that the cat hadn’t been seen on camera after that bus ride. The cameras were low-quality. The cat could have been hidden under seats or inside a bag. But how had the naked cat navigated Gotham’s troubled public transportation system? Most of his kids didn’t dare try.

Hopefully the damn thing hadn’t been eaten by a coyote or something. Damian would never forgive the bearer of bad news.

XXX

The flock of imbeciles at the tower of stunted titans were useless to his aims. They clustered him with bids for attention and puerile greetings. Damian stoically endured their pleasantries until he had pierced the inner sanctum and then beelined for the quarters belonging to the current head trainer.

“Raven.” He rapped at her chamber door, respectful in the presence of an aged witch. “I wish to speak with you.”

The door opened with no human touch. The buzz of demonic magic rattled around in his teeth, an unpleasant crispness to the air as Raven exercised her powers.

“Come in, Robin.” Her scratchy voice called out. He stepped inside and turned to see the woman sitting midair, cloak and hair dangling down. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes,” he said, “but not in a world shaking sense.” He confronted her head-on. “I believe that I encountered a spirit or ghost of some variety. It stayed with me for several weeks before disappearing. As I am invested in his welfare, I much desire to locate him again.”

Her eyebrows went up high on her oddly short, round forehead. “Do you have a foci- you have a whole scrapbook. Alright.” She took it from him and then blinked. “He took the shape of a cat?”

“He was clearly intelligent, and capable of walking through solid matter,” Damian laid out his case. “Undoubtedly he is more than the average feline, as he is capable of using a tablet to write in English. However, I am concerned for his welfare. When he came to me, his condition was poor and his stress was obviously high. I cannot rest without confirming his welfare. I have traced his travel to a dank pit of despair known as Amity Park, which seems to be rife with dangers for ghosts.”

If only he knew where Snitches was hiding there, Damian would simply retrieve his boy.

“Do you have any type of contract or bond connecting you?”

Damian nodded and indicated the scrapbook with a nod. “Please turn to page 62.”

Paper flipped. She regarded the gold-lined paper and the paw prints on it dispassionately. “That should work,” Raven admitted wryly. She seemed amused. “Stand by. Let’s do this now.” Her eyes flickered with an unholy light and she lifted her hands, palms-up and fingers splayed. “Let’s see what kind of answer we can get.” She tossed her hair slightly as she looked upwards and started the mutter to herself. Paper rustled in a sourceless wind.

Damian took a judicious step backwards. It was well that he did. A glistening crack in reality peeled itself open. It was virulently green.

“In you go.”

He stepped into the crack and then up a short set of mahogany stairs, into a circular office. Raven followed at his heels, floating in and peering around.

A skeleton in a blue military uniform with some unknown epaulets raised a bony hand in greeting. “Welcome to custody court, how can I help you?” He seemed unpaused by the flying girl.

Damian brandished his scrapbook with the original copy of his precious paperwork. “I adopted a ghost, as you can see.” He pointed to Snitches’s pawprint signature. “He has run away. I am extremely concerned for his welfare.”

The dead man leaned in to examine the paperwork. It very clearly had “Adoption Certificate” branded across the top in ornamental script. “That seems to be in order. You need help finding and placing him, then?”

“He needs to sue for custody,” Raven interjected. Her eyes glinted purple in the dim light. “We don’t know if there are any current guardians, but we suspect the minor is experiencing neglect.”

The skeleton grunted and hit a button on his chest. “Can we get a compliance officer in here?” He asked. “Need to look into a vulnerable minor ghost.”

Damian felt a thrill of success. Finally, he was on the right track. And everyone here seemed shockingly competent.

The compliance officer appeared in the form of a purple tinted middle aged woman, with an extremely dated hairstyle. “Good morning and evening, if you’ll provide me with a record of the child’s ecto signature, I’ll be able to do a home check.”

Damian proffered the scrapbook. “Will something in this suffice?”

She took it with a hum and started flipping through. “Oh, yes,” she said. She picked up the collection of hairs that Snitches had shed onto the pillow and absorbed it into her hand. “I’ll go find him and investigate his condition.”

“Do not alarm him,” Damian said. His stomach twisted. “He is only a little boy.”

The ghost nodded, her glasses slipping up and down her nose. “I’ll be circumspect,” she promised. Then she bustled away as the skeleton man returned with a hefty stack of paperwork.

Raven peered over his shoulder as he worked on it. “Write your name as D. Wayne,” she advised. “I have a premonition.”

He clicked his tongue against his teeth and did as she said.

The paperwork was extensive, and it took at least an hour. During that time the compliance officer reappeared. She was significantly more ruffled than she had appeared at departure. “Well!” She slicked down her hair, which had puffed out in shock from its sleek updo and was fizzing slightly.

Damian leaned over to confirm that the edges of her clothing were smoking and torn. “How was visitation?”

She made an odd high-pitched sound, almost like a hiccup. Her whole figure went static momentarily. “Why don’t we all have a look!” She held up an oval. “I would have to concur that the minor is not in a safe environment.” An image of two people in a fight fizzled into being.

Damian squinted. “I do not…” he trailed off as he really looked at them.

Of the two figures, one was a sleek and confident female figure in a rocker outfit. The other figure was awkward and somewhat gangly, extremely vulnerable and yet determined.

How very odd. But there was only one possible explanation:

“The white and black one is Snitches.”

He was not quite as cute as he had been before. Damian straightened his back to military precision and steeled himself. He would adapt. Taking responsibility via adoption was a lifelong commitment, and he would not be deterred by the loss of paws.

‘I will miss the paws.’ Damian froze. ‘The pawprints in that album are the only remaining evidence of how small my boy once was. I have already missed his childhood.’

The custody officer looked pleased. “Yes, 5 months deceased Danny Phantom, formerly Fenton.”

“Five months,” Raven mouthed quietly, appalled.

Damian reeled. 5 months. A pathetic 20 weeks of existence. He was even more a babe than Damian had realized. And now he was out there, helpless and afraid!

‘I only knew him for twenty percent of his life. I have missed almost all of his youth. I must retrieve him immediately.’

“Yes, an infant,” agreed the wellness officer. Her smile went toothy when she looked back at her still image. “He was being harassed by an older ghost when I arrived, and I had to intervene. After a wellness interview with him, I am interested in opening a case to sue for custody.”

“Excellent,” said Raven. “We would like to proceed as quickly as possible.”

“You are, of course, an adult by the standards of your species?” The officer confirmed.

Was that relevant? Damian stiffened, shocked by this turn of events.

“Yea, of course. Dick Wayne, age 32, is suing for custody,” Raven interjected. Her voice was mild and unaffected. “I’m his representation.”

…Damian nodded. He tried to look 32. Should he clutch at his joints? He settled for a grimace, as though pushing bravely through pain. Dick was very noble in his suffering, after all.

“Very well,” said the ghost cheerfully. “I’ll need copies of your personal documents to move further in this, and to do a home check, a few other things.”

‘I cannot have her come to do a home check at the manor. Father will intervene and reveal my impersonation, and then I shall not receive my child.’

“Of course,” Damian said through gritted teeth. Would Todd allow him to use a safe house, perhaps? There must be a solution. “Would tomorrow be acceptable?”

It was in a haze of planning stress that they confirmed the appointment, Raven taking the lead with her strange half smile. They stepped back through her portal into Titans Tower.

For a moment, Damian stood in shock. Then he cleared his throat. “Dick’s last name is unfortunately not Wayne,” he said.

It wasn’t the largest sticking point, but he was concerned. The paperwork had to be accurate to be legally binding.

Raven hummed. “Yes, we’ll have to adopt him for Bruce.” She shook her hair. “He has the paperwork ready, we’ll just take it and file it. Upper left desk drawer in your father’s office, in an envelope.”

“I will retrieve it,” Damian promised solemnly. “Thank you for your legal counsel.”

“No, no,” Raven said mildly. “It’s the least I can do after all that Dick has done.”

“…all that he has done to aid you recently?” Damian confirmed. He glanced at her full-on for the first time in at least an hour, confused. Her support was appreciated, but it was not expected. The situation had escalated. Truly, Dick had cultivated noble companions in his youth!

She hummed in the back of her throat. “Something like that,” Raven said vaguely. “Let’s go make Dick a legal ghost father.”

[spacemammal]

How About Breakfast In Bed?

Masterpost

─ ✧ ─ ✧- ☽ -✧ ─ ✧ ─

Part 2: Bruce Wayne?

It was a dream. He’d never released the ghosts or revealed his identity. When Superman said he would catch Phantom, Danny had just sat there. Empty. When he realized the crowd and the Justice League were gone and he was standing there alone, he’d just gone home. It had been a month since then. Phantom retired after their declaration. He didn’t want to deal with them on top of everything else. So he gave up.

The Justice League had been gone for a long time. It was over. So why was he still dreaming about it? He continued to lay in bed even though he was awake. Even with his ghost hunting days over, he was still empty. He was still so tired. He dreaded the day ahead, he just wanted to stay here. He didn’t want to leave the comfort of his pillows. They were so warm. They almost made him feel a little better. Maybe he could close his eyes and pretend he was in Batman's warm embrace like he’d been in the dream.

“DANNY!” his mom broke him from his delusions when she called him downstairs. He didn’t want to get up, but what choice did he have? He had to leave the warm embrace of his bed for the cold and cruel air awaiting him. He got ready for the day again. This time, he didn’t bother with picking an outfit or anything. He just shoved on his binder and went in what he slept in.

He didn’t bother getting breakfast either. He just left his room and headed straight out the door to go to school. He hated school even when he didn’t have to fight ghosts in the middle of it. The teachers were still mean, he was still getting bullied, he still had no friends, and his grades were still shit. The classes were so boring. The teachers just yapping on and on about things he didn’t care at all about.

“Mr. Fenton!” Mr. Lancer's yell pulled him from his sleep. When had he fallen asleep? 

“Mr. Fenton, it’s not nap time. You’re 17 for god’s sake. Pull yourself together! Your junior year is the most important year of highschool. Pay attention.” As Lancer finished yelling at him, he heard snickering from behind him. It was Dash. The hypocrite. He knew Dash had never paid attention in class a day in his life. Oh well. He didn’t have the energy to call him out.

The rest of the class was torture. He just couldn’t get himself to absorb any of what Mr. Lancer was saying. Something about a rich guy’s party? A girl named Daisy? He rested his head on his desk. It was cold and he was looking at the messy ground. He hated being there. Sleep was dancing at the edges of his brain and core again when the bell snapped him back to reality. 

He was the last to get up, and starting to leave when Mr. Lancer called after him, “the counselor would like to see you.” Right. They’d gotten a counselor after that ghost had posed as one. 

“Sure.” Danny knew why the counselor wanted to see him. He knew how the discussion would go. 

“You wanted to see me?” Danny feigned ignorance to the topic of the conversation even though it was obvious what this meeting was about. His grades were shit because he wasn’t doing any class work. 

“Yes. Come on in, sit down please.” Her voice was warm and gentle, which suprised him. He’d thought that she would be harsh and give him a lecture about how he’s slacking and needs to get his grades up.

“I’m Ms. Perry.” She gestured for him to sit. He hadn’t realized his feet were still firmly planted in the doorway. 

As he took a seat, he began to examine her office. The room was homey. It smelled like the ground after rain and the lights weren’t harsh. The chairs were plush with a soft floral pattern on them. 

“So, Danny, how have you been feeling lately?” her question sounded far too genuine to be simple small talk, but it didn’t feel like she was pushing for the information. She wasn’t the mean, aged teacher he’d thought would be hired. She was young, probably fresh out of college, and her face showed authentic kindness.

“Oh! I almost forgot, do you want any snacks? I have a ton to choose from.” She pulled out a bin of snacks from under her desk. There were so many, and… he wanted some. When had he gotten so hungry?

 “Sure,” he hesitated, he didn’t even know what he wanted.

 “Can I have.. uhh… juice?” 

 “Of course.” She gave a small, light hearted laugh with the reply, and handed him a capri-sun. 

He left the meeting with the counselor a little confused as he left her office. What had just happened? She had asked him about his home life and hobbies and basically everything but school. He hadn’t had a real conversation like that in a really long time. 

It didn’t really matter though. It’s not like his life would get better. His hope for that died when he realized quitting as Phantom didn’t do anything but let him stop fighting ghosts.

─ ✧- ☽ -✧ ─

“Alright, thank you.” Maddie said as she hung up the phone. 

“Jack dear!” she called out to her husband, who was working on a ghost-hunting invention. 

“Apparently Danny isn’t doing very well right now. The counselor suggested we do something.” 

“Then what should we do?” Jack hollered from behind the machine, not bothering to look up. 

Maddie thought about it. 

“I don’t know.” She really hadn’t the slightest idea what to do. 

“I wonder if a change of scenery would do him good?” he had put down his tools and was peeking past the machine.

“He can’t go to Alecia’s.” she considered, “He hates it down in Arkansas.”  

They both thought about it for another moment. 

“I do have a cousin. I could see if he can take in Danny for a while?” Jack offered. 

“That sounds nice!” With that the conversation was finished and they continued to focus on what really mattered. Their ghost tech!

─ ✧- ☽ -✧ ─

Danny went straight up to his room after school like he’d been doing every day since he retired. He went straight for his bed and let himself sink into it. He could finally breathe. Sometimes it felt like he was suffocating when he was at school or with his parents. It was finally the weekend though. He didn’t have to get out of bed for a while. He just stared at the ceiling. He’d put up those tacky glow in the dark star stickers on there when he was 10. A lot’s changed since then. He didn’t really have the time or energy to study the night sky like he did before the accident. He really missed it though. If only he could turn back time and-

There was a knock on the door.

“Danny?” It was his mom. He pulled his blanket over himself and rolled over, pretending to be asleep. They came in anyway.

“Daniel, we have to talk to you.” his dad nudged his shoulder. The same shoulder he’d shot at just a month before. He hated it when they called him Daniel.

“I don't want to get out of bed.” He wanted them to go away.

“That’s alright sweetheart. We can talk to you from here.” His mom didn’t take the hint and started talking anyway. He didn’t really listen to what she’s saying, but caught some of the words and phrases.

“Blah blah blah, call from the school, blah blah blah, bad grades, blah blah blah, cousin, blah blah blah, Bruce Wayne.”

He stops them at that last bit. “Wait, Bruce Wayne?" That seemed super off topic, even for his parents.

“You need to listen better. Bruce Wayne is your father’s cousin.”

WHAT?! Bruce Wayne? How was that even possible? Danny was trying to wrap his head around this, but failing. This didn’t make any sense. How was Bruce Wayne, the prince of Gotham, related to his dad, the crazy scientist of Amity Park?

“You’ll be staying with him for a little while. We think it will be good for you. Ok?” 

Oh.

They were pawning him off on someone else so they didn’t have to deal with him. That made a ton more sense. 

“Alright then.” he felt the words leave his mouth.

“We’ve arranged for you to leave in a week.” 

Wow. They really wanted him gone.

─ ✧- ☽ -✧ ─

It was really a strange request.

Bruce’s cousin had gotten in touch with him after all these years. It was strange for multiple reasons. He had only met this relative once when they were small children and he wasn’t asking for money, or fame, or any of the things one would think. He was only asking for Bruce to take care of his son for a few months. The reason they cited was that he was struggling with his grades. Why would the man trust his son to a cousin he hardly knew? 

A normal request to Bruce was for lots of money. A normal request was to leave your child with someone you actually knew and trusted.

The bizarre nature of the favor drew his curiosity so , naturally, he did a full Batman-style background check on the entire family.

It would seem that the couple were scientists specializing in ghost-based study. They were considered irresponsible and conspiracy theorists in their town even after the existence of ghosts was confirmed. They developed anti-ghost weapons and Maddie Fenton had a background in martial arts, but that was about the extent of their ‘battle prowess’ if you could call it that. They had 2 children. Jasmine Fenton, a college student studying psychology, and Daniel Fenton. When he pulled up the kid’s photo, Bruce recognised him as the teenager he’d noticed in the crowd. Something about that day still didn’t feel right to him. He’d made sure to give Clark a lecture after what he had said. He was trying to make people feel at ease, but he could’ve done that while dodging the question instead of speaking on a case that wasn’t closed. 

Bruce was interested in knowing what Daniel was doing with Phantom’s thermos. As well as why he was so injured. Though he now had a suspicion it might be neglect or even abuse. The way his parents were so dismissive of him didn’t exactly inspire confidence. 

Having the boy stay with him could give him more insight into the situation.

“Alfred?”

“What is it, Master Bruce?” 

“Could you prepare a guest room by next week?”

“Yes, but might I ask why, sir?” Alfred’s face showed clear suspicion.

Bruce sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, he knew he would get an earful from his children for this.

“We’ll be housing my cousin’s child for a time.” 

─ ✧- ☽ -✧ ─

Danny didn’t like change very much, and this was all happening so fast. Before he knew it the week was over. At first he had packed to last around 2 weeks, but his parents told him that he’d be staying for the rest of the last month of school and all of summer. So he decided to pack not just essentials but also other things that he just liked. He grabbed his astronomy books, his bass, his notebooks, along with a few other things to keep his mind occupied. He wished that he could pack his bed, but he settled for his blanket and most comfortable pillow. He also made sure to pack his extra binder, first aid kit, and other ‘in case of emergency’ things. This included the Fenton Thermos. He really didn’t want to leave it, but he decided he would need it if it came down to it. All of his things were packed, and he was scheduled to leave in an hour. His room was left without much in it. There wasn’t much in the first place, but it looked even more empty. Especially since his mom made him clean his room earlier in the week in preparation for him leaving. 

He looked over at his bed where a stuffed bear was sitting. Tucker had given it to him when he turned 16. They hadn’t been friends anymore when he’d turned 17. He missed seeing them. He missed being their friend. It dawned on him that he wouldn’t get to see them in the hallways of school anymore. Why was he even upset about going? Nobody liked him in this town even if he wasn’t Phantom. It wasn’t like he was leaving any friends or big relationships behind. The only person he was on good terms with was Jazz, and she’d moved away for college.

“Daniel, let’s get going.” his dad came into the room without knocking. “You wouldn’t want to miss your flight.”

─ ✧ ─

The flight was not the best. He’d been sat in a middle seat next to an asshole who decided to hog up his armrest and invade his personal space. It also didn’t help that Danny hated flying in planes. He could already fly by himself and it made him super uneasy when he wasn’t in control. It made him super airsick.

Luckily he was out of the plane now, so he didn’t have to deal with it anymore. Now he had to figure out how to get to his next location. Mom and dad had said something about someone picking him up, but they were super vague about it. He was just standing in the pick-up zone at the airport, stranded.

“Daniel Wayne?” He was put off by the use of his full name but still turned to face the man who’d said it.

“Yeah, I prefer Danny though.” He tried to keep his tone light but could tell that he still sounded uncomfortable.

“Ah. I will make note of that.” The man was older, maybe in his 60’s, and he was dressed way too fancy for a Saturday afternoon. “I’m Alfred Pennyworth, the Wayne’s butler. I will be escorting you to the manor. Please follow me to the car.”

“Thank you.” Danny tried to make his tone as polite as possible. He didn’t really know rich people etiquette, but he could do his best to not be rude. Alfred led him to a really fancy black car and opened the door for him (which he’d made sure to thank the man for). He said the drive to the house would be around 30 minutes. Luckily he didn’t try to start up any conversations after that. Danny really didn’t want to talk right now. He just had to survive this car ride.

That’s right. He just had to bide his time until he got to the house, then he could go up to his new room and avoid people again. Go back to laying in bed. 

He wanted to be in bed so badly. He didn’t want to meet the Waynes. He didn’t want to leave home. He just wanted to stay in his bed forever. That way he could avoid ghosts, and his problems, and people, and life in general.

He stared out the window, in an attempt to get out of his head. They passed run down warehouses, shady businesses, and apartment buildings that definitely weren’t to code. Slowly the architecture got more stable and clean until they were passing huge gothic style buildings that looked incredibly expensive to maintain. Eventually, the buildings stopped appearing, and nature took it’s place. Not so long after that happened, they reached the overly extravagant gates of the Wayne’s Mansion.

He hadn’t realized just how big their house was until he stood in front of it. He didn’t even want to be here. Why couldn’t Bruce Wayne have picked any other kid to be his charity case of the year?

“Master Bruce isn’t home right now, but his children are here so they will be greeting you in his stead.” Alfred already had his hand on the doorknob, ready to open it.

“Alright” At least he wouldn’t have to deal with meeting Bruce Wayne right now.

─ ✧ ─ ✧- ☽ -✧ ─ ✧ ─

Honestly I'm super surprised about how many people like this! thank you so much for the kind words :D It genuinely means a ton to me

Thank you for reading! I haven't started working on the next chapter yet, but I'll get it out as soon as I can! :)

[bitchy-craft]

PICK A CARD: What is beautiful about you

Hello and welcome to this reading! Here I will tell you what is beautiful about you. I hope you enjoy this reading!

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The extended version of this reading can be found on my patreon, the link of which is here

Pile 1:

You truly are so creative. There is no one the people around you know that is as creative as you are. You have an insane amount of ideas constantly in your mind, and all of those ideas are great for problem-solving. Even if your idea seems absolutely atrocious and you simply made it up to make light of the situation, often times there is still more truth in it than you had ever thought, and often times it will actually help finding a solution to something. Your creativity isn’t only good for problem-solving or thinking of things to do, it also helps cheer people up. You have an incredibly good sense of humour, and you make not just your friends and family members laugh, you make everyone laugh all around you. You have the quickest responses sometimes, and your jokes are often jokes that have not been heard before. You are quick-witted and your brain goes way faster than anyone else’s.

extended reading

Pile 2:

You are quick to call out somebody’s bullshit. When you see some unjust hanging around somewhere you will be speaking up about it. The people around you see you as a strong-willed person, someone who is never going to let anyone walk right over you. You are loyal to yourself and your friends, and if any of the people you care about gets harmed you always know that revenge is going to be bittersweet. You are someone people look up to, even those people you don’t believe ever would do. They wish they had the balls that you seem to possess as long as they know you (for many of you this obviously isn’t true, you have learned to become like this, or forced to become like this, and for a couple this is most likely also a façade you put up. But whether you are actually insecure or not doesn’t matter; you are still a very strong person, with strong morals and a strong sense of justice). You should realise how good of a friend, a partner, and a family member you really are / can be.

extended reading

Pile 3:

You are unique. There is no one like you out there. Some of you don’t believe that this is the case that you are just like anyone else. But there truly is no one like you out there who has the set of interests that you have, the hobbies you have and the dreams that you have. You have a personality no one else has, you have authenticity and some people do not like that. Those people you are insecure about because they are so vastly different from you are the ones who are jealous of you; they do not understand you so they try to dislike you. People are afraid of the unknown, and those people who all seem to be the same? They have that whenever they see you. Not understanding something and not wanting to understand is ignorance, and there are a ton of people who sadly carry that trait. Your uniqueness isn’t the only thing that people find beautiful about you. It’s also because when you want something you truly go for it. Sure, sometimes it doesn’t feel like this immediately; but if you have a goal you will reach that goal no matter how long it takes you.

extended reading

[salty-tang]

The Suit Problem™

Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Congresswoman!Reader

Summary: someone commented, and i quote verbatim "I can't imagine Bucky in a suit without thinking of him flexing & accidentally ripping his sleeves. Just to share that imagery."

Warnings/ tags: MATURE THEMES, Original Characters galore, political tension with feelings, lots of tension, suit kink (very heavily implied), emotional restraint and physical damage, making out in federally inappropriate spaces (the bathroom), clothed intimacy

Word count: 3k

off the record masterpost || AO3 || congressman bucky masterpost

The First Time It Happens

It’s a standard afternoon hearing – oversight – dry, procedural, and criminally under-attended. Some poor GAO witness is walking the committee through a line-by-line breakdown of federal allocations for energy storage grants. You’re barely following. The numbers aren’t the problem, the problem (as is with many other things in life these days) is Bucky Barnes.

Specifically, Bucky in the third chair diagonally to your left, rolling back his shoulders and shrugging his jacket up higher on his frame like it isn’t already fighting for its dear life. Like the seam at his right shoulder isn’t straining with every millimetre he moves.

You’ve seen the shrug before. He does it when he’s bored. When he’s too warm. When he knows you’re watching.

It makes him look younger – unruly and a little too charming for your peace of mind.

Normally, you can take it.

But then –

riiip

A soft tear. Audible, but just barely. Right at the seam where his sleeve meets his right shoulder. Not the metal arm.

The flesh one.

You don’t mean to look. But you do, reflexively.

The fabric’s split open like a bad alibi, pulled too tight over muscle he has no business keeping in that good of a shape. The shirt underneath clings and you can see the edge of his bicep where the cotton’s pulled taut.

You freeze.

Then you blush.

And then you realize you’re blushing, and you nearly drop your pen.

He looks over. Of course he looks over.

He knows.

And his mouth quirks up like he’s won something, and perhaps he has.

You tear your eyes away and pretend to reread your notes, except that your entire mental slate has just been wiped clean by the sight of one extremely illegal shoulder doing irreversible things to navy wool blend.

Mills, three chairs behind you, texts the group slack in real time:

He BROKE THE JACKET. That’s the REAL oversight. my kinsey score will never recover

You press your lips together. You do not react. This is a federal setting.

But somewhere in the back of your head – right between this is wildly inappropriate and I did not know this was a thing for me – there’s a voice whispering: not even the metal arm. Jesus Christ.

In the Hallway Immediately After

You catch him just outside the hearing room. You're clutching your notes to your chest – mostly to hide the fact that your hands are shaking slightly. From frustration, obviously.

“Barnes,” you call out. 

He turns, slow. Too slow. His suit jacket’s slung over one shoulder now, exposing the ripped seam like it’s a war medal.

You narrow your eyes. “Do you enjoy making my staff reconsider their sexuality during active committee meetings?”

He bites down on a smile. "It was an accident."

A pause.

Then – lower, silkier, “your staff, or you?”

You go still.

It’s not fair, the way he says it. Like he’s just asking a question and he isn’t the living embodiment of every problem you’ve ever sworn to ignore.

Your jaw tightens. “Don’t test me, Barnes.”

He smiles properly now – wolfish, pleased. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You take a step closer. That’s your first mistake because he smells like cedar and clean soap and faint Capitol dust, and he’s still doing that thing – head tilted slightly, mouth soft at the corners, like he knows exactly how close you are to either slapping him or kissing him.

“That’s a campaign funded jacket,” you say, voice low. “You keep destroying them like this and I’m going to have to file you under infrastructure damage.”

“I’ll expense it,” he says, deadpan. “Line item 22: legislative tension.”

You exhale sharply. “You know you’re not supposed to look like that in public. It's unbecoming of a Congressman.”

He leans in, just a little.

“You keep looking at me like that,” he murmurs, “and I’ll break the other seam too.”

Your breath catches.

He sees it and smiles.

“You’re impossible,” you say, weakly.

“You’re flustered.”

“I’m not.”

He shrugs.

Again.

The sound that comes out of you isn’t quite verbal.

Somewhere behind you, a staffer coughs awkwardly.

You straighten up and smooth your blouse, all while pretending that your entire blood supply hasn’t migrated somewhere wildly inappropriate for federal property.

“I’m telling Mike to order you three new jackets,” you say, already turning to leave.

“Better make it four,” he calls after you. “Just in case I sit down too fast.”

You don’t give him the satisfaction of looking back, because you're smiling. 

The Fitting

The tailor is a compact, fastidious man named Victor. He works out of a discreet Dupont Circle storefront and has measured no fewer than four Supreme Court justices and at least one war criminal. Nothing rattles him.

Enter Bucky Barnes.

You are only here because you know Victor personally. That, and because Mike flagged Bucky’s latest jacket incident with a single phrase in your shared calendar:

URGENT: Barnes needs congressional-grade tailoring before someone loses an eye.

Victor gestures for Bucky to step onto the platform. “Try lifting your arm.”

Bucky rolls his left shoulder back in a deceptively casual shrug. The fabric of his shirt pulls like it's being winched over a steel cable. You hear it before you see it – a subtle groan of resistance from the sleeve.

There’s a long, painful pause.

"Okay," you say slowly, eyes fixed on the fabric. "So that’s a no."

The tailor clears his throat. “We might need a reinforced seam or – pardon me – structural adjustments for… exceptional anatomy.”

You hum. “Exceptional anatomy. That’s generous.”

Bucky shoots you a look, half mortified, half amused. “You dragged me here.”

“Because you tore your third jacket in two months,” you say, very calmly. “You can’t keep walking into committee hearings looking like you lost a bar fight with your own sleeves.”

He mutters something about deadlifting and polyester. You don’t respond. You’re too busy watching his biceps test the limits of a very expensive shoulder seam.

“I could just wear the old black suit,” he offers.

You raise an eyebrow. “The one you ripped open lifting a box of printed memos?”

"...It was a heavy box."

You shake your head as you pace about the store. You’ve chosen to pace because you will not be hovering while Bucky shrugs in and out of suit jackets like a Calvin Klein fever dream.

Victor starts measuring. Professional, focused, barely blinking until he gets to Bucky’s shoulders.

Victor sighs. “Sir, I’m going to need you to relax your shoulders.”

Bucky grins. “They are relaxed.”

You do not look over.

You will not look over.

Behind you, Jenna – assigned to ‘observe and document’ this appointment – is standing by the sample books, typing into her phone like a woman possessed.

#suitwatch (active)

[Jenna]: she just said “exceptional anatomy” out loud. in public. to his face. [Micah]: this is a First Amendment violation and also the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard [Devon]: sleeves are a construct. arms are forever. [Mills]: he’s looking at her like he’d say yes to anything even the double-breasted one even charcoal pinstripes

Victor measures in silence, muttering every now and then things like “This cannot be standard”, and, as he loops the measuring tape around Bucky’s chest, “I’m going to need heavier thread for the buttons.”

Bucky glances at you through the mirror with a smirk. “Enjoying the show, Congresswoman?”

You cross your arms and lift your chin. “I’m imagining filing a workplace complaint.”

He grins wider. “About my arms?”

“No, about your attitude.”

A pause.

Then, quieter, “though the arms are definitely a secondary violation.”

Victor drops his pen.

*

Victor retreats into the backrooms to retrieve a reinforced thread spool, muttering something in Italian that sounds less like measurements and more like final blessings, and you drop onto the edge of the leather bench to watch Bucky undo the last jacket with surgical precision and barely restrained biceps.

"Out of curiosity," you say, elbow on your knee, chin in hand, "how much can you bench?"

He glances over, mid-button, brows raised. "Why?"

You gesture vaguely at the battlefield of defeated suit samples around him. “Trying to figure out whether the problem is vanity sizing or the fact that your upper body mass violates OSHA standards.”

He pauses for a second to think. Then he shrugs one shoulder – very carefully, this time.

“Dunno. Probably a Hummer H1. Full bed. Loaded?”

You blink. “The military one?”

“Yeah.” He nods at you, expression infuriatingly mild. “Yeah. The old diesel kind. Not the electric one.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. Just press your lips together and mutter under your breath, “exceptional anatomy, my ass.”

Behind you, Jenna makes a strangled sound that might be a laugh or a quiet breakdown. You're not sure which.

Three weeks later…

The tailor’s delivery arrives at 10 am on the dot – three full suits, pressed and wrapped, with Victor’s signature scribbled on the invoice like he is issuing a personal challenge. Devon brings the garment bags to your office with a look that says I know everything and I’m telling the group chat the moment I leave this room.

You thank him, barely.

It’s sheer coincidence, of course, that the floor’s scheduled a major vote for the afternoon, the kind they put on banners and b-rolls. C-SPAN and Politico have already parked their crew outside the chamber. You yourself are already dressed for the day in a sharp navy suit, statement earrings, and subtle heels. You’ve been on camera twice this morning and will be again before the end of the day. You've barely had a chance to have your coffee. 

And so it is just a function of practicality that Bucky Barnes shows up at your office just before noon with the sleeves of his day shirt rolled up and his tie stuffed in one pocket.

"Victor delivered?" he asks, already loosening the collar of his shirt as he toes the door shut behind him.

You gesture toward the rack. “Personally. Go with the charcoal pinstripes and try not to break it before the cameras roll.”

He unzips the garment bag and glances back at you. “Want me to change in here?”

“I don’t care where you change, Barnes,” you reply without looking up from your tablet, “as long as the jacket makes it through one vote without structural failure.”

He shrugs. “You staying?”

“I’ve got too much left to read," you say quietly, eyes still on the tablet, "and nowhere better to be.”

You keep your gaze fixed on the screen. You will not stare while he peels his shirt off like a man who has never once had to worry about being perceived.

You do not register the sound of buttons slipping free.

You do not notice the rustle of fabric, the stretch of muscle, the quiet exhale he lets out when the collar loosens.

The section header on your screen reads: Summary of proposed appropriations for FY26.

You’ve read the page four times. You would not be able to repeat its contents if your life depended on it.

He buttons the new shirt slowly, leisurely. You can hear it in the way he moves.

When he reaches for the jacket, you’re already standing.

You don’t say anything as you take the jacket down from its hanger, brush the shoulders once, and hold it out for him.

He pauses in front of you but doesn’t reach for it.

“I can do it,” he says softly.

You shake your head. “Let me.”

He turns without comment.

You slide the jacket up over his arms, settling the weight of it across his back. It fits like it’s supposed to – no pinching at the shoulders, no strain at the seams. You smooth it over his frame and let your hands linger just long enough to tell yourself you're just feeling for tension along the stitching. 

You circle in front of him, new tie in hand. You adjust his lapels and button the top button of his shirt yourself, slow and firm.

Before you can speak, he asks – mildly, almost carelessly, but not really at all, “you gonna tie it for me?”

You respond by sliding the fabric around his neck, slow and deliberate, letting it settle against the collar of his new shirt. It fits – too well. Clean lines, pressed seams, nowhere to hide.

“You could do this yourself,” you murmur.

“Sure,” he replies. “But your approval ratings are better.”

You don’t rise to it, not out loud.

Instead, you start the knot.

Not fast. Not businesslike. You take your time, fingers grazing the hollow of his throat, the soft scrape of new cotton against your knuckles. He exhales – shallow, quiet, controlled.

You don’t finish it.

Just as the final loop would tighten, you let the tie fall slack in your hands and take a step back.

His brow lifts, amused. “Giving up?”

“Letting you contribute,” you say, tone dry. “God forbid you show up to a vote half-dressed again.”

He chuckles low in his chest, but finishes the knot with a flick of his wrist. His eyes don’t leave you. “You like the charcoal?”

You brush a speck of lint from his lapel. Let your palm settle there for a beat too long.

“Victor’s best work,” you murmur. “If you break this one, I’m filing that workplace hazard report.”

“I’d like to see that paperwork,” he says, leaning in. His voice drops. “Will it mention how close you’re standing?”

You tilt your head. “Only if you wrinkle the jacket.”

He smiles – sharp, wrecked, beautiful. You ignore it.

"You’re ready,” you murmur. It’s meant to be a statement, but it comes out feeling like a dare.

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice lower than it needs to be.

You straighten the line of his collar and let your thumb graze the base of his throat like you have the right.

“Don’t ruin it until after,” you say, adjusting the knot at his throat like it’s the only thing you still have control over.

He leans in. “That a dress code policy or a personal plea?”

You say nothing and ignore the way your face heats up. 

He lets the silence stretch, inordantely pleased. 

Then, while adjusting his cuffs and grinning. "Either way, I'll try not to disappoint." 

You step back. “You have five minutes to make it to chamber,” you say, tone even. “Go be legislative.”

He nods, heading for the door. But he does glance back once, shameless. "I'll do my best." 

And then he's gone, leaving you standing in your office, adjusting the cuffs of your own jacket lilke it might keep your hands from shaking. 

~*~

Recess is called five minutes into the session. Some kind of procedural delay – something wrong with the roll call, something about a faulty vote counter.

You’re not listening.

You’re watching him.

Bucky hasn’t looked away since you adjusted his jacket fifteen minutes ago. Since your fingers brushed the collar like you were daring him to keep it together. And apparently, he can't.

He waits until the chamber begins to thin before he moves – silent, clean, intentional – and you follow.

Neither of you speak.

You end up in one of the hallway bathrooms – technically gender-neutral, technically a staff washroom, technically not a place for professional misbehaviour.

But the moment the door clicks shut behind you, it stops being technical.

He turns and you’re already there.

Your hands immediately go to the lapels. Again. But not to fix them this time.

This time, you pull.

“You look like a problem,” he mutters.

“Then solve it.”

The kiss is not sweet. It’s not soft. It’s been months in the making. Every ripped seam, every stare across committee hearings, every time you told yourself you could handle the sight of him in a suit he doesn’t deserve to wear this well – it crashes down like a tsunami.

He grunts when your mouth meets his, and he crowds you into the counter. His hands are everywhere – hip, waist, jaw, anchored in your blazer like he has no intention of letting go.

You fist your hand in his tie – new tie, freshly pressed tie – and drag him closer until he groans into your mouth like it hurts.

“You said not until after,” he breathes against your neck.

“You waited,” you kiss him again, just to punish him for it. “Congratulations.”

His mouth curves into a smile, but it’s wrecked. “You gonna yell at me for the wrinkles?”

You grip the lapels again and pull.

“Try me.”

He laughs – low, feral, ruined– and kisses you deeper, hungrier. The jacket groans in protest under your grip. One of you knocks something off the counter that falls to the floor with a crash. You don’t even bother to see what it is.

He palms the back of your thigh and mutters, “still going strong. You stress-testing for structural failure?”

You kiss the edge of his jaw. “No,” you whisper. “I’m trying to cause it.”

His hands go under your blouse. Yours slip beneath his waistband like a threat. He grips the counter behind you like it’s the only thing anchoring him.

He shrugs. That goddamn shrug.

Your knees nearly give out.

“You’re going to ruin me,” you whisper.

“You’re letting me,” he says, somewhere between reverent and fucked.

Your phone buzzes with your two minute timer.

You pull back first. Barely, just enough to breathe.

Your lipstick is gone. His tie is a disaster. Your blouse is askew. The shoulder of his jacket is unmistakably wrinkled. 

He touches just beneath your lip. His thumb lingers. “You should touch that up.”

You glance down. At the tie. The crease in the jacket. The faint imprint of your grip still visible across his chest.

"You won't fix it?" you murmur. 

“I want them to wonder,” he says slowly, entirely unrepentant. 

You hold his gaze for a beat longer than necessary.

You open the door and walk out first.

He waits exactly ninety seconds.

And follows.

A/N: I need to touch some grass!

A/N (again): there's now a continuation! Benchpressing a Hummer (for Charity)

off the record masterpost || AO3 || congressman bucky masterpost