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psycho-pills · 3 months ago

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A Second Life for Strays! ฅ (•˕ •マ.ᐟ sylus x reader fanfic // prev // next

౨ৎ⭑˚ RATING; 18+ (mdni)

౨ৎ⭑˚ PAIRING; sylus x afab!reader (not the mc)

౨ৎ⭑˚ SYNOPSIS; you are a soldier reincarnated into the world of love and deepspace, except you're not the mc. she still exists. despite looking exactly like her, you don’t act or sound the same. and to make things stranger, cats follow you everywhere.

౨ৎ⭑˚ GENRE/WARNING; angst, hurt/comfort, slow burn, (mutual?) pining, eventual fluff, eventual romance, eventual smut, cursing, graphic descriptions of violence, blood, mental breakdowns, ptsd, death, isekai, reincarnation, cats/cat puns, mc is named serenophe to avoid confusion/reader is not mc

౨ৎ⭑˚ AUTHOR'S NOTE; a gentle reminder: this is written in third-person limited with she/her pronouns. only the prologue is written in second-person. i use the terms [name] [surname] instead of (y/n) (y/ln) because it's easier for me to write. also, i know this idea is kinda weird and outlandish, but i love cats and love and deepspace, so why not combine the two? ;v;

౨ৎ⭑˚ LINKS; ao3 // masterpost

ch. one — a cat-astrophic realization! ౨ৎ⭑˚ word count; 3.9k

Where… She thinks. Where am I?

Her eyes flutter open before immediately squinting from the fluorescent lights above. The constant beeping of the patient monitor spikes in sound as her heartbeat increases. Instinctively, her hand reaches to shield her eyes, only to stop short with a sharp tug. A flash of pain shoots up her arm, drawing her attention to the thin IV tube embedded in her skin. She grits her teeth and lowers her hand, squinting through the blinding lights.

Gradually, her vision adjusts. One eye peeks open, the other still closed in protest. She slowly sweeps over the room. As her surroundings come into focus, her heart rate steadies.

The hospital room is bathed in morning light that filters through the large windows. As [Name] glances toward the windows, long shadows cross the room. Outside, there's a breathtaking view of the bustling, futuristic city below. The overall view of the world is serene, completely unlike the storm of confusion in [Name]'s mind.

The room is comfortably sized. Modern yet contemporary furniture and pale grey walls accommodate the small space. Sleek medical equipment lines the side of the room, but there's a sense of luxury present. Crisp linen sheets, plush chairs, and a vase of fresh flowers on a side table. It's more like a boutique hotel than a hospital room.

A soft beige blanket covers her body, and the scent of jasmine whiffs up her nose. An unoccupied recliner sits in the corner near the windows, perhaps meant for a visitor; however, the room is isolated. The medical equipment strap to her arm and chest drones on. The rhythmic beeping indicated the steady tracking of her vitals. A small monitor occasionally blinks, recording her heartbeat and oxygen levels.

As she begins to stir, her body drags her down. Everything feels heavy. Her limbs, her eyelids, even her thoughts. There's an overwhelming sense of disorientation like she's floating between worlds. Memories stir, hazy at first, but slowly they sharpen. One after the other, they trickle back—chaos, pain, death.

Her death.

Her body feels sore, but her head feels worse. She remembers the battlefield. She remembers succumbing to her bullet wound. The sensation of death still lingers like a cold shadow. Yet now, with her eyes fully adjusted, she takes in the pristine hospital room, and it becomes apparent that something is wrong.

I'm alive.

The thought feels impossible. Absurd, even. And yet here she is—breathing, heart pounding—fully conscious. It was like she finally woke up from a long, deep coma.

With more awareness, she takes in the room. Across from her bed is a small, flat-screen television, turned off, reflecting the room's dusky mood. Besides it, a small door leads to what she assumes is an adjoining bathroom. Everything about the room is carefully designed to be soothing, sterile, and impersonal. However, it's oddly welcoming in a way she can't quite grasp.

Her body protests as she fumbles to sit up, mindful of the tubes and wires attached to her arm and chest. As she adjusts herself, she catches a glimpse of her reflection on the dark, glassy screen of the television. With some effort, she leans forward to take in her appearance better.

Instantly, [Name]'s breath catches in her throat. She pauses. Her reflection stares back at her, but something is off. Her face is hers, but it's not. All of her features are the same. Hair, eyes, mouth, nose… However, everything is just sharper now. Clearer. Her skin smoother, and her hair fuller. If she didn't know any better, she'd swear she looks almost identical to the female lead of her favorite otome game.

But that can't be right. Can it?

A chill runs down her spine, and her eyes dart downward to her chest. Panic flares in her gut as she remembers the battlefield, the bullet wound that should have taken her life. Slowly, as if afraid of what she'll find, she hooks a finger under the collar of her hospital gown and pulls it away from her body, expecting to see a scar, a wound, anything.

There's nothing. Her skin is smooth, unmarked. No bullet wound, no scar, no evidence that she has ever been injured at all. Her heart stutters in her chest, and the panic she's been trying to suppress starts to rise like a wave, threatening to swallow her whole.

"What the hell is going on?" She croaks.

Her throat feels dry and scratchy, like it hasn't been used in days. A rough cough forces its way up and makes her wince. She tries to settle her breathing, but it's no use. The confusion, the fear—it's smothering her.

Just as she's about to lose herself to the spiraling thoughts, the door to her room clicks open. She jerks her head toward the sound. A man steps in, tall and composed, his black hair framing his face in sharp, elegant lines. His demeanor's cool but professional. There is a slight air of authority that immediately draws her attention.

She blinks, and her stomach drops.

There's no way.

Her eyes widen in disbelief as she stares at him. It can't be. It can't be. But there's no mistaking the man standing before her, his confident stride, the careful way he carries himself. His gaze idles before settling back on his notes. She knows that face, that presence. She can practically hear her heart pound louder as the impossible claws at her.

She glances at the name tag pinned to his coat, just to be sure. Zayne. It's there, clear as day. The doctor with a cold exterior and a reputation for being emotionally untouchable. Yet beneath it all, there's a hidden tenderness. He was one of them: a character she had admired, the one whose storyline was as complex and fascinating as the others.

Her mind reels. Oh, my Gods. This can't be real.

She blinks several times, expecting his face to change into something else, but nothing happens. He's still there, as composed and meticulous as ever. The exact character she once admired behind a screen now stands right before her.

The disbelief overtakes her. It's suffocating and all-encompassing. How can this be happening? She died—she remembers dying—and yet, she woke up here. Her body tenses. Her muscles tighten as the pieces of her situation fall into place, and realization sinks its teeth into her.

She can't breathe. It's impossible. All of this, everything around her, feels like a nightmare. A twisted dream she can't wake up from. There's no way, there's no way she's been reincarnated. And not just anywhere. In the world of Love and Deepspace, the very game she escaped into for fun is her new reality now.

"You're awake," Zayne says calmly, but verging on something more unreadable. Confusion? Suspicion? He takes a step closer, his gaze lingering on her face longer than a doctor's should. [Name] can tell he's trying to remain composed. However, his eyes hold hesitance, like he's looking at something he can't believe.

Slowly, as if worried she might vanish if he speaks too quickly, he continues, "I'm Dr. Zayne, and you will be under my care for the foreseeable future." His voice is smooth, but his words are cautious.

"And you must be Miss…" He pauses and glances down at the file. His eyes squint as if the name doesn't match what he was expecting. "…[Name] [Surname]."

She swallows, almost choosing silence, but her raspy voice escapes anyway.

"Yes?"

The word barely sounds confident. She's frozen under his gaze, trapped in disbelief. Zayne's sharp eyes roam her face, drifting down to her upper body. It's not the casual assessment of a doctor checking on a patient. No, this look—it's familiar. It's the same gaze she used to see when playing the game, the moments when his character's cold exterior would briefly soften during some of his bonds and memoria. Her stomach churns with anxiety.

What. The. Fuck.

Zayne pushes his glasses up, and his professional mask slips back on. He steps closer to the bed, his expression shifting, but she can sense the tension beneath it.

"I'm just checking for any signs of concussion or physical injuries," he says. However, it sounds more like he's reassuring himself than her.

He leans in, and his eyes dart over her face. He scans her features for any signs of bruises or swelling. "Given your condition when you were brought in, we need to monitor for potential head trauma."

[Name] stays silent as he gently lifts the edge of her gown at her shoulder. His fingers brush her skin as he places the cold metal of the stethoscope against her chest. His touch is light and purely professional, but she can't help but feel a rising discomfort.

Zayne may act like this is routine, but she can see the tension in his posture and how his gaze keeps finding her face. He's trying to hide it, but she can tell—he's scrutinizing her for more than physical injuries. It's like he's trying to fit together puzzle pieces from different boxes.

The metal is cold and harsh. She inhales deeply without him even asking. Then she exhales, and the stethoscope leaves her chest not a moment sooner. He scribbles something down in his notes. Almost hesitantly.

"Everything seems to be in order. There doesn't appear to be any visible scarring or physical trauma," Zayne mutters. A bit too neutral. As he steps back, his eyes idle on her a beat longer than necessary. "Regardless, we'll run a few more tests to be sure."

She gives a slow nod, observing how his jaw tenses as he adjusts the equipment by her bedside. He's trying to play it cool, but the cracks are there. Something is bothering him, and she knows exactly what it is.

He recognizes her face.

She looks too much like the heroine of the game, the one who's the center of this world's story. [Name] isn't supposed to be here. She isn't the main character of the game. She's something else—an anomaly.

Zayne frowns when he catches her staring at him. He quickly returns to his task, clearing his throat like it can shake off his weariness. "If you're feeling any discomfort, let me know. We'll have the results of your tests soon." He says calmly, but his eyes still carry that hint of confusion.

As he jots more notes on her chart, her mind spirals. This is far more than she expected, far more surreal, terrifying, and overwhelming. She never anticipated finding herself in this situation, least of all being reincarnated into her favorite otome game. But here she is, alive in a world she once thought was fiction.

Zayne looks at her again, his lips parting like he's about to speak. His face is composed; however, there's a shadow of skepticism beneath. Yet before he can get a word out, the buzz of his pager cuts through the moment. Instantly, the room's atmosphere shifts and his posture straightens.

The hospital's overhead speaker crackles to life, the receptionist's voice urgent: "Code Blue. Code Blue. Paging all medical personnel to surgical room two, please."

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he hesitates. Zayne gives her one last look, like he's trying to commit her to memory. When the voice over the intercom repeats the emergency, he finally breaks away. His eyes tear from her face with visible reluctance.

"Please excuse me," he says with urgency as he prepares to leave. "If you need anything, Nurse Yvonne is down the hall."

Without waiting for her response, he sharply turns and exits the room. His footsteps fade down the hall, leaving her alone with her racing thoughts. In his absence, the room feels eerily still, like the air is holding its breath. Then, the silence starts to eat away at her. The impossible truth digs into her, and something inside snaps.

In one swift motion, she throws the sheets away from her lower body. [Name] swings her legs over the side of the bed and stands—albeit too quickly. Her legs, frail from disuse, buckle beneath her. She stumbles, catching herself on the IV pole.

The cold metal anchors her as she settles down. Her muscles are weak, but determination propels her forward. [Name] drags the IV stand along as she shuffles toward the attached bathroom. Her steps awkward and sluggish.

Reaching the door, she kicks it open with the bare heel of her foot, too focused on her next task to bother with formalities. She lumbers inside, not even closing the door behind her. The thirst clawing at her throat is unbearable, a raw itch that she can no longer ignore. Like a starved animal, she ducks under the sink. She twists the faucet open and lets the crisp, refreshing water pour into her mouth. The liquid soothes her parched throat, the cool sensation spreading through her body as she gulps down as much as possible.

When finally sated, [Name] wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and turns off the faucet. However, just as she's about to leave the bathroom, her eyes catch something in the corner of the mirror—her own reflection. She freezes, seeing her face a lot clearer in the bathroom mirror than with the television's blackened screen.

Slowly, she leans closer, her hospital gown brushing against the wet edge of the sink. Her breath catches in her throat as she studies herself. "It’s me," she whispers. "But… Different."

Her fingers rise to touch her face, to trace the contours of her facial features. [Name] turns her face left, then right, her brow furrowing. Despite the striking resemblance to the game's protagonist, there's something off—something that makes it evident that she's different. Something subtle but undeniable. She's not the protagonist, but she's dangerously close. It's like she's staring at a near-perfect replica with slight imperfections that make it clear she's an outsider.

A thought jolts her back to the present. Actually, she thinks, why did Zayne call me by my real name? If I look this much like the protagonist, shouldn't he have called me—

Her mind goes blank. She tries to recall the heroine's name, the one who should be at the center of this world, but… nothing. She can't remember. Her forehead creases as she struggles to dig the name out of her memory. Yet the name remains out of reach, like a forgotten word on the tip of her tongue. [Name]'s mind is foggy; that part of her knowledge yet to recover from her reincarnation.

The blankness gnaws at her, but she pushes it aside. She can't focus on that right now. Her mind races to piece together what little information she has. Considering Zayne's reaction, he knew she wasn't her despite how closely she resembled the protagonist. That may be why he called [Name] by her real name instead. Yet this realization only poses more questions. How does he know her name? And, more importantly, who had brought her to the hospital? Zayne's words implied that someone dumped her here, but why?

Her thoughts swirl as she steps out of the bathroom, a little steadier now. [Name] is exhausted, mentally and physically, and all she wants is to make sense of this unfathomable situation. She heads back to bed, ready to collapse. But just as she's about to sit down, she stops dead in her tracks.

A plump tuxedo cat is lounging on the sheets. Its round face stares at her with a manner that borders on playful mischief. Its green eyes gleam with amusement at her shock. The sight is so unexpected that she blinks several times in a row.

"Um," she stammers, gesturing the cat away from the bed. "Can you move?"

The absurdity of talking to a cat doesn't even faze her anymore. After everything she's been through, who will judge her? She's all alone in this strange, new reality.

"Sure," the cat replies. High-pitched and child-like.

Her heart skips a beat. The cat just spoke.

Like everything's normal, the plump creature hops off the bed and waddles to the counter. [Name] stills. Her mind struggles to catch up with the sheer insanity in front of her. She can only watch as the cat leaps onto the counter and grabs a clear plastic bag hidden in the sink with his mouth. The cat drags the bag out, dropping it unceremoniously with a dull thud. The contents of the bag spill out in front of her—her military uniform, stiff with dried blood around the breast pocket. The sight of the uniform jolts her, the memories of the battlefield flooding back too quickly for comfort.

"Change," the cat orders, his tone matter-of-fact. "We're leaving."

Her mind stalls. She doesn't move. She doesn't breathe. All she can do is stare in utter disbelief. It takes a moment before her body reacts at all. When it finally does, she starts laughing. It's loud and hysterical, almost tipping on sobs. She's dreaming. She has to be. It's the only logical explanation for everything.

"I've officially lost it," she gasps between fits of maddened laughter, clutching her sides as tears sting her eyes. Suddenly, the room feels uncanny, like she's trapped in some B-rated horror movie. She crawls onto the bed with shaky hands, diving under the sheets and wrapping herself in darkness.

She shuts her eyes tightly, curling into herself and willing everything to disappear. A soft chant escapes her lips. Fragile. Desperate. "Wake up. Wake up. Wake up."

The silence that follows is almost palpable. Heavy. The only sound is the soft patter of paws on the tiled floor, growing louder as they approach. Suddenly, she feels the bed dip next to her head. The cat's weight presses into the pillow. Before she can react, the tuxedo cat tugs at the edge of the blanket, pulling it back just enough to reveal her face.

"Stop playing around, Human," the cat says impatiently. "We gotta scram before they find you."

Her eyes snap open, her heart hammering in her chest. The weight of reality—or whatever this is—crashes down on her like a tidal wave, leaving her breathless.

"Who?" [Name] croaks out, barely above a whisper. "Who's coming to get me?"

The cat lets out a huff, a sound that might have been a purr if it wasn't laced with annoyance. "Do you really want to find out?" His tone is sarcastic like the answer should be obvious.

[Name] shakes her head slowly, her body unable to process the fear and confusion fast enough. She barely understands what’s happening, but something deep inside warns her that whoever—or whatever—is coming for her won’t be friendly. Sensing her resignation, the cat sits back on his haunches, his green eyes glinting with satisfaction.

"Good," the cat says with a slight nod. "The name's Spots, by the way. Not that you bothered to ask."

Another silence settles between them, until [Name] realizes Spots is waiting for her to get up. She stills for a moment, weighing her options.

She could stay here, close her eyes, and hope this dream fades into nothingness. Maybe everything is just a product of her exhausted mind. A hallucination caused by trauma and stress. Maybe, if she holds on long enough, she’ll wake up in the real world, back to the life she knows. However, something tells her this doesn’t end with a simple waking.

The next best solution is that she could believe what’s happening. As impossible and terrifying as it seems, she could trust the cat—or at least trust that he knows more than she does. [Name] could just ignore the absurdity of a talking cat and follow him, because the alternative is facing whoever is coming for her alone. Zayne might return, but even that possibility feels unsettling. There’s too much confusion between them, and she doesn’t know if she could handle his reaction if he discovers what she’s beginning to accept: that she doesn’t belong here.

But Spots knows. He knows something about her situation. He knows what’s coming. And right now, that makes him the only source of guidance she has.

A frustrated heave escapes her as she finalizes her decision.

"Fuck it," she mutters.

Against her better judgment, [Name] slides out of bed, her legs no longer shaky as she drags the IV pole with her. She crouches down to pick up her clothes and combat boots. She glances back at Spots. He's swinging his tail lazily, eyes closed, a Cheshire grin permanent on his fluffy face.

Like ripping off a bandage, [Name] grits her teeth as she yanks the IV tube from her arm. The sharp sting makes her wince, but she pushes through the pain. She's quick to regain her composure. Without hesitation, she slips out of her hospital gown and into her military uniform. The fabric is stiff with dried blood, a cruel memento of her death.

But as she dresses, a disturbing thought begins to nag at her. If this is a dream, then… will she wake up back on the battlefield? Back in the grassy outskirts, far from the perishing city, fighting some meaningless war? Did she really want to go back to that? Can she even go back to that?

Her hand instinctively drifts to her heart, to the spot where the bullet pierced her. Her fingers brush over the dried blood. The hole in her uniform is the only proof of her last moments. She sighs and shakes her head, trying to dispel the unwanted thoughts. No. The mere thought of waking up back there—back in the war—terrifies her more than this new reality ever could.

Moving to the sink, she grabs a paper towel and runs it under cold water. Carefully, she dabs at the bloodstain, trying to clean it, but the water only spreads the mess. A frown tugs at her lips as she realizes her mistake. Spots hop down from the bed, noticing her frustration, and he is far too impatient to wait. He strolls over to her and stretches his paws against her leg, nudging her to pick him up.

Taking the hint, [Name] heaves and scoops the plump tuxedo cat into her arms, holding him close to her chest. Conveniently, Spots’ round body covers the bloodstain on her uniform.

"Ready?" Spots ask.

He gestures toward the closed door with his head, his green eyes narrowing to urge her forward.

Reluctantly, she nods and moves toward the exit of her hospital room. Her hand wraps around the cold doorknob, but then she hesitates. Frozen with uncertainty. Afraid of the unknown guaranteed outside this small, contained room. Her fingers still on the knob as she takes a shallow breath.

"Human," Spots purrs. It's a soothing rumble against her heart. "It's okay. Whatever happens, you have me now. You're not alone in this."

[Name] presses her lips into a tight line, reassured by the cat’s comforting words. Something about his presence, about his gentle confidence, calms her. It doesn’t make sense, but she doesn’t care to question it. Right now, she craves stability, no matter how strange the source.

Without another word, she pulls the door open and peeks her head out. She scans the hallway. The sterile, quiet corridor stretches out in both directions. Unbeknownst to her, that first step beyond the door will set a chain reaction of events into motion, incidents and experiences that will shift the story she once knew, casting her into a role she never imagined playing.

"Here goes nothing," she whispers, stepping into the unknown.

ao3 // masterpost // prev // next

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #lads #lads sylus #lnds #lnds sylus #l&ds #l&ds sylus #sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x afab!reader #isekai reader #reincarnation #multi chap fic #multi chapter #chaptered #a second life for strays #psycho-pills

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istoleyoursphenoidbone · 3 months ago

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In Search of Kindred Spirits - Chapter 1

DPxDC, Dead on Main

Summary: What happens when two young kids have a fate meeting on the streets of Gotham? Kindred Spirits get formed of course, ones who despite their fates will search to find each other once more.

The streets of Gotham were an endless labyrinth of shadows, filth, and danger. Even at midday, when the sun struggled to cut through the thick layers of smog and skyscrapers, Gotham felt like it existed in a perpetual twilight. For 8-year-old Danny Fenton, it was like stepping into another world—darker, grittier, and far less friendly than Amity Park’s suburban quiet.

Danny trailed behind his parents as they animatedly argued about the schedule for the Paranormal Science Conference. Jack and Maddie Fenton were brilliant, but their hyperfixation on ghost hunting often left Danny feeling like an afterthought. He sighed as they turned another corner, too distracted by their plans to notice him lagging behind.

Something shiny caught his eye—a penny glinting on the grimy sidewalk. Danny stooped to pick it up, grinning at his small treasure. His parents were already several steps ahead, their voices blending into the city’s cacophony.

“Lucky penny,” Danny whispered, pocketing it. When he looked up, his parents were gone.

Panic crept into his chest. He spun around, scanning the street for the telltale flash of Jack’s bright orange jumpsuit or Maddie’s blue lab coat. Nothing. The crowd pressed around him, and for the first time, Gotham felt suffocating.

“Mom? Dad?” Danny called, but his voice barely carried over the noise of honking cars and shouting vendors. He took a few hesitant steps forward, unsure which way his parents had gone.

“Hey, kid,” a gruff voice interrupted. Danny turned to see three older boys, maybe in their late teens, grinning at him in a way that made his stomach twist.

“Lost, are we?” one of them said, stepping closer. He reeked of cigarettes, and his hand casually rested on a switchblade at his belt.

Danny swallowed hard, taking a step back. “N-no, I’m fine. Just looking for my parents.”

The tallest of the group laughed, his yellowed teeth on full display. “Oh, we’ll help you find ‘em, alright. But it’s gonna cost you. Hand over whatever you’ve got, and we might just point you in the right direction.”

Danny’s heart pounded. His mind raced through every ghost-hunting gadget his parents had ever built, none of which were currently on him. All he had was his "lucky penny," and he doubted it would do much good against a knife.

Before he could respond, a voice cut through the tension like a whip.

“Hey! Leave him alone!”

All eyes turned to the boy standing at the mouth of the alley. He looked to be about Danny’s age, though he carried himself with the confidence of someone far older. His dark hair stuck out in messy tufts beneath a red hoodie, and his hands were balled into fists at his sides.

The tallest thug sneered. “Scram, kid. This ain’t your business.”

The boy didn’t move. If anything, he stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. “Yeah? Well, now it is. So unless you wanna explain to the cops why you’re picking on a little kid, I’d suggest you back off.”

Danny couldn’t help but admire the way the boy stood his ground, even as the thugs towered over him.

The one with the knife scoffed. “You’ve got guts, kid. Too bad they’re gonna get you in trouble someday.” With a final glare, the group turned and slunk away, disappearing into the crowd.

Danny let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “T-thanks,” he stammered.

The boy shrugged, a lopsided grin spreading across his face. “No problem. Name’s Jason. You shouldn’t wander around Gotham on your own, y’know.”

Danny gave a sheepish smile. “I wasn’t trying to. I got separated from my parents. I’m Danny, by the way.”

Jason’s grin widened. “Nice to meet ya, Danny. You’re not from around here, are you?”

Danny shook his head. “We’re just visiting for a few months. My parents are scientists—they’re at some big conference thingy.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “Scientists, huh? That explains the whole… mad scientist vibe you’ve got going on.”

Danny laughed. “You should see my dad. He’s like, twice as loud and ten times weirder.”

Jason snickered, and for a moment, the tension melted away. “C’mon,” he said, motioning for Danny to follow. “I’ll help you find your parents. Gotham’s confusing if you don’t know your way around.”

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Over the next few weeks, Danny and Jason became inseparable. Jason, who’d always been wary of strangers, found himself drawn to Danny’s unfiltered curiosity and easy laughter. In return, Danny admired Jason’s bravery and quick wit, marveling at how someone his age could navigate Gotham’s streets like they were his personal playground.

Jason introduced Danny to the hidden gems of Gotham: the best place to get day-old bagels for free, the rooftops with the best views, and even an abandoned theater where they could sneak in and watch old movies.

One afternoon, as they sat on a rooftop overlooking the city, Danny turned to Jason with a wide grin. “Y’know, you’re kinda like a superhero.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “What makes you say that?”

“You saved me that day in the alley, didn’t you? And you’re always looking out for people, even if they don’t deserve it. That’s what heroes do.”

Jason shrugged, but his cheeks flushed faintly. “I’m no hero, Danny. I just… do what I can.”

“Well, if you ever decide to put on a cape, I’d totally be your sidekick,” Danny said, grinning.

Jason smirked. “Yeah? You’d probably trip over it.”

Danny stuck out his tongue. “I’d be the brains of the operation. You’d just punch stuff.”

They both laughed, the sound echoing into the twilight.

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The day Danny’s family had to leave Gotham came too soon. Standing outside the train station, Danny clutched a small photo of himself and Jason that they’d taken in a cheap photo booth.

“I’ll write to you,” Danny promised, his voice thick with emotion.

Jason gave him a crooked smile. “You better. Don’t ghost me, alright?”

Danny rolled his eyes but smiled through his tears. “Deal. And you better stay out of trouble.”

Jason’s expression turned serious for a moment. “I’ll try. But Gotham’s not exactly easy on people like me.”

“You’re tougher than this whole city,” Danny said firmly.

Jason looked down, his hand brushing the small charm Danny had pressed into his palm earlier. It was a simple necklace with a crudely drawn ghost emblem on it. “For good luck,” Danny had said.

“Thanks,” Jason murmured. “For everything.”

The train whistle blew, cutting through the air. Danny hugged Jason tightly before running to join his parents. As the train pulled away, he pressed his face to the window, watching Jason grow smaller and smaller until he disappeared entirely.

Though Gotham faded into the distance, Danny’s resolve didn’t. He’d made a friend for life.

And no matter what, he wouldn’t let Jason Todd down.

#dpxdc #dc x dp #danny fenton #danny phantom #jason todd #red hood #dead on main #platonic #multi chap fic #cross posted on ao3 #These children about to get trauma :D #It's fine it'll build character #constructive critism welcome #fanfic writing

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okwonyo · 2 years ago

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STAN TWITTER ﹒LEE HEESEUNG.

✸ SYNOPSIS ！idols flirting with their fans during fan-signs is not something new, especially on stantwt. but you never thought it would happen to you.

or in which heeseung experienced love at first sight with you, made you gain a lot of followers AND haters and is now stalking your account on a daily basis.

PARING ⌇ lee heesung x fem!reader

𐙚 GENRE idol au, stranger to lovers (?), fluff, humorous, angst, smau + maybe some written chapters, twitter language.

FEATURING ୭ৎ enha! all

📁 enha 🆙 ﹒being normal ✖️ being on stantwt ✔️

MASTERLIST

001 forget enhypen i want you 🫵

002 sitting under a three k i s s i n g

003 is this a safe space

004 IM JUST A GIRL IN THE WORLD

005 it MIGHT be me ig

006 hello

007 IM NOT A COP ??

008 DREAM BLUNT ROTATION

009 U FUCKING TRAITOR

010 when you know, you know ( written ! )

STAN TWITTER II

REVAMPED VERSION.

(chapters names may change)

TAGLIST : @j1nniee @mimi1xx @hangecanweholdhands @flwrshee @xyadix @gyuszie @wooonkies @manooffline @bbangricz @ghostiiess @dearflwrz @rodygr @lol6sposts @haechansbbg @ilovewonyo @flmtunes @ikeulvr @spilled-coffee-cup @ashy1um @woncine @ughpixa @jaeyunology @jungwoneez @doublasting @lol6sposts @kimiczi @stariqwon @thekinkpopstandsforkrackheads @iea-tsand @anyavaramyr @hoeinthehouse @lovvette @makiswrld @yenqa @ibsysbsfsunsbs @yeokii @jiawji @ririlovesrenjun dm or send a ask to be added.

NETWORK @kflixnet

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spaghettixdemon · 6 months ago

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J Stands for more words than one PT.1

“While introducing his new girlfriend to the team, JJ is automatically confronted with her feelings for Spencer when they begin to get in the way of things"

DISCLAIMER You are responsible for the content you consume. Make sure to read all necessary warnings. Minors do not interact. Please remember this is a work of fiction; if you don’t like it, don’t read it.

Warnings: Drinking/Drunkenness, P in V, getting freaky in a car, fighting, slight mentions of death, Jealousy??

Pairing: Spencer Reid x F! Reader

Word Count: 1.3k

This was originally in my Google Doc but I seem to have lost access to it :( SO I am re-writing it! (I will definitely add more chapters bc omg this is long)

part 2 here | part 2.5 here | part 3 here

—————————————————————————————————

"Alright anndd finally done!" Emily turned to JJ, clapping her hands together and beaming. Today was a paperwork day, and everyone had been working until the late hours. "These reports are killing me...I've been on the same one the majority of the day..." JJ spoke to Emily with a sigh and a slight smirk playing on her lips. Yes, JJ had been stuck on the same case most of the day, but it wasn't just the amount of work, no. That wasn't the only reason her day was moving so slowly.

Right across from her desk, in perfect view, was Spencer Reid- their little resident genius. His legs were crossed in his office chair, his curly hair fell in front of his eyes, and his long, slender fingers traced down the written report, scanning every word and spreading it within seconds effortlessly. JJ had always been close with Spencer- because of their tight-knit team, their ages, and of course, the butterflies she would get around him. They were the two closets in age at the BAU, so maybe that was part of the reasoning behind her crush, but honestly, she just thought he was very attractive.

So earlier today, when Spencer was talking on his phone nonstop, JJ was confused. Spencer was not a fan of technology, thinking back on how it took Spencer literal years to finally sign up for an email address. So, whatever was keeping Spencer on speed dial on the other line clearly didn't bother him too much. JJ would sneak glances towards her coworker hourly, taking in his body language and how he seemed to be head over heels. He would fidget and spin in his office chair as someone talked to him, he had a faint blush on his cheeks, and a smile plastered on his face. In all actuality, she'd never seen Spencer look so dopey- maybe he truly was just happy right now, but the emotions on his face surprised her.

"Hey lover-boy, what's going on over here?" JJ shot her head down, burying her face in her work. It was Derek who popped the question already on JJ's mind. Derek crossed his arms and leaned against Spencer's desk as Spencer looked up at Derek. Rolling his eyes and hanging up the phone, Spencer set the phone down on his desk. "Was that a girl on the other end of the line? I don't think I've ever seen you so happy to pick up a call at work." Both men laughed as Spencer grew a little quiet, sheepishly shrugging. "I mean- yeah, actually, you're right for once." Spencer laughed as an expression of excitement and shock plastered onto Derek's. "Wow really?" He laughed, a little in disbelief "Congrats man! That's awesome!"

JJ watched as the two guys hugged and discussed Spencer's new girlfriend. Weirdly, JJ felt a pang in her chest of embarrassment...or more like frustration. Why? She wasn't sure. JJ could read anyone within minutes, but she could never read her own emotions that well.

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

Days had passed, and work was pretty much back to normal. Normal meaning JJ wasn't constantly hearing about Spencer's new girlfriend, who he adored so much. It was cute, yeah, and she did feel happy for the man and his newfound love, but it would get pretty repetitive after a while. Derek and Penelope, in particular, would not let up on the subject. It was cute when Penelope giggled and twirled her hair when asking about this girl, but the way Spencer would drop information on her so easily was frustrating.

Penelope beamed, ecstatic over all this new news. Then, looking at Derek, she gasped and clapped her hands together. "You should bring her here! We could all meet her it would be so nice..!" Spencer looked a little uneasy. The few times his relationship did start getting this serious, work would interfere and often kill the relationship. Though, Derek backed up Penelope and agreed it would be fun.

"I don't know guys...That might be a little intense..." JJ heard this and thought over the idea in her head. Meeting the girl Spencer was so enamored by might be interesting...to say the least. She looked up and smiled at the three talking. "No Spence you should totally bring her in! I want to meet this girl!" Spencer gave JJ a hesitant look, visibly thinking over the interaction in his head. He slowly smiled and rolled his eyes, looking at the three before him. "Ok Ok..I'll bring up the idea and if she's cool with it, I'll bring her here next Friday"

Penelope and Derek cheered while JJ sat there, smiling quietly. She clapped her hands together and sighed "Amazing! I can't wait".

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

The week that followed that conversation wasn't a pleasant one. The team had traveled out of state to work on a pretty gruesome case- Spencer, in particular, had a rough time during the case. He should be used to the horrible feelings that came with the job, but it was never really easy dealing with death so often.

The team had thankfully made it back to base Friday, and everyone was exhausted. They spent the day quietly filling out paperwork and trying to unwind as they worked into the early hours of the night. Around 7pm, Spencer got a call. JJ noticed this in particular because of how eager he was to answer the phone. A small smile appeared on his face, and the faint blush was back. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed, hanging up the call with a simple goodbye.

Spencer looked around at his friends as the smile on his face grew. "My Girlfriend is apparently downstairs in the lobby! ...I was thinking of bringing her up is everyone ok with that?" The office was suddenly filled with energy again, and everyone seemed to wake up. JJ in particular, shot her head up and looked at Spencer, a little shocked. She had completely forgotten this would be happening...She made eye contact with Spencer and looked a little hesitant as she spoke up. "um...yeah that would be great..!"

"Yes, PLEASE bring her up! I need some fun to distract me from all this work." Penelope popped her head out of her office as she spoke to Spencer. Spencer looked a little confused by what JJ had said but smiled and nodded anyway. He slowly made his way towards the elevator, a bit of pep in his step.

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

Everyone in the office had quickly wrapped up what they had been working on and made their way to the office cubicles to meet this girl Spencer was so into. Penelope pulled up a chair next to JJ and beamed. "Are you excited to meet her?" JJ...still felt very conflicted. Just earlier that week, when they had been solving the case, She was staying in the hotel room next to Spencer's. She thought about how she ran into him shirtless and wearing sweatpants. He apologized and made his way inside his room, but she felt so conflicted.

She wasn't upset that he was shirtless...definitely not...but something about getting caught off guard like that made her blush. She remembered the feeble nerd she used to work with. He was in his mid-twenties and looked so new to the BAU world. Now, the man she saw earlier that week and today was a bit different. He had toughened up more and was a bit more muscular- not to a Derek level, but he definitely wasn't feeble anymore.

"Something like that" JJ mumbled to Penelope, a faint blush on her face. Penelope was about to question JJ, just as an elevator 'dinging' noise saved her. Everyone's attention was on the elevator and who was inside.

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

#criminal minds #fanfic #spencer reid smut #smut #spencer reid criminal minds #spencer reid fanfic #big girl fanfic #curvy girls #criminal minds x reader #x reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #chapter 1 #multi chapter #multi chap fic

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greenandsorrow · 4 months ago

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Flowers in December, a mini series

Luke Danes x fem!reader ☕🧣🧤🌨️

Summary.

A gal in her early twenties moved to Stars Hollow three months ago and since then, Luke's Diner has practically become her second home. Twice a day, like clockwork, she's sat at a table, sipping her coffee... Not to mention all the to-go cups.

Warnings.

slow burn, jealousy, possessiveness, sexual content, big age gap, size kink, touch-starved!Luke, dom!Luke, virgin!reader, sassy!reader, selfish!reader, grumpy x sunshine trope, hurt, comfort, angst, feelings of inadequacy, alcohol consumption

Author's note.

Not me entering ANOTHER fandom. I can't be stopped and I so declare myself a public threat. Yep, I'm new to the Gilmore Girls fandom, so nice to meet you all! <3 Um... I just finished S1, so my knowledge isn't very broad and I'm also trying to avoid spoilers. I haven't even read any Gilmore fics... YET. Luke is Dilf material and this fic is very self indulgent… I can't help myself. But hey, maybe that is good for you 👀

Ch.I soon

Ch.II soon

Ch.III soon

Ch.IV soon

Support a struggling uni student! Every penny means the world coming from you. Thank you so much! 💙 CLICK HERE (PayPal link)

My masterlist.

Fic title -> Flowers in December by Mazzy Star

Dividers by @strangergraphics and @saradika-graphics.

You can ask to be added to the taglist. It's free. 🩵

Please do not copy or repost my work anywhere.

Taglist: @mimiibear @gurlintheyellowhat @imdoingitareyou

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hynzsn · 10 months ago

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★ STRAWBERRY KISSES ★

☆ choi soobin x male reader

-> sunshine baker!soobin x grumpy (secretly soft) farmer!reader

꩜ .ᐟ fluff, multi chapter fic, ongoing

contents: loosely inspired by strawberry shortcake (tv show), alternate universe - modern setting, m/m, romance, slow burn, happy ending, confessions, mutual pining, opposites attract, small town setting, baking, food porn, strawberries, summer festival, jealousy, first kiss, feel-good story, sweet moments, shared kitchen shenanigans

a/n: chapter one is out!!

♡︎♡︎♡︎ likes, comments and reblogs are highly appreciated ♡︎♡︎♡︎

₊˚ ꒰ 𖦹﹕CHAPTER ONE: BERRY BEST BEGINNING ꒱ ˚₊

meet soobin, the sunshine baker known for his award-winning pastries and infectious laugh. his bakery, "crumbs & co.," is the heart of your small town, especially during the annual summer berry festival. but disaster strikes – he's out of strawberries, his star ingredient! enter you, the gruff but handsome owner of "sun-kissed berries," known for your organic, mouthwatering produce. soobin, desperate and flustered, begs you for help. you, initially hesitant due to the last-minute request and your own demanding schedule, is charmed by soobin’s passion and agrees to help, setting the stage for a week of unexpected collaboration.

₊˚ ꒰ 𖦹﹕CHAPTER TWO: FIELDS OF STRAWBERRY DREAMS ꒱ ˚₊

soobin is a fish out of water as you show him the ropes of berry farming. you navigate rows of vibrant strawberry plants, your banter a mix of teasing and genuine curiosity. soobin is captivated by your quiet confidence and connection to the land, while you find yourself drawn to soobin’s infectious enthusiasm and city-boy wonder. a playful competition erupts – who knows more about their respective crafts? the day ends with a shared picnic basket amidst the strawberry fields, a moment of quiet intimacy under the setting sun.

₊˚ ꒰ 𖦹﹕CHAPTER THREE: SPRINKLES OF AFFECTION & MIDNIGHT SUGAR ꒱ ˚₊

back in the cozy chaos of soobin’s bakery, the real magic begins. you experiment with new recipes, flour dusting their aprons and laughter filling the air. you discover a hidden talent for pastry-making, your hands surprisingly adept at delicate tasks. soobin is mesmerized by your focused intensity, your arms brushing as they work side-by-side. as midnight approaches, a moment of charged silence hangs between you, broken only by the soft whir of the oven and the unspoken longing in their eyes. a near kiss, a stolen touch of fingertips, leaves you both breathless and wanting more.

₊˚ ꒰ 𖦹﹕CHAPTER FOUR: BERRY FESTIVAL JITTERS & A PINCH OF SOUR GRAPES ꒱ ˚₊

the day of the summer berry festival dawns bright and bustling. soobin is a whirlwind of nervous energy, putting the finishing touches on his berry creations. you, despite your usual composure, finds yourself inexplicably drawn to soobin’s side, wanting to ease his anxiety and bask in his radiant energy. but your budding connection is threatened by the arrival of beomgyu, a charming, flirtatious artist who sets his sights on you, much to soobin’s dismay. as the festival begins, soobin grapples with a confusing mix of jealousy and self-doubt, unsure if his feelings for you are reciprocated.

₊˚ ꒰ 𖦹﹕CHAPTER FIVE: STRAWBERRY KISSES & A BERRY SWEET FOREVER ꒱ ˚₊

the festival is in full swing, a kaleidoscope of color, music, and the intoxicating aroma of baked goods. soobin’s strawberry creations are a hit, but his heart feels heavy with uncertainty. you, sensing soobin’s turmoil, finds a quiet moment amidst the crowd to confess your feelings. you gently take soobin’s hand, your fingers intertwining, and with a look that speaks volumes, leans in for a soft, sweet kiss that tastes of strawberries and promises. the chapter (and the story) ends with a final scene at the festival, the ferris wheel twinkling above you, your laughter mingling with the sounds of summer night, your love story as bright and hopeful as the stars overhead.

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ellesthots · 3 months ago

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Fateful Beginnings

XLIII. “a terrible thing”

read on AO3 🦇

parts: previous / next

plot: Bruce can’t believe the softness you pull out of him—you can’t believe how fully you trust him.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, fluff, jealousy, yearning, mention of sex, brief discussion of violence (martha wayne’s parent’s murder-suicide)

words: 8.4k

a/n: i think we’re all in need of some fluff right now, and it just so happens that we’re in the mutual pining phase with these lovebirds and that’s where the chapter took me <3 also omg I’ve felt so spoiled by all the comments and asks, thank you for continuously blessing my inbox with them!! love love 💞

The doorbell woke you right at noon. You opened the door to a cardboard drink carrier from DoorDash sat on your doormat, cradling a tan iced coffee from the cafe down the street. A typed note fell from the bottom when you lifted it onto the counter.

for keeping you last night - B

Admittedly, he was halfway decent at apologies for someone who didn’t seem to have practice with them. Sleep had calmed your nerves a few levels, cooling your head enough to—begrudgingly—accept his apologies. The coffee chilling your hand made that grudge slip. Per usual, his eyes left nothing unanalyzed; he’d even managed to get the alternate milk right. Kinda terrifying, kinda cool?

As you sipped on the latte, you thought to how past partners had reacted after arguments. Ignored calls, passive aggressive texts, days without acknowledgment or apology. You nearly choked and died when you realized you’d lumped Bruce into the category ‘partner’, and discarded the coffee on the counter as if it had the power to remove him from your thoughts.

Somewhere down the line the edges of your arguments had softened. The fear of him had whittled away, yet his anger retained the vigor of a snappy punch. Your fingers danced along the marble countertop, its smoothness lending no distraction to your wandering mind. Arguing like a couple, with none of the benefits.

Your stare fixed absentmindedly on the sink. Forgiving him so easily felt like bending to the whims of your hormones; naivety’s tug whispered beratement for believing the first man to utter the words I’m sorry to you. Was the bar truly that low? Why did you feel so safe with someone so reactive, so violent as to spend every night chasing people to punch?

Your gaze dropped to the note. It was thoughtful. A butterfly or two danced around the room. Even though he was the last person you ever thought you’d feel anything other than loathing for, and it could never be set in motion, it was fun having a crush. How pretty was it to imagine him sipping his own latte across the kitchen? Or sweatpants hung low on his hips as he cooked you breakfast after staying overnight?

Thoughts could wander, even if reality could never align. Fantasy worlds where circumstances had been different, and the callousness of the world allowed you temporary effervescence through the eyes of a beautiful man you met in a big and terrible city. You’d unknowingly created an indivisible fork the night you chose to lie, and this was all you could ever be to him.

The rest of your afternoon was spent hunched over a laptop typing up highlights from the two rallies. After Grange’s the following Tuesday, you could submit on Friday for publishing that weekend. You cast away all worry about it potentially being your last column ever, otherwise a single word wouldn’t have been written.

You eyed your usual outfit at the top of your laundry hamper. A dress would mean heels, heels would mean pain… you grabbed a pair of black jeans and a vaguely musty sweater from the bottom drawer, and shook it until you beat the lingering scent of old out of it.

You’d fastened your second earring and spritzed some perfume when you heard a knock. “It’s meee!”

Mar spilled in holding a small rectangular box wrapped in shiny silver paper. She beat you to the punch. “I know you have your meeting right now, but I’m on the way to Gianna’s and had to stop by just in case.”

Your brow furrowed, mouth twitching into a grin as you took the box and began to unwrap it. It was feather-light. She joked about it being a housewarming gift, “only a month late, but better late than never”.

The Trojan logo blared at you. BareSkin Raw were the next words unveiled, and it was at precisely this point where you thought the universe was pranking you. But no: it was just Mar.

“Last time I was here I peeked around a little bit and couldn’t find any. The thought of babytrapping a billionaire is enticing, but—”

“We’re not together.”

“Even if you ‘aren’t together’,” she took the condoms from you and ripped open the box, tearing two off the pack. “You can still get pregnant.” She took your bag and rifled around for your wallet, tucking them into a side zipper pocket.

“Technically that’s not safe storage.” You closed the top of the box and walked it to your bedside drawer, sliding it to the right of the diary you hadn’t used yet. Mar was gazing knowingly at you from the doorframe.

“Safer than having nothing.”

As awkward as it was, she was trying. Even if looking out for you was centered around keeping your uterus uninhabited, it was something. You thanked her, running to the bathroom to put on the deodorant you’d almost forgotten.

“Want a ride?” Mar called from the kitchen. “I have an Uber out front, we could add a stop.”

“Sure.” You stepped to grab your bag as she plucked the note with a gasp.

“For keeping you last night? You’re fucking joking.” She was positively beaming; you had a passing thought of crumpling it up and throwing it at Bruce’s chest, chastising him about the lack of forethought for what could happen if a wild Mar read it. “When will you want to talk about it with me? Marathoning so hard he gifts you coffee the next morning is crazy.”

You swerved the conversation to her budding relationship with Gianna for the drive to City Hall, though she kept trying to redirect it.

“Where do you usually get dropped off?” You pointed Mar to the front loop, and she directed the driver to follow the other rideshares near the entry steps. She mumbled something about it reading like the Met Gala with the amount of paparazzi, and you grumbled something about how it was all because of Bruce.

She talked briefly about how he’d blown up the past few months and needed to cut you a check, but she interrupted herself. “Oh my god.”

Bruce had climbed out of his vintage Chevy and handed the key to the valet. Sneakers, dark gray slacks, black tee, and a matching leather jacket. Completely different from his sweaters and suits to the point of being nearly unrecognizable.

Mar all but shoved you out of the Uber, excitedly whispering about how she should’ve packed more than two for you, leaving no time to settle before ascending the steps and entering the foyer.

Bruce was at the catering table chatting with the women waiting in line. Unusual. By the time you’d situated with the other press, the crowd of his admirers had tripled. When you’d fished out your notebook and pen, he had his arms wrapped around a few of them. He was talking, smiling and not shooting one look your way. Was he trying to make you jealous?

Bruce counted the seconds of each inhale and exhale, anything to help him forget the eyes and ears hanging on his every word. His arm was going numb from being passed around so much. Half of these women were married, including the few skimming their hands along his chest and hips.

“What happened, Mr. Wayne?” Someone was caressing his bruised hand.

He had about three seconds to conjure the most vague, lewd response and not crumble into the floor. “Played a little too rough.”

You watched as some of the group giggled at something he said, fluttered their lashes at his winks, and pursed their lips into a barely-contained grin when he’d lean in to whisper something. At one point you swore his lips touched a woman’s ear and you felt like you’d been shot.

If jealousy was his intention, it was unfortunately working. He looked undeniably hot, somehow managing an effortless cool. Had he been honest about his introversion? The sling of his arm around shoulders, the little glances he gave, the grins that flashed teeth when he leaned closer. Maybe he tried to play docile and shy, but Jesus… you followed the way his eyes dropped to their lips when they spoke, occasionally darting to their eyes before trailing down again. You tensed. That man knew exactly what he was doing. If that ‘already spoken for’ was true, his partner was made of steel.

You couldn’t stop the swirl in your gut from feeling played. Did he think because he apologized and got you coffee he had you wrapped around his finger? Was this a subtle power play? It has to be. Your throat was tight, fixated on every touch and glance. Maybe he did have you in the palm of his hand. Everything he did was working.

The meeting began and Bruce was last into the room—alongside some of the men’s wives. A few introductions of nonsense characters, some reminders about the upcoming rallies and fundraisers, then budget talk. The budget was something you genuinely wanted to attend to, but it was impossible with your heart pounding in your ears deadening all sound. If he was so sorry, why had he marched in and flirted with every woman in the building? The minutes passed like hours.

Eventually Mr. Convoy called a brief intermission to collect his notes, and you stared Bruce down as he drew a deep breath before standing. He shook out his hands and moved through the doorway, tucking his left fist into his pocket as the first group approached him. Your eyes narrowed as you settled into the corner by the drinks, mulling over his evident anxiety. Yet he remained desperate enough to push through it to get under your skin. Did he have gum in his mouth? Who the hell?

A group of suited men clustered in the foyer’s center, the tallest of them snickering at you. He’d talked to Bruce once or twice in the past month you’d been here. You remembered him due to how severely his sandy brown hair was gelled to his scalp. Your cheeks heated when he made a mocking kissy face and you realized he was harassing you for openly staring at the man of the hour. As your downcast eyes scoured the tiling, you mulled over the man’s name. Probably started with a G. The sound of Bruce’s laugh involuntarily placed your attention back on his tall, wide frame, the silver zipper of his jacket slipping through salon-manicured fingers, being fiddled with and jerked about like your heartstrings.

A hand slipped underneath his jacket, rubbing between his shoulderblades. Someone ‘tripped’ and caught themselves against his abs, marveling at them as they steadied. It was just about impossible to keep his smile from fading to a grimace, a forced laugh playing it off. Overstimulation nipped at his frayed nerves. Too many voices asking too many questions, too far out of his element effectively seducing people in public. The exaggerated glances he gave, the haughty nonchalance, it was wearying. You’d better be enjoying this.

He knew you were by the catering, but hadn’t wanted to impose his presence after the night before. He chanced a glance and, sure enough, you were glaring at him. His heart skipped at how angry you looked. Had he misread it? Someone’s hand trailed up his chest now. “Something bothering you, Bruce?” He imagined it was you, his ears perking to the sound of his name and the circular motion of your fingers between his pecs. His hand moved to grab yours on instinct, fingers lacing for a single second before catching himself. The stranger bit her lip, re-grabbing his hand, misattributing the blush sweeping his face. “Your hands are so…”

You’d never seen that woman before, and you never wanted to see her again. You never again wanted to feel this tight, hot squishing sensation in your head and chest. Mr. Convoy called the meeting to resume and you hung back, not trusting your legs, except that Bruce did the same. After continuous hesitation the doors were set to shut, so you both started for them. He fell in line beside you.

When he spoke your spine stiffened. “Trying the playboy thing.”

Yeah, he sure is.

“Thought you might find it funny. After our conversation yesterday.”

You stopped where you stood. He gave an apologetic smile before stepping through the door. Yesterday. Early in the a.m.. You spent the rest of the meeting feeling guilty and meek. It was so easy, too easy, to assume the worst of him.

Pictures weren’t allowed in the building, so you heard a few of the journalists behind you game-plan leaving the conference room first to stake out the front steps. A minute to its end, as your peers crept toward the exit, you threw a text his way.

Still accepting ride requests?

He checked his phone under the table.

Meet you around back in five.

The meeting ended, Bruce waded through his many fans, and you skirted to the back. Cool metal across your palm reminded you that it all had to end just as it began to feel routine. The chilly night air blew in your face as the heavy door clicked shut behind you. Next week’s meeting would be the last opportunity to be driven home by him; the last time home would be Gotham, and not thousands of miles’ distance. Unless he ever found himself adventuring southern Washington, you’d never see him again, either.

When he pulled up you pretended to peer in the backseat, wanting to play off your earlier frustration. An apology, coffee, and trying to entertain you in the most bland environment in existence? The lively, social man of ten minutes ago had been whittled down to something more subdued. The drain of the evening was splashed across the subtle lines in his face.

You slipped into the heavy leather seat and gestured behind you. “Surprised it isn’t full of your admirers.” Your senses heightened knowing this was one of three last times you’d ever be in his presence. When he laughed under his breath, you felt it like a beam of light in your chest.

“What’s my grade?” He put the car in gear and headed down the alleyway as you finished buckling. Wanting to ensure he wasn’t overstepping, he shot cautious glances your way. He hoped the car was dark enough it wouldn’t show his blush.

“Not sure I can be unbiased after you bribed me with that coffee.”

Just hearing your voice turned him scarlet. “Tried to match the color to when we crossed paths.”

“You nailed it.”

Tires gliding over potholes and crunchy gravel patches studded the silence of the next few blocks. Bruce was doing a very diligent job of taking you straight home; sometimes he swerved down side roads but tonight he stayed a strict path. You felt the apology hanging over him. It reminded you of how Walter acted when he’d broken into some human food. Ears back, posture drawn-in and hesitant. He caught you glancing at him.

“You seemed upset.” His voice was soft. So much softer than with everyone at City Hall.

Flashes of their hands across his chest and neck while he leaned in to make them laugh made you shift in the seat, the leather crinkling. White lies were fine, right? It seemed better than admitting debilitating jealousy. “I had a headache.”

“Should be back soon if you need ibuprofen.”

“Nah, it’s all good.” You waved your hand and it slapped against your thigh.

His hands tightened around the wheel, and so did your gut. He always had something on his tongue when he did that. And now you were thinking about his mouth…

“You’re right about the playboy angle. I think that’s the clearest direction.”

Still thinking… you swallowed. “Pretty different to how you usually act.”

“Enduring it will be a whole other thing.” Alongside a begrudging nod, he rolled his eyes and grit his teeth. It was imperative his jaw stopped moving. As jealous as the playboy facade made you, you weren’t mad at how it made him even more visible, situated like a painting for your viewing pleasure.

“You didn’t have any fun with it?”

The half-second he thought it was you, maybe. The rest of the evening was a painful blur. “Not really.”

The car tucked into the alleyway.

“Here.”

Your foot tapped against the carpeted interior. In hindsight—once you were gridlocked to the confines of rurality—would you hate yourself for leaving right now? Probably. “You said there’s places outside of city limits to drive?”

“You don’t want to go home?”

“I’m up for some racing.”

“Let me know when you want me to drop you off.”

The ride was quiet. Bruce, of course, knew every back road away from prying eyes, making the sirens, shouts, and car horns a distant memory. When buildings morphed to trees, your shoulders relaxed. He noticed.

“Lot of pine trees in Washington?”

“Some.” Your nose made a print against the glass, straining through the glare. “A lot of Douglas Fir. Cedar.”

“Do you mind gravel roads?” He didn’t want to jostle you too much if not. You grinned at him and his body surged a streak of warmth.

“Prefer them.” You glanced around the interior. “Sure you want to scratch up the paint?”

You heard him smile; he laughed via a particularly jaunty exhale through his nose. “Nothing some Sharpie can’t fix.”

You looked out the passenger window so he wouldn’t see your smirk. The weirdest rich person.

“Prefer them?”

You couldn’t resist peeking at him, and his brow was scrunched. “Most people don’t, which means it’s likely really pretty.”

“No one wants to see something pretty.”

You nudged him, biting your tongue. He could barely contain his relief at your apparent forgiveness.

The trees thickened, and the road turned bumpy. You rolled down the window and leaned your head out, basking in the smell of pine needles and fresh air.

“Careful, rock could hit you.”

You stuck your arm out, the cold breeze chilling it immediately. It’d been so long since you’d driven like this. Years, maybe. Your dad was always so busy with work, your mom so exhausted; having to scrimp and save pennies for copayments, past dues on maxed out credit cards. For the better part of the past decade, the car had been reserved for medical appointments and grocery trips exclusively. The only time you got to feel the breeze on your skin in anything reminiscent of a forest was on lone bike rides, but you were usually too sad to immerse yourself in them.

He hung a left at the fork in the road, too late to hit the usual right while distracted by watching you. Fingers dancing in the wind, hair ruffling. He accelerated, toeing the speed limit of dense gravel. A soft yelp radiated from your side—looking like a dog with their ears flapping in the wind, you were laughing. Your face was the happiest he’d ever seen it. A light expanded in his chest. Gorgeous.

“Shit,” the gravel turned to dirt, the wheels slipping hard into a vat of mud; in a blink you felt a wall in front of you—his outstretched arm across your chest kept you from rocketing forward. You tumbled against Bruce as he turned into the skid, the thick seatbelt keeping you from spilling sideways into his lap. Both of you sat motionless, and he pulled both hands back to the wheel. Your torso rumbled like you were laughing.

“What fancy contraption do you have to yank us out?” You pushed yourself up and ran a frigid hand over windswept hair. Probably had a button in the trunk which unfurled a hook to yank the vehicle back to safety. Maybe a mega-drone would fly over from Wayne Tower and pull the car by the roof with a magnet.

He waited for you to face him. “I’ll get out and push.”

“Push?!”

His smile wrinkled his eyes as he hopped out, a sticky slop sound slapping his shoes. You thought he was so froofy. Worried about paint jobs, staining designer clothing, unable to shove a car out of a rut. He heaved his weight in a strong, deliberate push, and the car moved. Then slid back.

“Here, I’ll get out.” You unbuckled.

“What?” He couldn’t hear over the wind hissing through trees.

You fell flat on your hands and knees into a foot and a half of thick mud. “Holy shit.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah. This is fucking deep.” You managed to wrangle out an arm but your knees were locked in place.

You heard the schlorp, schlorp sound of his approach. How were you supposed to get a car out of something like this? “I forgot you’re supposed to turn right back there.” He held out his hand. He fell to his knees when he underestimated how stuck you were.

You pushed up off his shoulder, the heel of your palm shoving him deeper. Your other hand tracked mud across his back, the slick of the leather making you fall forward again, slung halfway over his back. His elbow buckled as his hands dug further into the pit. You slid onto your back, your hair soaking with mud so dense you struggled to lift your head.

He managed onto his feet again, once more grabbing your hand—this time with more of an angle for leverage—and pulled. You hardly moved, trying to grip his arm for support. “You’re gonna have to take off that jacket unless you want to leave me here.”

He obliged, your eyes trailing down his muscled arms now outstretched for you to enjoy. This time was more successful, but the un-shlucking made you rocket toward him. You fell against the hood of his car, no, against him against the hood of the car. You caked the entire front of his body in mud.

“Might have to call Alfred,” you panted, grasping for the antenna to your left for balance. He locked eyes with you a moment, a beautiful, fleeting moment, before you watched them flick toward the sky. You rolled onto your back and followed his gaze.

Stars. Not very clear, but better than the foggy clouds that hung over the city. You moved to stand before tossing another look his way. His eyes glimmered as they roamed the sky as if he’d never seen them before. You let your back fall gently against the hood, shoulder-to-shoulder.

“Can’t see them very well in the city, huh?”

Bruce shook his head, mesmerized. A long pause, which you reveled in. He was so caught up he couldn’t see you admiring his sudden youthfulness. “Is this how bright they are in Washington?”

He had no idea how adorable that question was, and it filled your body with extraordinary warmth. He looked like a child who’d just seen the ocean for the first time, awestruck by the endless horizon. The word Washington sounded so foreign in his voice. It was like he was born to exist firmly in Gotham and nowhere beyond. Like a prison. You looked back to the sky, the edges of each star blurred and hazy.

“Actually, like ten times brighter there.”

Bruce’s head snapped to you, brow furrowed. He looked like he’d just been insulted. “You’re joking.”

“I think you’d pass out if you saw the sky there.” There were still so many trees, and some light pollution from downtown. What the hell would he do if you brought him to the middle of an empty, rural field on a clear night? You’d never thought it was particularly beautiful. It was just… normal.

“Guess I take it for granted.” Your eyes followed his jaw up to his eyelashes, really seeing him. He didn’t notice, already turned back to admire the blurry stars again. You sighed. One more week. You’d been so terrified of him that first night. The second too. Now you just might start counting every second of his eye contact.

Your nose crinkled, a tease cropping up with the memory. “You’re wrong, by the way. You do use bribes.”

That furrowed brow and those blue eyes again. If only those agains could tumble in forever. “When?”

“At the initial interview.”

His nose scrunched, momentarily moving up to his eyes. “No way.”

“You asked what I wanted for my silence.” Your lips quirked into a grin. He was gorgeous like this; so unassuming, unintimidating.

He rifled through the memory, and you watched the gears turn. His face set with disappointment. “Guess you’re right.”

“The only reason I stayed was to piss you off.” You laughed, his eyes never leaving you.

“It worked.” He grinned. “Maybe if you hadn’t, the car wouldn’t be stuck.”

“Then we wouldn’t be having this riveting conversation.”

A quick, sharp laugh escaped him. His eyes flicked down, and he fiddled with muddy fingers. When they met yours again they were hesitant, but hopeful. “What you said yesterday helped. About my… brain.” He said the word carefully, still grappling with what it meant beneath the euphemism.

“About still being you?”

Bruce looked away, sighing through his nose as he nodded. “I’m able to patrol as usual. Maintain public responsibilities. Doesn’t seem to be life-ruining. Yet.”

You grinned, relieved to see him on a path to acceptance, relieved to see him sitting here with you at all. “I’m glad.” You paused, letting it linger. “It doesn’t erase you, or make you worse.”

His shifting eyes landed briefly on yours before returning to the stars, the combination of the wind and endless sky making the world big enough for his confessions to get lost. “… My mom was in and out of Arkham.” His words hung between you and the blustery wind.

“Was that hard growing up?” You figured it was, but any way you could coax an emotion out of him felt meaningful. The way he clung to your hug and kept even Alfred at arm’s length made you hypothesize that he wasn’t used to speaking it aloud. Shoving feelings deeper and deeper until the distractions caused enough dissociation to remove the sting.

“I didn’t know about it then. Learned about it with the rest of the world.” His teeth clenched, the angled corner of his jaw flexing tightly. Vague memories of Wayne Family Secrets across your family’s television two years ago reminded you that Bruce had been caught up in the killer’s antics.

“Around the time of the flood, right?”

He nodded again. His jaw moved as if his lips might part to speak, but he hesitated. Sensing his discomfort, you turned your attention back to the hazy stars. Wind whipped through the tops of trees, creating a faint high-pitched whistle in the silence. You spoke at the same time, cutting the other off.

“You can talk about it if you want.”

”Her mom killed her dad.”

You cast a sideways glance at each other and looked again to the sky. His voice dulled. “Then herself.”

The hands clasped across your waist dug into your stomach. It wasn’t a wonder why he was so worried about his attempt. Seemed like every generation was touched by it. “I’m sorry.”

He could tell that you meant it by how it sat in his stomach. He hated to hear those words, but not from you. For possibly the first time ever, he responded with “Thanks.” He watched a star twinkle like an ornament behind the top of a tree, still keeping his attention to his periphery.

“Makes sense, I guess.” His lips pulled into a sardonic grin. Your attention pulled to it like a physical force, grim or not. “I am half Arkham.”

In the meager amount of research you’d done to prepare for the actual interview you did with him, you’d discovered his mother’s ties to Arkham; Martha Arkham, the granddaughter of the asylum’s founders. One of the questions you’d nearly written down was why he didn’t do more with its fundraising; now you were grateful pen hadn’t hit paper.

You were focused on the few clouds floating above when a gentle nudge tapped your shoulder. Your eyes met his unwavering blue. “I didn’t forget last night.” The car evaporated from under your back, suspending you in the air weightlessly. “I really didn’t mean to scare you, but I know that I did. I’m sorry.”

He was so good at saying what you needed. How were his eyes that blue, his lashes that lush, voice so full. His apology sat with you the same way a slurpee did on arid, hundred-degree days in the valley. Ropes of sugary sweet, revitalizing in that specific, intoxicating way that kept you coming back despite the brain freeze and inevitable crash.

You mused on whether or not he tasted like cherry cola too.

“Just don’t trap me in your car in the middle of the night again.”

“I know, I’m sorry. It was wrong.” You’d meant it to be a bit of a playful jab, and your eyes flashed slightly when he took it soberly.

”Not in the suit is fine, but.” You teased him when you felt his growing earnestness, nudging him. “I’m joking.”

His expression remained unchanged, though it mellowed. “You don’t need to play it off.”

A joke about how perceptive he was for someone who didn’t get out much stalled on the tip of your tongue. His worn features were too genuine.

“Thank you.” You wanted to acknowledge all of the effort, that wavering pain in his eyes at sitting in this. It was easy to see how brutal it was on him, the isolation you imagined plagued his youth. How hard opening up was for him, seeming to go against his wiring like breaking one’s own bones. You longed to scoop him into your arms or lap, running soothing fingers through his hair until the pain melted out of his cells.

When you couldn’t come up with a better word for the chasing apologies, the city hall antics, the coffee, the continuous acknowledgement, the life stories, and the I’m not used to this confessions, you settled on the simplest descriptor. “It means a lot that you’re trying.”

His eyes lingered on yours for a second. He felt his heartbeat in the back of his throat. He wouldn’t. He swung his body up, clearing his voice on the upswing. “Let’s push.”

He schlopped his way to the front of the car, digging his heels into the mud for grip. You joined him, buzzing from stargazing, the weight of your muddy hair straining your back. You gripped the front bumper and followed his count, shoving the weight of your hips into your palms. The front wheels slipped up half a foot, then plopped back into place.

You teased him when he paused to inspect the wheel placement. “C’mon dude, I’m pulling all the weight here.” His eyes darted to yours with a friendly sneer. On his count, you jammed all your weight into it, your feet slipping against the mud. This one was longer, and you shoved, shoved, pressed, pushed... the wheels crept back, nearly pushing out of the original divet.

Bruce grunted to your right, and you made the mistake of seeing his clenched, focused expression. His eyes were squeezed closed, and threads of sweat glistened on his temples. Your focus slipped along with your grip, and the burden you’d lifted fell onto him. He groaned when it hit, the car losing an inch of ground, and you scrambled to regain footing with it echoing your thoughts. He was so fucking hot, jesus.

Pressing, shoving, slamming, straining… the wheels unstuck and began to glide through shallower sludge. The ringing in your ears intensified when he shouted above the wind to let go and stood with his hands over his head, exposing the bottom half of his abs. You looked away, feeling perverted.

“Whew,” you focused on the sound of his footsteps rather than how out of breath he was. “Want to head back?”

A joke fell out of you before you realized the implications. “You’ll have to shower at mine to make it even.”

He shrugged. “If you want.”

And so you found yourself unlocking the door to your apartment ten minutes later, after he sped through side streets and took turns you were sure he wouldn’t make, making you squeal with a rush each time. When you got in the garage elevator, you mentally checked that you’d put away the condoms, that you had enough clean towels, that you weren’t out of detergent, that you had clothes he could borrow. And tried not to think about how he’d be naked in your bedroom bath.

With robotic monotony, pretending you were prepping the bathroom for a regular shower with yourself, you pulled out a towel and your baggiest hoodie and sweats, hoping it would be comfortable enough for him. You eyed your fruity body wash, curiously thinking ahead to how it might smell on him.

Bruce asked if you needed any help from where he stood in the kitchen. When you said no, he paused, then asked if you had any pints of ice cream he could ‘borrow’. You teasingly lectured him about the meaning of the word from your hands and knees on the shower floor, pulling the odd hairs that were stuck in the drain to discard them.

He opened the freezer and noted a few pints, the most notable of them the single chocolate one: ‘Phish Food’. Marshmallow, caramel, and fudge. You hadn’t given him the OK yet, but his earlier attempt to cheer you up had been unsuccessful and he’d drenched you in mud. He opened a drawer and shut it loud enough for you to hear, grabbing the ice cream and slapping it onto the counter, untouched. “Never had this one, wow.”

“That’s not the chocolate one, is it?”

His eyes trailed around the room to the dining area that had been reinstated. Absently, he continued to tease. “Can’t hear you.” He grinned. “But the marshmallow is really good.”

”Marshmallow?!”

He took a spoon from the door and tapped it along the rim of the cardboard as if he were scraping out the dregs. “Almost finished actually.”

You appeared in the doorway a second later looking disheveled. “Are you for—” Your eyes caught on his spoon resting on the outside of the ice cream, not even the plastic removed. “Ohh my god.” Biting your lip to reign in a smile, you swiped it off the counter and grabbed the spoon from his hand.

“Didn’t know you were so serious about marshmallows.”

You groaned at the prank and slugged him in the arm on the way to the freezer. “You’re insufferable.” Even if he didn’t hear the lilt in your voice, from your side profile he could see the delight on your face. Good. One less moment hurting.

“Shower’s ready if you want to go first.”

Could go together. He blinked. “I’m the one who took the wrong turn, go ahead.”

“I’m the one who even wanted to go driving if we’re getting into it.”

Bruce held out his hands in concession, walking past you to the shower. You shouted after him that you left an outfit on the counter for him, with towels in the cupboard. After a minute you heard the water turn on, and it took massive restraint not to sit on your bed and stare at the door to the bathroom. Until you remembered you could do that with your journal, pretending to do something.

You grabbed a towel and laid it out on the mattress so you didn’t soak your bed with mud. Sat cross-legged, you pulled out the journal and a pen and suppressed a startle response when your eyes laid upon the condoms. The black ink swirled and sloped around the paper edges indiscriminately as the minutes passed. You threw some random sentences on there in case he glanced over at it when he got out, and heard the shower shut off soon after. Your face heated, and the scribbling intensified.

Rustling of clothing, then the door opened. His eyes flashed when he saw you on the bed. His first thought was lewd, and it took two breaths to sate it. You did the same seeing his wet hair smoothed through by your hairbrush, the dew of the shower peppering his cheekbones. How in just two strides he could have you pinned to the bed. In his mind it was the other way around.

“I like that body wash.” He’d slathered it over himself without thinking, then became extremely aware it smelled like you. He’d stood for a full minute breathing it in, pondering the ethics of buying the same one so he could always smell it. He rinsed it off when the haze began to lift and he started feeling like a fucking weirdo.

“There’s this fancy boutique called ‘Target’ that sells it if you’re ever in the area.”

He rolled his eyes and folded up his towel. “Funny.” He eyed the laundry hamper in the far corner and crossed your room to get it. The few strides where he passed your bed caught your breath in your chest. He looked back at you, smirking. His face looked cut from stone. “It’s where Alfred gets the Breyer’s.”

God how your heart pounded. Like a peripheral shadow, your mind seeing things that weren’t there. If you were any less certain of the dynamics at play, you might’ve thought he was flirting. That maybe both of you were. As it stood he walked past the bed and into the kitchen, speaking lazily. “Which ice cream can you part with?” So casual, comfortable. Like he lives here. It was fucking sexy. If only he’d christen your apartment.

His fingers tapped mindlessly on the freezer handle, turning over the jokes in his mind like a Rubik’s cube. Were they too offputting? He meant to put you at ease after being scared of him the night before, but was it overbearing? Unsettling? You waltzed into the kitchen, caked with mud, and yanked open the freezer to hand him PB S’more. The tips of his fingers vibrated where yours had grazed.

“It’ll change your life.”

Initially, the shower was wonderful. The water soothed your cool, dirty skin, and your body felt light knowing he’d just taken one. That his hands had touched the knob you just did. That his hands had opened the same sliding door. Past that, the shower was excruciating.

Water hitting the drying mud had reactivated it, making it heavy on your hair and, if anything, making it even more impossible to get out of your strands. It clumped and stuck no matter how you fussed with it, and you were left with an agonizing choice: have Bruce come help you, or force Mar to come over the next day (if she could), meaning indefinite time with heavy, smelly hair all over your pillows, clothes… fuck.

“Bruce?”

His heart leapt out of his chest and the spoon clattered to the ground. You called out again. “Can you help?” Your voice was too calm, and his fingers felt too warm, too cold, then disappeared altogether as he approached the bathroom door. He kept his eyes tilted to the ceiling as he pushed it open, holding his breath. He did his best not to let his mind wander on what you wanted.

“Can you rinse my hair? The mud’s stuck.”

Bruce pulled up his sleeves and got to work, his hands running on autopilot or they wouldn’t move at all. Every skim of his hand against your back, shoulders, ears, even feeling the slip of your wet hair through his fingers spurred a riot. You smelled like passionfruit and citrus, and your skin was petal-soft. As his fingertips brushed your neck he wondered if you might ever feel the same way. Was every touch searing against your skin? Every breath measured and silent, your thoughts liquid smoke being this close?

He’d more than managed to remove the chunks of dirt, rinsing the length of your hair entirely clean. His hands hesitated above your scalp as he calculated if you’d want him to finish. The intimacy of this was so sweet; he’d never washed hair besides his own before, and it tucked into him a tenderness he never thought himself capable of.

Just as he was about to pull his hands away, he bit his cheek and tried to sound as casual (not terrified) as he could muster. “Want me to wash the rest?”

Maybe it was the steam, but you felt the heat of his breath waft against exposed skin. Your face was hot as the Sahara, stiff and still as a statue; your knuckles paled clenching the sopping towel wrapped around you. You nodded because if you spoke, your yes would’ve come out like a whine. Tilting your head back, he grabbed the shampoo bottle and slathered it across his palms, gently working it into your hair. You shut your eyes to savor the sensation of his fingertips delicately raking along your scalp, tickling up your spine. “That feels really good.”

“Does it?” Breathy, barely a whisper, almost certain you couldn’t hear it above the water hitting the floor. Your shoulders dropped when he moved to massage behind your ears. The firmer he pressed, the more your shoulders rolled forward.

“That’s even better.”

Dramatic for such a simple thing, he might’ve fought to acknowledge it if it hadn’t ripped through him so forcefully; nothing compared to the high of pleasing you. It filled a cavernous well in his chest with a buoyancy that almost knocked the wind out of him.

He hadn’t realized his hands hadn’t moved, and resumed too quickly; you startled when he recommenced working the shampoo, and he flinched like his nervous system had a string tied to yours. He hoped for your sake it wouldn’t work in reverse the next time he panicked. If doing this was any less soothing, he could’ve tested the theory right then.

Your breathing struggled to cooperate, confused between I want his hands to devour me and I could fall asleep right here, right now. Your eyes that had flashed open fluttered shut, and your breathing shallowed through your mouth. Cutting off your senses one by one until all you felt were his strong, deft hands across your skin. You tucked your lower lip under your teeth and held your breath as he traced the back of your head, the crown of your hair, ooh, up to your temples… allowing a small inhale through your nose brought the sudsy aroma to the background, rendering your thoughts cloudlike, misty.

Your neck had gone from stiff to slack over the past two minutes—he certainly wasn’t counting—to the point it bobbled with the movement of his palms. Your hands shifted on the towel, the tension in your knuckles lessening. Your guard was down further than he’d ever seen it, seemingly melting into his touch. His heart jammed against his ribs.

The shampoo was mostly gone, only the odd bubble slipping through your strands. Not wanting to interrupt your zen, he gently squeezed out the length of your hair and reached for the conditioner. As he expected, you didn’t even notice when he soaked your hair with it. He rinsed his hands before going back to your scalp with long combing motions, circling behind your ears and temples as he waited to rinse.

Just when he thought he’d heard a snore, your weight fell fully into his hands. He rushed to support your back—one hand between your shoulders, the other fisting your towel to keep it from falling. Your conditioned hair swung back and stuck to his cheek when you gasped awake, grasping for the shower handle to steady yourself.

“You fell asleep while I finished your hair.”

You righted yourself and assumed control of your towel; your thoughts darted around the steamy bathroom, grateful that he hadn’t taken advantage of a slipped wardrobe. Your hand moved back to your hair, thick with conditioner. You didn’t recall him finishing the shampoo, let alone… your cheeks heated, self-consciousness creeping up your spine where his massage left fireworks. “Thanks.”

His cue to exit. He mumbled something about it being no problem, and walked out to the kitchen. His hands flexed at his sides to either shake out the memory or encode it, he couldn’t tell. He stood in the kitchen while you finished up, feeling caged, like his body was in a mismeasured wetsuit. He glanced out the window to see if the signal was lit, and he couldn’t make anything out. Cars zigzagged below, people shouted, horns honked, ambulances skirted curbs, and the sky was dark night. He was never indoors when the sky looked like that.

He caught himself eyeing the fridge, wondering what he might be able to fix for the both of you. His dizzy gaze flitted to the floor between his feet. His face tightened into a tense knot, knuckles going white as he gripped the counter’s edge. He’d liked that too much. Washing someone’s hair. Washing your hair.

Bruce crossed his legs and faced the ceiling now, his shoulders dropping into the softness of the evening. He could make dinner for you both, enjoy some polite conversation, and—he uncrossed his legs, antsy and anxious, and surveyed your apartment. He went still with the brush of thick cotton on his skin. He didn’t do this. Never wanted this. Never even thought about it. It didn’t fit, and even if it did, it couldn’t.

He winced when his vision snagged on the note. The shred of paper swayed against his breath as he held it. Did you appreciate it? Did you want more of them? Shards of glass danced in his throat and heat stung his face; he set it down as quickly as he had picked it up.

Washing your hair, getting you coffee, spending nights inside, redecorating a room just in case you wanted to come over, not to mention… it might’ve been easier if this was a passing fixation; something told him this was a cigarette half-pressed into the tray, lingering and domineering. Maybe he could snuff it out, but the stench likely already filled the room and baked into the fabrics. Didn’t mean he had to sit in it and breathe it in, though.

You wiped the sleep from your eyes and wrapped your hair in a towel. You pulled on sweats and a tee, lotioning up your arms and slathering moisturizer on your heated face. Your hair was grateful for his assistance, but were you? You were supposed to be severing, creating distance between the both of you. You didn’t think that included nearly drowning in the shower half-naked while he massaged you to sleep. But… your fucking soul had relaxed for the first time in years when he touched you.

You squinted. No, the first time since the night Miller attacked. In his arms for the first time. When everything was finally quiet. The room went still with the implication, soured by the impending trip home for the last time. You bit your cheek.

He grabbed a grocery bag and stuffed his muddy clothes inside. When his body tried to reject the notion of leaving, he reminded himself it wasn’t for lack of wanting, it was due to it. He frustrated his logic and patience, retelling himself that your life was quaint, punctuated by normal things like a normal person, and it would be a bad thing for him to interrupt that. A terrible thing.

Missing the click of the bathroom door opening, he turned toward your doorway when you stepped out; your face clean and bright, a towel wrapped in a short spiral atop your head. The light hit your cheekbones and his bag slipped to the floor. He sucked in a tight breath and cleared his throat, slingshot out of the weeds back into the clouds.

There was nothing he could do about his legs walking to the fridge, or his question about what you had to eat; nor his clarification that he didn’t want something for him, he wanted to make something for, um, the both of you, and no, he was hungry too, and while he cooked you could pick a show, and it really wasn’t a problem at all, he never got to cook enough with Alfred around, don’t even worry about it. Damn. There was just something about being in service of you.

And there he was, straight from this morning’s musings: situated at your stovetop fixing you something—you hadn’t had sex, which you were sure was hidden somewhere in your earlier daydream, but you had been close in a way that strangely didn’t feel too far off.

You peered at him while he cooked and felt a pull to feel embarrassed about the off-brand noodles and cheap marinara. Dressed in tattered black clothing and doing absolutely nothing a typical rich guy did, it was easy to forget that he was a billionaire, and at some level used to opulence. He cracked open the dollar marinara without a second glance, and you twiddled your thumbs.

He was dangerous. Violent. Isolated. A man with so much power he could destroy you however he wanted and get away with it. Get praised for it, even. He could buy, bully, or hurt anyone into anything, yet here you were visualizing him with a halo. Dangerous, you reminded yourself as your eyes followed him grabbing the wooden spoon to fold the sauce in. Violent, it continued, desperate to protect, though you’d never felt more protected than in Bruce’s presence.

“How much do you want?” He looked over his shoulder and you could’ve melted into a puddle. Maybe he’d earned a bit of that mesmerizing halo.

You ate wordlessly, save an initial thanks and yeah. The way his eyes shifted you couldn’t tell if he actually wanted to be there, so you didn’t push your presence onto him with conversation. Bruce already felt like enough of an intruder, so he waited for you to initiate. It seemed like you wanted some silence. You both kept it, until you noticed he looked lost in thought.

You set aside the few noodles sticking to the edges of the bowl. He had finished his minutes ago, vacillating between the eating speed of a mouse and a vacuum dependent on the meal. Note: he likes spaghetti. “What’s up?”

His tone was tentative. “Can we talk about Oz?”

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cryptidghostgirl · 1 year ago

Text

Make You Wish Chapter Five -- The Conversation

Pairing: Alastor x Reader

Warnings: None that I can think of but please correct me if I am wrong.

Word Count: 1,324

Previous Part: Chapter Four -- Vox

Master Lists:

Master Lists

Hazbin Hotel Master List

Make You Wish Master List

A/N I promise I will get to the rest of the requests soon, I've just had a lot of people asking for part five of this series.

The shadows released Alastor and Y/n in his old studio. They melted into the ground around them as Y/n smiled brightly, her eyes traversing the familiar space.

"Happy to be back?" Alastor asked, watching her excitment fondly and Y/n nodded.

"I most certainly am. This is the most fun I've had in ages."

"More fun than murder?"

"Fucking with Vox like that? Definitely more fun than murder. That was the funniest thing I've seen in a long time."

"That's why you're lucky to have me around."

"Hey, you're the one who left, not me. You don't need to convince me I like spending time with you. Rather, you are in a need to be proving your care for me I should think."

"Am I, my dear?" Alastor crooned, leaning in slightly with his hands behind his back.

"Yes, you are."

He laughed.

"Well, I will have to get on that."

As Alastor approached the desk, his horns sprouting in shadows from his head, she made her way over to the corner of the space covered in of pillows and blankets. Hitting the pillows, they released a cloud of dust. Y/n shrugged slightly, waving the dust away from her nose before sitting down.

Alastor held his microphone to his mouth, recommencing his recording.

"Lets begin." Alastor announced as he sat down in his chair and began fiddling with the knobs on the table, "I'm gonna make you wish that I'd stayed gone, tune on in."

Y/n spotted her old crocheting project she'd started seven years before and smiled. Taking it in her hands, she began to continue her previous work.

"When I'm done, your status quo will know its race is run." Alastor continued, his demon form becoming even wilder and sharp at its edges.

"This will be fun." Y/n mused, watching him carefully.

Alastor turned to her, his smile sickeningly wide.

"Yes, it will be."

It was just like the old days. Alastor broadcasted his show while Y/n watched, working on whatever craft project was nearest to keep her hands busy. There was a deep seated comfort rising in her soul, a sense of belonging she hadn't felt in years.

Every once in a while over the course of his show, Alastor would turn his head back towards her. Y/n wasn't sure if he was checking in or making sure she hadn't left. Either way, she didn't care. After about three hours, Alastor at last signed off.

As soon as he hit the button that stopped his broadcast, Y/n placed her crocheting to the side. Getting to her feet, she walked over to him and took a seat on the desk, smiling brightly.

"What did you think, my dear?" Alastor asked, leaning back in his chair as he looked up at her.

"Amazing as always, Al. I swear, your voice was made for the air waves."

Alastor laughed lightly at this comment.

"I missed it. I missed you."

"I found myself missing you too, my dear. I had become so used to your constant presence, it was an odd thing to suddenly be alone."

"You like me!" Y/n teased in a singsong voice and Alastor smiled back at her, "Admit it!"

"Perchance. So, seven years." Alastor sighed.

"Seven years." Y/n confirmed.

"You work for an imp now? Seems an odd turn of events."

Y/n shrugged, turning her head to look out the window at the street far below.

"Blitzo is a friend. He helped me out a lot when you first left."

"So you joined his little team? How sinful, breaking the law and going to the living world to reap souls for paying customers."

Y/n turned back to him.

"I didn't realize you knew that much about what we did."

"I have my sources."

"Husk? Are your sources Husk? He's the only one that knows what it is I do now from the old crowd."

Alastor didn't reply.

"It's for sure Husk. How is he doing?"

"Y/n." Alastor warned, "Answer the question."

She sighed, kicking her legs slightly.

"I mean, nothing we do is technically legal." she admitted, "None of them have human disguises and our way to the human world is a book Blitzo stole from a fucking Goetia."

"You don't say." Alastor mused, "That would happen to have anything to do with this contract you're under."

Y/n's eyes locked with Alastor in silence. They glared sharply at one another in a battle of will. At last, Y/n relented.

"Yeah. It does."

"So, what is it? Why does a member of the Goetia family own your soul. Why is it that you have fallen so far."

"You really aren't gonna let this one go."

Alastor shook his head.

"Blitzo... well he was friends with the guy. Stolas, one of the Goetia princes in charge of the heavens or some shit. It's... Basically, I made a deal that if Stolas stays away from Blitzo and let us use the book, I would give him my soul."

"How altruistic. Though not unexpected from you, I suppose."

"It was only a few months after you left, Al. I couldn't take him on. Hell, you can't even take him on. He's a fucking Goetia. I did... I couldn't think of anything else. I did what I had to do to keep my friend safe."

"And why did he deserve your protection? He dug his grave and instead of lying in it, put you in."

"It's not his fault. Stolas got all weird with stuff and Blitzo was uncomfortable. There's this big threat of him tattling on us he hangs over our heads at all times. I... Blitzo did so much for me, Al. He helped me pick up the pieces of my life when it was clear you weren't coming back. I've become better now, stronger but back then, it was all I could do for him."

Alastor opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by Y/n's phone buzzing.

"Sorry, gimme a second."

Alastor eyed the device in irritation as she pulled it from her pocket. Whatever was on the screen dampened her mood even further than their conversation had. She jumped down off the table, hurriedly typing something out on her phone.

"Shit, Al. I have to go, I'm sorry."

"Work?"

"Sorta."

"Ah. Your deal. Why does he not just pull you to him like a normal demon would."

"Well," Y/n began, sliding her phone back into the pocket of her dress, "first off, he's a hellborn not a demon. And second off he has this weird thing about being wanted? Well, not weird. Everyone wants to be wanted just like, he doesn't want to force me to come. At the same time, he knows if he asks for me, I have to. It's... he's complicated, Alastor. It's complicated."

"I could kill him for you. Make it a whole lot less complicated."

Y/n laughed.

"Thanks hun but I don't think even you could manage that one."

"You could make a deal with me, that would most likley cancel it out."

"And have you own my soul? No, I've seen how that pans out for people. I think I'll pass."

"Just a suggestion, my dear."

"Is it? You've been trying to make a deal with me since I first met you, Al. I feel like you shoulda caught the hint by now."

"It was worth a try." he shrugged.

"Uh-huh. Sure. Why is it you want my soul so badly anyways?"

"No reason. No reason at all."

"Yeah. I totally believe that."

Y/n's phone dinged again and she pulled it once more from her pocket. At the sight of the words on the screen she sighed, her brow furrowing in irritation.

"Pushy pushy." she hummed, "Look, I gotta go. I'll be back later."

And with those parting words, Y/n disappeared through the studio's door.

----

Next Part -> Chapter Six -- Stolas

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broareweabouttoviberightnow · 2 months ago

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the quietest week in tusla was the week Darry bundled all seven boys up in two cars n drove them all a million miles away to the nearest beach. On contrast, the most disruptive week in tusla was the week immediately followin.

#apparently its difficult to get up to mischief when u are all sharin the smallest cheapest rooms that will house SEVEN boys #came home sunburned n full of godawful ideas cooked up in the eight hour drive between tusla n any significant body of water #dallas is burned to a goddamn crisp #n SO fuckin mad #soda came home with this gorgeous tan that is servin to do nothin but piss dallas off more #johnnys got freckles hes never seen before in his life #ponys also burned #tomato twins #two bit fell asleep with somethin on his chest n has god awful tan lines #they all almost drowned #twice #theyre all already beggin to go back next year #darry is EXAUASTED #he needs a vacation from the vacation #he comes home n collapses face down on his bed starfish style n is out like a LIGHT #the truck broke down three times #all three times Steve got out to look n just sorta banged on shit until it started again #ponys watchin him just beatin on it goin i thought u were a mechanic #n steve kicks it real hard n its starts again n he goes well. its on now aint it.#the outsiders #ponyboy curtis #sodapop curtis #darry curtis #dallas winston #steve randle #johnny cade #two bit mathews #makin these instead of actual fics bc im so burnt out rn #but one day maybe #i can see this bein a multi chap thing

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too-much-tma-stuff · 1 month ago

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Discovery and Progress (part 5)

Previous | Masterpost | Next

He snuck away to check on the little creature he made every day while he was waiting for his books to arrive. He was hoping they had more information because he had no idea what the little thing was! It was cute and he’d named it George but he didn’t know what it was and despite what he was working with it hadn’t occurred to him that he might Create Life!!

Like, yes he was planning to resurrect some things later, or at least test those things, but create it out of basically nothing? No, he was not expecting that and it did worry him a little bit about his future tests.

He had hit up the nearest pet store for three dishes and some cat food and rabbit food because he didn’t know I f the little thing was a herbivore or not. He put both and water in the circle but as far as he could tell it hadn’t eaten anything yet. It occasionally landed in the dish of water and splashed around a little, which he filmed, but it had yet to eat anything.

He might have worried but George was still bouncing around its enclosure as energetically as ever and actually seemed to be growing, though not at an alarming rate. He was curious about where the mass was coming from but he had taken a few samples, apologizing the entire time as he used a needle soaked in Lazarus Water to extract just a little so biopsy. He had learned quickly that things not soaked in Lazarus water couldn’t touch the little thing if it didn’t want to be touched.

From what he could see it really was just more of what he had used to make George in the first place. If it was internally producing this emotionally stable variant of Lazarus water he would have said that was a solution to his problem, if only it didn’t obviously hurt the little thing to have it extracted. He wasn’t sure how it hurt George because it had no nervous system and no mechanism with which to feel pain that he could see but it was obviously at least uncomfortable so he was going to have to find another way. Damian would never forgive him if he did anything else.

His books finally arrived a few days later, one to the manor and Sam passed the other two to him at school so he told his family he had a club to attend and then skipped out on the club to head to Crime Alley. Safe in his lab with George sort of pebbled on his lap and a blanket around his shoulders Danny settled in to read his arcane and forbidden texts. He should bring a kettle, he wanted tea but felt silly boiling water for it on one of his Bunsen burners.

He skipped until the section on the Infinite Realms, he would probably go back and read the sections on the other known magical realms later but right now he was particularly interested in why the infinite realms were calling to him. He found out why as soon as they described what the Realms looked like in the book. A galaxy full of floating islands and inhabitants who were tinged green? Now that sounded a lot like what called for him from deep inside the Lazarus pools.

Had… had no one made this connection before? But no, as far as he knew he was the only one who had ever been to the bottom of the pool and returned. He was the only one who had seen that hole in the world, and he had never told anyone about it. He had told Damian about the call but never about what he had actually seen. The league of assassins had control of the pits and they’d never done experiments regarding emotion so no, the connection had never been made.

He put the book down and pushed his face into his hands while George gave a worried little trill. It was the Infinite Realms that had been calling to him in his dreams for years, it could be something within the Realms but he doesn’t think that it was, with how huge and agent the voice was he thought it was the realm itself. Holy Shit.

He sighed, rubbed his hands over his face and back through his hair, and then kept reading. The book went on to describe the realms and the ways that people got to them, the occasional natural and unstable portals that opened on their own. Again the Pits were not mentioned, but those were not temporary portals! They had been there for centuries, and they didn’t seem like portals, they seemed like wounds.

He ran his hand back through his hair again and sighed, well that would explain why it needed help if it was wounded somehow. In that war he’d been given dreams of? Maybe. It also talked about the ambient energy of the place that they called Ectoplasm, the energy of the dead though it wasn’t only dead who lived there. That transitioned to them talking about the known species that inhabited the Infinite Realms, starting with the most basic.

Those seemed to be a sort of octopus creature and a… blob ghost. Naturally occurring species that just came into existence when the requisite elements came together. “Well, I guess I know what you are now don’t I?” Danny said, gently squishing the little creature on his lap which hummed louder and relaxed even more onto his lap, spilling over the edges of his legs just a little.

The octopi could be predatory to smaller, weaker inhabitants of the realm, and were sometimes responsible for hauntings on earth, but according to the book blobs were completely harmless. They were filter feeders just wandering around consuming ambient ectoplasm through their skins like frogs in water. That was a relief! Danny had started to worry about George not eating anything, and he could let the blob out of the circle finally too though Danny would miss it if it left.

It was also very interesting because George Had been growing which meant that that energy must have been available to it. It did say that in certain places where ‘the veil was thin’ bits of the energy of the Infinite Realms could leak through.

He gently nudged George off of his lap and went to get one of his Lazarus treated filters he’d been using to add and remove emotions and set it to filter all before waving it through the air. He felt a bit silly doing this but this was basically the way his blob ghost had been wandering around its enclosure. Once he felt like he would have caught something if there was something to catch he went and slid it under his microscope and, sat down to have a look.

There it was, in very small amounts, just traces but still he the particles of that magical chemical he was intimately familiar with now. Well that was… interesting, but it did explain some things about Gotham’s particular brand of fucked up. But that was all hypothesis, what was certain was that his attention needed to shift from Creating to Harvesting and filtering.

He already had the filters he’d used to add and remove the emotions from the Lazarus water, but they were small and impractical for this purpose. He knew the direction he needed to go though, and that was a big step!

First things first though. Letting George go, he’d already spent enough time trapped in that circle. Just to be safe Danny set up a protective circle around his safe storing the Lazarus water, he wasn’t sure if George would try to get into his supply, and for now it was still limited. Once that was done he went over and scuffed his foot through the chalk forming the ring containing George the blob. Danny hoped that it wouldn’t leave really, he was fond of the little guy! But it wasn’t right to keep it contained just for his own enjoyment.

He stood back and watched as George bumbled towards Danny, as they often did when Danny was close enough. They seemed startled when they didn’t run into the wall, tumbling a little through the air and bumping into Danny’s face.

Danny was a little startled by his own laugh, how purely delighted he felt as he held up his hands to catch George as they took a tumble. He grinned down at George as they blinked up at him and then trilled, leaping up from Danny’s hands and started nuzzling enthusiastically against Danny’s face. He laughed and playfully turned his face away as George chased him and kept nuzzling before zooming around Danny’s head excitedly cheeping before zooming off through a wall.

It left Danny breathless and smiling, feeling an odd combination of hollow and happy. He was going to miss George but they were clearly so happy to be able to fly free, and Danny was glad to be able to finally give them that. Maybe if he was lucky George would come back to visit later. Danny would be glad to see them.

He shook himself out of the bittersweet melancholy and returned to planning what the best way to filter out the ambient ectoplasm that existed in Gotham. He needed a bigger filter, it would help if he knew whether it moved with the air or if it was an independent material. Still a fan wouldn’t be hard to add, and air circulation might help. He needed to make a few prototypes and see what worked best. While they processed he could work on a way to detect it in the air so he could find the best places in Gotham to set up the finished products. Only in crime ally though, and he’d let Jason know first so he wouldn’t think the strange machinery was a bomb or something.

His mind was three steps ahead as his hands worked on the first and most basic of his prototypes. When they moved to fast and he knocked something over he forced himself to sit back and breath, re-centering himself in this moment. He could think about what he was doing next any time, but he could only work on this when he was in his lab. He needed to focus on this, and what he could add to his next prototype, before he completely lost track of what he was doing and broke something.

He exhaled and closed his eyes, taking a few more breaths before he returned to his current task.

By the time his alarm went off to remind him it was time to go home he had finished two of his prototypes and had started on the third. He considered ignoring the alarm briefly but it wasn’t worth it so he sighed, regretfully putting down his project and starting to pack up. He would have to come back as soon as he could and finish the third one. He’d set them all up at the same time and see which collected the most after a few days, then produce more of that one. They should be fine to leave, none of them were built of anything particularly volatile.

He got home just in time to pretend to everyone he’d been there the whole time, but he couldn’t stop thinking about his work, and couldn’t hide how distracted he was. He blamed it on a book he’d been really into before they came home, but he didn’t think Damian was buying it really. That was going to be a problem, he’d never really been allowed to indulge his interests as a child, he hadn’t known just how fixated he could get on things!

Tim was the same way but that was different, he didn’t really hide anything that he was working on, sometimes he just didn’t talk about it but… well Tim was always working on something! Some cold case or some new piece of tech so when he was particularly distracted no one thought anything of it. Danny wasn’t sure that Tim was of course, but if Tim wanted to hide anything he could do it in plain sight because no one questioned his obsessive behaviour.

If Danny did, if he started looking tired all the time and his grades started to slip there would definitely be questions about it! He needed to work on that, or find an excuse. An excuse sounded like a better idea if he was honest and maybe he could find one?

He excused himself to bed once he was sure his family was alright, but he didn’t sleep. At first he pulled out his notebook he’d hidden in the floor of his room and worked on ideas for a Ecto-sensor, he had to get those ideas out of his head before he could focus on what to tell his family. Once he had gotten his ideas out and replaced the book in it’s hiding spot he sit on his bed, crossed his legs and started rocking side to side a little as he thought.

The easiest excuse was the most obvious he thought. Damian’s and his childhood had been traumatic by any definition. The effects it had on Damian had always been more obvious but Danny had always presented himself as fairly well adjusted, though he knew the people closest to him saw the cracks in that facade. He could play on that. Now that he was safe and secure in his place in the family he could say the trauma of it was really settling in. He could blame being tired on nightmares about his childhood, any slip in grades or distracted behaviour could be blamed on being tired.

Bruce would believe it, and worry, he might try to get Danny into therapy but, frankly he wasn’t opposed to that. Especially if he could get some of the rest of the family into therapy as well to ‘support him’, since they all really needed it. It might also give him some tools to better help Jason. He’d already read up on some but talking to a professional to see how they act would help him better slip into the role of covert therapist for his wayward brother could be helpful.

The only thing that worried him about that option was if his family would see him as weak. He didn’t think they’d do it consciously, even Damian had gotten to the point where he wouldn’t tease Danny about showing weakness. But they might think it, treat him as something fragile and breakable. Coddle him and keep a closer eye on him making it harder to sneak out.

It was a risk, but everything was a risk and in this case… he thought the benefits would outweigh the risks. If the family did start coddling him he could always weaponize the therapist and tell them that being smothered was making it worse, he though that would be enough to make Bruce back off.

He hummed to himself and grimaced before rocking further and flopping down on his bed. He wouldn’t talk to Bruce tomorrow, or the next day. Maybe in the next week he would come up with a better idea. And if not… he thought it would be a good idea to talk to Bruce about this before he was confronted with it. Having the appearance of being open and trusting of his father was key.

It was almost 2 am when he finally got to sleep and woke up bleary eyed and annoyed to his alarm at 7 am. He sighed and dragged himself out of his bed, washing the grit out of his eyes with cold water to wake himself up before he got dressed and went down to breakfast. He ignored the worried looks Damian gave him and kept his usual smile on his face as he complimented Alfred on the food, and teased Tim about using coffee as a crutch for working to late. He didn’t think they noticed just how tired and out of it he was too, maybe he should start drinking coffee too, but he didn’t want to stunt his growth when he was already short for his age.

He let himself zone out on the way to school and put his face back on in the halls on his way to class. He doodled and leaned on one hand through class, staring in the direction of the teacher without really seeing them. His notebook was full of little cartoon ghosts, and very few notes by the time the class was over. Maybe Sam wouldn’t mind if he borrowed hers, or he could always sweet talk one of his classmates, he was good at that.

He asked Sam and Tucker to not eat in the cafeteria, and with fewer eyes on him dozed off while they bickered companionably. When he woke up it was because of the silence, and he found them both looking at him worriedly.

“Danny are you okay?” Tucker asked hesitantly.

“You’re not in any sort of trouble are you?” Sam added, with a look in her eye that promised hellfire to anyone who was giving Danny a hard time.

“No I’m fine,” Danny sighed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “I’ve been making a lot of progress with my tests, but it’s coming at the cost of sleep. I don’t know how I’m going to balance family, school, sleep, and work, especially when I’m still keeping the work secret. And I don’t want to neglect either of you either!”

“Damn, that’s not really something we can defend you from,” Sam said with an expression he’d call a pout on anyone else. It made him laugh.

“No, but thank you for the thought.”

“Maybe we could hang out with you while you work? So you can at least combine too things. We could help you study then too when… whatever you’re doing doesn’t take to much attention?” Tucker suggested, which was a helpful suggestion.

“Not for now,” Danny said shaking his head. “The chemicals I’m working with have… affects from long term exposure. It’s to late for me already but until I understand them more or know how to stop them I don’t want you around that shit.

“Helping me study though… If you wouldn’t mind I think that would be really helpful. Can we do a study group once a week or something? I’m sure I’ll be zoning out more in class and be more tired as I work, helping fill in the gaps of things I miss, would be really helpful.” Danny said giving them his best puppy-dog eyes.

“God damn it that is the most boring way you could possibly ask us to help,” Sam groaned dramatically. “But fine, and as soon as there’s something more interesting we can do you let us know!”

“I will, I promise!” Danny said, 100% meaning his word this time.

“Good, go back to your nap Danny. We’ll wake you up before we have to go back to class.” Sam laughed, definitely at him rather then with him, but Danny didn’t mind.

He flopped down with his head on Tucker’s lap, Tucker complained at him while Sam laughed, but he didn’t actually push Danny off. Danny knew he wouldn’t and settled down more comfortably to grab a power nap while his friends went back to their friendly competition over… whatever it was they were disagreeing about now.

They woke him up again before class, and decided to have their study session on Thursdays since Sam and Tucker both had clubs on Friday. Danny made it through the rest of the school day in better spirits, actually managing to take some notes in his other classes, whether or not he needed them. He tore out the page full of ghosts and threw it out before he went to meet the driver, and home.

He trained with Damian as soon as they got home, then showered and had a nap before dinner. He felt more like himself at the meal, and even Damian stopped giving him weird looks as the family chatted. Danny asked Tim about what he was working on, and then interrupted him smoothly when he looked like he was veering into something Alfred would see as business. Cass talked about her latest ballet too, and in general they all just sort of checked in on each other.

Danny opted out of going with them to the cave that day. He had an idea for forth collector and he was eager to finish them. Once he had he could set them up and catch up on sleep for a couple of days while they worked.

Sneaking out was never hard, he knew where all the cameras were placed intimately and how to avoid them. He changed into uniform and it was while he was going through the city proper that he felt eyes on him and realized he was being followed. Glancing around subtly he couldn’t help the immense relief when he saw it was Spoiler. She was just as talented as Damian, Cass, and Tim of course, but she was less likely to recognize him by his mannerisms, and there was no way she’d followed him all the way from the manner.

It wasn’t that hard to lose her, but it meant that without a doubt the bats would know there was a new costumed player in Gotham by morning. They wouldn’t know anything about Hafit, but they would know he existed to look for him. He would have to be more careful.

He shook it off as he reached his lab alone and without being followed so that was all that mattered, he could finish his work. He’d be home before they knew Danny was missing, no harm done right?

He refused to allow any doubts, he was in way to deep for that anyway. He focused on his inventions, which was easy once he started, and since he already knew what he wanted to do it was quick work. He finished all his prototypes and checked them over for any potential faults before he set them up. He double triple checked they were running, they were fine, and they were NOT going to explode. Jason had been very patient with his work, but he didn’t think that would last if Danny caused damage and brought that much attention to crime alley.

Once he was as sure as he could be he put them all to go and headed home. He was asleep before the rest of the family got home.

#dc x dp #jason todd #tim drake #my writing #danyal al ghul #damian wayne #sam manson #tucker foley #scientist Danny #demon twins au #socializing the demon twins #multi chap fic

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