#'Danny's Book of Contracts'

[naga16]

Prompt 1: Red Hunter

(Before we begin, I'd like to say that I've been awake for no less than 20 hours... And it currently half hour before midnight.

Okay?Okay. )

The story begin in the watchtower. Impending doom via asteroids, aliens, gods, ghost, terrible disaster or whatever you wish. Point is, the world might as well die if they fail to find a way.

Generic cult shit and badabing badaboom!!!

GH! PHANTOM!!!! Here to save the day!!!

There's a catch though, of course there is.

Dunno 'bout the technical rules cuz I did no proper research. But turns out that certain people just needs to die to preserve the balance of the world.

Grim reapers cannot kill cause all they can do is wait for death and guide the soul in the afterlife. They don't kill, unlike the popular belief that they do.

So what does that mean? It means that King Danny assigned one of people who summoned him to be his Executioner.

Who does he choose?

Isn't it obvious?

He chose RED HOOD, of course.

Cuz Danny instinctively knew that this man is a dying revenant, starving cuz he's not fulfilling his NEED for revenge and all that shit that made him possess his own body.

So Jason was given a new name, Red Hunter, a remembrance of the good old days. He was also given a book, except for the first page, the book was practically blank.

The first page was a contract, that the person was bound for life to kill ANYONE who's name appears in the book. That the person will do the task dutifully.

Jason, being chosen, signed it since he really have no problem in killing. Truthfully, he was glad that the Big Bat or anyone else (exempt Tim and Damian) was not chosen since, unlike him, they have morals that kept them from taking lives.

So, he signed it, the book vanished with a flash, Danny smiled in victory, disaster avoided and one, two, three!!!

Jason was awoken by his Ghostly Butler. A guide to help him do his job. A person who can answer his question.

So ask he did...

First of, where did the book go? Inside Jason, a little lesson of summoning the book give him a magical transformation to his Executioner outfit.

Does he have a time limit? Yes, apparently, it's 24 hours, a very good news.

What would happen if he fail to kill by the given time? A punishment to his own person. Ghost will attack him for several hours, or just bother him.

How does he do the killing? Whatever he decide. Death by bullet, stabbing, planned accident, poison, arson, or beaten. Really, for as long as he kill the person, the way he would do it doesn't really matter.

Why does he have a Butler? Cause of a previous issue with the last executioner killing themselves with their guilt. The Butler system was made so that that can be prevented.

How would he find his target? A ghost will lead him to it.

What does that mean? You will know at your first mission.

So he kills, what next? You shall use your thermos.

What does that even mean? You will know at your first mission.

Really, why does he have a butler? To give guidance and answer.

So, when will I get my mission? Now.

What?

So Jason took the book and there, written in a fancy calligraphy, the civilian name of Joker. Or at least that is what the ghost of his younger self wearing his old Robin costume said to him.

[dcxdpdabbles]

Danny reincarnates as Tim's twin. The only problem is that his ghost powers act up in the womb from either the gross ecto in Gotham or an artifact that Janet handled while pregnant. Because of this only Tim is 'born', the Drake's either assume one was miscarried or never knew they were twins.

Tim meanwhile grows up with a brother his parents ignore more than him. It takes Danny an embarrassingly long time to realize what's going on and fix it but by then the twins are around 4 so can't really explain to the rest of Gotham.

When they become Robin, either Nightwing and Batman are almost convinced he's like Harvey with how many times they've found him talking and discussing plans with himself. Or with how bad their collective mental health was at that time think they're going crazy.

Only Alfred knows what's going on because he's Alfred.

Tim Drake is a strange child. Ever since he was little, he would point to empty air and interact with it as if someone was standing there and responding.

At first, his parents thought it was cute that he had an imaginary friend, and Mrs. Drake even shed a few tears when Tim proclaimed that it was the brother he had at birth. The second son of the Drakes had been growing healthy in her stomach until the very end of the first trimester when he simply vanished.

Not died, not stop growing- vanished as if he was never there.

The doctors and the Drakes had no idea what happened. Test after tests were done, but in the end, they could only conclude that the second baby was gone. It was theorized that Tim may have devoured his brother in the womb, though there had been no symptoms that Janet suffered from.

When Tim was born, Janet had nearly died with a false labor that happened only ten minutes after giving birth. The nurses and doctors had been panicking because they could not understand where the contractions originated. False labor was contractions during pregnancy, not after labor, so there was nothing the body could confuse for the urge to push.

They ruled it as a freak false labor since the only other match was Janet entering second labor. Still, as much as the nurses and doctors were ready for a monochorionic monoamniotic twin, nothing came out. Eventually, Janet passed out, and her body finally finished doing whatever it was doing.

It was no surprise that this experience ended up giving Janet postpartum depression. She tried to connect to Tim, but something in her just never clicked, and Jack was beside himself, trying to care for his child while his wife drifted further and further away.

A therapist suggested Janet return to work, which seemed to do wonders for her. She took part in multiple digs and went on many trips, but eventually, Jack felt like she was never home. Worried his wife wouldn't return to him, Jack jumped on a plane while leaving Tim in the capable hands of the housekeeper.

He said it would be a short trip just to get Janet to come back and get treatment.

Jack ended up helping at the dig site, extending his stay to his once again bright and loving wife. Seeing her back to her usual self led to him booking them another trip.

Then another, and another, and antoher. Before long, the Drakes rarely spent time in Gotham, and Tim grew bigger in their absence. Janet loved Tim, but seeing him only brought back guilt that she could not love him like other mothers could so quickly. She was so excited for their baby and had loved him with her whole heart while he was inside of her, but now, seeing those big blue eyes blink up at her, all Janet wanted to do was run.

She drowned in guilt, and sometimes, it felt that she was only breathing because Jack was there for her. He dragged her back to the surface only long enough to take a breath and be dragged under again.

She missed his first steps, his first words, and his first laugh. That's why hearing him call out to Danny was so jarring. She had stopped outside his room, carrying gifts in the form of toys, hoping they would make up for the fact that she had only seen him a handful of times for a solid year.

He was playing with blogs, babbling to "Danny." She had picked out the name of her other son when she found out she was having twins. The only person Tim could have heard that name from was the housekeeper.

Janet fired her after wiping her tears. She would hire a replacement that wouldn't mock her two-year-old son. She let Tim keep his imaginary friend, figuring he would outgrow it.

Tim didn't.

Over the years, Tim became increasingly convinced Danny was with him. He even started turning in classwork under the name Danny, and when a teacher would call him, he would respond with "I don't know. Tim is better at this than me."

Sometimes, when he acted out, Tim would be the one responsible. Tim was the one who got bored quickly in class, needed to be challenged more, and preferred to follow whatever hair-brain idea he had. Photography, skateboarding, and actual crime shows were what made Tim happy.

Then, he became Danny when he showed effort in school but struggled to keep his solid, slightly above-average results. This side of her son preferred astronomy and baking and seemed confused by their wealth. Almost as if he was new money instead of the old wealth the Drakes had. Janet also heard that Danny seemed to stick his nose in whenever a bully targeted a classmate, confronting them with a bravo she could not associate with Tim.

Tim was more like her. They dealt with their opponents through clever planning instead of confirmation, which Jack preferred. He talked to himself a lot, too. The Drakes weren't even in Gotham, but their family's whispers echoed through the gala halls anyway. As young Tim walked by, there were rumors and speculations.

The elites would gossip as Tim continued arguing that the decor was worth the money and that they couldn't steal it, no matter how much food it could buy people in their charities.

He whispers, yelling at the air as Janet watches from across the hall, her stomach turning with love and repulse.

Years after his birth, she could not bring herself to stand before him for too long. Jack followed because he worried she do something to herself if he didn't.

She could not deny it now that Tim was nine. Janet realized, after a while of reading reports involving her son, that he likely suffered from a split personality disorder. Seeing it in person was entirely different.

They'll likely have to have him instituted, and the thought almost has her throwing up. She wonders if she would have caught on faster had she been a better mother and been around.

She steels herself, crossing the room to speak to her son. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees that Jack has noticed and quickly tries to make an excuse to stop her. Fortunately, depending on who you asked, the men looking for an investor don't let their husbands go that easily, so she is clear.

"No, I won't ask him for an autograph!" Tim hisses, looking at the wall to his right as if someone were leaning against it with him. Janet's resolves wabble a little at Tim's pout. There is a short pause before Tim goes red. "I can't do that! Mr.Wayne is really protective of Richard."

Dread pools into her stomach as Tim's features shift, and a grin with a mad twist settles on his lips. "I already have all the pictures I want about him. My favorite is the one I took last night."

This can't wait. Janet loves her son; she does not care what anyone says that she doesn't, but she can't allow him to harm others. Stalking will eventually lead to harm; she knows it. Those are the early signs.

She opens her mouth, only for Tim to turn to her with a coldness she hadn't noticed he always regarded her with.

She had never seen joy on his face, so she had never had a chance to compare how he looked at her and Jack to how he looked at others. How he looked at Danny.

Janet feels everything in her freeze, and a tremble grows in her arms and hands. Trying to hide it, she drowns the glass of wine in her hand in one gulp but instantly regrets it.

The world become slightly hazy that alcoholic cause, and maybe it's been a long time since she last drank. She could have sworn she was seeing double for a moment, and an exact copy of her child was leaning on the wall behind Tim.

But that wouldn't make sense. Tim's eyes weren't green.

"Son." Jack's warm presence is behind her, placing a comforting hand on her back, and she can't bring herself to speak as her husband commands. He likely feels her trembles. "It's time to leave."

The second image of Tim flickers out of sight, and Janet walks out of the Wayne Gala, wondering if her son inherited his madness from her. Neither adult notices the soft thump of the backseat, nor do they pay much attention to Tim carefully buckling the air or how the blanket he keeps back there spreads itself across Tim's lap.

Janet falls into old habits, and instead of being up to what she realized that night, she convinces Jack to go to Guatemala. They are gone first thing the following day.

Tim watches them leave from the top of the grand stairway, his eyes glowing green in heavy judgment and ice that Janet would have felt in the coldest winter. Jack is chatting nonsense to fill the silence and keep Janet grounded, but when she peeks over her shoulder to the Manor, she spots Tim in the window of his room, watching them leave with a frown.

His green eyes are gone, and she feels a chill race down her spine. There is no way he could have run up the stairs, gone down four different hallways, and gotten to the window before they could get to the waiting car.

"Goodbye, Tim. Keep the house safe!" Jack says as he opens the car door for Janet, but he's talking in the doorway. Because that's where the grand stairway is. She hears her son respond but can't tell what he is saying.

She can only gaze upwards to where Tim waves at her while clutching the curtain. His mouth doesn't move. He isn't the one speaking to Jack.

Janet sits in the leather of the car, Jack beside her, holding her hand tenderly, and she rethinks about having Tim instituted. She should hire an exorcist instead.

When they get back, of course. The car pulls away from the driveway, and Janet does her best not to look back even as the door slams shut, as if the sound was meant to tell her never to return. She closes her eyes, holds her breath, and only lets it go when they are far away from Drake Manor and her son.

Maybe one day she can be a good mother.

[nightingale-prompts]

Talents -DC X DP prompt

The public is aware that each of the Wayne children are creatively gifted. It was almost expected. Richard Grayson was the acrobatic of course and no one was surprised but highly praised. So many parents began putting their children in gymnastics after seeing Dick's performances.

Jason Todd took up writing and published his own books at the age of 13. Poetry, anthologies, and historical fiction were the genres he favored. His books still remain on the best-seller's list, especially after his death. His poetry book "Blackouts" is an emotional journey of everyday tragedies and miracles of life. People would often quote lines from his poems after tragic events.

Tim Drake was more elusive. No one knew what he did until his name came up under a national photography award. His album called "The Shades of Gotham" was a contract between parties of the wealthy and the impoverished citizens of Gotham.

Cassandra Cain kept to herself constantly. No one knew what she did for years. People assumed that Bruce Wayne stopped forcing his kids to perform and others argued that she just didn't have any talents to showcase. All wrong of course. Cassandra posted one of her recent projects online which proved she was very talented. It was a beautiful scarf she was making for the winter. Cassandra was gifted with a talent for textiles. She knitted, weaved, and sowed many of the clothes she was seen wearing. It was no secret that some of the clothes the Waynes wore could not be found anywhere else but people assumed they had a tailor to make custom designs but no one knew it was Cassandra.

Damian Wayne did not lag behind his siblings as she quickly showed off his artistic talents. He's still young so he hasn't gone as far as opening his first gallery but one of his paintings has already been put in a museum. Some call it nepotism but art is subjective. The other Waynes disagree since they have hung every art piece Damian makes in their offices and home right next to Tim's photos.

Duke Thomas isn't one to show off too much. But he does go all out in his hobbies. He secretly takes after Jason in writing poetry and has been inspired by "Blackout" since he first learned to read. Duck related to it deeply. But along the way, he learned a different way to express himself. Kids on the streets of Gotham learned a bit of breakdancing and Duke was no exception. Duke is an accomplished dancer and has gotten a few competitions under his belt now.

Now that there is a new member of the Wayne family the public is waiting to find out what Danny Nightingale's talent is. Everyone knew that Waynes were creative but honestly, no one expected this. A play was announced at Monarch Theater and none other then Danny's names was on the ticket as the star.

[long-live-astronerd-ghost-king]

DPXDC prompt: Dead on main. No trick only treat.

~~Сhildhood friends and deals~~

The Justice League has to summon a ghost from another dimension to address the threat. They don’t know what price the Ghost King will take but there’s little time to bargain. Another spirit threatening them has already seized all the computers on their base. John doesn’t know what else to offer. A summoned ghost starts to look bored. Gold, jewelry? A favor from a member of the League? Like the Ruler of All Dead needs it. No one dares to make another offer, and the King is in no hurry to set out his demands. Maybe try to pull off a soul sale scam?

Suddenly, Red Hood breaks into the hall, walks up to Phantom and shakes his shoulder vigorously. Red Hood: You, get Technus out of here right now. I need access to the files and fast. Phantom: That’s rude, dude. Where did you grow up? in the cave? No "hello, no how are you, Danny", really? Red Hood: I’ll pay the usual price. Phantom: Deal.

What is the price? John sees Batman and gets in his way. The usual price, his guy said. Means Jay was already out of the deal alive and well. This hyperprotective bat would only piss off the ruler if he interfered.

The King quickly deals with his subordinate using a thermos and remains to watch working Hood. Red Hood: What do you want? I’m busy. Danny: You and I have a contract~ Red Hood: All right, all right. Jay throws M&Ms right in the face of the ghost. But king doesn’t look angry. He opens the package and starts sorting the candies by color. Phantom quickly eats up all the green ones and passes the red ones to Hood. Jason takes them without any questions.

Strange. John has never seen a summoned creature share its reward with a human. And the son of a bat looks too comfortable with it. Wait, since when do super-powered beings think that candy is a decent wage?John makes one of the most likely deductions using his experience. Constantine: Batsy, how long has your son been sleeping with the King of Ghosts? Batman: He…what?!

~~~~~~~

Dick *knocking at the door*: Little Wing, you hate ectoplasm and everything what is neon green, so why? He’s dangerous! Jason who turned on the music to not listen to his crazy family: ~He’s poison but tasty~

Dick: NoOOoo

~~~~~~

Jason: And now everyone thinks that I sold my virginity to you for a bargain or something, because interdimensional creatures like you aren’t supposed to help for nothing. Like you’re playing favorites. I’m gonna fucking kill John. Danny: Well, I wouldn’t say no to that. Jason: What? Danny: I mean, to k-kill John, yeah. How dare he.. Jason: Omg, you’re still so terrible liar, Fenton.

Danny: Sorry :(

Jason: No. Say it again.

~~~~Twelve years ago~~~~ Maddie wasn’t thrilled to learn that Danny was trying to make friends with Todd’s son. Their neighbor was terrible. And his son was definitely a street rat and probably a juvenile delinquent. Maddie: Danny, honey, there’s got to be a reason this boy is talking to you. Even kids from the crime alley are always looking for a bargain they can make or a fool they can fool. Danny: But Jason is so cool! He knows so much about books and alleys and.. Maddie: But you don’t want to be a fool, do you? Danny: Okay, Mom, I get it.

So, if Danny wants a cool friend, he’s got to offer a bargain.

He didn’t have a lot of pocket money for every month but Jason needed it more anyway. And his lunch that Jack was picking for him was big enough for two and only bitten on Tuesdays. Nice. Jason: Do I understand correctly? You will pay me and give me food, and I, what? Protect you from bullies? Danny: No! I’m not weak, I don’t need to be protected. Just..maybe we could sit together at lunch and walk each other home sometimes? Jason: Nay Danny: But why? You want something else? Jason: Money’s fine but your homemade food is…strange. Danny: I can bring sweets if you want. Jason: Deal. 3 pop tarts for a joint lunch, a party size bag of M&Ms if you waste my time out of school.

~~~~

Sometimes they share sweets when they hang out but more often Jayson takes them home to save in case his parents have money problems. Sweets have a long shelf life stored and he may not be afraid to poison himself. Over time, candy becomes their currency and a secret language for all occasions. Need help without unnecessary questions? M&Ms. Problems with learning? Skittles. The question is about family? Snickers. There will be a serious conversation? Pop Tarts.

Jason: One snickers and a pack of gum. Danny: Yeah, Jason? What do you want? Jason: My mom wants to meet my friend. Come to lunch on Sunday. Danny: Okay, you managed to pay for my expensive services. Jason:…and you just lost the gum from the deal.

~~~~~~

Jason threw a package at Danny: Three pop tarts. We need to talk. Danny: All right? Jason: Why are you avoiding me all week?! Danny: Well, it’s just..you’re Wayne now. Jason. Still Todd. And what about that? Danny: You can hang out with the cooler guys now, I didn’t want to embarrass you. Jason: Bullshit! I’m still the street rat, and you’re trying to avoid our contract. me. And I don’t even need money from you anymore. What the hell? I thought you are my friend. Danny: And I am!

~~~~~~

Robin: What’s a schoolboy doing in an alley at night? Danny: Um, I…nothing? Don’t tell my parents, Mr. Robin sir. Robin: It will cost you so many Chunky Bars, you have no idea. Danny:...Jason? Jason: N-no. Danny: Damn yes. What are you doing in green shorts on the street at night?! Jason: Cosplay. Danny: Oh yeah? Then I’m just your hallucination. Don’t hesitate to ghost me. I’m going home, Disgrace In Pixie Boots, bye. Jason: fu%&c$#u

[bet-on-me-13]

The Bat-Adoption Papers are literal Magic Contracts

So! In the Deified Batman AU (the AU where the Belief of the peoples of Gotham accidentally Ascended Batman to minor godhood), the Bat Adoption Papers would be a fun concept.

Batman is a God of The Night, Fear, and Protection. Specifically, the protection of Children, which is one of his biggest motivators. Meaning, it's a big part of his Divine Domain.

So when he, a God of Protection and Children, adopts his own Child? It's kind of a big deal.

His Adoption Papers basically become Magical Contracts that claim Dick to him as his own Son, basically turning Dick into a Demigod by the fact that he is the Son of a God.

Then each time Batman adopts a kid, they become a Demigod as well. Maybe after enough time, and after they forge their own Identities, they could become Minor Gods of their own? Idk, fun idea

Why do I bring this up?

Well, when Danny eventually joins the JLA, and runs into Batman, all he sees in a God of the Night, who takes one look at him, and then pulls out a Magical Binding Contract from his Belt.

Needless to say, he books it.

[demonic0angel]

I saw some youtube shorts and thought of something maybe funny

Red Hood looking into a camera: I have an assistant, and even though our contract includes multiple places for her to choose to live in, she refuses to move out of her place in one of the worst neighborhoods in Gotham.

Jazz snickering behind the camera: Why would I give up a 5 minute walk commute.

Jason: That's why you won't move!

*camera scene changes to Wolf in front of the camera*

Wolf: I have a boss, and even though I have multiple years of combat training, he has to be the first one to check out any weird noises downstairs.

Jason: yeah thats not changing

*camera switch*

Jason: I have an assistant. She once asked if I'd ever fire her. I can't because my men will leave with her.

Jazz: the goons dont like me that much

Jason: Oh, there will be mutiny if I ever do something that would cause you to quit.

*camera switch*

Wolf: I have a boss. Of course, he hides his guns and ammo everywhere. *pulls out a gun and magazine from a hidden wall cubbie*

Jason: There's a cubby there? I've been looking for that gun!!!

(LMFAO WHY IS THIS SO ACCURATE I LOVE IT)

Red Hood: I have an assistant, so of course my entire empire of crime is under her rule.

Wolf: Aww, you can be my assistant when I take over!

Red Hood: Really?

Wolf: No. You're too bossy.

Red Hood: Hello? Have you ever met yourself?

————

Wolf: I have a boss, so of course he comes into my office whenever he wants to, even tho I'm busy.

Red Hood: I gave you those reports. Don't make me take away your assignments!

Wolf: *laughing* No! Please! Don't take away my paperwork!

————

Red Hood: I have an assistant, so of course she organizes everything in my office according to her own system that I can never figure out.

Wolf: Yeah, it makes you more dependent on me.

Red Hood: You’re on thin ice, Princess.

————

Wolf: I have a boss, so of course he pays for anything I look at, even when I tell him not to use our company savings for books and pastries.

Red Hood: It's cute that you call it a company. Anyways, if our empire starts sinking, I can just be your sugar baby.

Wolf: Hmm... not sure if I'd still follow you if you were a gigolo, Hood.

Red Hood: *gasp* Hey! Where's the loyalty?!

Meanwhile the comments:

[FLIRTING?? ON MY CELLULAR DEVICE??]

[The literal Red Hood, crime lord who killed over hundreds of people, and Wolf, his assistant who is infamous for beating up the Joker on national television, are following an internet trend??? Where am I?? Who am I?? Why am i?? And where is the patreon for me to get more videos??]

[Remember guys

Red Hood and Wolf: 🫂

You, the viewers: 👤]

[Both. Raw. Until Crime Alley becomes Park Row again. Next question.]

[Why does nobody gaf about a LITERAL CRIME LORD AND HIS ASSISTANT ON OUR FYP???!??]

[Omg I'd rat out these two to Batman so fast just to get them to stop flirting]

[The worst part is being someone from Crime Alley and knowing that these two aren't even dating, they're literally Just Like That.]

[.... I need to call Danny and Dan asap.]

[clockwayswrites]

Both Ways at Once Part 1

wc 868, Masterpost

“You’ve read the dossier?”

The clipped words were in time with their quick steps down the pristine white hall.

“Yes.”

“All of it?”

Danny resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Unlike you, Hellblazer, I read my contracts before I sign them.”

“You wound me, Pomp,” John said, twirling an unlit cigarette between his fingers. “I’m just trying to protect you from the Big Bad Bat. He’s had a bit of a mare over this case. Hell, as a consultant, you shouldn’t even be seeing this with the access level things are at, but…”

“But you’re stuck and need my pretty baby blues on things to help you out,” Danny said, batting his lashes obnoxiously at John.

“Fuck off,” John said without any heat and shoved Danny away. “But the Bat is anxious about it. All the Bats are. If you can help us solve it sooner, then the better, because when the Bats are on edge, everyone is on edge. And it’s a fucking nightmare around here already with all the bloody do-gooders let alone when they’re all worked up about something…”

“Everyone’s on edge, got it.”

“Nightingale,” John said, voice unusually serious— serious enough to make Danny stop even without the hand on his arm. “I’m not saying this lightly. I like you, like you well enough for a psychopomp and whatever the fuck else you are at least. Tread lightly.”

“Got it, Constantine. I’ll work extra hard not to piss anyone off,” Danny said, patting John’s hand with his own tattooed one. Danny picked back up his same quick pace, but his mind now spun trying to figure out what exactly he was walking into. The dossier hadn’t gone into details, just conditions. Supposedly the risk— some side effect created by a villainous magical spell gone wrong— was presently and thoroughly contained. Danny would be able to observe the risk, the individual originally affected, and the items present at the time. He was not to interact directly with the risk, answer it’s questions, or under any circumstance touch it.

It read as a pretty standard contract magical unknown.

John wouldn’t be this concerned by a standard magical unknown. So what was he about to walk into? It seemed like he might actually want to listen to John this time, even if that was always a fifty-fifty chance of being an absurdly stupid idea.

Danny shifted his grip anxiously on the handle of his kit: an old traveling salesman’s briefcase fitted out with a careful collection of haphazard items. Most of the other occult practitioners mocked Danny’s tendency for used items. Half burned candles, old books wiped and rewritten, estate sale candy dishes— odd choices for most people, but for Danny they sang. They spilled the secrets of the world known and unknown to him. He had to trust that between his tools and his skills (let them believe he was a mere psychopomp), he would come out of this at least safe, if not with answers.

Didn’t mean that a few of his tattoos didn’t crawl in warning.

(Who knew what spot of skin that damn ink moth would wander to now.)

“Justice Leaguers,” Danny greeted with a nod as they finally finished winding through repetitive hallways and stopped outside a room.

“Nightingale, thank you for being able to attend to this so promptly,” Wonder Woman greeted him. Of the Justice League members (outside of the Darks) that Danny had interacted with on other consulting gigs she might be Danny’s favorite, so he offered her a smile.

“Of course, it sounded like things were possibly on a time table from the contract, so I’m glad I was between pressing matters,” Danny said. Right then his most pressing matter was a need to find a laundry mat, but the Justice League certainly didn’t need to know that.

“Right, well,” John jumped in when no one else said anything, not that Danny had expected much from Batman with how he was lurking like a shadow. “Er, this way.”

Danny glanced at the room label of ‘containment cells’ as the door unlocked with a clank and hissed open. After John’s warning, he wasn’t surprised that they were taking whatever this was seriously.

There was more white and gleaming metal behind the door. A neat row of spartan cells were set behind thick acrylic glass and metal. Danny’s eyes locked on the figure in the third cell. He stumbled.

He might be sick.

“What the fuck are you all doing?!” The words ripped from Danny in a snarl.

That was a protector spirit.

He brushed past Wonder Woman and through John’s reaching arm.

They had a protector spirit in a cell.

Intangibility washed over Danny, cold as always, as he stepped through the glass wall of the cell.

The spirit stopped in their pacing, the opaque red helmet tilting.

John screamed something at him.

The flashing red of alarms glinted off gleaming surfaces.

Danny reached out and rested his hand over the spirit’s sternum, and they practically crumpled around the touch. Gloved hands clung desperately to Danny’s arm.

A low growl rumbled in Danny’s chest. “They’re hurting you.”

They had a protector spirit in a cell.

How dare they.

----

AN: So, um, yeah. Still sick. Not a cold or allergies at all and not easy to clear up and prob a new life long thing. Which is great. Super cool. I needed more ways to be sick.

But have the start of this thing that I used to take my mind off things! My, what could be going on?? (Also why do I apparently have a tattooed Danny agenda?)

Stay delightful (and well), darlings!

I no longer tag people for various reasons. You can instead be notified by subscribing to the masterpost!

[oddlydescriptive]

Reset, Chapter Sixteen

Series Masterlist

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

It’s not even a busy morning.

No press. No track time. No simulation schedule hanging over your head. Just a quiet kind of factory day- the kind that almost tricks you into thinking this job is normal.

You pull your door closed behind you with a soft click, the second-floor dorm hallway half-lit in the way Milton Keynes always is this early. Gray light through narrow windows. The hush of coffee brewing somewhere in the distance.

You glance down at the clipboard in your hand- notes, updates, nothing urgent- and step toward the terrace that lines the upstairs dorms. You’re barely awake. Hair not exactly styled, just swept up in a claw. Wide leg jeans that suit your age more than your role. A team polo you pulled out of the designated not-clean-but-not-dirty chair in your room.

Just a normal morning.

And then you see him.

Danny Ricciardo.

Right below you, in the open stairwell where the lobby meets the meeting rooms. Standing there like he’s always belonged. Like he hasn’t just changed the chemical makeup of your morning by existing in your field of vision.

You freeze.

Not because you’re nervous. Not because you’re panicking. Not exactly.

It hits you like a silent echo- how close it was. How this whole thing almost unraveled without warning. Like realizing your rearview is filled with the aftermath of a crash you somehow missed by inches while you were doing your makeup in the mirror.

You’d known the names floating around- of course you had. You’d studied the landscape like a battlefield. Watched the rumor mills spin up smoke and shadow. 

Because you knew, of course. Everyone knew. The whispers were loud in the hallway: that big names were still unsigned. That teams were taking meetings in side rooms and sending polite feelers to anyone with a name and a pulse. That the paddock doesn’t sleep- and monogamy isn’t owed to drivers. Especially not to drivers like you.

That’s why you wrote your contract like a war plan. The minimum salary. The forfeited sponsorships. That humiliating seven-million threshold handed over like a blood tithe just to guarantee your place on the starting grid. Every line item cut with one thought in mind- make yourself the obvious choice. Make yourself cheaper than the next best name.

And now, that name is standing ten feet away. Laughing.

You grip the rail. Just for a second. Because your heart’s doing that weird thing it does when adrenaline hits late. After the danger’s passed. When it’s just you, standing in the wreckage that didn’t happen. 

Reserve contract. Has to be. It’s all that’s left. You suddenly feel every inch of the reality you’re standing in. Your contract had felt brilliant at the time. Ruthless. Efficient. And now, with Danny here- smiling like the sun- it feels like maybe it was just barely enough. Like if you’d hesitated. Blinked. Taken one extra breath. He’d be in the seat. And you wouldn’t. And you don’t know what about that hits first. The pressure or the shame.

He’s here. In the building. On the books. And if you’re right, his name now sits directly behind yours on the team hierarchy. Not just metaphorically.  Literally. And that means the pressure to stay ahead- the pressure to deserve being ahead- just turned lethal.

Pressure, because now there’s a man with wins under his belt and charm for days seated just behind you on the roster. And shame, because- fuck- you like Danny. You’ve liked him since the days you had less than 500 instagram followers. As a driver. As a presence. As someone who made the sport seem lighter, once. And now you like him as a person. What little you know of him, anyway.

And you’re not proud of this, but a part of you wonders if he resents you. If he was eyeing the seat you now occupy. If he was waiting for the call you got. He must’ve been, right?

Because you know how this game works.

You’ve spent your entire adult life studying it like a second religion. No one just… sits out. Not someone like Danny Ricciardo. Not someone with the record, the name, the fans. He didn’t come back into the Red Bull ecosystem just for photo ops and test laps. He was waiting. Watching. Poised in the wings for someone to blink.

And for one horrifying moment, you think- what if he wasn’t waiting for someone. What if he was waiting for you specifically. To fail. To flinch. To fall just short. What if your seat was his backup plan?

And you know that shouldn’t matter. But it does. Because he’s Danny fucking Ricciardo. And you’re the girl who got signed onto what you’re pretty certain was the cheapest contract of the year.

You swallow hard. Try to bury the thought. But it’s like trying to swallow glass. The pressure builds in your chest- slow and mean and impossible to name. A compound emotion. Embarrassment and fear and defiance all braided together so tight they could strangle you.

You shift your weight. Adjust the sleeve of your jacket. The smile is already sliding into place before he even notices you. Not a real one. Not reight now. More like a brace. Something to soften whatever comes next. To protect against the possibility that when he does see you, the first thing in his eyes is regret. Or worse- disappointment.

Because that’s the sickest thought of all, the one you don’t dare say out loud: What if he thinks you don’t deserve it? What if he’s right?

And then- 

Danny glances up. Catches you.And the entire moment shatters. He lights up like it’s a goddamn Pixar movie. Bright, unfiltered, delighted. Like someone’s plugged him into a socket. “There she is!” he shouts, like this is a reunion and not the second time you’ve spoken in your life.

You blink. Half-smile. “Morning.”

Danny cups a hand around his mouth. “You gonna come say hi, or do I need to find a ladder?”

You exhale. You don’t want to laugh. But you do, just a little. You make your way down the stairs, heartbeat still slightly off-tempo, half-expecting the awkward twist that usually comes with this kind of moment- something territorial or weird or backhanded.

But Danny? Danny grins like the sight of you just made his day. “Didn’t think I’d see you here this early,” he says, slouching comfortably against the wall like this is all casual. “Fuck me, I didn’t even think I’d see me here this early.”

You don’t tell him 8:30 a.m. is typically about the time you pause your real job and start fucking around with the development team. Just… play it cool. “Factory day,” you say. “You?”

He shrugs, all loose limbs and mischief. “Same. Bit of onboarding. Bit of PR nonsense. Got to sign my name under the rules they only made because of me. You know. Legacy stuff.” He’s wearing Red Bull gear, but it looks lived-in on him already. Like the team doesn’t weigh him down. Like he fits here in a way you’re still learning to. 

That pulls a quiet laugh from you. “Did you get your own PowerPoint slide?”

“Oh yeah. Slide three. Big photo. Caption said ‘Don’t.’”

You huff once. “That probably tracks.” Danny smiles at that- wide and uncomplicated. Like he’s actually glad to be talking to you. You’re still trying to find the edges of that. Of him.

“How’s it going?” he asks. “Since the big news?”

You shrug. “Busy.”

“Good busy?”

You pause. “Overwhelming busy.” He hums in understanding, doesn’t push. Just sips his coffee. For a beat, neither of you speak. You could leave. Say you’ve got sim. But you don’t. Not yet. “You’re- what, reserve and media?” you ask.

“Yeah. Chief Vibes Officer.” He grins, teeth flashing, and tilts his head. “You’re not doing press?”

You shake your head. “Not until after lunch. Thought I’d sit in on some development meetings.”

Danny makes a face like he’s genuinely impressed. “God, I don’t miss those.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Yeah, well, I don’t mind. They’re interesting. Besides, I’m still in my earn your keep phase.”

“You say that like it ends.” You glance sideways, a little surprised by the honesty in it. But it’s not bitter. Just... real. From someone who knows. His voice isn’t heavy, not exactly. But there’s something buried under the words- fatigue, maybe. Or memory. A flicker of something unspoken.

And then, like he’s shaking it off, he claps his hands together once- sharp enough to break whatever thread had started to pull taut between you. “Hey, at least Italy has the better food between the factories.”

You snort. “Fuck, I hope so. I already miss the food in Brazil. Seasoned.”

Danny groans like it’s physically painful. “Right? I really need to stop signing for all these British teams. I would consider defecting for some good fucking food.”

You lift a brow. “You defecting to Ferrari?”

“I said defecting, not self-sabotaging.”

You laugh, and the last of the tension melts off your spine. Whatever pressure you'd built in your chest- about him, about the seat, about what you thought he might think of you- starts to loosen, piece by piece.

And Danny? He just smiles again, a little more quietly this time. "Trust me," he says, tone gentler now, like it's meant to land somewhere between reassurance and promise. "You're gonna be just fine."

He stretches, arms overhead with a theatrical groan like he’s been standing for hours instead of minutes. “Well,” he says, checking the time on his watch like it has anywhere to be, “I should probably go pretend I care about lighting angles and camera placement.”

There’s something a little boyish about the way he moves- light on his feet, like he’s just breezing through life. You wonder what it’s like to carry a career like his and still manage to smile like that. To be adored, displaced, recalled, and still show up to the factory like the air doesn’t feel different now.

You step toward the other hallway, toward the quieter, secure wing where the development offices live, but pause when he calls out again.

“Hey,” he says, a little more offhand this time. “You staying in for lunch, or…?”

You blink. “Probably? Why?”

He shrugs. “Dunno. If we’re both stuck here, maybe we could- ” He hesitates, not quite finishing the thought, then picks it back up like it wasn’t supposed to matter. “Grab food. Or hang out after. Whatever works.”

There’s a pause. Not long, but enough for something warm to bloom in your chest. Confused. Cautious. Curious.

Your heart doesn’t exactly leap. It just shifts. A small flicker, like the hallway lights adjusting overhead- brightening half a stop without explanation. Something about the offer lands in you sideways. Not with suspicion. Just… disbelief.

You’ve been scraping by for so long- focused, feral, alone in the way ambition often is- that it takes a beat too long to recognize the shape of it. Human interest. Social warmth. An invitation that doesn’t come with a contract or a press schedule or a steering wheel. Just... Danny. With a coffee in one hand and a casual offer in the other. You realize, with something like awe, that this might be the first time a fellow driver- someone with history, with wins, with fans and sponsors and goddamn lore- has looked at you and offered company without calculation.

You nod before you’ve really thought about it. “Yeah. Sure. If timing works.”

Your voice sounds normal, you think. Hopefully. It doesn’t betray the small chaos behind your ribs. Because what the hell do you even say to that? Is this what people do? Just… ask? There’s a theory somewhere in your head about how to make friends on the grid. Something about shared flights and coffee orders and long-haul bonding. But theory and practice don’t always match.

Still. You’re not an idiot.

You know what it feels like when someone doesn’t want you around. Max made a fucking science of it. So whatever this is- whatever Danny is offering- it feels… like the opposite. And that’s almost too much to process at once.

Danny flashes that easy grin again, quick and blinding. “Cool. I’ll find ya. See ya round, gr-” He stops in the middle of his sentence, looks like he’s thinking for a half a beat- if you didn’t know better, you’d think he’d forgotten your name. 

You just look at him back. “What?” 

Danny shrugs and steps back a smidge. “Nothin’. Just gonna have to find something to call ya. Grid barbie doesn’t quite fit. Sounds a bit sexist, no? Don’t you worry, it’ll come to me. Anyways-” And just like that, he’s gone- walking backward for a few steps like he’s trying to make you laugh again, then turning down the hall with a lazy wave, whistling something you don’t recognize. You’re left standing in the same spot, clipboard tucked under your arm, pulse just slightly irregular in a way that doesn’t feel like stress. Not really. Just… disorientation.

Because what even was that?

He wasn’t flirting. That wasn’t flirting. You’ve had flirting. You’ve had sponsorship flirting and juvenile flirting and grown-up flirting and transactional, barbed wire flirting from someone who used to wrap your braid around his fist in bed. That wasn’t this.

This was- 

God, was that him trying to be friends?

You stare at the space he left behind for a second longer than necessary. You feel- God, it’s so stupid- but you feel almost giddy. Not like a crush. Not really. More like someone cracked open a window in a house that’s been closed for months. The air smells different now. Better. Freer. Hopeful, in a way that doesn’t have teeth.

You shake your head once, trying to collect yourself, and turn toward the dev wing. You breathe out. Light. Uneven. Not quite a laugh, but close. It doesn’t mean anything. Not really. Just lunch. Just company. Just a man who seems pathologically incapable of treating the world like it’s sharp.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

The dev meeting wraps twenty minutes early- an honest-to-God miracle in a room full of engineers who usually treat meeting end times like polite suggestions. You shake a few hands, nod through a couple of quick debriefs, and find yourself drifting. 

You don’t head straight back to your dorm. Don’t even head toward the sim bays like muscle memory usually dictates. Instead, your feet angle toward the media wing- just to see. Just to wander. You’re curious, so what? Who wouldn’t be?

The door’s open when you get there, spilling light and laughter into the hallway like someone left a window cracked. You pause in the entryway, half-shadowed behind a corner, and watch.

Danny Ricciardo is on camera- mid-segment, clearly- and putting on an absolute fucking masterclass in media control. He’s sitting on a high stool in the center of the frame, arms folded in mock-serious concentration, brows furrowed in exaggerated focus.

The screen behind him flashes:

“DANIEL RICCIARDO: AUTOCOMPLETE INTERVIEW” We let Google finish the question… he has to answer it.

The current prompt glows across the screen: “Does Daniel Ricciardo…”

He clicks the next reveal.

“…actually own a winery?”

Danny gasps, hands over his heart like he’s just been outed on national television. “Who told you,” he deadpans. “Was it Max? I knew he couldn’t keep a secret.”

Off-screen, the crew laughs. Danny leans forward, palms braced on his knees now, like he’s letting everyone in on the joke. “Okay, sort of. Vineyard, no. Label, yes. By which I mean I drank an entire bottle of red once and said, ‘I could totally do this.’ Then I found someone a lot better at making wine than me. So here we are.”

The room crackles with laughter.

And God- he’s good at this. So good. Like the camera isn’t even there. Like being adored is just his default state. The energy he radiates isn’t smug, it’s symphonic- timed, practiced, pitch-perfect. Confident without taking up all the oxygen. Self-deprecating without selling himself short. You’ve seen so many people, drivers or otherwise, try to thread that needle and end up strangling their entire personality in the process. But not Danny.

Danny makes it look easy. Like the whole press junket is a party he’s hosting, and the rest of you are just lucky to be invited.

You lean against the doorway, out of sight, arms crossed, biting back a grin.

Another question pops up on the screen behind him. “Is Daniel Ricciardo…”

He smirks. “Dangerous.”

“…driving for McLaren 2023?”

Danny gasps again, mock betrayal in his voice. “Wow. Google really doesn’t keep up, huh?” He shakes his head. “Nope. I ghosted them. Swiped left. Got back together with my ex. You know how it is.”

He says it with such lightness, like the thing that nearly derailed his career is just a punchline now. Like he’s taken the weight of it and cracked it open to let everyone see it’s hollow. You wonder how much practice that took. You wonder if it ever hurts.

And then- 

He sees you.

Danny’s whole face lights up, brighter than it already was- which should be impossible, and yet. “Hey! Look who it is!” He gestures, voice still warm, still very much on. “Come here!”

You blink, startled. Point to yourself like me? But he’s already nodding, waving you into frame. “C’mon, c’mon,” he says. “You gotta help me out. I need backup.”

It’s still filming. You know that. You feel the familiar click of the PR instinct sliding into place- shoulders back, smile calibrated, voice dialed to somewhere between approachable and sharp. You step into the light, ponytail bobbing, eyes wide and charming.

“Morning,” you say, like you haven’t been standing off-camera for three minutes analyzing his social strategy like it’s your second job. “Is this a self-roast session or an interview?”

Danny mock-gasps. “Both. Welcome to Red Bull. Sit down. Suffer with me.”

The crew laughs again, and someone rolls a second stool into frame. You take it, legs crossed, posture clean. The screen refreshes.

“Daniel Ricciardo how many…”

Danny holds out his hands. “Please let it be ‘race wins.’”

“…tattoos?”

You huff a quiet laugh. “You’ve got a few, huh?”

“Oh, this one is fun.” He starts holding his fingers up, mouthing the numbers out to himself like even he’s lost track. He tugs his shirt collar down just enough to flash a small one on the tawny stretch across the top of his pec, like he’s checking that yep, still there.

You fake a scandalized expression. “This is family programming, Ricciardo.”

Danny shrugs, drops his shirt. “I ran out of fingers. They can Google it. It’s what got us here.”

The next card loads.

“Does Daniel Ricciardo like…”

He reads the first word, then glances sideways at you. “Oh no. I’m scared.”

“…pineapple on pizza?”

You snort before he even answers.

Danny places both hands over his heart. “God, this question is a trap. I did such a good job of not actually answering this last time.”

You lean into him, into the camera. “There’s a right answer here. Remember, you’re technically half-owned by an Italian team next season. Tread lightly.”

“I knew this was a test.” Danny shifts, eyebrows raised. “Okay. Fine. Yes. On occasion. But- hear me out- it should have a little pizzazz. Like a chili oil drizzle or gorgonzola instead of regular cheese.” 

You nod slowly, solemnly. “Acceptable.”

And just like that, the rhythm clicks. You can feel it. The give-and-take, the volley. You’ve done media before. You’ve done it well. But it’s rare- so rare- to be in the room with someone who matches the pitch without overpowering it. Someone who knows how to throw the spotlight and share it.

You’re still half-analyzing the mechanics of it when the crew resets the card deck. The energy in the room has shifted. Brighter. Looser. Like the two of you cracked something open without even trying.

Danny glances your way, a touch more real this time. Less of the act. Just him. “You’re pretty good at this.”

You flash a grin. “I’ve had practice.”

He leans back, clearly pleased. “Remind me to drag you into all my media slots. This is way more fun with a co-conspirator.” You don’t say anything. Just laugh. But something about the word co-conspirator sticks in your chest longer than it should.

The cameras cut. Someone says, “Good energy, that was perfect,” and you smile, shake a few hands, make your thank-yous sound casual, your drop-in sound planned. But the minute you step off the raised platform and out of the light, Danny’s at your side again- just as bright, but realer now, a little more dialed down.

“So,” he says, like it’s been an open question all morning. “You still up for lunch?”

You blink, mildly surprised he remembered. Or that he meant it. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Cool,” he says, like that’s that. “C’mon. I’ve got a spot.”

You fall into step beside him, back through the factory’s front doors and out into the frigid slap of November in Milton Keynes. The wind’s cutting today- blunt and rude- and you shove your hands in your jacket pockets before your fingers go numb.

Danny seems unfazed. Practically bounces as he walks, hood up but otherwise loose-limbed and grinning like he knows something good’s ahead. He keeps getting about two steps ahead before he pauses, realizes you’re behind, and circles back like a dog on a lead.

You squint sideways. “You’ve got a spot?”

“Yeah.” He nods, steps landing in rhythm against the damp pavement. “Used to go all the time when I worked here. Haven’t been back since like… 2018? Been a minute.”

Your mind races. A spot. What the hell does that mean in Danny Ricciardo terms?

Because sure, he started out normal. You know the story. Western Sydney. Grit, hustle, charm. But that was a decade ago. Since then, it’s been yachts and private jets and red carpet appearances and wine labels. And sure, he acts down to earth- seems like someone you could talk shit with at a gas station- but it’s easy for people to act like whoever they want if they haven’t touched their own bank account in six years.

And now you’re just walking, cold air clawing at your cheeks, and you realize you’re spiraling over lunch. Over lunch. Because you have no idea where this man is taking you. And more importantly, how much it’s going to cost.

You’re not like… broke-broke. Not totally, anymore, at least. But your contract’s so backloaded it may as well be theoretical. You still owe more to your parents for Indy than an entire year’s salary of development work. And after rent, groceries, and trying to look remotely camera-ready without being on a Red Bull-grade salary? You’re not exactly in blow fifty on lunch without heart palpitations territory. Much less a hundred.

You could just ask. But somehow, what’s the price range on your lunch spot doesn’t quite feel like the vibe. Like you might ruin it all by not seeming cool enough.

You follow him around the corner, past the long block of factory units and into the side street you didn’t even know existed- where the pavement dips and the air smells faintly of diesel and something fried.

And then you see it.

A kebab cart. With an old blue canopy, a propane tank bungeed to the frame, and a handwritten sign taped to the side that says Cash Only. 

You blink. Danny lights up like Christmas. “Yes!” he shouts, half-jogging the last few steps. “He’s still here!” The guy behind the cart looks up and blinks like he’s seeing a ghost. Then breaks into a grin.

“Ricciardo?” the man says, voice tinged with a thick Midlands accent.

Danny throws his arms wide. “Back from the dead, mate.”

They clasp hands over the steaming grill like it’s a reunion episode. You hang back for a second, stunned. Not at the food- you love a good cart- but at how happy he looks. Like this is the best part of his day.

He turns to you mid-laugh. “You good with lamb?”

“Uh- yeah, totally.”

“Two lamb wraps!” Danny calls, slapping the cart like it’s sacred.

You go to pull your card out of your pocket, but he waves you off. “Don’t even think about it.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I owe you for the pineapple-on-pizza solidarity. Risky take where you’re going,” he says, deadpan. You try to argue, but the vendor’s already handing over two warm foil bundles and Danny’s already crumpling a few bills into the guys hand. He grabs two Cokes from the little cooler and nods toward a tiny table with mismatched plastic chairs shoved into the sidewalk.

You sit.

And it’s… warm. Not the air- God, no, it’s freezing- but the vibe. The foil-wrapped kebab is glorious, greasy perfection, and Danny immediately has sauce on his cheek. He doesn’t notice. You don’t tell him.

“Okay,” he says, through a mouthful, “but be honest. You thought I was taking you somewhere fancy.”

You pause, chewing. “I considered it.”

He laughs. “I knew it. You were spiraling.”

“I was preparing,” you correct, trying not to grin. “Like a rational adult with a questionable salary-to-lifestyle ratio.”

He snorts. “Hollywood, you really thought I was gonna drag you to some overpriced bistro for lunch?”

You stop mid-bite. “What?”

Danny wipes his hands on a napkin, leans back, smug. “Hollywood,” he says again, like it’s a fact. A label. A discovery. “That’s what I’m calling you.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “…Why?”

He ticks off fingers as he goes. “You’re American. You’re beautiful. You’re great on camera. You’ve got that whole flair-for-the-dramatic thing. And- ”

You cut in, immediate. “Hold on- dramatic?”

He blinks, caught mid-thought. “What?”

“You said I’ve got flair for the dramatic,” you say, pointing at him with a slightly greasy finger and barrel past the rest like you didn’t hear it- like the word beautiful didn’t just casually detonate in Danny Ricciardo's mouth like it was no big deal. “Define that. Because that’s a loaded fucking phrase, Ricciardo.”

Danny blinks at you, amused. “Oh, you know. The whole vibe.”

“No,” you say flatly. “Spell it out. What vibe.”

He grins. “Theatrical. Cinematic. Bit of a main character thing going on.”

You tilt your head. “And that’s dramatic?”

He laughs, surprised and delighted. “That right there. See? That tone? Case in point.”

You sit back, arms crossed. “Calling me dramatic is dramatic.”

Danny just grins harder and stampedes ahead in the conversation, completely unbothered. Like he’s got something he just can’t wait to say. “...And…Christian told me you walked up to Helmut with a contract. In the middle of a party. In a cowboy hat.”

You freeze for half a second, because, fuck, that is exactly what you did. Then exhale sharply through your nose and roll your eyes so hard you physically tip your head back like a teenage girl. “Jesus Christ. He told you that?”

He laughs. “You did, didn’t you?”

You lift your head slowly, eyes half-lidded. “It wasn’t- ” You stop, think better of it, and shake your head. “You know what? Doesn’t matter.”

Danny leans in, practically beaming. “That’s a yes.”

You jab a finger toward him. “I am not confirming anything.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “You’re stuck with it. The hat, the entrance, the eyes. Hollywood.”

You lift your head, squinting at him. “You know nicknames are supposed to be collaborative, right?”

Danny grins. “Nope. Not taking suggestions.”

You shake your head, but it’s helpless. He’s already taken the name and run with it, and somehow it doesn’t feel mocking. It feels… affectionate. Light. Like being given something instead of having something taken.

And as you both dig back into your food, sitting there in the brittle, biting cold with your Cokes sweating on the plastic table, you feel it again- that giddy, unfamiliar warmth.

A friend. Yeah. You and Danny Ric are friends. 

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

Series Masterlist

A/N: GUYS GUYS GUYS I have the next chapter ready for tmmrw and we are GOING places. Remember allllll those chpaters ago how this story started? WE ARE ALMOST THERE.

Also sorry for the single chapter last week, a little overwhelmed with all the details I had to coordinate and just life in general, but I am generally doing well. Shameless pandering warning: I cannot stress this enough, but the comments, asks, messages etc are what keep me going. Don't get me wrong I love to see others liking and interacting with the story silently, but people giving enough of a shit to write something about what they think is the highest compliment I can receive. And it's free. I give you hours and days and weeks (and months and years) of my time, and I really, really appreciate when you give me just a few minutes of yours.

[caffeinatedvigilantewriter]

Ok. So Dani and Damian are around 23-26. You can decide. Fair warning this one’s pretty long

So while Dani was traveling the world, she meet Talia Al Ghul.

They became friends(?) and regularly meet up for coffee and tea and such (Dani is not part of the LOA) (Talia wanted to adopt her but she said no) (Dani knows of the LOA but not of Damian. In my mind a demon heir would be confidential information)

Damian leads the Wayne foundations (as well as the Martha and Thomas Wayne foundations) which involves lot of international travel. With his vigilantism and his job, Bruce forces him to put out applications for a secretary. He’s been moonlighting as the Vulture for a couple of years.

Dani, with her years of traveling in now fluent in multiple languages (one of her obsessions) and decided to attend collage in Star City, moving to Gotham after a degree in international business relations.

She applies at Wayne Enterprises for a job, and gets invited for coffee with Talia via coffee message.

Barbara Gordon intercepted the message and sends Damian and Tim to watch her meeting with a mystery person.

They are slightly confused as to Talia is meeting with a seemingly normal civilian. And Damian thinks this that she must be working with the Leauge (no matter how pretty her laugh was)

Talia, who realizes that if Dani won’t allow her to become her daughter, then daughter-in-law is the next best thing.

He realizes how royally he fucked up when Bruce introduces him to his new secretary, Danielle Jane Masters-Fenton.

So now he’s working with a (presumed) LOA assassin, one who’s (probably) infiltrating the company to get to his family. And Talia is try to set them up for some reason.

However, no one believes him when he tells them of his theory. Not even Bruce, who did the actual interview. (He also thought that she would make a good match for Damian, and bonus points if the rest of the family thinks so as well)

Part of Dani’s jobs description is to accompany her boss on international trips, which can take anywhere from 3 days to a week. And it’s pretty difficult when your boss hates you for some reason but can’t fire you because of his dad. Even harder when you’re forced to become a antihero (Vapor) to clean gothams curses and ghost cults and have an odd relationship with the Vulture

There are so many shenanigans that can happen

- Dani and Damian going on a routine business trip and having it run late, plus with the time zones, they are exhausted and forget to book the hotel room. The take the last available room, which happens to have only one bed. Neither one cares.

- mass Arkham breakout, and Dani retunes to work with a fractured left wrist. She says she got injured in the breakout and when Damian goes to her because he’s concerned suspicious he asks her more about it. Dani panics and tells him it was alright because Vapor was there and saved her (she actually got into a brawl with sulker)

~Vulture immediately seeks out Vapor to find out which rouge Dani her and Dani figures out his identity because Damian was the only one she mentioned anything about Vapor to she panicked okay??

- another trip but Damian doesn’t speak the local language (Dani knows more) and the company’s daughter insults Damian to their face because she assumed neither of them spoke the Language. Dani ripped her a new one, and because of her outright hostility (which has never happen before) Damian doesn’t renew the contracts with the company and instead spends the rest of the trip trying to cheer up Dani’s mood.

- Danny. Sam and Tucker all visit her in Gotham and the everlasting trio all go to an animal rights protest that ends up with them in a brawl. Damian also ends up brawling on their side and the four of them get thrown in the same jail cell while they wait for someone to bail them out. Tim arrives for Damian at the same time Dani arrives for the trio. To spite them, Dani and Tim have a long conversation in front of their cell instead of letting them out. (The group approves of Damian)

- a ghost attacks Dani and Damian on their way to the airport, Dani whips out her ghost busting moves. Damian finally decides to admit to himself that he’s in love after watching her tackle a ghost to the ground and make him beg for mercy (technus should’ve known better that to pick a fighter against her. in Gotham. With her crush boss watching)

- Dani kills the Joker, and a member of Black Masks crew saw her, so Vulture was assigned to be her bodyguard of sorts

- Dani is planning an international gala for the Waynes and is very stressed out. So stressed out, that a week before the gala she realized she didn’t think to accommodate for any rouge attacks and spends the next 3 days in her office. Damian eventually drops her sleep deprived butt home.

- Dan visits Dani in her office

- wingman Jon

- International business meeting hosted at WE. Rouge attakd the meeting and Dani gets injured. Damian sees red

- Waynes go to a masked gala in Wisconsin, hosted by Vlad Masters. Dani and Damian share a dance (while wearing masks) and a ghost ruins the party

- M A K I N G O U T W H I L E D R U N K

- Damian figures out Dani’s identity simply because he realizes they laugh and smile the same

- “Danielle.”

“Yeah?”

“Your birthday is coming up, correct?”

“It is, what about it?”

“What would you like?”

“Damian, you don’t have to get me anything.”

“Tt. Ridiculous. What would you like?”

“Get me a (super rare sword from medieval times)” (she was joking)

“Consider it done.” (He was not)

Eventually Ra’s finds out about Dani and her connection to his grandsons and daughter and decides to kidnap her as blackmail.

[reaching-writing]

In A Week

His throat felt tight. He scowled, shaking his head, and took a breath. It wouldn’t matter, soon enough. Either he would fix everything or he would die. Simple logic. Either way, it would cease to be a problem before long.

He was betraying Gotham City. He was betraying his principles, his most deeply held convictions. He couldn’t bring himself to regret it in the slightest.

Bruce's sons are dead, his body is broken, and his mind is in shambles. Not for nothing, though, he is the Batman, and he is never out of back-up plans. Unfortunately, this back-up plan involves summoning an otherworldly entity and trading away the very essence of his being.

As it turns out, his soul is worth a lot more than he'd initially bargained for.

-

Important Tags: Temporary Major Character Death, Marriage Contracts, Ghost King Danny Fenton, Bruce Wayne Has Issues, Crack Treated Seriously

AO3 Here or Read More ⬇️

-

The Watchtower was nearly silent, save only for the quiet scraping of John Constantine’s chalk against the metal floor. He’d been working on the summoning circle for nearly an hour, under the watchful eyes of an unmasked Batman.

Bruce looked back down at the book in his lap, twisting the wheelchair around to look over Constantine’s work one more time. He surveyed the chalk circle with tired, dark eyes, and he could feel Constantine’s own gaze boring a hole into the side of his head. He pointedly did not turn to look at him.

“That’s it,” Bruce said quietly, moving his wheelchair backwards. He rolled further from the circle, nearly backed against the Watchtower’s control panel, and released a slow breath through his nose. “You don’t need to stay.”

“Like hell I’m leaving,” Constantine said, but his tone lacked any bite. He tossed the chalk aside and stepped back, seemingly looking over his work once more. After a long pause, he turned to look at Bruce, his expression grim. “I know I said it already, but this is a stupid fuckin’ idea. Proper bad.”

Bruce snorted humorlessly. ‘Bad’ didn’t even begin to cover it. It was the most idiotic, poorly-conceived plan he’d ever dreamed up, and he had no other choice. Constantine clearly knew that, too, if the dark circles under his eyes were any indicator. They’d both been awake for days, planning and refining the details of a final Hail Mary that would almost certainly get them killed.

Bruce was ashamed, but he didn’t care. The slim chance of success was worth it. If there was even a possibility of hope, they had to try. He owed it to them.

“If it were that bad of an idea, you wouldn’t still be here,” he finally said, though the words felt sour in his mouth. He didn’t want to push Constantine to leave, but it would be cruel to allow the man to stay and die alongside him.

Even so, he found it difficult to prod the man into leaving. Despite his reputation as the Batman — an uncaring, unfeeling vigilante — he still felt human emotions. He tried to not let them cloud his judgment, of course, but he could hardly deny the icy trickle of fear that gripped his throat. Death was always a possibility on the streets of Gotham, but here in the Watchtower, it had always felt so distant. Now, faced with the inevitability of it all, his fingers trembled and his chest was cold. He was afraid.

Constantine scowled, his fingers twitching towards his coat pocket before pausing with a jerky movement. His fingers shook with the tell-tale stress of nicotine withdrawal, and his eyes lingered on the circle, as if deep in thought.

“…I’ll be honest, Bats,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically quiet, “I don’t see us walkin’ away from this one.”

And that was the crux of it. If John Constantine, a man who openly mocked demons and frequently weaseled his way out of soul-binding contracts, had such low expectations… Bruce carefully schooled his expression, privately mourning the absence of the cowl. He still couldn’t bring himself to wear it.

He said nothing. There was nothing to say, not really — he was asking a fellow Justice League member to die with him. He had fallen so far in just a month without—

His throat felt tight. He scowled, shaking his head, and took a breath. It wouldn’t matter, soon enough. Either he would fix everything or he would die. Simple logic. Either way, it would cease to be a problem before long.

He was betraying Gotham City. He was betraying his principles, his most deeply held convictions. He couldn’t bring himself to regret it in the slightest.

“Let’s do it,” he said quietly. The candles around the chalk circle flickered, as if registering his statement. He didn’t dare to meet Constantine’s eyes, his gaze focused solely on the small dagger in his lap. He wrapped a shaking hand around the hilt, the fabric around the hilt rough and scratchy against his palm. He took in another slow breath, his heartbeat steady in his chest.

Constantine made a quiet noise. Without any aplomb, he stepped forward, his back to Bruce, and held out an old book. He slowly began speaking, an old Latin chant, with another language that Bruce didn’t recognize mixed in.

“Eliru, reĝo de la damnitaj. Gustumu la sangon, kiu fluas el via sindonemo. Accede ad nos, rex. Accede ad circulum regni tui!”

The candles flickered from orange to green, their acidic glow flaring up and sending shadows dancing around the Watchtower’s command room. Bruce gritted his teeth, leaning forward from his wheelchair and holding his hand out, the dagger primed to strike at his palm.

“Eniru la rondon trankvile kaj aŭskultu nian rabataĉeton!”

Bruce yanked the dagger across his palm, hissing as the blade bit into the thin skin and muscle. His blood spilled over the floor, coating the edge of the circle, and he was hit with the sudden, gut-wrenching realization that this was it. They’d long since passed the point of no return.

The circle glowed white as Constantine’s chanting reached a crescendo. He was almost shouting the final words of the spell, and the white light started bleeding into green. The toxic color of the Lazarus Pits filled the room, just as the sound of static began to surround them.

Bruce dropped the dagger, his stomach dropping as the temperature began plummeting. He nearly turned around to check the Watchtower’s monitoring system, purely on instinct, before he realized that his back was still warm. The cold was not a mechanical failure, but simply the result of the entity they had summoned. It was the icy touch of death’s king, not the reaching void of space.

The green light grew nearly blinding, and Bruce faintly heard Constantine shout before he, too, was drowned out by the light and deafening static. He squeezed his eyes shut, nearly flinching away, and felt a breeze of cold air against his face. The blood on his palm had frozen in place, and the wound burned as if the skin had been cauterized.

Spots danced across his vision when he finally opened his eyes again, the light gradually fading away to reveal a man. Bruce felt a chill run down his spine, but it was not the cold.

The King of Ghosts was tall, that was the first thing he noticed. The entity had broad shoulders and wore a crown wreathed in green flames. His hair tumbled down his shoulders in waves of cascading white, flowing strangely as if he was underwater. His skin was pale and pallid, as if he, himself, was a corpse that had been left in a cold body of water. At that, Bruce looked down at the entity’s fingertips, which were a ghastly black color at the tips. He wondered if the King of Ghosts had once been alive, maybe in the early days of humanity, and had died of hypothermia in a snowbank somewhere.

The King’s face was stern, with the tell-tale wrinkles of age at the corners of his eyes and the sides of his mouth. He couldn’t have been more than 40, but there was a look in his green eyes that spoke of a bone-deep weariness. He wore a long, dark tunic, but it glimmered strangely, as if it contained the stars from a far-away galaxy. Behind him, there was an enormous pair of glowing, white wings, their light nearly blinding to look at. The King held a thick book, though it snapped shut as he seemed to realize that he was, very suddenly, in a new place. His green eyes widened for a fraction of a second before he made eye contact with Bruce.

Finally, he spoke, his voice deep and faintly buzzing with that familiar static. “...You must be Mr. Wayne. I wondered when we would meet.”

“You know who I am?” Bruce asked without thinking, but he internally winced as soon as the words left his mouth. He couldn’t give away how utterly lost he was, how much of a disadvantage he was at.

“Gotham’s local bird-keeper, of course I know who you are,” the Ghost King said, his tone warm. “Your flock is lost to you now, but they still fly in my domain. They are what you seek.”

Bruce’s breath left him all at once, as if he’d been punched. He couldn’t speak, his eyes wide.

The entity continued on, perhaps uncaring for his shock. “You’ll have to forgive me, but I’ve been expecting to meet you for a while. Maybe that’s a strange way to open a conversation… It has been many years since I’ve spoken to- well, a mortal.”

Thankfully, Bruce didn’t need to say a word, as Constantine stepped forward, holding up his spell book. “‘Ello, your Majesty. Er, you already know what we want, so how’s about a trade? The book, in exchange for… Well, y’know.”

The Ghost King raised a white brow before his eyes narrowed. “John Constantine… I’ve been meaning to speak with you, as well. You have saved me a trip to the mortal realm. It isn’t every day that I get to accomplish so much with just one meeting.”

Bruce froze, his heart sinking. He’d known what to expect, but to hear the King say it so bluntly… He cleared his throat, fighting to keep his composure as those intense, unblinking eyes returned to him.

“Constantine doesn’t have anything to do with this, he’s here in an unofficial capacity,” he said quickly, his words steady despite his heart threatening to beat out of his chest. “He is…”

“I’m like his lawyer, here to negotiate on his behalf, your Majesty,” Constantine said smoothly, pulling a cigarette out of his trench coat’s pocket. He leaned down and held it up to one of the candles, still glowing a deathly green, and lit it. With that, he straightened up, taking a deep drag, and breathed out a cloud of smoke. “Pay me no mind, yeah?”

The Ghost King huffed, his head quirking to the side like a bird. “We will address the matter of your soul at a later date, then, magician. And no, the book is not a fair trade. For now, I’d like you,” he pointed towards Bruce, “to tell me what I can do for you.”

Bruce refused to allow himself to be taken aback. He nodded, gritting his teeth for a moment before releasing the tension in his body.

“One month ago, the Joker learned of my secret identity. He took me and my sons hostage, and…” Bruce paused. Flashes of blood and bone flashed behind his eyes, and he could almost hear a high-pitched, shrieking laugh. He would never forget the sound. “My sons are dead. Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake-Wayne, and Damian Wayne. The Joker killed them. I want them back.”

The King hummed, a strange sound that hovered somewhere between static and the crashing of waves upon a distant shore. “The dead do not often tolerate being disturbed.”

“Come off it, mate- erm, sir,” Constantine cut in, sharply correcting himself as the King sent him a dark look. “Your, uh, your Majesty.”

“I invite you to finish your statement, John Constantine,” The King of the Dead said slowly, the room growing colder as he watched the magician. They were rapidly losing control of the situation.

“I just meant, uh-” Constantine floundered, his eyes wide as he held up his hands. “Those kids, they aren’t resting, are they? They’re probably raising hell trying to get back ‘ere.”

The King rolled his eyes, waving a hand towards Constantine absentmindedly. Ghostly chains wrapped around the man’s ankles, sending him toppling down to the floor with a sharp yelp. He opened his mouth to shout, his cigarette falling to the ground, and a gag appeared around his head.

“The adults are talking now, John,” the King intoned, a sparkle of mischief twinkling behind his eyes. As Constantine let out a muffled yell behind the gag, the King turned to Bruce.

“You are not the first to request an audience with me, in regard to your sons,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards before settling down into a neutral countenance. “Though she could not bargain with me, not as you can.”

“Who was it?” Bruce asked before he could think better of it. He immediately went still, hoping desperately that the entity wouldn’t somehow use his words against him. He wasn’t seeking information, he was seeking a deal.

“You are familiar with her. You belong to her, and in a way, she belongs to you,” the King said, waving a hand idly. A glowing green figure appeared beside him for just a moment, their features too foggy to make out clearly. It was a woman wearing a tight cocktail dress, a cigarette raised to her lips.

The image vanished after a fleeting second. “She is the spirit of Gotham City. It is within her shadows that you roam, and within her walls that you bled. She watched the demise of your sons, and she brought their spirits to my realm, when it was time. She is called Lady Gotham. She is… fond of you and your cohort.”

Bruce’s eyes widened. The spirit of Gotham City… The fact that a city could even have a spirit was news to him, but he tried to move past the surprise as quickly as it had occurred. Lady Gotham’s favor was an intriguing prospect, and he was privately glad that someone had been waiting to help his boys when they’d finally passed, but he moved on.

“She requested an audience with you. Did she bring…” He couldn’t quite finish his sentence. He hated to imagine his kids, dead and scared and confused, standing before this imposing entity without any way to defend themselves. It made him sick to his stomach.

“She did not bring them before me, no. She begged for their return to the world of the living, though, and she mourned when I told her that I could not help her.” The Ghost King looked mildly uncomfortable at the thought, his lips pursing together. “If it is any comfort to you, they have not been frightened. Inquisitive and upset, perhaps, but never frightened. They know what happened to them.”

Bruce’s breath caught in his chest. Out of everything he had been expecting from the King of Ghosts, it was not comfort. Cold indifference, perhaps, or even derision. His hands shook, even as he balled them into fists to rest in his lap. He nodded slowly, trying to settle his nerves.

“...Are they happy?” He asked very quietly, unable to speak any louder. As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted them. Either way, he didn’t think that the answer would be pleasant to hear.

The King seemed to sense this as well, and his features softened. His pointed ears lowered. “They were happier in the mortal realm. Death is difficult for ones so young, but there have been people to help them adjust. They have not been alone.”

The pain that had rested in Bruce’s chest for the last month finally made itself known. As if a dam had finally broken, had finally worn away after years of damage, and his eyes burned. His vision blurred slightly as the tears finally welled up, and he fought to breathe around the lump that had suddenly taken up residence in his throat.

There was a moment of silence before the King stepped closer, pausing at the boundary of the circle. A flicker of movement behind his figure had Bruce looking up, and he watched as the entity’s wings shuffled slightly, reminiscent of an uncomfortable bird.

“For what it’s worth, I am… sympathetic to your struggle,” he said, his eyes creased in sympathy. “After hearing Lady Gotham’s case for their revival, I spoke to a few of my closest colleagues. They have agreed that the death of your children was not meant to happen.”

Bruce blinked, the tears spilling over his cheeks. He felt as if he couldn’t breathe, and his entire body felt hot. He was safe, but for some reason, it felt like he was watching his boys die all over again. “...What?”

“The passage of time is a tricky thing,” the King explained, gesturing out in a straight line. “Some things are meant to happen, some are not. Certain timelines must never come to pass, for the good of our reality. Part of my job is ensuring that, well, those timelines cease to exist. Whether that means removing troublesome players or correcting a fatal error, my duty is to the continuation of my realm. Do you follow?”

“You said… You said that they weren’t- they weren’t meant to die,” Bruce said numbly, meeting the King’s eyes with disbelief. “Then why did they?!”

To his surprise, the King did not scold him. In fact, he merely inclined his head, looking sufficiently guilty. “Your sons died because of an error within the timeline. It can be reversed with a bargain.”

Constantine shouted behind his gag, squirming violently against his bindings. He scooted closer to the circle, slamming his hands against the floor, and Bruce frowned.

He sent a look towards the King, motioning down to Constantine. The entity sighed before waving a hand, and the gag over the magician’s face fell away.

“-mph, finally… Right, your majesty, if this whole situation happened because of a ‘timeline error,’ then why does Batman need to make a deal to fix it?!” Constantine argued with a dark scowl, which would have looked more intimidating if he were not tied up and laying on the floor.

His argument had merit, and Bruce realized with a start that he had hardly been thinking. It was difficult to think rationally when he was so vulnerable, but he needed to remain impartial. He was grateful for Constantine’s presence, despite his brusque nature.

“I asked the same question,” the King answered, a frown marring his features. “As it stands, there is a balance to all things. You seek the return of the life and body of 4 souls, and doing this would aid in fixing this timeline, but there is always a price to keeping the balance. To be clear, I couldn’t bring them back under normal circumstances.”

“But you can bring them back?” Bruce pressed, his heart leaping up to his throat. The entity nodded. He leaned back in his chair, falling slack with relief.

“But there’s a price,” the King reminded him. “To bring your sons back onto the mortal plane, as they were, you will first surrender to me your soul, along with your life, death, and eternity.”

“Hold on a fuckin’- mphff!” Constantine started speaking, but the gag jumped right back into his mouth. He shouted behind it, his face crumpling in rage, but the King paid him little mind.

“Do you understand this term?” The King asked seriously, meeting Bruce’s gaze evenly. “Your life will not be your own, not after this. Your death and eternity, even less so.”

He gritted his teeth, watching the entity with narrowed eyes. He didn’t need to truly think about it, not when the lives of his sons hung in the balance. He nodded.

“I understand. Is that your only term for their revival?”

The King looked sad for a moment before shaking his head. “Well… It’s complicated. In accordance with the laws of the Infinite Realms, I must bring a soul to trial for this timeline error. After conferring with my counsel, we have agreed that the Joker is responsible. I will be taking him into the Realms to stand trial and atone for his crimes. He has also killed 4 of Lady Gotham’s knights, which is yet another breach of Realm law.”

“You aren’t asking me for permission for this, are you?” Bruce asked, though he suspected that he already knew the answer. “I’m not able to just hand over another person’s soul.”

“Ownership doesn’t matter in a criminal trial, it’s more like extradition,” the King explained patiently, gesturing with his hands. “You signing over your soul is not a matter of ownership, it’s more like a work contract. I fulfill my end, you fulfill yours. In the Joker’s case, he is being prosecuted for using knowledge of the Infinite Realms to kill Gotham’s protectors.”

“So I’ll work for you, once this deal is complete?” Bruce asked, raising a brow and deliberately ignoring any mention of the Joker. He hadn’t been entirely clear on what soul ownership meant, and Constantine had been vague in his explanations as well. It seemed like eternal damnation, which suited him just fine, but he wanted to be sure.

“Well… The things that I have requested from you are required to restore balance, but in the interest of cooperation, I will tell you that I have no specific plans for your soul,” the King said, looking almost sheepish as he admitted it. He rubbed the back of his neck, gesturing down at Constantine, and said, “Despite what this one might tell you, I did not answer your summons for nefarious purposes. I hadn’t even realized that it was you summoning me.”

The way the King spoke was interesting. For whatever reason, Bruce got the feeling that this entity was familiar with modern language and mannerisms, if only because of his strange insistence on being polite (except, of course, to Constantine).

Finally, he sighed very quietly. “Will you let me see them one more time, then? Will I have any time here on Earth with them?”

The King’s face softened, his green eyes creased with sympathy. He nodded. “Of course. Mr. Wayne, I don’t seek cruelty. You will have at least a week with your children before I return for you, I can promise you that.”

A week. It was such a short span of time, but it was more than he’d ever hoped for. He fought the tears that threatened to reappear as he nodded, a smile barely tugging at the corners of his mouth. “A week is… Thank you. I appreciate that, more than you know.”

The King smiled. With a flare of green fire, a small stack of papers appeared in his hands, and a pair of reading glasses appeared, already perched neatly on his nose. He adjusted them and shuffled through the papers, organizing them neatly in his arms but presumably not reading any of them. Had he already drafted a contract in preparation of their meeting?

Finally, he stepped up to the boundary of the circle and leaned closer to Bruce, extending the papers out to him. He took them after a moment of hesitation, glancing down to see…

“King Phantom? Is that your name?” Bruce asked curiously, unable to really help himself. He skimmed the terms, finding that there wasn’t very much legalese in the way that he had been expecting. The terms were clear.

“That is what I’m called, yes,” King Phantom said, and though Bruce wasn’t looking up at him, he could hear a smile in his voice. “I’m sorry, I should have introduced myself properly. That was rude.”

“Mhm,” Bruce hummed, not paying it much mind, but paused on the section about the King’s responsibilities towards him. The language was worded strangely, less like a work contract and more like…

Something wasn’t quite right.

In exchange for all services rendered (see Section 3, “Phantom’s Responsibilities”), both parties will enter into a formal courtship, to begin one week from the signing of this contract.

“Did you write this?” He asked slowly, raising a brow as he looked up at the entity.

“No, my mentor wrote it,” King Phantom said with a smile, and a few things clicked into place. Ah. Bruce schooled his expression with some difficulty. “He and I spoke about this after meeting with Lady Gotham, and he drafted those in preparation of this summoning. Is something wrong? I haven’t had a chance to look over it, but I can.”

“Your mentor?” Bruce pressed, ignoring the question.

“The Master of Time, Lord Kronos, known as Clockwork most recently,” the King explained, gesturing with frostbite hands as he spoke. “He is a dear friend and a trusted confidant. He has taught me much over the years.”

Bruce hummed. He examined the list of his own responsibilities towards the King and was pleased to see that the entity had not lied — he had a week from the moment of signing the contract to get his affairs in order, in preparation of leaving the mortal plane to get ‘accustomed’ to the Infinite Realms.

Finally, he asked, “Would it be possible to allow Constantine to review this?”

The King snorted and waved a hand. In a flash of green, the bindings vanished and the magician leapt to his feet with a scowl.

“Damn it all…” Constantine leaned over Bruce’s wheelchair and yanked the contract from his hands, grumbling quietly as he looked through the papers.

While he was occupied, Bruce thought to ask one more question. “One of the terms in your section said that you would return my sons and myself to perfect health. Why?”

The terms of the contract had been shockingly accommodating for Bruce’s side, to such an extent that he wondered just how valuable his soul was. What would his eternity look like, under the Ghost King? Was it really that bad, that even the contract writer had felt bad for him? And if that was the case, what would the courtship be like? He shuddered at the idea.

“It seems fair, doesn’t it?” King Phantom asked with a frown. “You didn’t ask for this situation, and your injuries are the result of a horrible error. This contract seeks to fix that error, in its entirety.”

Bruce hummed, considering the answer. Throughout their conversation, Phantom had been surprisingly kind to him, always answering his questions patiently and showing sympathy for his situation. He wondered about pushing that kindness, ever so slightly.

He glanced over to Constantine, confirming that he was still reading through the papers, and met the King’s eyes again.

“You were human once, weren’t you?”

Beside him, Constantine stiffened, his eyes going wide. He slowly turned to look at Bruce, his expression dangerous, but Bruce paid the magician little mind.

“I was, yes,” the King said, nodding. He smiled after a moment and gestured to his form, saying sheepishly, “Most of this is the result of shapeshifting. Ghosts are just stronger spirits, and we can change our forms as we see fit. The wings are a ghost thing, I did not have them when I was alive.”

“How did you die?” Bruce asked, and Constantine let out a high pitched, strained sound. He was rapidly shaking his head, clearly trying to get Bruce’s attention.

King Phantom recoiled, his green eyes catching on Constantine’s panicked figure. After a tense moment, he smiled.

“I see. Well, for one, please don’t ask any other ghosts about their death. It’s considered rude. For two, most ghosts are the result of a violent or sudden death. That is all I will say about my death, lest I risk giving the magician a heart attack.”

“The- the magician is fine!” Constantine spluttered, but his white knuckled grip on the papers in his grasp said otherwise. He jabbed Bruce’s shoulder with his elbow, shooting him a dark look.

Bruce pointedly did not apologize. He had established that King Phantom wouldn’t hurt him, at least not until the contract was settled, and he was curious about the entity’s temperament. If he was going to spend eternity with this creature, he had to know more about him.

“Freezing to death doesn’t seem violent,” he observed idly, gesturing up to the King’s dark fingertips. To his surprise, the ghost only laughed.

“Again, shapeshifting. Besides, my core- that is, my soul’s essence- is partially responsible for my appearance, and I have an icy core. The frostbitten appearance isn’t an indicator of my death, though we can go through all of the violent deaths if you really want to guess.”

The most sensitive topic that he could think of was a ghost’s death, and it was one that Constantine had insisted that he needed to avoid. Now, in the wake of the King’s lighthearted but polite nature, it seemed like it wasn’t too much of a taboo.

“Murder?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Drowning? Blunt force trauma? Starving?”

“You’re good at this game, but still no.”

Bruce snorted. He smiled slightly, internally considering the many ways he had almost died.

“Poison? Falling? Blood loss?”

“Three more incorrect guesses, Mr. Wayne. Come on, really think.” The smile on the King’s face seemed genuine, and the way he leaned down, as if excited to hear his next guess, suggested that he, too, was having fun.

“Dehydration? Disease? Animal attack?” He racked his brain for causes of death that would have been especially relevant near the beginning of mankind. If Phantom was that old, he likely had died in a common way.

“None of those, either, but I’m confident that you’ll find it.”

Bruce paused. He leaned back in his chair, thinking seriously about it. There were a few more that he had not seriously considered due to the more modern nature of their applications, but maybe that was what he was missing.

“Suicide?”

“Not quite. You’re getting warmer, though.”

He had his answer. He steeled himself, ready to ask his question and receive some kind of reaction from Phantom. The entity still seemed engaged, his long ears perked up and his eyes bright. It was strange to see such an expression on a (presumably) millennia old creature.

He met Phantom’s eyes evenly and said, “Electrocution, your Majesty.”

Phantom’s lips quirked upwards in a small, sad smile. He nodded. “You are correct. Well done, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce suppressed the urge to smile in return. He’d expected that selling his soul would be a more unpleasant affair, but Phantom had an even temperament and even a sense of humor. He was surprised by both, frankly.

“Bruce,” he said quietly. “Call me Bruce.”

“As long as you call me Phantom, none of this king or majesty business,” the entity said with a wider smile, stepping back from the edge of the circle. His wings were relaxed now, no longer held so tightly against his back. The white feathers glowed ever so slightly, and Bruce had to remind himself not to stare.

He nodded, glancing back to Constantine, who was staring, slack-jawed at the contract. Bruce glanced down at the page and immediately identified which term had caught the magician off-guard, and he cleared his throat.

“It all looks fine, right, John?”

Constantine met his eyes, finally closing his mouth. After a beat, he nodded. “Yeah- yeah, it looks… fine. Bats, are you sure?”

“It seems fair,” Bruce said, pointedly not discussing the clause that Constantine had been examining. If the King hadn’t read the contract, then this could only work out in Bruce’s favor.

The magician looked at him for a long moment before finally nodding, his expression twisted with pity. He handed the papers over to Bruce, saying quietly, “You’re a good dad, mate.”

“If I was, we wouldn’t be in this situation,” Bruce said very quietly, accepting the small stack of papers. He looked up at Phantom with a steely gaze. “Alright, you have a deal. How do we sign?”

“You may be familiar with other forms of contract signing,” Phantom said, gesturing to Constantine. “Demons and fae often seal their contracts with a kiss. I find that unprofessional and, frankly, very cruel. We sign the final page and shake hands. Is that acceptable, Bruce?”

He briefly wondered if Phantom’s lips would have been cold before immediately shutting down that train of thought. Instead, he nodded. “That’s fine with me.”

King Phantom smiled, exposing sharp teeth as he did. He waved a hand and another flash of green light appeared, summoning a quill and a pot of ink. Both objects floated in the air before him, seemingly weightless, and he grabbed the quill. With a quick dip into the ink pot (which, disturbingly, seemed to contain Lazarus Water instead of ink), he signed the final page of the contract before handing it off to Bruce.

The quill was cold against his fingers. He shuddered, holding it tighter, and dipped the tip into the Lazarus Water. It was more viscous than he’d realized, and it clung to the end of the quill like honey. He lowered it down to the page and slowly penned his signature, his stomach dropping as he did.

Finally, the papers glowed a bright, toxic green, and the King smiled. He held out a hand, and Bruce took it. It was as cold as he’d expected, but soft to the touch. They shook once, and the deal was sealed.

There was a quiet moment of tension before Bruce felt an overwhelming sense of finality. He released Phantom’s hand, clutching at his own chest, and took a slow, deep breath. A tingling sensation ran up and down his spine, which was strange for a beat before he realized that he could feel it. He laughed softly, in disbelief, and slowly stood up from the wheelchair.

Phantom watched him with a soft smile, his head tilted to the side. The ghost stepped closer, placing a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, and said very quietly, “You should head back home. They’re waiting for you.”

With that, the King of Ghosts vanished, his form dissipating like smoke, and there was a thick silence left in his wake.

“I can’t believe you just did that, you bloody fuckin’ idiot,” Constantine huffed, his tone incredulous. He stepped closer to Bruce, digging a cigarette out of his trench coat and immediately lighting it. “You just sold yourself to the fuckin’-”

“We read the same contract, didn’t we?” Bruce asked with a smirk. “He’ll probably realize what happened before he comes to collect me, but still.”

“Being engaged to the bloody Ghost King is still crazy!” Constantine spat, throwing his hands up in the air. He took a heavy drag of his cigarette before groaning. “You know how pissed he’ll be? Bats, you’re mental-”

“According to the contract, it’s an official courtship, not an engagement,” Bruce corrected mildly, unable to help but smile. He stepped away from the wheelchair and breathed in deeply, noting that his legs felt better than they’d felt even before his encounter with the Joker.

“I’ll let you clean this up,” he said with a dark smirk. “I need to get back home.”

Constantine sent him a miserable glare, but nodded. “Fine. Go hug your kids… Bloody nutcase.”

That was exactly what he planned to do.

-

(If you liked, be sure to leave a comment or just reblog! An extended chapter is available on my AO3 and you’ll be able to follow the rest of the fic there. Thank you for reading.)

[furiarossa]

Danny Runner is a fourteen-year-old boy with a normal family: mom, dad, a nerdy older sister... and a secret.

Because what kind of fourteen-year-old are you if you don't have a secret? Danny's, however, is terrible and scary: something happened to him, an accident, yes... an accident that is transforming him into something else, something inhuman.

Danny is scared. And alone. And he knows he can't ask his parents for help.

Until he meets someone who seems to have contracted the same strange condition: it is Vladislav Korolkrovi, a mysterious figure from his parents' past. Danny asks him for help... but it seems that this is the biggest mistake of his life.

And this is where the hunt begins.

Get ready to run, exploring a new world, among creatures never seen before and others that, familiar as a recurring dream, will tell you the mythological story... of ghosts!

Temporary cover (we'll make a better one later!) for a book inspired by Danny Phantom, a new story (a completely new rewriting, if you will) that you can both read as a fanfiction (if you know who are the characters to which we are referring) and as a new, original story, because we're gonna introduce everyone from the start :)

We're gonna slowly post the story here:

A03: [English][Italian]

Wattpad: [English][Italian]

★ Instagram|Facebook|FurAffinity|Deviantart|Commission prices★

[yonpote]

god i just remember someone getting heated at me on anon for complaining about anthony's interview with dan including a betterhelp sponsorship like. "oh buh buh just skip the ad and stop complaining" even tho I LITERALLY GAVE AN EXAMPLE of danny gonzalez doing a betterhelp ad, being informed by his viewers "hey! betterhelp is notoriously sucky!" AND THEN REMOVING HIS SPON FROM THE VIDEO EVEN THO IT BROKE WHATEVER CONTRACT THEY HAD like. youtubers can choose to not do ads for shitty companies! especially in the context of dan and anthony's conversation revolving around mental health, dan being very adamant about getting PROFESSIONAL help from licensed therapists and hiring a licensed psychologist to fact check his book on mental health, yeah doing a sponsorship for a company that hires completely random unlicensed counselors is kinda shitty! even if no one YOU KNOW is scrambling to betterhelp, SOMEONE did because of that video, and yes there are some licensed therapists on betterhelp but most of them are dogshit and that can literally put people who are at risk in danger. so whatever idk that videos a couple years old now so who cares i guess

[satoshy12]

"Brides" of Pariah dark and "Mothers" of the heir

The few times the Justice League and similiar needed help, they summoned those beings from the contract they found. Be it to make all of Darkseid's army gone; they couldn't hurt Darkseid, but all of his parademons were gone from earth. The flying eyeballs just wanted them to sign the papers; it has nothing to do with souls or anything similar. Just being the "brides" of a dead and sealed king, nothing else, free will, and all that they would still just stay there. After a few heroes, magical and similar looked over and said a magical vow. Yes, their contract is just on paper, but they have no idea why. The heroes accepted, and a few females signed the papers. +

The Observants were happy, making sure the new young prince, after his metamorphosis phase (think of the JJK Cursed Womb where Danny is inside), would be able to take the Ring of Rage and Crown of Fire. And not be turned insane. That means they can finally give someone else the paperwork! What the people didn't know was that the contract changed Danny's DNA again and again, so he could bear the Crown of Fire and Ring of Rage easier. So Danny had many extra moms next to Pariah.

+

The people in DC started summoning the observers and others for easy things too, like Villainess used poison ivy for extinct plants, Circe for a Magic Book, and even Talia al Ghul used them. Or important things like Hawgirl used their help against the Gordanians armies; the robots seem to have a huge joy in hunting them that they had sent. The Thanagarians won the war! While they are only on paper "married" to King Pariah Dark, they didn't see many problems with it. Then summoning stopped! They didn't come anymore. +

In the Ghost Zone The young prince had woken up from the metamorphosis, able to take the ring and crown without problems. They no longer needed the mortars. So they kind of forgot and ignored them for the time being. + DC verse After a time, the people who signed the contract saw an invitation to a wedding for their child! They really should have read the full contract!

That was how they learned they had a child, as Danny got married and the Box Ghost sent the papers of invitation to the wedding to the parents of the groom and bride. A/N For marriage Either Danny x Sam and or Val Or A Dc Character danny x Zatanna or Cassie

Good meaning Observants

[dystopiandramaqueen]

I like everyone’s takes.

You’re right.

The biggest betrayal is they used story telling to hurt us. On purpose. For their amusement.

It reminds me of how Gilead repurposed schools into sex slave torture centers.

Stories are a sacred, ancient human art. To educate and give hope.

You introduce a character we identify with.

You put them through the hero’s journey.

We see that maybe WE can overcome adversity and unimaginable trials.

It matters bc let’s say THERES A REAL FASCIST TAKE OVER… we think on the book. What did Atwood tell us. She said we can choose to love. Love will give us joy even in hell. Even if we have nothing- love will keep us alive.

I chose to put HULU’s made up additional torture porn into my mind for a decade. Because what I expected was the hero’s journey.

This is exactly what they did to every female in GOT. Brianne of fucking Tarth- warrior queen- ends up boo hooing over a boy. The rich white evil queen gets no punishment, and the power we’ve wanted for Danny the whole time? She can’t handle it. Her boyfriend has to kill her.

Like… wut? Then why did I watch all that suffering?

If nothing comes of it.

That genre is called HORROR.

You take relateable characters, and the absolute worst happens to them, then they die. There’s catharsis in horror, I watch a fair amount of it WHEN I WANT TO. When I know the general arc from the preview. “Family mutilated by monsters in the woods.” I can choose to consent to engage that material.

Like think about BDSM. The whole culture depends on talking about what you will experience ahead of time, making sure you want that, and making sure you can stop if you don’t actually like it.

THT broke every contract.

They sold us a hero’s journey- but didn’t let the hero have peace at the end. So it feels like WE will never get peace.

They made horror content all of a sudden out of nowhere, and didn’t label it. They stuck it in a drama for 1 character only?

I wouldn’t have watched horror about women being raped. I DID NOT CONSENT TO THIS EXPERIENCE.

It’s like if you and your partner discussed vanilla sex - but right at the end they flipped you over, tied you up, and started beating you. Trying to hurt you. Without asking permission.

Then after they go on social media and laugh and gloat about how much you cried.

It’s sick.

It isn’t how things are done

We don’t make romances into horror at the last second

We don’t mock our viewers

It doesn’t make them smart or edgy it makes them bullies

[kigieri]

Comfort

The Danny Ric Series🍯🦡

Daniel Ricciardo × Reader

Daniel returns home, after his last race, one last trip back to the factory and the announcement. Now they were alone, with their thoughts and each other.

A/N: Welcome! I hope you enjoy The Danny Ric Series. It is dedicated to the wonderful man that brought so much joy to Formula One and its fans.

This story on AO3.

Her head had been filled with static since Daniel had called her. There had been talks about his contract the last few races, but neither he nor she thought VCARB would drop him. She could only imagine how he must feel. The time after Mclaren had dropped him was branded into her mind. He had gotten over it slowly and his next contract had come before he could completely work through it. He had still been bitter, but getting back into a car had helped greatly. She hoped it would be better this time.

His plane had touched down hours ago. She had tidied the house and chucked most of the random pieces of memorabilia that had lain around the house into the attic. There wasn't much to begin with, a few caps and a mug or two in the cupboard, it was not really their style of decoration. His trophy case, however, had been polished and she had made sure that there was space on the wall for his last helmet.

There was a design for Austin he would never get to flaunt. He had talked to her about the race, that he was excited to have her there since she hadn't been to many this year. Now they'd have to find something else to occupy their weekends. Even though she was convinced it wouldn't take him long until he was racing again. In whatever capacity would offer itself up.

Chili stood on the stove and the table was set. Even though she would have enjoyed to simply cuddle up with him on the couch she knew he'd need a bit more than that. She had gone through every nervous habit she had before he arrived, from picking at her nails to making sure all the books on the bookshelf were standing flush to the wall.

When she heard keys in the lock she turned around to look at the door. Her hand up at her mouth once more. Daniel looked exhausted, the race, one last trip back to the factory, the announcement and the flight home had not done him any good. He turned around for a moment, waving goodbye to the driver that had brought him here. When he turned back his eyes landed on her.

His face fell, the neutral face he had put on replaced by desperation and betrayal. She walked over to him as he took off his bag, laying it on the ground. Her hands found his face and she turned it towards herself, stretching slightly to catch his lips in a kiss.

"It's good to have you home." He nodded, his breath warm again her face. "It's so good to be home." The first tears fell from his eyes and he quickly raised his hadn't to wipe them away. A sorrowful expression took over her face before she forced herself to smile. "I made dinner. How about we eat something? You probably haven't eaten anything sustaining since before the race." Her words became quite towards the end of the sentence, not wanting to start a conversation if he did not initiate it. He ignored the last part of the sentence, looking in the direction of the kitchen, even though he knew he wouldn't be able to look into it. "Chili?" He said hopefully, looking back into her eyes. "Of course. Only the best thing for my favourite man." Daniel took a deep, shuttering breath, he was overcome by adoration. The love she had for him and that she showed him so openly sometimes blindsighted him.

He was brought back from his thoughts when she stepped away and towards the kitchen. Disregarding his bags on the floor he followed her. She was maneuvering a big pot onto the table when she came back into his field of vision. It was steaming and smelled divine. Daniel stepped over to her chair and pulled it out for her. The look she regarded him with was slightly surprised but she sat down nonetheless. "Such chivalry in our own home." The Aussie sat down on his own chair before answering. "You deserve it." The smile he got in reply was worth everything to him.

They both filled their plates and began to eat. She started a light conversation, letting him in on the few things he had missed in his short time away. Afterwards she stood up and took their plates, disregarding Daniel's protest and telling him to relax. She filled the sink with water, put the dirty dishes inside and put the pot back on the counter, so the leftover could cool down.

Before returning to the table she crouched down infront of the little freezer underneath the fridge. She took out a tub of ice cream and filled two desert bowls with it, bringing them over after tidying up once more. Daniel had got lost in his thought's while watching her but accepted to offered desert, there was no more diet he had to follow.

"Should we go to the living room?" Her voice cut through the silence. He nodded, still a bit lost in his head. She squeezed his shoulder while walking past him and he got up to follow her. They sat next to each other, leaning into each other and silently eating their ice cream. After having scrapped the bottom a few more times than necessary she laid it on the living room table before turning to Daniel. He swallowed and continued to eat his ice cream which was mostly molten at this point.

She laid her head on his shoulder, simply waiting for him and after a bit more time had passed he too abandoned his bowl. They sat in silence, she began to draw invisible shapes on his thigh before switching to holding his hand and interwining their fingers.

"How do you feel about it?" Her words interrupted the quiet. He took a deep breath. "Like I'm going to puke." His words were between reflective humour and an honest confession. She hummed in response, lifting their hands to her mouth and kissing the back of his. Daniel followed her movements with his eyes. He let out a breath before continuing. "Not a fucking word. I mean yes, the writing was on the wall but still, not a word before the race. Only afterwards, one last goodbye from the team and that's it." His voice was aggravated, but there was a deep hollowness underlying his words. Disbelieve still had its grasp on him.

She turned her head to look at him. "You said Laurent told you." Daniel nodded. "He got the balls to tell me himself. And yes, they got the data and all these reasons but still-" He stopped himself from continuing, biting his lip. She squeezed his hand. "You didn't think they'd drop you like that." He nodded once more, his eyes were glossy once more. "I dont think anyone did, RedBull might be ruthless, but this was a blunder even for them. They're going to get ripped apart for it, the press already started, not including the fans." His eyes had drifted of, he was no longer looking at her, his gaze had found a point somewhere next to her head. "It won't help me..." She sat up and turned her body towards him. "Not on the surface, it won't give you back your seat, but it is important." Daniels gaze returned to her, looking slightly questioning.

"It shows that people value you, on track and off it. It might not give you your seat back, but it'll help with negotioations and other series." She could feel his hand shacking lightly and stretched over to take the other one into hands as well. "It also just shows that you are so incredibly loved. The fans adore you, they're creating tribute after tribute for you. The others have all posted something or texted you, haven't they? And you've got the press on your side. They're talking about unfair treatment and they're right! You didn't deserve that and we'll get you justice. One way or another."

Her leg pushed against his, initiating as much contact between them as possible while still being able to look at each other. "Your job right now is to ignore them all. Pretend to not give a fuck even if you do." He still looked at her without answering. "You're going to live your best life and Blake is going to try to get you one of the seats left for next year. If that doesn't happen? Indy will take you with open arms, as will any other racing series. Is that where you want to be? No. Are going to be happy there? Probably. But this fucking shit in Formula One is ripping you apart and I have spend enough time looking on from the sidelines! You had an incredible career, season after season you were one of the 20 best drivers in the world. I am so fucking proud of you!" There were tears gathering in Daniels eyes. If from sorrow or because of her words, she did not know, but she hoped it was the latter. "You're going to show them that their games may affect, but not destroy you." She leaned over and kissed him lightly. "There is so much here for you." A sweep of her hand motioned to their surroundings. "And the world has so much to offer." She took his hands again, lifting them to her mouth and kissed the back of each of them. "We're so young, there is so much left to do for us together." A slight smile found its way on Daniels face. They had talked about marriage and children, but Daniel had wished to be more present for both. Even if it wasn't by his own choice, maybe now was the time.

He swallowed. "Thank you. I, uhm... needed that. Real bad. I just can't think about not sitting in that car again yet." She nodded her head, smiling pained and her eyes became glossy too. "I can only imagine that. But we're going to try our best and you have shown that you're not at the end of your career. They'll take it or leave it, but we're not going to wait for them okay? You're not going to wait for them." Daniel looked at her, her eyes where sincere and she was almost pleading. "I can't... I can't promise that." She let her head hang for just a moment and then looked back up, she opened her mouth to answer but he shook his head. "I'll try. You're right, there is so much here for me and us." He freed one of his hands, touching her belly with his knuckle. "I'm going to enjoy whatever comes next. It's just going to take a hell of a lot of time and tears." A hesitant smile spread over her face. "Well, I can work with that." The laughter she let out was watery.

She looked over at the clock on the wall, it was quite late. Daniel had been exhausted when he came here and dinner had been comforting but long and this emotional exchange may have been what he needed, even if it confronted him with things hed rather forget, but now he was dead on his feet. She nodded in the direction of the stairs. "There is a comfortable bed waiting for you and tomorrow there are quite a few dirtbikes that need testing. Otherwise we wont know if they're still running right." They stood up. This time Daniel took the dishes to the kitchen. When he returned she had slung his bag over her shoulder, his suitcase stood next to the door, to be ignored until morning. She held his helmet in her hands, having opened the bag it was in. She stroked over the material before tightening the bag once more and placing it on their shoe rag.

She smiled at him, warm and beautiful. He walked over to her, encircling her waist with his arms and pulling her against his chest. He buried his nose in her hair, breathing in a few times, feeling her breath against his own chest. She hugged him back, grabbing his shirt in the back to pull him closer. "I love you." She smiled against his chest. "I love you too."

@kigieri 2024. All rights reserved. Do not copy, steal, translate or repost any of my work.

[crazycatgirl420]

Fuck Around, Find Out

Ghost King Danny tutors Impulse, Bart Allen, in Summoning magic after a horrible drunken Summoning disaster.

Part 1

Monday came much too soon. Danny had spent his weekend preparing his first lesson for Bart, considering he was so deep in his non-belief of magic that he nearly started a war, Danny decided they would have to start with the basics as taught to newly formed entities in the Realms.

Danny removed his pc and monitors from his desk, snapping on a white board attachment and putting several notebooks, pens, pencils, and markers in the drawers. He held his folder of lesson plans and his own notebook. At exactly four o'clock he put one hand on the desk and appeared right in front of his Contractor.

There was a crash sound behind him, and a wide eyed red-head on the couch, a game controller in his hand.

"We agreed on four to six for your lessons." Danny reminded him. "We have a lot to cover and I do not want to spend my entire existence teaching you."

Thee human grimaced but nodded. "What are we doing today?"

"You'll be learning to read and write," Danny said. "Magic is its own language, if you don't know it you can't effectively use it."

Bart spent two hours copying the Infinite Realms Dictionary of Magic into his first notebook while Danny read it aloud.

"There are six hundred and seventy languages used in this dimensions magical script," Danny explained. "As a living being born of this realm you only need to be fluent in those six hundred seventy languages, which is a lot less than what I had to learn as a being of the Infinite Realms-"

Bart paused in writing, glancing at the book he was copying from. '670 Alphabets, Beginning to End'

"I'll leave you with the Dictionaries to study in your own time. On Wednesday we'll go over grammar, and Friday we'll practice speaking. You'll have the weekend to practice as you wish and next week will be your first set of tests,"

"Tests next week?" Bart asked. "After only three days of lessons?"

"This is easy stuff," Danny said. "You're magical friends learn this as young children before they even choose a specialty."

Bart had a week to learn six hundred languages. He couldn't believe Raven or Zatanna knew all these languages, and only a week to learn them all was insane.

"Keep working," Danny said. "We don't have time for you to change your mind now. You signed a contract, I can't even explain what that entails until you understand magic script. The gibberish you scrawled on the floor in your drunken Summoning could've been the end of your deminsion and every deminsion that surrounds yours."

Bart kept writing.

Two hours for Bart tended to feel like an eternity but Phantom taught at the same speed Bart lived his life normally. There was no slacking off for milliseconds waiting for outside time to catch up. Phantom kept up, as soon as Bart finished a notebook another was handed to him. Phantom recited the dictionary and passages on culture, history, and traditions with ease, asking questions and having Bart read the passages as he copied them down.

"You have until I return on Wednesday to learn all six hundred and seventy languages here." Phantom said, pulling several stacks of books out of the desk. "Feel free to ask those magical friends of yours about magic script of you don't believe me, though your inability to believe them was what lead to this in the first place,"

Phantom left just like he has appeared, with a flash of light and an ice cold breeze.

Bart groaned, eyeing the stacks of books with regret. This was going to be a lot of reading.