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themusingsofacurlyhairednerd · 8 months

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Warm Me Up

Summary: Illyria is cold, Rhys has some ideas on how to stay warm.

Content Warnings: Smut; dirty talk; little bit of cursing.

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Illyria was a wasteland, nothing but frigid mountains and harsh winds, you'd never understood how anything survived here. Your mate had flown you in an hour ago, you'd immediately had to sit in front of the cabin's fireplace, smothered in blankets, a warm cup of tea in your hands to avoid your teeth chattering and your fingertips from turning blue. The boys were somehow training outside shirtless. You could see them from the window, sparring, even as the relentless wind continued to beat against the windows.

You furrowed deeper into your mountain of blankets, still so damned cold. How were they managing that? How had Cassian survived his childhood, alone and hungry in this for so long? Was there something built into Illyrians to help them survive?

You tapped a mental hand against the bond hesitantly, worried you might distract your mate and he'd get hurt... again. Rhys had gotten used to your random questions, but thd first couple of times had been so sudden he'd lost focus, Az had clipped him across the shoulder, drawing blood. It hadn't even scarred, had healed with the help of his powers in less than hour. He'd probably forgotten about it. You hadn't.

Your mate responded with a gentle caress against your mental shields, like he'd brushed a hand over you mind, urging you to come forward.

"Do Illyrians run hot?" You asked.

A dark chuckle ran across the bond, sending a shiver over your spine. "Why don't you come out here and find out?"

You rolled your eyes. "And freeze to death? No thank you."

"It's not even snowing yet.," he let your peer through his eyes, the landscape dripping from yesterday's rain, but it was more mud than anything.

"I've seen warmer places in the Winter Court."

"There are plenty of ways to stay warm up here," Rhys purred, his voice a playful caress against your mind. "You're welcome to join us in the birken when we're done."

"And leave the safety of my little nest by the fire? I'll have frostbite by the time I make it there."

"Give me five minutes." The bond snapped closed and then Cassian was screaming obscenities from where they were sparring near the side of the cabin.

"THAT'S CHEATING YOU BASTARD!" Azriel shouted.

"RHYSAND I CAN'T FUCKING SEE!"

You pulled the comforter off the top of your head to try and get a good look through the closest window, but there was nothing but darkness against the glass. It was still too early in the day for the sun to be going down, the darkness outside rattling against the windows like a harsh wind. Rhys very rarely unleashed that much power, but you felt your own flare to life in your chest at the sight of it. Like calls to like, and your starborn powers had always risen to the challenge it found in Night Triumphant.

It wasn't even a full five minutes before the back door was thrown open so fast the old wood cracked against the wall. The wind came in with it, making you burrow deeper into your mound of blankets to avoid it.

Rhys must have kicked off his boots at the door, because you heard it slam shut and then nothing until large hands settled on your blanket clad shoulders.

You jumped with a shriek of surprise that had your mate bending over the back of the couch to kiss your barely exposed forehead apologetically, his skin colder than the wind beating against the walls.

"Ack! You're an ice cube!" You hissed, twisting to get away.

He chuckled as he pulled away and went to the closet near the front door.

"Don't bother, I've already raided it," you warned.

He opened it anyway, then frowned at all the empty shelves. "You weren't kidding." His next move was to go to the stack of wood neatly organized by the fire place and throw more in, the blaze illuminating the sharp planes of his face. He wasn't wearing a shirt, training leathers hanging low on his hips, a fine sheen of sweat making his bronze skin glow in the firelight.

Under normal circumstances, you would have jumped right on him, ran your tongue over his abs, traced the swirl of ink across his chest. Something about him in leathers made you weak in the knees, all rational thought out the window. The only thing keeping you in place this time was the thought of loosing the little pocket of warmth you had created.

He felt your gaze of course, turning away from the fire to look at you. "Better?" His voice had gone down an octave, his pupils dilating.

"Little," you admitted, though him being so close, looking like that might have been more of a reason for the heat you were starting to feel than the fire.

He walked to you slowly, intently, violet eyes fixed on you.

Your heartbeat quickened in your chest as he knelt in front of you.

"Think you can make room for me in there?" He kept his hands on the top blanket of your little cocoon, waiting for permission.

"I don't know, how cold are you?" You teased; this would be the last little bit of your resolve.

He slid a hand under the blankets, fingers dragging up slowly, intently over your calves.

"Cold," you whimpered, but the shiver that ran through you had nothing to do with the temperature, not as he traced his way up your thighs, only stopping when he found the hem of your sweater.

He leaned and pressed a gentle kiss to the tip of your nose first, then the corners of your lips, his breath warm against your face, the contrast between the two temperatures making your head spin. You wanted to reel away and lean in all the same time.

"Just for a second," he promised, "then I'll get you nice and warm."

You opened the blanket, and that intense violet gaze took stock of your attire: His old sweater, so loose and baggy it looked like a dress on you, and knee high, fuzzy pink socks. Pants had felt like a waste of time, not when sifting through the dresser meant time spent away from the fire.

Rhys all but jumped on top of you, pushing you down into the couch cushions, the blankets tangling between you as he crashed his lips against yours.

Rhys, as High Lord, was always so poised and put together, everything about him calculated and curated to create the necessary masks of court duties; but alone, like this, when it was just the two of you, no masks necessary, he let that unending restraint slip, kissing you and running his hands over your body like a man starved. His tongue swept into your mouth as he slid a hand under your sweater, deft fingers dragging up your skin to cup your breast.

He'd kept his promise about the cold, you'd only felt it for a moment before he'd settled between your legs, using a bit of magic to untangle the blankets and rearrange them over the two of you. You ran a hand through his hair, scraping your nails lightly over his scalp as he playfully gave your nipple a tug.

"Better?" He rasped, lips barely off yours like he couldn't bear to be that far from you.

The warmth of his weight on top of you would have been enough, but the way he kept running his hands over any bit of you he could reach, the way he kissed you again and again and again was enough to make you forget you had ever been cold in the first place.

"Much better," you confirmed as he broke away to nip at your neck.

He chuckled as you arched into his touch; whimpering lightly as his tongue laved over the sting of his teeth on your throat.

"Can't decide," he murmured into your skin, "if I should fuck you in my sweater or not?"

Heat coiled between your legs, even further when he rocked his hips into your center, even with the clothes separating the two of you, the friction was enough to make you moan.

He nipped under your jaw, "Look so pretty in it, but I gotta get you all warmed up don't I? My poor little mate, not used to the cold."

Now that he was with you, you wanted, needed, every bit of contact with his body you could get. The sweater, so warm and comforting before, now felt like a tremendously itchy obstacle keeping you from him. "Want it off," you complained, trying to find your voice around another moan as he rutted his hips into you again, hard even through his leathers.

He chuckled as he fisted the hem and started pulling it up your body. "Wear it again for me later?"

You nodded as he pulled it over your head and tossed it over the back of the couch. Distantly, you hoped Rhys had the good sense to send his brothers away for a little while since you had stopped hearing them moving around outside, but had no time to ask as he started kissing his way down your body, pausing to give some attention to your peaked nipples. A whine tore from your throat as he swirled his tongue over one and then the other.

"Love when you make those little noises for me," he purred into your mind, not wanting to remove his lips from your body to speak.

"Rhys," you whimpered, body arching into him as he nipped at your sensitive skin.

"You're gonna look so pretty, all marked up under my sweater later," he sent an image of you, covered in hickeys from your throat to your hips down the bond as he continued to move slowly down your body.

Rhys liked to push you, liked to see how worked up he could get you, first with that silver tongue of his, then his hands, he could keep this up for hours. You, however, where so desperate for more friction, to fill the ache now burning between your legs, bucked your hips, squirming underneath him now. "Please. Need you."

He scraped his teeth along he hem of your underwear, humming his approval. Rhys grinned against your skin, all male satisfaction as he held your hips in place. "So impatient. I thought you were freezing to death in here? Don't you want to get warm, Darling?"

Warm? Your skin was on fire in every spot he had touched, the warmth of his body spreading to every point of contact he gave. It was becoming too much and not enough, you needed more, more, more.

"Please!"

He caught the hem of your panties in his teeth and pulled them slowly down your hips, hands skimming your hips and thighs, kneading soft skin. Your legs widened for him automatically, instinctively, despite the fact that you were now uncomfortably wet from his ministrations.

He ran his tongue against your center, humming his approval, blasting it down the bond. "So wet, and I've barely even touched you."

You pinched your eyes shut, overwhelmed already. He really was too damn good at this. No amount of time would ever be enough to satisfy the well of need you had for him. You blasted that desperation, that ache for him right down the bond as words failed you, as he continued his exploration of your dripping core with his tongue. Stars erupted behind your closed eyelids as he chuckled down the bond, pleased with your reactions to his body.

You were sure you were begging for him, whimpering and pleading nonsense as he worked you closer and closer to the edge, but the words faded in and out of your consciousness. There was only Rhys, the movements of his tongue, the feeling of his fingertips digging pleasantly tight in your hips, the heat of skin wherever it touched you. Your eyes rolled back into your head, body arching, hands tangling in his hair as the edge rose up to meet and you and you toppled over it with a scream that sounded an awful lot like your mate's name.

"Such a good girl," he purred as he lapped up the evidence of your pleasure.

You're whole body shook as he kissed his way back up your body, grinning against your flushed skin the whole way. He was so warm, when he kissed you again, the taste of your release still on his plush lips, your only thoughts were on how you could get more of that warmth, until it has seeped into your bones, erased any trace of the cold that had laid so deep beneath.

You threaded your hands in his hair, now a mess across his forehead, whimpering. "Need you still."

He grinned as he caught your lower lip between his teeth in a playful nip. "I know, love."

You moved a hand to the small of his back, pulling him closer.

"You'll have me until there are no longer stars in the sky." The bond flooded with more warmth and affection, as deep as your need for him ran, his was equal, there was no end to what he could give you.

You kissed him again, even as your legs wrapped around his waist, a bit of magic finally removing those damned leathers. Maybe you'd ask him to put them back on later, so you could enjoy the sight of him in the aftermath as much as he would you, but those were questions for later.

"I love you," you whimpered as he finally slide into you, slowly, casually, like there was all the time in the world for the two of you to enjoy each other.

He fit like he was made just for you, the stretch just uncomfortable for a moment before the pleasure made your back arch and your toes curl. He moaned into your throat, pushing his nose into your sweat dampened skin, inhaling your scent as he pushed all the way in to you.

You wondered, distantly, if the stars you were seeing were his making, or something that appeared for him too. The way he panted into your skin as he rocked his hips, testing you, made you think he saw them too.

"So perfect," he moaned as he slid almost fully out.

Your nails clawed at his shoulders, begging for him to come back and he plunged back in a little more forcefully this time, the couch groaning beneath the two of you.

You rocked your hips to meet his thrusts, hands still trailing down the contours of his spine in a move that would be sure to leave marks of your own. He nipped at your neck and shoulders when you pushed too hard, skin breaking beneath your fingertips, but you knew he didn't mind, know he relished in being marked up by you, like it was a badge of honor. You'd leave hickeys on him afterwards, when the pleasure building between your legs wasn't so white hot, when you could focus your attention somewhere other than the need burning it's way through you.

His hand snaked down between your legs, drawing you closer and closer to the edge again.

"Rhys," a prayer, a mantra, the only thing that made sense as pleasure turned all rational thought to mush.

"I've got you," he rasped in your ear, every muscle taught as he rocked into you again and again and again. His pace was quickly becoming more frantic, his breath hot on your throat as he moaned into your skin. It was that sound, so desperate and low right beneath your ear, coupled with the movement of his deft fingers, the angle of his cock inside you, all hurtling you so quickly towards the edge that you didn't notice it was there until you toppled over it. Your mate followed with a roar, his own release warm inside you.

You clung to him, trembling, panting, as you came down from your high, the familiar weight of him atop you grounding in the aftermath. He snaked an arm around you as he positioned the two of you on your sides, sharing the couch now. You buried your face in the crook of his neck as he kissed the top of your head, gently.

"Warm now, darling?" He asked softly, a hint of teasing still there, even as he recovered his breath.

He hadn't pulled out of you yet; you bit your lip in thought as you tossed a leg over his, bringing you flush against his hips. You were sensitive, the movement made you wince a little, but even after all that, you still wanted more of him. Perhaps it would never be enough. Like the Illyrians that called this frigid place home, there was always going to be something that pushed you back towards the fire, that damned insatiable need to get warm.

"I think I'm still a little cold," you purred, eyes glinting playfully.

Your mate chuckled at the challenge in your tone, violet eyes narrowing into where you were still joined. "Can't have that, can we?"

The fire roared in the fireplace, a bit of your mate's magic flaring, making sure there was more heat in the cabin, before his lips were on yours again, chasing away any hint of cold before it could touch you.

#rhysand x reader #rhysand x reader smut #acotar #acotar fanfic #acotar smut #rhysand smut #fanfiction #i'm so downbad for this male as you can clearly tell #my writings

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confessedlyfannish · 26 days

Text

Six Years Ago

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Sam watches Danny wash the dishes in their kitchen, quietly humming to himself, and wonders how many more days they'll get like this. She comes up behind him and wraps her arms around his torso, resting her forehead against the plane of his shoulder.

He leans his head back until it rests against the top of hers, and they stand there as her hand creeps up to rest on his heart. Danny turns the sink off and they breathe together, slowly.

"Hey," he says, putting his hand on top of hers. His hand is warm. "Still here."

Sam rubs her cheek against the thin cotton of his shirt, and he pulls their intertwined hands to his mouth to kiss her palm.

She pulls away.

"Sam?"

"You talked to Clockwork, didn't you?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he stiffens.

"I saw the pause," she says, tracing the edge of the table they picked out together. "Before you took the kid to Frostbite."

"Sam..."

"I know you were going to tell me. I just thought I'd beat you to it."

"Because I know what you're going to say—"

"Make me a vessel."

"Sam, no," Danny grabs her hands, squeezing. "Please, don't ask me to do that."

"I started all of this, the day I dared you to go into that portal," she says, putting a hand on the face already mouthing a no.

"I don't regret what happened," Danny says.

"Neither do I," she smiles lightly. "I asked you to go in again, remember? I've killed you twice now, and maybe it says something about me that I never felt all that bad about it."

"We were kids," Danny says.

Sam shrugs. "I heard you scream. Both times."

"I'm not as strong as you," Danny whispers.

"I know," she says. "That's why you need me."

Danny's eyes flick up towards the ceiling, in the direction of the guest bedroom. "He's awake," he says.

"Let me talk to him," she grabs the pill bottle resting beside them, turning towards the stairs "You freak him out."

Danny catches her wrist. "I can't ask you...I can't ask you to do this for me."

"You're crazy if you think I'd let you do this alone."

"You hate organized government," he blurts out. Sam laughs.

"Hardly what this is, first of all, second," she smirks, "I guess we'll have to make some changes."

"It'll be hard."

"It's been hard before."

"We'll have to fight."

"Done that too, once or twice."

"And we won't be able to..."

"Yeah," Sam says, resting her forehead against his. "I know."

"You can still walk away from this," his eyes scream for her to stay.

"You're my family. End of."

"I'll change."

"Yes, absolute power tends to do that. You won't be good, because you can't be with all that power, and you might even be evil or worse, ignorant. Someday you'll be stopped. Someday you'll have to be stopped. You're," she swallows, voice cracking. "You're dooming yourself Danny."

"Yes. Please don't ask me to doom you too."

"I don't know," she winds her arm around his neck and presses their lips together, her lipstick staining his lips blue-black. "Sounds pretty goth to me."

"That's dumb," a voice pipes up. They both turn in surprise to see the kid standing in the doorway. With his arm bandaged, his leg splinted and face pale, he still looks pretty worse for wear. He's holding onto the arch for support, and in the other hand he's clutching a crocheted green stuffie of a ghost, complete with red eyes and a black-stitched smile. Upright, he's smaller than Sam thought.

"Absolute power doesn't make you evil. My dad is super strong, stronger than anybody on Earth, he could do whatever he wanted, and no one would be able to stop him," the boy rambles. "But he doesn't, 'cause he wouldn't ever, 'cause he doesn't want to, and that'll never change. Never. He's good. If you want to be good, you be good."

He frowns hard at them, as if willing them to be good with his gaze alone.

Sam glances at Danny, and watches his face go from stunned to inexplicably fond.

"You're right," he says quietly. "Adults can really complicate things sometimes, huh?"

"All the time," the kid says with exasperation, the most put-upon look on his face that Sam has to abruptly turn away before she busts a gut.

"Why can't I fly?" the kid demands. "And why is your hair black?"

"Permission to approach?" Sam asks, putting her hands up when the kid takes a hurried step back. The kid eyes the bottle in her hand and she puts it back on the table, pulling a chair out for him. He chooses to warily limp past her instead, but murmurs a "thank you" as he sits that has both adults biting back grins, especially when it is clear his feet only skim the ground.

"Not going to lie, kiddo, really thought you'd try climbing out the window," Danny says. "Would you like a glass of water?"

"Yes, please," the child says. He mutters something.

"What was that?" Sam asks, smile widening.

"It was too high," the kid repeats, petulantly. "Seeing as I can't fly." He accepts the water with another thank you. He eyes the pill bottle again. "What're those?"

"This," Sam says, scooping it up and giving it a shake. "Is for you." She places it in front of him, and he cautiously takes it.

"Medicine?" he asks.

"Yup, you got it!" Danny says, rummaging through the fridge. "Are you hungry?"

"There's no label on it," the kid says, eyes narrowed.

"That's because we had it made especially for you," Danny explains, unwrapping a turkey sandwich and placing it in front of him. As if on cue, the kid's stomach growls loudly.

The child seems to abruptly realize he is still holding the toy, flushing. He still carefully places it on the chair beside him. Danny beams in its direction.

"Glad you like Blobert, my Dad made him."

"Blobert?"

"The Third," Sam says with solemnity. "Danny's dad is big into crocheting." He'd found it to be a nice outlet outside of ghost hunting, and now their house was full of slightly wonky-looking stuffed ghosts.

"My dad knits," the kid offers around a big bite of sandwich. "Gran taught him when he was little. He says it's relaxing."

"Knitting and crocheting involves teeny little stitches to create something big, right?" Danny says. The kid nods. "People are kind of the same way. We're made up of things called cells, which are super super small, too small for us to see. There's skin cells, and hair cells, and mouth and hand cells. There are pinky toe cells!" Danny exclaims.

"Each cell has a job, like some cells fight germs when you get sick, and that's how you get better. Does that make sense?"

The child nods.

"Other cells make sure that when you eat food, like your yummy turkey sandwich, is it yummy?" He nods again. "Phew! Between us, I'm not that good a cook."

"I liked the mac n' cheese," The boy says quietly.

"You did? I made that," Sam says triumphantly, while Danny obviously sulks. The boy giggles.

"Well," Danny says loudly, "when it comes to your obviously amazingly mind-blowing-ly delicious turkey sandwich, and Sam's okay mac n' cheese—"

"Hey!"

"There are cells that take that food and make sure each cell eats so it can do its job. And if all the cells are doing their jobs then you can do stuff like walk and run or in your case, fly."

"But I've been eating," the kid says, frowning. "And I can walk and run fine."

"You're a bit more special than that," Sam says, taking over. "Most people eat food and their cells know what to do. But some of your cells need some help knowing what to do. It's kind of like they're sleeping and we need to wake them up."

"Do you remember when we first met, and I took you to the sun?" Danny asks. The boy tenses, which is a yes. "I won't do that again, not without your permission. But we realized you needed that, sunlight. It helps wake up your cells."

"Yeah, that makes sense," the boy says slowly. Danny and Sam exchange a look over his head.

"Did you already know that?" Danny asks gently.

"My dad...he needs sunlight too. Sorta."

"Kiddo," Danny says, "the truth is, this isn't your world. Which I think you already know, yeah?"

The boy puts down his sandwich. "Yeah," he says, staring at his plate, and Sam wants to scoop him up and hold him close and tell him everything will be alright.

"Hey, I know it's scary, but we'll figure it out, okay? We're going to get you home, I promise."

The boy's head shoots up. "You know how to get me home?"

"We'll figure it out," Danny repeats. When uncertainty creeps into the boy's face, Danny shakes his head. "No, none of that. We know how you got here. If we time it correctly, we should be able to get you back."

"And in the meantime, you can stay with us," Sam says. The boy turns to her, surprised. "If you want to."

"With you?"

"Me and Blobert the Third. Oh, and Danny I suppose."

"Hey!"

The kid barely smiles. "You can really get me home?"

"Yes, but it might take some time. And while you're here, you'll have to take those," Danny nods at the pill bottle. "Our sun and your sun are different. It's kind of like it's speaking a different language than the one your cells understand, so they're having trouble knowing what to do. Those pills will help."

The kid looks suspiciously at the bottle, then them, then the bottle. And because he is just a kid, stranded and alone in an unfamiliar world while sick and in pain, the suspicion quickly gives way to fear.

"I forgot," Sam declares abruptly, "How unbelievably rude of me! My name is Sam. Samantha Manson," she offers the kid her hand to shake. "And that," she jabs a thumb in Danny's direction, "is Daniel James Fenton. But he also goes by Danny Phantom."

Sam leans in. "But kid, here's the thing. Remember how you asked why his hair is black?"

"Yeah..."

"Well, Phantom is actually Danny's superhero name. Except for me and a few other people, nobody knows Danny Phantom and Danny James Fenton are the same person."

"Wait," the boy says incredulously. "Are you telling me Danny Fenton is his secret identity?"

"Yup," Sam says, blinking as the boy gets more agitated. but keeping her tone level. Danny nods along. "Exactly what I'm saying."

"And you told me?" the boy cries. "You just met me! What if I was a bad person?"

"What if," Danny says, eyes bright.

"What if, indeed," Sam concurs.

"This isn't funny! Secret identities are important, you can't just go around telling people!"

"They are. It would be really bad if you told people Danny was Phantom, actually. But trust is a two-way street, have you heard that phrase before? We want you to trust us, so we're gonna trust you. Starting with Danny's secret identity." The boy stares, stunned.

Sam continues; "Kid, we'll always be honest with you. If you stay with us, we'll tell you whatever you want to know. And we'll keep you safe, until we can get you home to your dad."

"We'll tell you whatever you want to know even if you don't stay with us," Danny says quickly. "And we'll also get you home. But even if it's not with us, you need somewhere to stay. You need regular meals, and a bed to sleep in, and even if it's super boring, school,"

"I like school," the kid blurts.

"Oh? Which grade are you in?"

"I was going to start sixth after summer break..." the kid swallows suddenly.

"Wow, a middle schooler! That's old!" Danny says, attempting to distract him. "Here I thought you were seven!"

"I'm ten!" the kid says, bristling and blinking back tears.

"You must've been looking forward to it," Sam says, shooting Danny a glare. The child rubs furiously at his face. Danny comes around to his other side, crouching down.

"I was...I was going to go to school with my best friend, and I tried on the uniform and it was so cool...and I'd never been to a school with a uniform before and my Mom said we'd have a fitting in September," the boy is picking up speed, "but I wanted to be more like my dad and understand who I was because I feel weird and my powers feel weird and my grandpa said it would help and it would be important," the boy begins crying in earnest, "It wasn't supposed to be forever! It was just for a little while, and then I'd go back to school but I thought it sounded so cool and people looked up to me and I wanted to help and I told my mom I'd be okay so she left and—" Danny pulls the boy into a hug and he collapses into his shoulder, sobbing.

"We'll get you home, hey, hey, it's going to be okay—"

"I don't even know how to take pills!" The boy wails. "My leg hurts!"

"That's because you walked on it, silly goose," Danny says, standing up with the boy still in his arms. He clings to him like a koala. "We'll fix it. Hey, look at me. I'll fix it. Kiddo—"

"My name is Jon!" the boy wails louder.

"Jon, I've got you. I've got you, it'll be okay. I promise it'll be okay."

Oh, Sam thinks, watching Danny cradle the boy. This is going to break his heart.

#danny phantom #dp x dc #dp x dc au #dp x dc prompt #dp x dc crossover #jonathan kent #jonathan samuel kent #superboy #sam manson #dpxdc #my writing

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hypewinter · 1 year

Text

Danny was running through the forest, not daring to look back. He could hear the shouts behind him. The whirring of ecto powered guns charging and taking aim. His body hurt. Everything hurt so bad. And he was beyond exhausted. It wouldn't be long until they caught up. He had to get out of here. He had to get away.

Suddenly a green dot appeared in the distance. Slowly the dot grew bigger and bigger until it was a swirling vortex. Danny didn't even stop to wander where the portal would take him, it was he only escape. With that in mind, he stumbled through.

****

The injured halfa fell face first onto the ground.

"What the hell?" He heard someone say.

"Is he alive?" Another voice piped up.

He let out a weak groan in reply.

"Does that answer your question Impulse?" A third voice deadpanned.

"How'd he get in here?" Was that a fourth voice!?How many people were surrounding him? Did he just portal into a worse situation? Danny tried to get up and into a fighting position, but his body had finally given out and refused to move. All he could manage was a slight squirm.

"Superboy can you help him up?" The third voice asked.

Before Danny could react a hand was picking him up by the scruff of his shirt and he saw who surrounded him for the first time. To his left was a boy with an ungodly amount of hair, dressed in a red and white costume. Next to him was another boy dressed in a red and green fit with yellow accents and a black cape. Finally to his right was a girl. She wore a black top with two golden stacked w's on it accompanied by red pants with white stars. Danny couldn't see who was holding him from behind.

Confusion took over the fear and panic he was experiencing just a second ago. He had expected to portal to the ghost zone and see Clockwork or Wulf. Maybe even Frostbite ready with medical equipment. He never thought he'd end up in a weird base surrounded by 4 cosplaying teens.

Danny opened his mouth to ask where he was, but instead of words coming out of his mouth he coughed up blood. Well that wasn't supposed to happen.

Panic was immediately evident on everyone's faces. Including the middle kid wearing a mask.

"Questions can wait for later," he barked. "For now let's get him to the watchtower infirmary!"

The boy wanted to protest. He'd seen enough crime documentaries to know being taken to a secondary location was a bad idea. Add the fact that this secondary location was apparently an infirmary and that took a 'no way' to an 'absolutely not'. Once again though, his body had other plans. As he was switched from dangling by his neck to a princess carry, the pain overwhelmed him and black began taking over his vision. Guess this was happening whether he wanted it to or not. He just prayed that when he woke up, he wouldn't be strapped to another table.

#dp x dc #dc x dp #winter's tales #i did not come up with this while procrastinating #shut your mouth

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new-revenant · 2 years

Text

A So Called Tamaranean

Edit: Ao3 Link!

Danny falls through a portal leading to a world full of superheroes. Unfortunately, he happens to bare an uncanny resemblance to a certain race of aliens here-Tamaraneans.

So my post about Danny being mistaken for a Tamaranean is being seen by more and more people, so I’ve decided to finally post this one-shot I’ve made around the time I made the original post. I have no idea if I’ll continue this or not, I kinda just wanted to write about my little idea for a bit and figure out how to write Nightwing. I think he would good with kids. I also only refer to Dick with they/them pronouns because it makes it so much easier to differentiate who’s who when referring to someone.

☁︎

The last thing that Danny remembered was green. Lots and lots of green ectoplasm. And before that? He was trying to escape from one of the many dangers of the Ghost Zone. He couldn’t even see what it was, but he sure as hell could sense it. Both with his ghost sense, and by being beaten up by it.

He never meant to go so far from the portal, so far from his home. And he definitely didn’t mean to get hit right into a different portal.

When he woke up, he couldn’t sense any ectoplasm at all. Death and decay, however, he could sense. And smell. He mostly smelled burnt rock, just like all the other times he got slammed into the ground by ghosts. He really needs to learn how to dodge one day.

His eyes fluttered open, then closed them just as quickly as dust went right into his eyes. He had seen smoke and rock, just like he expected. He groaned, trying to push himself up, but fell in an instant. He was so tired. And yet, he could tell he was still in his ghost form. How could he still be in his ghost form when he had no energy left? He had no idea.

So Danny laid there, trying to think about where he could be and why was he stuck in his ghost form. At least he thought he was stuck in his ghost form as he usually turns back into a human when he passes out.

Then he heard something. Something other then the ringing in his ears. It was a voice, maybe a masculine sounding one, that had an “are you okay?” tone to it. Danny would know because he’d been asked that hundreds of times before whenever he’d gotten injured. Instinctually, he tried to say that he was fine, but all that came out was a whimper.

Then the ringing in his ears got quieter, and he could hear the stranger’s footsteps coming closer.

“Hey kid, are you okay?” Danny could finally make out the person’s words. His eyes fluttered open again, revealing the person to have black hair, a pale face, and what looked to be a long black sleeved shirt with some blue on it, and a domino mask.

Was he in the 18th century again? Wait, had he’d ever been to the 18th century before? Well he couldn’t be now, not with the striking blue the guy had. Pretty sure they didn’t have blue dye like that back then. Oh god where the fuck was he? He had heard from all his ghostly friends-mostly Frostbite and Clockwork-that the Ghost Zone could bleed into other universes and timelines. Danny really hoped that was not the case. Danny had to get up.

He was in so much pain, his entire body stinging. But he pushed himself off the ground anyways, like he always did. When he sat up he saw the stranger stretch out their hand to him. Danny hesitated for a moment, before scrambling away from them because he did not trust them one bit. Well, maybe two bits but nothing more.

He hovered a bit off the ground, a good few feet away from the masked guy. They looked surprised, and looked at him rather analytically. Danny looked back at him analytically as well. The person seemed to wear this one-piece suit with black gloves and boots, with the wings of a blue bird-like symbol on their chest going across his shoulders and extending to their hands. They were lean and muscular and could probably take down many normal humans in a fight. And Danny.

Danny only hoped that this guy wasn’t some sort of weird murder or something. Maybe they were normal for this world’s standards. Maybe he was normal for this world’s standards. Probably not to be honest.

And then Danny was taken out of his questioning by a question posed by the stranger, “Are you a Tamaranean?” they asked. They weren’t speaking English, Danny could tell by the way their mouth didn’t match their words. Hurray for ghost speak.

“May-“ Danny coughed, his throat sore, but it was fine, he’ll get over it, he always does. “Maybe I am, why do you want to know?”

The guy smirked, making Danny feel a bit uneasy, “You did answer my question back in fluent Tamaranean.”

“So I did, again, why. Do. You. Want to know? How do you know about Tamaraneans? Who are you?” Danny was so confused about everything in this situation and he thought he asked decent enough questions. He had no idea what theses “Tamaraneans” were but he’ll play along as long as he won’t get shot.

“I’m called Nightwing,” they said calmly, “And I want to know what you are because I want to help you,” then they took a step forward. Danny was not expecting this and instinctively shot at them with ectoplasm. Danny yelped, both in surprise that he shot at them and at the fact pain almost immediately shot up his left arm. He could almost feel the nerves in his arm burn. That’s not good.

And yet Nightwing dodged it easily, skillfully, and didn’t seem too bothered by it. In fact, they seemed more concerned for Danny’s well being.

“I’m not going to fight you,” they tried to talk to Danny, “And I know how to help you, I’ve met other Tamaraneans, Tamaraneans who have powers like you.”

Okay so these Tamaraneans could also shoot green beams and fly, duly noted. And not all of them had these powers. God this place was weird. Danny couldn’t care about how weird he was or how weird his world was, but this place just felt weirder.

“You have?” Danny asked in a whisper to put less strain on his throat, floating down to the ground, holding his arm. “Who?”

“Starfire and Blackfire for one, those two have powers,” Danny noticed them happily say Starfire’s name and the tone of distaste they had for Blackfire. So Danny had an idea for which of the two was probably evil. Not really because the guy he was speaking to could still be evil and not to be trusted.

Nightwing then started to list more names of Tamaraneans, which Danny tried to pay attention to so he could give a good enough fake name to them.

“So kid, again, I just want to help you,” Nightwing bent down to one knee, like every non-teacher adult does when they want to talk to a small kid. “I may not know exactly what happened to you, but you don’t have to be alone.”

Danny didn’t expect to feel so...touched. Maybe this guy wasn’t too bad. Maybe he should just tell the guy what he was-actually that could still be a bad idea. Danny didn’t know if they would just flip like a dime and turn around and try to rip him apart. Molecule by molecule.

“What’s your name?” Nightwing asked. Their voice and face was soft, Danny noticed, but their body seemed alert, just ever so slightly tensed, ready for combat on a moment’s notice.

“My name…” Danny mumbled, looking away from Nightwing to think. In a moment of panic and many racing thoughts, he was able to think of something.

“Nightgale,” Danny said, a mirage of a smile on his face, “A bit like your name, isn’t it?” He was somehow able to remember that his last name used to be Fentonnightingale earlier in his family line, and got the name ‘Nightgale’ from it. Thank you infini-map.

“Yeah it does!” Nightwing laughed, “Well, it’s nice to meet you Nightgale.”

Danny really should’ve expected them to stretch out their hand again. He really should’ve been a bit less on edge then he was at that moment. And yet he shot Nightwing in the face when they tried to outstretch their hand.

“Sorry, sorry! I didn’t mean to-oh no no no no,” Danny panicked, looking around to see where he could escape to and he was in a goddamn field with a city surrounding the entirety of the park. Danny just now realized that he had absolutely no idea where he was. He just shot his only hope at figuring out how to get home-probably, knowing his luck, definitely.

And yet Nightwing practically brushed it off. Yeah they stood up, stumbled backwards, swore in pain, and had to remove their mask for a quick second to rub their eyes, but then blinked a few times and seemed okay.

“Well that wasn’t as bad as when the other two did that,” Nightwing muttered in English, “Did the other two do that? Yeah probably. Anyways” -Nightwing switched back to speaking in Tamaranean- “It’s fine kid, you can calm down.”

So Danny did calm down. Mostly. Not really as he was still muttering apologies. His arm hurt even more now.

“I can ask Starfire to teach you how to control your powers,” Nightwing started. Danny has heard this spiel before, but this time he actually had a bit more trust in this random, and honestly somewhat terrifying stranger than he had with Plasmius. And Danny did not want to wait through it.

Danny grabbed Nightwing’s hand and looked up at them with the most pleading eyes he could muster. It worked as Nightwing’s face softened and they had finally shut up.

“Okay Nightgale, we’re going to go somewhere safe, then I’m going to get Starfire over to help you out, does that sound good?” When Nightwing asked that, Danny didn’t felt like he was being talked down to, unlike when other people said similar things. Maybe it was their tone.

“Where are we going? Where are we now?”

“Oh, right, I probably should’ve said that earlier. Well, for one we’re on the planet Earth, and right now we’re in Blüdhaven, New Jersey, the town I protect.”

“Protect?”

“Yeah, I’m a vigilante, which basically means I fight crime and protecting people who can’t protect themselves.”

Ah, now things started to make sense. This guy is a superhero. No wonder Danny felt oddly safe being with Nightwing. They just radiated safety-ness. Danny’s eyes lit up with glee, someone he could finally related to!

Even while slinking into the dirty, bloodstained shadows of Blüdhaven, Danny was skipping around Nightwing. He was in a weird place and situation, but he felt like a giddy kid. Nightwing moved with precision and grace that Danny wished he had.

Danny saw billboards and signs that seemed to mention other heroes as the two went. Random people calling out to Nightwing when they saw them, Nightwing sometimes giving them a little wave. Danny mimicked them, and each time the people gasped at him. Danny was able to pick up that these Tamaraneans that Nightwing thought he was weren’t common, so that’s probably why they looked so shocked.

It was nice, and for a moment, Danny forgot that he was a stranger to this world-that he wasn’t supposed to be here. This place was new and exciting, yet familiar all the same. Maybe he’ll stay a little longer, it’s not like he could just will himself to leave anyways.

For now, Danny was just a kid, exploring a world similar to his own, yet alien at the same time.

#danny phantom #dp x dc #dp crossover #dp au #dp fanfic #dp fic #danny fenton #dp x dc crossover #dp x dc fanfic #dp x dc au #revenant makes fanfics #a so called tamaranean

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rel124c41 · 9 days

Text

NARC. floyd leech

It’s a chance to prove yourself again … and to ignore this godforsaken craving for a burger.

tags: mafia au, blood and injury, mild sexual content, organized crime, emotionally repressed, food issues, nonconsensual kissing, & post-betrayal

word count: 9436

You pluck a glass of red wine from a tray. Shoulders gliding past a humanoid Cthulhu, you pour the blood-hued liquid down your snorkel and sample the taste of dry wine. It is a Pinot. Gratefully for this, you take care to pour a bit more in your snorkel. Though, just as you duck under the wayward stretch of a shark’s gesturing, cigar-holding hand, – smoke from a White Russian cigar furling out of his rubber lips like crisp, morning fog that a ship must part through – Jesus asks, scandalized, in your ears, “Are you drinking on the job?”

The wine halts its descent down your throat. Holding (almost choking on) the liquid in your mouth, your eyes momentarily widen in surprise. You throw your head back and down what is left in your snorkel, because it is necessary to communicate with an empty mouth. “I thought you said you didn’t have any eyes in here.”

No one can really blame you for how your own eyes start to flutter around the room, like tracking an energetic butterfly.

“I took the precaution of sending Rook to plant S.T.Y.X. cameras in the ballroom. I, however, did not know I would have to take any precaution against one of my spudlings being inebriated,” Jesus chastises.

Caught red-handed, you feel heat crawl up your face. “ …It’s just one drink, boss.” Even though it is soft, you can still clearly hear that admonishing huff of breath come through your ear-piece while your personal Jesus – your boss, Schoenheit – breathes with affront. You decide that you will hold the cordial glass for the rest of the night as decoration rather than drinking it.

“One too many.” The words are so cold that you feel a shell of frostbite coat your earlobe. “I expect your greatest performance, Potato. The audience is very bilious tonight.”

Bilious, as in bad-tempered. For a moment, it feels the weight of the world socks you in the ear. That you know too well. Whether they are actually watching through the S.T.Y.X. footage back home or are simply holding up an ear to tomorrow’s whispering grapevine, the audience is upset with you.

If tonight’s performance does not go well, there will be no more stage for you. The next time you appear to the audience, it will be on your curtain call. You imagine Rook (under Schoenheit’s instructions) taking a knife to your throat with all the poise of a violinist playing its instrument, the red notes splattered across the leather seats.

The thought makes you yearn to down the rest of the Pinot.

Instead, you find an appetizer table to stand by inconspicuously. And though you have already been stricken by the sight (which caused you to even grab a drink!) you glare upwards with a furrowed brow, through the polycarbonate sheets of your swim-goggles, towards the second floor.

Above the ballroom is a circular platform walkway, connected to the ground by two spiral staircases. Leaning on the golden railing that twists like interlocking peppermint canes, the left hand man of Ashengrotto fiddles with a single drumstick. It propels through his hand like a miniature helicopter blade, spinning effortlessly. Sullen and bored, his eyes flicker all across the ballroom to find a crumb of entertainment. In Floyd’s right ear, Ashengrotto is talking – yet most likely being ignored too.

His outfit is … juvenile. (the sneer blooming on your face is natural) Unlike the other attendants, the eel-mer is simply dressed in a graphic tee – your HUF graphic tee with Spider-man and Venom on it – and sweats. There is a ketchup or tomato soup or blood stain on your shirt’s collar. A pair of Monty Python bunny slippers peek out from the pooling, gray fabric around his ankles. The ears flop as he squirms back and forth on his feet.

Ashengrotto is dressed much better – an expensive, freshly pressed notch lapel suit of cobalt and swirling violet – but it is still very different from the fool’s play that is happening below them. You survey the crowd wearing rubber fish masks, diving equipment that conceals their faces, and any other variation of deep sea disguises. The ocean tonight is full of sycophants..

Most people think an Ashengrotto masquerade is the zenith of high society. Tabloids have waxed poetry about the ‘nocturnal beauty of a deep sea labyrinth where desires are found in nebulous waves’ and how the masks give ‘a thrilling sense that we are all drowned, wayward souls brought together in harmony under his glorious might’. You know better. That flowery poesy is a mere facade in a game of facades. Ashengrotto likes to throw these masquerades so often because he likes to laugh at others who unquestionably follow his every whim or will.

Schoenheit has informed you that Ashengrotto is a schadenfreude. Not too fluent in German, you asked for the translation. The two jigsaw puzzle words of schaden, which is damage, and fruede, which is joy, connect to make schadenfreude. It means Ashengrotto experiences emotional pleasure at the sight of others misfortune.

‘There is no better sight to Ashengrotto than the sight of some poor, unfortunate soul begging on their knees at his doorstep. You would do well to remember that, Potato.’

Remember it you shall and you have. One drink is not enough to send you to your knees or make you beg. However, to Schoenheit, sipping a drop of wine tilts the scale in favor of the one-out-of-ten chance of you walking up there, blowing your cover, and smashing the empty glass in Floyd’s face.

Instead of doing that, you ask conversationally, “When was a covenant struck with the Shrouds?” You wish Schoenheit would have more trust in you, but you are well aware you lost that trust. Waiting for an answer, your eyes search the environment for those mentioned cameras.

“When you were out of commission.”

All of your limbs flinch at that, as if you have just taken a bite of the world’s sourest lemon. “Ah.”

How altruistic of Schoenheit to remind you.

Being out of commission was very unlike you. For five years, you have known Schoenheit; for four, you have worked for him. In that time, sick days were once-in-a-lifetime events. You pride yourself on how effectively you worked because, for three years, you have known Schoenheit’s face and for two years, you had been in the upgraded position from canon-fodder to information recon.

Then, for one whole year, you had … well, you rather not say. Speaking it would be like swallowing a bouquet of roses but without the petals and solely the thorns. At the very least, you inform Schoenheit on new information, just in case he has not seen it on the cameras, “He’s here, boss.”

“Ah.” At least both of you are dealing with this in stride. After that faint whisper, the earpiece fixated tightly on your snorkel is quiet for a few moments. In that time, you stumble into a memory.

As the kunai slams into the wall by the door’s opening entrance, emitting a sharp warning bang, you announce to your uninvited guests, “If it’s the mailman, you can leave the package by the grocery bags like normal. If you’re here to stop my heart, someone’s already beat ya to the kill.” With that said, you let your deceased arm drop and fall limp on your mattress.

“And if it’s your boss?”

Wincing, you respond, “ … ah, I supposed you’re welcome.”

“Thank you,” Schoenheit says primly as you hear your apartment door close.

Though he says nothing, you can hear Schoenheit’s eyes flickering across each item of a break-up vomited across your single room apartment. Ah, where to even start? The snow white vivisection of the beheaded bear that he made for you at Build-A-Bear? How about the dart board where a handful of porcupine quill darts stick out of a five-tiered photo of you and him squeezed tight in an arcade’s photobooth? Yet, who could neglect to look at the real ruins of the relationship which is you, spread out like a starfish on your bed, eyes raccoon-ed with running mascara and insomnia?

After scrutinizing over the heartbreak hurricane that has torn through the room, Schoenheit starts to make his way over to you. It only takes a second to recognize that he did not come alone. You hear a second pair of shoes. “Oh, mon cher,” Rook says sullenly.

At least you don’t have to turn your head to see who it is. Body comatose in dolor, you cannot be bothered to move an atom of yourself besides the hand that feeds yourself and your bunny a bowl of carrots.

You hear one of your two superiors seat themselves at your bar as Oswald nibbles an orange stalk from your fingers. “How long do you think you have been here?”

“Must be more than a couple days, three?” You put a carrot in your mouth as you wait for the reveal.

“A week and a day,” Schoenheit supplies the answer. Then, he repeats chastising, “A full eight days.”

“Hm,” you hum, just as acknowledgement to let him know that you heard him. Eight days seems so insignificant. You press another carrot to Oswald’s lips as he takes it in his chattering teeth. As the ebon Havana whittles the vegetable down to nothing, you depress your fingers down onto his fur, feeling the vibrations of his nibbling on your chest.

Eight days? If you had the energy to scoff, you would be up in Schoenheit’s face with the loudest, most scornful scoff he has ever heard in his life, a scoff that would have the academy sending you home with a performing arts award.

Eight days is nothing!

Your apartment goes quiet for a beat. Unsure which one has previously sat down at the bar countertop, you listen to the single pair of footsteps that walks around the wreckage. Crunching glass murmurs in the air. Again, you are unsure on whether one of your two superiors has picked up a photograph frame you bludgeon to bits or has accidentally stepped on the skeleton remains of a ceramic plate you two painted downtown at some rickety pottery studio.

You bloodlet a year worth of your time for him. He left. So, you broke everything that could be a reminder of stolen seconds, minutes, and hours – even though it does not reverse the clock at all – to cement the finiteness.

No going back: that is what you wanted your destruction to symbolize. You know that is not where your feelings lie. Reversing time is all you want to do. All your love and longing is strapped to you like a huge hiking bag, and you cannot find it in yourself to shoulder off that paralysis-esque weight. Thus, it crushes you, much like how Oswald crushes down on your sternum when he starts to make biscuits.

“Do you plan to make it nine?”

That rouses you enough where you stop looking at the ceiling and drop your cheek on the right side of the bed. Schoenheit is the one sitting at your bar. Plucked straight from a vogue magazine, your boss looks like Jesus himself with his shoulder-length hair. His halo is the light shining in your set of a dozen, upside down cordial glasses. Like sleeping bats, they hang from your iron mounted, wine glass rack and cover him in evangelical sunshine. Your personal Jesus who came to console you after a break-up.

“I don’t know,” you verbalize. Moodiness makes you brave. “Why don’t you stay for the next twenty-four hours and find out?” You put another carrot in your mouth, intending to turn back to staring at the ceiling when, “Ew, bunny hair.” You flick your tongue up and down, trying to dislodge the stray black hair.

Chuckling with a dangerous undertow, Schoenheit says, “I wish I could but I have much better things to do with my time than watch you eat your pet’s hair. Time should not be wasted. I know, Potato, that you can use your time more wisely than this.”

Oswald’s hair finally out of your mouth, you bite back, “No, I’m quite content doing this forever.” This time you take care to brush your fingers on the edge of your shirt to rub off pet fur before you reach back into the bowl.

“Well, I tried to be gentle about it.”

Oswald is plucked off your lap. You give a noise of protest when the rabbit is handed to Rook. That noise is effectively silenced when a disposable syringe tip is placed on the skin folding over your carotid artery. Not yet pressing it, just a small apply of pressure to remind you of its existence.

Your slow blink is confronted by the blink of awe that rinses over Schoenheit’s face, thoroughly shocked at your lack of reaction. In the grand scheme of things, eight days truly is nothing. And, in the grand scheme of things, death really is nothing. “I loved him, Schoenheit.” You have no idea what could possibly be in the syringe. Poison made by your boss has made men weighing two hundred plus pounds drop in seconds and has made others dissolve into a bubbling puddle of red.

Thus, you continue on, bitter and thoroughly hurt, “I loved him like a garden loves the sun and rain. I loved him like a guitar loves making music. I loved him like … oh, I don’t know. More than anything really.”

“The sustenance from a kiss is a fertilizer like no other! From each replenishing embrace, a flower grows in the garth of our hearts! What a beautiful seraphim love is! A free spirited angel of our making! Some might even say finding love is like finding Heaven on Earth! Que c'est beau!”

“You’re not helping.”

“Ah, je suis désolé,” Rook apologizes, switching his energy outlet from an impromptu poetry slam to brushing Oswald’s fur in neat sections.

Schoenheit’s eyes are testy as they regard you. Two rich pools of orchid violet dissect you from the top layer of epidermis down to your bone. You are very curious to what those keen eyes could be seeing in the decrepit, disgraceful state you are in. Is there anything left to salvage from you or are you a lost cause (a potted plant, too withered to revive)?

You flinch when the syringe goes in. It feels like pinching skin between metal. As mysterious fluid flows through your carotid artery, you listen to Schoenheit’s lecture, “He has stolen from me something that was in your possession. Something that I trusted you to keep safe. That I cannot forgive.”

When the syringe is pulled out, you offer nothing more than a wince. You want to be a smartass and ask, no bandage?, but you continue to listen on. “Diligence. Excellence. Relentlessness. Those three values are what Pomefiore is founded upon.” The cap clips over the empty needle of the syringe. “I have full confidence in you that those are memorized in your mind. Yes?” Those orchid lakes seem to grow bottomless and nebulous. Which of the Greek Gods must you never look in the eyes?

Jesus pulls back from your coffin-bed. Oswald is put back on your chest like a bundle of flowers.

“The heart is flexible. There is always a place to make new love.”

You have no idea what is in the syringe but you sit up in bed, feeling refreshed like one does after a long shower or long nap.

After they leave, on your countertop and under the hanging wine glasses is a ticket to Ashengrotto’s upcoming masquerade along with three vials of swirling colors that move like tiny lava lamps of blue, red, and yellow.

“Remind him, Potato.”

So caught up in memory-lane, you startle because who are you supposed to remind? And remind them of what? Jesus (the actual Jesus, not your boss), did a week out of commission really have you in such disarray?

Yet, you know each intricate circumstance that leaves your nerves so shot. Just like you know exactly where freckle is on his back, the exact hues that blend together to make up the color of his contrasting, gazing eyes, and just like you know the print his teeth leave behind when he bites down. All that information is left in high, extensive detail in the files of your mind.

Luckily, Schoenheit was only beginning his sentence with Remind him, Potato. You listen to the rest of his words and commit them to memory. “That he is not the only one on the stage. You are there too. On the same stage.”

You inhale a tiny planet of air. Steeling yourself, you take one last glance up to the second floor. The only person who could recognize your face from the casting call of tonight’s performance stands up there, picking his nose with his pinkie like a child. Tonight is just: him, you, and this wire.

The objective of tonight – in order to proceed to the main objective – is to find someone to inject with a syringe.

You have exactly three. Blue, red, and yellow. Three plastic vials that are hidden in a pocket professionally stitched inside the inner wrist of your suit. Nestled together like newborn bunnies nursing, they lie in that pocket and await the moment you take out the needle from your boutonnière.

It is an impossible task to bypass security into an Ashengrotto masquerade. Without fail, guests are scanned down for metal lingering on their bodies. Thus, creative liberties need to be taken to complete Schoenheit’s wish. Underneath the rose pinned on your suit are three needles. They blend together with the metal found in a boutonnière, and that disguise allows you to perform on stage.

A brief [Aside], they also do not check shoes here with their metal scanners.

Each vial has a different job for tonight. Blue, red, and yellow. All your primaries gathered together underneath the veins on your non-dominant wrist.

If injected, blue will cause a seizure unlike the likes anyone has seen before, causing bones to climb into directions thought impossible of anatomy as the victim crawls upward for heavenly salvation. If injected, red will cause the punctured spot to dissolve, flesh dripping away to reveal bone that falls away like a melted jar of sugar. If injected, yellow will cause any wounds to heal, reversing all damage no matter how grotesque or twisted out of proportion.

The best thing about them is there is no need for a syringe. As soon as the needle pierces something, the liquid is pulled out of the plastic by its own fate. Right now, you look around for a masked individual (anyone besides Ashengrotto and Floyd) to empty the blue one into.

It has to be a distraction of magnetic caliber. Everyone’s focus needs to be pulled, even those of the most insignificant waiter to Ashengrotto himself. No matter what, it has to be compelling and spellbinding.

Which is why you chose a man wearing a diver’s helmet. So when his Herculean head inevitably falls, it will cause a loud clank! that is heard all the way from the second floor.

It is why your conspiracy starts off delicate; the femme/homme fatale simply spreading out their influence in subtle ways. You only know you had him ensnared in your web when the arm you are running a hand upon relaxes, his previous flinch and tension melting like a peppermint in the mouth. You flutter your eyelashes at him from behind your goggles.

“My apologies. I didn’t mean to startle you; I was simply hoping to get the hors d'oeuvre in front of you.” You retract your hand but not without giving his elbow a teasing squeeze.

It is difficult to deduct any sort of thought from the impenetrability of his costume. Sealed away by blue-rusted brown copper, his ‘face’ is a tenebrous ebony with the words Anchor Engineering, 1913 as his temple and then as his chin. Unperturbed, you stare lovingly into the cold, lifeless circle.

He side-steps but does not leave. That’s good. As you masterfully pluck a shrimp square off the lazy susan, you make sure to turn your victim. Act uninterested in the food. Look at him as if he is your next meal.

“They always serve such extravagant, authentic seafood here. It feels as if I am truly dipping my hand into the Coral Sea and reeling in my meal from those very waters. Don’t you agree?”

The helmet sways up and down in a slow nod. His body underneath is like a statue.

You take half a bite of the shrimp square. It is an explosion of flavor; the bread, sauce, and meat combines into one sophisticated umami that excites your tastebuds. When you finish chewing, actually genuinely pleased with your bite, you hum out, “köstlich!”

And whatever fleeting interest this stranger has with you is amplified, if only by a slim margin. That flat black circle that reminds you of a bottomless fishing hole in northern ice tilts, curious at your words. A smile graces your face.

“Do you speak any German?” The helmet goes back and forth in a negative response. “I’ve picked up a bit of German in my teens. A beautiful language. Köslitch, a pretty word, no?”

His body language is poised with interest. Thank Jesus, he must think you are something exotic and seductive. That intrigue will solidify his fate. “In German, it has a double meaning.”

You finish your shrimp then continue, “It means both funny and delicious. You would call a certain snack köslitch in the same way you would call someone that makes you laugh köslitch. I think,” — Here, you grab his hand. It is ungloved and a bit coarse. Meaty in your slim hand. Gingerly, you pull his hand up towards your mouth, making sure your breath hits across each of his knuckles — “, that you could fit both meanings.”

Then, mimicking a centipede with sharp pincers, you bite hard upon his index finger. And, with both hands cradling his single hand, you slip the needle piercing the blue vial into his exposed wrist. A crescent mark of teeth lingers on the top notch of his finger.

“I’ve always had this secret yen for funny guys.” The black hole leans forward, intense. “Meet me in the bathroom on the second floor in ten minutes.”

Yet, walking away, you know the diver only has five minutes of oxygen left in his tank.

“Ya never had a burger?”

Even though, yes, you did just previously confirm that, Floyd’s awestruck words leave you wide-eyed. You are in disbelief over how … in disbelief he sounds! Lips on his cheek, lipstick-staining activity halting momentarily, you ask, “Is it really that hard to believe?”

“It’s almost impossible to believe!”

You chuckle with a dumb grin. Used to his dime-flipping moods, you lean in to continue peppering his face with kisses. Arms already around his neck, you pull him just a few more centimeters down so you speak into his ear. “Well, we just gonna have to order one after we fuuuck.”

Despite the chuffing link you have with your arms around his neck and with your legs around his waist – your crotch rubbing eagerly and teasingly up against his! – Floyd pulls back from you. It is almost comedical the look of sheer devastation of his lipstick polka-dotted face; would be too if you were not so astronomically horny. “Never? Like never never?”

Oh God, this is going to be a whole thing. “I don’t know. Maybe as a kid? Come here.” You tighten your legs around his waist when he tries to pull himself up from your apartment’s bed. Doubling down, you fasten your pace a bit when grinding down upon his crotch, feeling the familiar shape of his penis in his sweats moving against you so nicely. “Forget burgers. I want a different kind of meat.”

“I can’t just forget something like that! Who the hell grows up without eatin’ a burger!”

How you desperately wish to reverse time when his steadyfast words reach your ears. There is a determined fixation in his voice. You let your arms fall by your head as Floyd’s hands squeeze your ass; he’s now no longer reciprocating in your grinding. Putting on your best pouting face like a young actor desperate for the role, you whine, “If I knew you were going to be like this, I would have said yes.”

“But seriously, how have ya not?”

“I don’t know. It wasn’t something my parents made and now I’m on this caloric diet that has me eating whole foods.”

“A hamburger is a whole food. It’s a whole cow.”

“Ugh, I don’t know! Can we please have sex!”

You throw your head back in exasperation. Legs fall down by your side. Floyd had the munchies after coming back from your bowling date, so you thought it would be nice to brainstorm aftercare options for dinner together — ping-ponging between the idea of ordering takeout or going somewhere. Curse you and your big, dumb mouth.

“Nope! We’re goin’ out again!”

Just like that, he is skirting around your apartment to pick up the graphic tee he shucked off. His Neckface dunks are already hooked on the edge of his fingers when you sit up, readjusting your wrinkled shirt. You need to fix your cosmetics. However, when your hand falls around the oyster-shell of your compact mirror, your other hand is grabbed.

“Let’s go! Let’s go!” Floyd cheers, half-dragging you to the door. He is ignorant to your distress as the compact-mirror slips from your grip, soap-esque. “Me and my brother used to go to this place all the time. They do this whole burger of the week thing; it’s like pun-based burgers. My brother kept going back for the jokes, but I just think the grub’s good. You’ll love them! The owner’s super nice and I met his wife and kids –!”

“Floyd.” Your feet digging into the carpet finally grabs his attention. His face is equivalent to a giant question mark. “I need to check my face.”

The blank look on his face is wiped by him moving his dual-colored eyes up and down, surveying the area. His reply is genuine. “Looks fine to me, babe.” A mischievous gleam comes to his irises as he chuckles, “It’s a real sexy face. Even sexier when it’s moanin’ my name.”

Hope flares up in you. Maybe, just maybe, you can drag him back to the bed.

“Yeah, baby?” You slur huskily before pulling him into a deep kiss.

Floyd always kisses well. Somewhere in the middle of it, he spins you. Towards the bed? Hope is dashed when you hear the click of your apartment door, realizing you two are on the opposite side of it. Your boyfriend giggles the entire way down to the lobby, having successfully duped you.

The burger joint is built like a tiny house or a big shed, depending on how you view its humble spot in the universe. With the sun starting to set, the owners have powered on the string of lights crawling like a march of ants across the tiny house’s soffit. The unique footprint of Floyd’s car engine is already recognized before you enter. And, when you are seated, the waitress already knows not to ask for Floyd’s order (“He won’t order anythin’. Just trusts the slobs in the back to bring him something good.”) and the waiter claps him so hard on the shoulder you are afraid Floyd’s thin frame would break (“Haven’t seen you in a whole month! Where you been?” – here, the waiter stops and looks at you – “… and you are trying to hide things from us now?”). The energy is so light that you cannot stop yourself from leaning over your shared appetizer, waffle fries.

“You failed to mention you're a local celebrity here, you know? Warn a girl/boy before you bring them to somewhere where they’re rolling out the proverbial red carpet for them” you say, fishing a fry out of the greasy basket. You really should have done your face.

“What,” unlike you, Floyd talks with his mouth half full of words and the other half full of food, “everyone here is super lowkey.”

“I think the entire world is lowkey from your perspective.” You dot your sentence by dipping the waffle fry in the shared ketchup. “I feel like everyone is dissecting me.”

Floyd looks back again at the bar where everyone seems to be oblivious to your conversation, so deep and entangled in their own. “Nah, I don’t feel it.” And before you can refute, Floyd reaches over and bumps your chin with his finger, causing you to miss your bite. Your worry is forgotten as you dabbing your face with a napkin, laughing threats about taking the entire basket if he plays dirty with his food anymore.

At an appropriate time, your food arrives from the kitchen. It is set down on the table and this time, instead of Floyd’s shoulder being clapped, his hair is ruffled. Juice spills over the edge of the lower bun, soaking into the yeast. The bun seems to radiate its own heat as you pick up your burger – Knife to Meet You Burger (comes with thinly sliced beets) – and bring it towards your mouth.

“You eat with your pinkies up?”

Lower jaw still hanging open, you glance at Floyd. He has already taken two large bites of his burger, a ketchup mustache decorating his face. My, he really does not care about his appearance. “Hmmm?” You look down to see that your pinkies are in fact raised like two little horns.

A laugh comes out of your mouth. It has been ages since you’ve eaten finger food other than fries or maybe some whole wheat crackers. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

Floyd smiles, fond. “Cute.”

The clang as metal helmet meets ground sends a shockwave through the masquerade. A woman shrieks; when a man starts to yell out if anyone shrouded in mysterious masks might just be a doctor by chance, you make your way up the stairs.

It won’t take you long to decipher the code. The potion Schoenheit gave you yesterday heightened your senses. Hearing each click of a correct turn on the safe’s dial will be easy. Like how elevated your sight and smell are, there is a certain air about you.

Despite the entire prologue, you feel good. Heartbreak might be the costume cemented upon you in this masquerading parade but you are still capable. Pomefiore’s disciples always seek to be their best.

As you slip into Ashengrotto’s bedroom like a breeze, removing your snorkel, you forget in your joy of elevated sensations how your own heavy scent carries on the wind.

Just as the safe opens, the door to Ashengrotto’s bedroom opens.

It is a bit hard to shoulder your apartment door open with arms full of groceries, five ringlets of plastic hanging on for dear life on each of your forearms, but you still manage to do it.

Today, the click of the door seems a smidgen louder than normal. It is probably because of how you need to use your spine and hip to push open the wooden slab. Blissfully unaware your key did not manage to unlock the door on the first try like you thought, you rotate yourself so you walk into your small apartment chest first.

You would have flicked on the lights if you did not spot movement in a place that is definitely not where your bunny cage is. Five grocery bags sliding off your right arm, you hold out your second kunai, pinched in your hand.

The first kunai you throw lands a few centimeters from the man who is crouching down by your slide-open closet door, piercing the birch wood.

You take care to put down the groceries bags on your left arm. You have lettuce, eggs, and bananas in those. Hand still aimed, the point of the kunai trained straight at the spot where the intruder is, you take your non-dominant hand and turn on the lights.

“Floyd?”

Standing up – the files detailing Schoenheit’s jury tampering where two of Kingscholar’s men were killed by Schoenheit’s men and then the failed narcotics conspiracy sentence to imprison one of Ashengrotto’s men (files that could get Schoenheit arrested in the wrong hands (his) and files that could get Ashengrotto arrested in the right hands (your boss’s)) in his dominant left hand – Floyd gives you a fleeting once over. He looks as if all of your time spent together was erased from his memory. As if he has successfully forgotten it.

“It’s nothing personal, Shrimpy. Just business.”

The door of Ashengrotto’s bedroom fully opens and knocks you back into the present.

He looks handsome.

To be fair, his face has always looked handsome. He has looked handsome curling into your blankets, hair unbrushed and laughing. He has looked handsome picking you up in his car, cheek soft and squished on his steering wheel. He has looked handsome eating a burger with you, face dotted with a melange of sauce and crumbs. He looks handsome, staring down at you now.

Shock – in the terms of upsetting events that surprise you like a deer in highlights – is something Schoenheit has trained out of your system. The only man who does not act is a dead man. So, when you launch yourself to your feet, you fully anticipate getting the first punch in.

Only to be caught so off guard when your ex-boyfriend cuffs both your wrists in one large hand and sends your face reeling back in whiplash due to the connecting embrace his other hand delivers.

It feels like a spider blooming. That animal is all you can use to describe the sensation of being punched. The egg-shaped body of the arthropod is the spot where the nose lands – directly on your nose – and the spreading flame of pain is like a thousand legs stretching over your face.

A teardrop trails down the heated surface of your face as you gather your bearings. Or is it blood from a nostril? You cannot check the color of the watery drop because Floyd still has your two wrists prisoner in his single hand. With a grimace and hateful eyes, you turn so you may face him. Gaze upon his handsome face and deem it ugly.

“Shit. I didn’t mean ta hit ya that hard.” The whiplash you are receiving tonight is like a rollercoaster! Full of so many ups and downs, just like you would expect of Floyd. Still, you cannot help the look of pure dumb shock that paints itself over your face as you are suddenly fussed over.

When the hand that punched you tenderly touches your broken nose, you reel back with a growl.

“Get your hands off me!”

The files are still in your hand when you pull back. Like a magnetized magnet, Floyd follows in your desperate attempt to escape the bind he has upon you. You waste no time in clicking your heels, gaining an extra inch under your left sole. If that idiot won’t let go, you’ll force it. Left soles now sprouting a field of spikes, you bring your foot up and kick him hard in the abdomen.

Floyd falls back. The papers rustle. The click of your heels is like the tongue of a dragon sparking up a breath of fire. As his footing stumbles, you kick up and cut a long slash across his cheek and down to his lips with the knife sticking out the top of your right sole.

“Shit,” Floyd shouts as his body collides and closes the door.

When you pull your fingertips back from your face, you see that the drop from earlier was certainly blood.

Then, for a moment, you and Floyd observe each other. Intensely, both of your eyes take to tracking over the features previously known so intimately. Your eyes squint with so much vitriol that Floyd almost blurs in your vision. But, you are eating up the gourmet image of him, blood curling down the left side of his face much like the black strand curls down his right.

He smiles that familiar smile. “Hi, Shrimpy-baby.”

“...”

“Ya know, I never told ya this, but I always had this secret yen for the feisty ones.”

“Don’t spew that shit at me, you asshole.”

What a wicked game he played with you. To burrow into your life like a plump, devouring mite that took to digging deeper into the soil of your garden. A year of love is too convoluted of a scheme for a man of his ever-changing disposition to do, yet he did it. In doing so, he has destroyed your belief in the very concept of love.

This time around, you are much more unsure if the drop falling down your face is a tear or blood.

“Ya … You smell the same.” Confusion flickers over your face, so Floyd continues, “Didn’t think you’d be wearin’ the same perfume. Was almost positive I wouldn’t smell it again. Shit stinks.”

My, what a compliment. Like a practiced magician, you go to pull a syringe out from underneath your cufflink when surprise paralyzes you. Cheekbones burns as Floyd perfectly recites the French name – you distantly him saying how much he hated that language – of your perfume.

“Comme Des Garçons Avignon.” Then he names the top notes. “Smells like Roman chamomile, elemi, and incense.” Then he finishes off with, “Ya spray like twelve puffs on yourself. And ya always make sure to get in on your inner wrist before rubbin’ it into your neck.”

“There’s something evil in you.” Disgust coats your tongue as you shake your head back and forth. Why can’t he just vanish off the face of the earth? Or at least walk back into the masquerade so you can finish your job.

You cannot face the ugly truth that you still love him.

Floyd’s eyes flicker down to the ground … or perhaps only to analyze the files in your hand. All the same, a shadow falls over his features. It reminds you of each time his body shut down when emotions got too big, resemblant of powering off electronics. His next words are less confident than how he described your habits and perfume in detail. Whispering, he insists, “You should be in my life.”

What is he talking about? Your head continues shaking, almost stuck in that action. You were in his life. Both of you were so intimately entangled with one another’s life. That sentiment is now completely unrealistic; this cavern between you will never heal.

“I hate you,” you whisper, just before closing the distance.

There is a foreign sentiment you know pretty well despite the language gap. Bilingual because of Schoenheit and his right hand man, you pick up French and German much like how a child picks up alluring shells on the shoreline. You carry them in the pail of your brain. Naturally, you cannot stop one from floating to the surface as pallid plaster coats your knuckles.

Qui aime bien, châtie bien. Who loves well, punishes well.

In its original meaning, it relates to the idea that as your love grows older, you become well versed in teasing. More comfortable in your aging relationship, certain barriers fall away from the heart. The nautilus shell falls away to reveal the soft, vulnerable body of slime. Teasing happens. Tough love is natural. Right now though, as your hand clenched around a syringe falls in a diagonal arch, you use the proverb in a much more literal way.

The popcorn wall dissolves under administration of the liquid. Red churns in the tube before magical magnetism pulls into the area of injection. Floyd ducks out of way just in time and makes a grab for the hand holding the files.

TITLE: THE TEXT MESSAGE ‘IT’S NOT ME, IT’S YOU’

INT. ASHENGROTTO’S BEDROOM

OPEN on two people fighting. One holds a stack of papers large enough to be a dictionary. The other is trying half-heartedly to steal those files back, but is mostly fixated on avoiding the onslaught of punches falling in his direction. The shuffle is a violent dance. Punches are thrown and dodged. Some connect and others miss. The only sound is the huff of measured breaths, exhaling when either FLOYD or YOU attack on offense.

The room is full of three main objects; a safe, a bed, and a dresser underneath a large mirror.

FLOYD.

(exuberantly)

You’ve been holdin’ back on me. I didn’t know you could fight like this.

YOU.

…

FLOYD.

C’mon, Shrimpy, don’t be like that. Woah!

YOU

Do you ever shut up?

FLOYD.

I’d like it if you made me. Aren’t little spiders supposed to neutralize their prey with venom?

YOU.

Aren’t little eels supposed to bite their prey with teeth? … Did it feel good? Building me up to tear me down?

FLOYD.

It was just business. It had nothing ta do with us.

A punch connects with the side of FLOYD’s face. As he stumbles, a swinging leg sends his torso falling onto the dresser. It rattles like a hundred bones in a coffin shakened like a child’s birthday present.

YOU.

(voice raising)

Don’t lie again. I’m sick of being lied to by you!

FLOYD.

I never lied to you. I haven’t been lyin’ about a thing. It’s not fair that Vil gets to have ya.

YOU keep throwing punches, ignoring his words.

FLOYD, growing increasingly aggravated, abandons his position of defense. He pulls YOU in by the lapels of your suit, hoisting them up by sheer strength and slams them into the mirror above the dresser. Papers fall like autumn leaves and glass falls like snowflakes. Seen subtly behind them, a trail of blood coming from their pierced shoulders, rolling down the dresser’s side like one stretching snake of sanguine.

YOU twist yet are unable to escape the grasp.

FLOYD narrows his gold and olive brown eyes.

FLOYD. (CONT.)

I know everything about ya. I know ya can’t blow a bubble with gum. I know each mole and freckle on ya. And I know no matter how hard you try, your pinkies always go up when you eat a burger! So, you shouldn’t be with a lover who doesn’t know ya. Give him up. I can put in a good word with Azul; we could be back to how we used to be. It’s not fair that Vil gets to have you! I should have ya!

YOU

(shaking their head and laughing, haggard)

You don’t get to have me. – No-Not after what you did.

FLOYD

(angry)

You should be in my space! You should be in my life!

THE fight continues. A sharp sound much like a tongue clicking inside a mouth startles the audience. YOU press the left sole of their shoe into FLOYD’s abdomen and push back as hard as they can. A pained shout bleeds out his mouth. YOU, stumbling from the glass that managed to sink through their suit and into skin, goes to punch yet is blocked.

WITH a rough tug on YOU’s biceps, FLOYD pushes them both down to the ground. Pain flares across their back like one crashing wave. EXIT SCENE.

“Kiss me. Kiss me,” he pleads, his fingers digging so harshly into your skin that bruises will be there tomorrow. His voice is turbulent with so many emotions. “Just one. Just kiss me again.”

Fist enclosed on his shirt’s sternum, you push against him and try to rebuild the distance between you two. “Get off! Get off me, you psycho!” Each time he attempts to close the gap, you violently twist your lips away. Your body squirms like a desperate fly caught in a web. His lips collide with the corner of your lip and chin. You push back as hard as you can. “Get off me right – fucking! Floyd!”

The hands that left tomorrow’s bruises on your upper arms move to grip your writhing, wrinkled in anger face. He holds you still with tremendous strength, eye to eye. Each atom of your skull shakes with frustration. Gritted teeth almost seem to vibrate in your mouth. Despite your desperation to tear away and flee, Floyd keeps you pinned.

“I love you so much,” he confesses, dual-colored eyes brimming over. Emotion crinkles his voice. You want to scoff at his well-improvised act.

The scoff lands in Floyd’s mouth as he pulls you into a perilous kiss. Teeth act like iron gates. Closing him off from your love, you try to use each component of yourself to escape. Knees and fists curl up and push him away with fruitless strength. Nose wrinkles as if you smelt something horrid. When he tries to French-kiss you, you take the hand shoving at his chest to wrap your hand around his throat. A thumb presses hard in his trachea.

Floyd pulls back immediately, hacking and his spit flying through the air. There, you think, is your opening for freedom.

Your body rolls onto its side. You only get a shuffling inch or so away from him before he is laughing jubilantly, teeth gleaming in his mouth – Like he used to laugh at comedy shows, playing on your shitbox CRT, or like he used to laugh when breaking out into an impromptu dance, playing music and heartstrings in your kitchen. – “That’s my Shrimpy. Oh, I love you!”

Your fruitless escape is squashed as Floyd pulls you back into another kiss. This time he manages to slip his mouth past those iron gates.

According to songs, sparks fly when a kiss happens. In this moment, you feel like those sparks are not from joyous, amorous fireworks but a hundred plane engines blowing their transmission. Screaming into his mouth, you pull back so hard that your head splinters a crack into the wooden dresser behind you.

Floyd’s hands protectively cradle the back of your head after that. He rotates his body so his weight smothers. Your rotated body is once more flatten like a pancake. Lying by the dresser, you kiss – well, he kisses you. You are actively still fighting against it.

Curses and potions, you know them well. They are frequently used in your work. It is not unheard of to utilize ancient, outdated methods of magic to gain an upper hand in this dangerous tango of organized crime. Just like the Shrouds excel in technology, the Schoenheits excel in potions and curses. No matter how many charms cloaked over objects or potions brewed inside bubbling cauldrons, you have never been under a curse or tasted a potion more dangerous than love. It is the most potent, poisonous curse.

A wet drop falling from Floyd’s face falls on your cheek; tear or blood, who can tell? The next motion you make, you blame it upon the brain damage you sustained when knocking your head into the dresser’s bottom leg.

As you grab his hair and open those iron gates, you think, ‘Sorry Schoenheit.’

Slobbering into his mouth, like you are trying to fuse together, you explore the cave. Finding the familiar stalagmites of teeth and the moss spot where his canker sore from too many bedtime sodas or snacks laced with salt and vinegar. Teal hair is pulled at the root and your embrace feels more like a hook than a hand, yet Floyd still launches into the kiss with relief and excitement.

He is an everlasting object of motion. Unstoppable and breaking laws of psychics. He pushes his tongue further in, entwines it with yours. Each pressure point of contact is seductively bewitching. Floyd lets out a long, stretching groan like a widow mourning. The sound reverbs in the grottos of your interlocked mouths.

Hands flurry about in wild motion. You open up your legs and hold him pelvis to pelvis. His hands do not stop running up and down frantically from shoulders to waist. It is only because of this endless stream of movement that Floyd does not notice when you draw a Z across the back of his skull.

Pulling back from the kiss, you say a single word with closed eyes, “Somnum.”

Floyd’s own eyes fall shut and his body goes limp.

Like pushing away fallen rumble, you discard Floyd’s body to the side and bring yourself up to sitting on your knees. A shaky groan exits you. Fingers trembling from adrenaline, you smooth the pads of them over your nose – it is definitely broken – over your back – the material is wet with blood – and over your bottom lip – it radiates a soft heat. Ducking your head, you sigh.

Bewitched Sleep is one of the least complex curses. Just a simple swish of a finger writing a Z and a single Latin word, the chosen victim will fall under a temporary spell of sleep. Those guarded enough will be able to resist it though; casting a glance over at Floyd’s slumbering body, you reflect upon the notion that his iron gates must have been open the entire fight.

A glare passes over your face. It melts. Then, it comes back again stronger than before. “Such an asshole.” You bite at the air and push yourself up to your feet. One last time, you knock your heels together and the spikes underneath your left sole disappear. “You’re the most convincing actor of all, Floyd.”

It takes a while to gather up the mess of papers, shaking the glass off certain pages. Still, you pile them all back into the folder and check that none had swooped underneath the bed or dresser. As you go about collecting all the pages, you also pick up the snorkel you left by the safe. Holding it up to your ear, you say, “Have Epel send the car around to the back.”

It takes a while to receive an answer and, even when you do, the snorkel is held in your hand rather than by your ear so it is a very muffled answer. “Good work, Potato.” The praise feels empty as you stare down at Floyd’s body sleeping in a bed of glass.

He is not your problem anymore. He is not yours. Yet, it was only nine days ago that he meant everything to you and he had been yours. Just because it is over, that doesn’t mean it didn’t mean anything.

Like a sinking stone, your acid-coated heart makes itself a little elevator ride down to your stomach.

“Fuck,” you whisper before fastening your snorkel back on your face. “I’m ridiculous.”

So, ridiculously, you find yourself hooking your hands under Floyd’s armpits. Dead-esque, his head slumps forward on a limp neck. It reminds you of those nights, coming home to the apartment from the bar, each of you shouldering the other’s weight. Experienced with it, it is a fluid effort and getting Floyd on Ashengrotto’s bed is no trouble.

You shake the files in your hand. You stomp your feet to make sure each blade is inside the sole. Then, you go to leave?

Ridiculously, you find that your feet are hesitating. Shuffling indecisively on the carpet. Heavy as if cement has been poured in them. The window is only a matter of a dozen steps away yet you might as well be trying to trudge through glutinous quicksand towards a whole other planet.

Once more, your intelligent mentor’s voice rains down from the Heavens with his oh so introspective words of wisdom (this time imaginary). “Honey, ditch that loser,” Jesus-Schoenheit says.

‘Oh I wish I could. I really wish I could,’ you bemoan to the fake voice of your boss, face pinched in a grimace. As you turn around, you start to dig around in your slacks pockets.

‘I should have that pen somewhere.’ Shoving the files under your armpit, fingers flutter through the snow fields of lint at the bottom of each pocket. Where is that stupid pen? You know you were carrying a permanent tattoo marker. If you had to make a run for it after getting the codes but before opening the safe, you brought along the writing utensil so you could mark down the numbers on the length of your arm … that is, if you can find it.

A breath of relief escapes you. Uncapping the pen, you take a short moment to observe comatose Floyd. Even with his clothes elongated and stretched from your hateful hands and his skin drenched in sweat and sanguine, he rivals the very concept of beauty. Individuals favored by Aphrodite, actors or actresses with faces that belong immortalized in marble, and a blond Queen who seduces men and women with a poisonous potency: these are the type of people you surround yourself with daily. Yet, all of them look hideous in comparison to Floyd who sleeps with a slightly parted mouth and tacky blood streaming down his face. How has he warped your vision so grandly?

Upset, you force your eyes to fall away from his mesmeric features and move down to his waistline. Most of your graphic tee is untucked like normal so you have little problem with wrestling his shirt above his belly button. On his navel, above the dusting of black hair, you place the tip of the marker.

In quick yet eligible swirls, you write down your new phone number across Floyd’s V-line. A twisty six forms, an eight loops side to side, a soldier-straight one is born. You punctuate it all with a sharp dot, imagining that your very innocent pen is a dangerous knife. The stab of ink hits him so hard that he coughs in his sleep, pained.

God, you want to make him feel so much more pain than that.

Capping your marker, you pull down his shirt and pull the files from the crook of your armpit. Rereading the document’s identification, you feel just a tiny spritz of your frustration dissolve inside of you. The job is complete. Despite everyone back home thinking you would be a loose canon and fail tremendously, you manage to succeed.

Yes, your nose will have to be snapped back into place. And, you doubt Rook (under Schoenheit’s instructions) will be gentle with the whole procedure. But, at least you did not run into Ashengrotto which you consider a huge, jackpot-esque win of a night full of many ups and downs, and much lack of faith from homebase.

The door clicks open just as you reach up to your ear. Startled, your fingers depress down on the still intact communication device, sending your desolate “fucking shit” out on radio waves back to that beloved homebase.

“(Name)? (Name), what’s wrong?” Schoenheit’s voice worries in your ear as you and Ashengrotto lock eyes across his wrecked, demolished bedroom. The absolute puzzlement in those blue eyes would be amusing if only you did not know the octopus’s exact next move.

“How close is Epel?”

“He’s only one block away from your location.”

“Yeah, I got enough time.”

“Potato?”

“I’m jumping out the window,” you inform your boss just as Ashengrotto unclips the gun from his belt. Confusion has long since drained from those blueberry hues; just as hesitation has vanished magically from your feet. “Tell Epel, proceed as planned, meet me at the spot.”

“Potato! Don’t you dare jump through a window! (Name)? (Name)!”

You have a nagging suspicion that Rook (under Schoenheit’s instructions) will not be gentle when taking the glass out of your skin. It matters very little to you as the wall by your head coughs out a dusting of white plaster. A decorative new eye in Ashengrotto’s bedroom wall is just another damage left behind in the mess you have made. Something else matters much more.

There has been a dormant craving in you for disgustingly greasy food for days.

That said, you need to keep your calories in check so you could definitely use some company to reach over the sticky table and paw at your share of food. The burger of the week at yours and Floyd’s self-established ‘joint’ is Poutine on the Ritz Burger. Comes with poutine fries. Probably will put a yellow, waxy clot of cholesterol in your veins. As you leap from the window, you can already picture it perfectly.

Floyd, sitting across the table from you, licking gravy from his fingers, his shark maw gnashing back and forth noisily as he grinds down cheese curds and potatoes from your fries, looking as irresistible as a hung Da Vinci portrait.

#twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #floyd leech x reader #floyd leech #twst floyd

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finemealcreates · 2 months

Text

Family Comes in All Shapes and Sizes

July 15: Meeting a new member of the family | wire

Billy shifts on his feet, uneasy and nervous.

“Are you sure they’re gonna like me?” Billy asks Danny as he fixes his shirt for the nth time.

Danny just rolls his eyes with a smile, elbowing Billy lightly.

“Don’t worry so much! They’ve been bugging me to meet you since I told them about you,” Danny replies soothingly.

Billy can’t help but let out an uneasy breath, shaking his hands out to try and rid himself of some of the nerves. It helps, but only slightly. He really does want to make a good first impression on Danny’s family.

“Okay, okay let’s meet them before I get so nervous I change my mind,” Billy states, reaching out to grip Danny’s hand tightly in his own.

Danny offers a soothing smile as he squeezes Billy’s hand gently, offering some comfort. Then, he reaches his other hand out, curling his fingers as nails extend from the tips. In one motion, he swings his hand in the air, a portal opening in front of them.

Billy gets tugged through before he can think too much about the fear and anxiety of entering a portal that leads to someplace he’s never been before.

The first sensation he feels is cold, freezing cold. Followed by warmth as a heavy coat is placed over his shoulders.

“I told you it was going to be cold,” Danny huffs good-naturedly, apparently not feeling the chill in his ghost form.

“How was I supposed to know you meant freezing and not just chilly,” Billy pouts.

Danny raises an eyebrow as he smirks slightly.

“Maybe because I told you multiple times that’s what I meant?”

Billy huffs and shoves Danny good-naturedly.

“Great One!” a voice booms before a white furred being envelopes Danny into a hug.

Billy’s eyes widens as he looks up at the being. They have two icicles for horns atop their head, blue and gold clothing and accessories adorning their body, and an ice left arm with the bones visible. Not to mention the fact that they are giant. So much taller than anyone Billy’s ever encountered … well, maybe not bigger than Darkseid, but it’s close.

“Hi Frostbite,” Danny squeaks out, voice strained from the force of the hug.

“It’s good to see you again!” Frostbite booms, finally releasing Danny.

“Good to see you too,” Danny says honestly, stretching slightly.

“And who is this?” Frostbite asks, purple eyes turning towards Billy.

Billy gulps nervously under the gaze of the yeti, resisting the urge to transform into Captain Marvel. He’s fine. This is Danny’s family. He’s fine.

“This is who I was telling you about!” Danny answers excitedly, flying over to hover next to Billy. “Frostbite, meet Billy. Billy, meet Frostbite.”

Frostbite grins and extends a hand. Billy cautiously takes it, watching how the other’s hand envelopes his own completely.

“Wonderful to meet another member of Danny’s family!” Frostbite booms, shaking Billy’s hand gently yet excitedly.

“Nice to meet you too,” Billy agrees, feeling a little light at being referred to as family.

Frostbite smiles wide and releases Billy’s hand.

“Shall we?” Frostbite asks before turning around and beginning to walk.

“Where are we going?” Billy whispers to Danny.

“To meet everyone else!” Danny answers, grinning.

“Everyone else?” Billy asks nervously, eyes wide.

Danny laughs and nods.

“You didn’t think Frostbite was it, did you?”

₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊

Billy feels like his head is spinning from how many yeti’s he’s been introduced to. First there was Frostbite’s husband, Hailwind, then Frostbite’s siblings, Glacierwalk and Snowfall. And that was just Frostbite’s immediate family!

There are the other yeti’s in the village, most of whom Billy forgets the names of. All with different names and different occupations. There’s also an elderly couple that helps look after all the Frostlings.

His head feels like it’s spinning as he shakes hands and smiles, says hello and gets handed food. His head gets pat a lot, every Yeti smiling at him widely.

Consistently, they’re all so nice to him. Tell him they’re so happy to meet him. Grateful Danny has found family in such a kind young man.

Billy feels … shy. Undeserving. Danny’s family is so kind and nice. Billy’s just … Billy. He hasn’t earned any of the great things he’s been gifted, he just does his best to do what he can with what he’s been given.

“You okay?” Danny whispers to Billy when he gets a moment to breathe.

“I’m okay,” Billy assures, slightly breathless. “Just a tad … overwhelmed? You have so many people who love you.”

Danny smiles softly as he looks out at the crowd of Yeti’s mingling.

“Yeah, I’m really lucky to have all of you,” Danny says softly.

Billy doesn’t say anything. But he’s thinking about how lucky Billy is to have Danny, not the other way around.

Danny pulls Billy into a side hug.

“If you need to leave, we can,” Danny offers.

Billy smiles kindly, warmth filling him. He’s glad to have someone like Danny who’s looking out for him.

“It’s fine, go enjoy the party. I’ll be back out mingling in a minute,” Billy assures.

Danny grins and gives a mock salute before flying back out to join everyone.

“We’re really lucky to have someone like you watching out for Danny,” a voice says.

Billy jumps slightly, turning to see it’s the leaner Yeti he met earlier. What was his name? Hailwind, wasn’t it?

“It’s the other way around, really,” Billy responds softly. “Danny has so many people who care about him. I’m so grateful I’m considered one of those people.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Hailwind replies, smiling. “Danny might have a lot of family, but he’s not as open as he projects that he is. Everyone in his life means a lot to him.”

Billy feels himself flush slightly.

“Well, I’m glad that Danny considers me part of his family,” Billy admits shyly. “I think we’re just as lucky to have him in our lives as he thinks he is to have us.”

Hailwind chuckles and nods in response, a smile growing on his face.

“Yes, I think you’re right.”

Together, they watch the party in front of them, joy in the air.

#finemeal writes #finemeal fics #dpxdcfamilyweek24 #dp x dc #danny fenton #billy batson #frostbite #hailwind #far frozen #found family #fluff #light angst

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newtthetranswriter · 10 months

Text

Snow and Cuddels.

Word count:1333

Paring: Zora Ideale x reader

Summary: Snow day turned into cuddles with the best prankster who is allergic to wearing a shirt.

Warnings: Not much, cursing, mentions of colds and frostbite, maybe ooc Zora

A/n: Hello everyone, I hope you enjoy this. I am aware some of the bulls are not mentioned, i just couldn’t think of what to have them doing. Also this is my first time writing for Zora so it may be a little off, I’m hoping with this event to write for more fandoms and maybe get some requests in as well, but who knows. Anyway, have fun, enjoy and remember to Hydrate or Diedrate.

Winter has finally arrived in the Clover Kingdom, and I couldn’t be happier. Playing in the snow with friends and family, baking cookies and making candy, and drinking hot chocolate, just some of the many fun things to do when winter hits. And of course today was the first day that there was a decent amount of snow, and Captain Yami kindly gave all of us at the Black Bulls hideout the day off.

Charmy decided she’s going to be baking and cooking all day, Vanessa is already passed out drunk, Magna and Luck are fighting over whatever one of them did this time, Gouache is well being Gouche, Gordon is trying to hang with gouache but is just being creepy, and Gray is hiding from everything. The more rambunctious and childish of the group were outside in the snow, this included Asta trying to get Noelle to participate in a snowball fight, Finral has made a snow person he’s practicing his flirting with. That just leaves Me and my grumpy boyfriend who just wants to go inside because ‘shit it’s cold out here’, I’m trying to get him to enjoy the chilly weather but Zora being well himself refuses to, I don't know, put on a shirt and try to enjoy this free time.

“Come on, Y/n why do you want to be out here it’s freezing. Why don’t we go lay down and cuddle? Or steal whatever Charmy has made for the day, we could also mess up Gouche’s creepy sister shrine again.” I turned to the red head slouched against the wall, rolling my eyes at him in response. “What are you even doing over there? It’s just snow, what can you possibly be doing with it?” He asked, pushing off the wall, moving to look over my shoulder.

I lend further over my creation to hide it from him. “You don’t get to see it until it’s done. If you don’t want to be out here, you can go in if you want. If you really want to mess with the others, have fun, I’m enjoying it out here.” I tried to tell him he didn’t have to stay out here.

“You know it’s not as fun if you’re not helping, plus you know where Vanessa hides her booze. Plus you could get sick if you stay out here too long.” Zora said, still trying to see the snow creation I was working on.

“Why do you want Vanessa’s booze? You know what nevermind with that, but seriously if you want to go inside you can, I won’t blame you. I just hoped we could do something fun out here, instead of staying cooped up all day. And I won’t get sick, I’ll be fine.” I said, leaning back to show him what I had finished making.

Zora paused processing the drawing I had carved in the patch of flat snow in front of me. It was a crescent moon along the side of one of his trap spells, to represent both of our magics, in the center was our initials. “I know it’s cheesy and won’t last long out here cause it will melt eventually, but it just popped into my head and I need to physically see it and show you. I was thinking we could maybe get it made into necklaces or something?” I explained my thinking. I hoped he understood what I was saying.

“It’s amazing. But why draw it out here in the snow, if you want to get it made into necklaces or something you’re gonna have to draw it again on paper, why not wait till you go inside?” He asked, looking at me quizzically.

I thought for a second before answering. “I just didn’t want to forget it plus, I want to stay out here as long as possible. Since I finished, would you want to pummel Asta with some snow balls?” I asked knowing he would want to cause some kind of trouble.

He just groaned at the thought of being in the cold any longer. “Fine but after we bury him in the snow we are going inside and cuddling.” He answered standing up straight and offering me his hand to help me up.

“Deal as long as we get Hot cocoa before cuddles.” I started moving behind a tree close to where Asta was now trying (and failing) to build a snowman. “Let’s hide from him here and make some snowballs, before we launch our attack.” I said bending down and beginning to make some roughly ball shaped clumps of snow to throw at the young boy.

After about ten minutes of making and throwing snowballs at a screaming Asta, and him running over Finral. Zora and I decided it was time to go inside for the rest of the day and finally get some hot chocolate, mostly because Zora’s chest was now bright red from being in the cold for so long while shirtless.

We made our way inside, snagging some cocoa and cookies from Charmy, before heading up to our shared room. I couldn’t help but laugh as the normally grumpy and closed off Zora dropped onto the bed sighing while thanking whoever assigned our room for it having walls without cracks so the cold couldn’t be felt inside it.

“You know if you put on a shirt you wouldn’t be so cold in the winter right?” I asked, raising an eyebrow as I took a sip of my hot cocoa.

He just rolled his eyes standing up and taking his mask off, walking over to me. “If I wore a shirt, you would be robbed of the second best sight known to man. The first being your face after I do this.” I was confused for a moment before he lent in, placing a kiss on my lips, before pulling away with a smirk. “See that’s the face, all shocked and confused.” He said turning back to the bed to pull the covers down. “Stop gaping like a fish and come lay down, I’m still fucking freezing and need your body heat so get over here.” He complained, laying down on his side of the bed having taken off the rest of his flashy clothes opting for a pair of sweatpants, he’s still shirtless but at least he’s under the blankets.

I rolled my eyes moving to kick off my boots while hanging up my coat. Crawling under the covers I was met with very little warmth as Zora’s ice cube off a body sapped all the heat from the bed. “Holy fuck Zora you’re so fuckling cold.” I said moving to cuddle up to him. “I wouldn’t be shocked if you get frostbite or something, damn.” He just chuckled but pulled me closer, sighing at the fact that I was at least a little bit warmer than he was. “Next time we go out in the cold, will you at least wear a coat, it doesn't have to be zipped just enough to keep your arms warmer.” I tried to bargain with him.

He paused before responding. “Fine, but I better get cuddles anyway.” I just nodded, now focused on warming him up while also trying not to fall asleep. “Go ahead and sleep. I'll be fine with you snuggled up to me being a space heater.” He said, rubbing my head. Letting out a yawn, I mumbled a quick I love you before falling asleep. The last thing I heard was Zora’s quiet response. “I love you, too, today was fun even if it was freezing.” He quickly followed suit in sleeping.

The next day when we woke up it became apparent that Zora was right about getting sick staying in the cold. But finally the jokes on him, cause he’s the one to wake up the sniffles and a slight fever. His pouting and grumbling could be heard throughout the hideout as he complained about it the rest of the day.

#x reader #black clover x reader #zora ideale x reader #zora ideale #black clover #Newt's Winter Fic Event #fluff #x gn reader

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mamawasatesttube · 10 months

Note

prompts!!! “I’m never letting you go.”?

“You’re a fucking idiot.”

Tim rolls his eyes as Kon frets and fusses and pulls the blankets higher around him, tucking them under his chin. “I’m fine.”

“Could’ve gone into shock and fucking died,” Kon retorts. He tightens his arms around Tim’s waist, pulling him back into his chest. He’s blissfully, deliciously warm, and Tim is very willing to snuggle into him. “Could’ve lost your toes to frostbite. Could’ve gotten severe hypothermia.”

Lecture or not, he’s rubbing warmth back into Tim’s legs, his big, warm hands running along Tim’s thighs under the blankets. What a mother hen, Tim thinks fondly. He’s not actually mad Tim saved that kid from falling through the ice; he’s just blatantly, transparently worried and fussing about it.

“But I didn’t,” Tim points out, because he can never quite resist getting under Kon’s skin when the opportunity so blatantly, beautifully presents itself. “So it’s fine.”

Kon gives him an incredibly dirty look. Then a brush of TTK cups the back of Tim’s head and smushes his face into Kon’s neck. Tim lets out a blissful sigh as his cold nose presses into warm skin.

Kon sniffs. “Get out of this bed without shivering yourself to pieces, and then we’ll talk.”

Damn. He’s kinda got Tim there. “Mmm… nah, I don’t feel like it.”

“Because you can’t? Yeah, for sure.”

“Noooo.” Tim worms his fingers under Kon’s shirt onto his bare, gloriously warm back. “’Cuz I’m getting snuggles from my darling boyfriend who loves me very much?”

Kon blows out an explosive sigh. His arms wind their way around Tim’s waist again, and Tim grins to himself, brushing his cold lips to Kon’s collarbone.

“At least you’re in good spirits,” Kon huffs. He hugs Tim tighter. “I’m just saying, I was right there, you didn’t have to—”

Tim lifts his head and cuts him off with a kiss. He keeps it light and chaste, smiling as Kon blinks at him. “You’re cute when you get all fussy.”

Kon blinks again. Then frowns. “Don’t you dare use that as an excuse to make me worry more, dipshit.”

Tim hums, snuggling closer. “Mmm, no promises.” He grins, nuzzling Kon’s cheek. “Hey, we could’ve done a Titanic reenactment. If only you had a door… Or I guess you could have just levitated.”

Kon makes a face, then narrows his eyes at him. Tim just grins—he knows Kon—and sure enough, after a moment, Kon’s incredulity and huffiness give way to laughter. Tim adores him. “Pfft, yeah, sure. Me, levitating over a tiny-ass pond while you freeze to death, like…” He casts a dramatic hand to his forehead and pitches up his voice. “Oh, Tim! I’ll never let go!”

With a noise of complaint, Tim very bravely reaches out of the covers into the frigid air of Kon’s bedroom, grabs that hand, and hauls it back down to his waist. “Yeah, exactly. But I’m never letting you go. You’re warm.”

Kon snorts. “Yeah, yeah, leech all my body heat, you parasite.” He kisses Tim’s forehead, then glances over his shoulder at the mug on the nightstand. “Your tea’s probably cool enough to drink now. It’ll help you warm back up more.”

“Mm.” Tim nuzzles into his neck again, almost delirious from contact. Kon’s really good to cuddle with. “In a second.”

“Okay.” Kon’s lips brush his hairline. They’re warm, too. “In a second.”

#crimzoncrow #timkon #tim #kon #rimi writes #yeah i was listening to my heart will go on again. can you tell

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adverbally · 14 hours

Text

Sway Through the Crowd to an Empty Space

Written for the @steddiesmuttyseptember prompt “clothes on” | wc: 1,347 | rated: M | cw: none | tags: in public (alley behind the club), outdoors, making out, dry humping, teasing, not very smutty actually but they’re on their way there | background buckingham, drinking mention | title from “Let’s Dance” by David Bowie

———

Steve knows exactly what Eddie’s planning when he asks Steve to follow him into the alley behind the club. They’re both sweating a little, packed into the small space with too many other people, and they’ve been dancing for what feels like an eternity. Eddie spent the whole last song with his hands on Steve’s hips, looking at him like he wanted to eat him alive, and Steve wanted to let him.

He was about to invite Eddie into the bathroom with him when Eddie leaned in and shouted over the music, “I’m gonna go outside for a cigarette. Wanna come?”

And now Steve is pushed up against the dirty brick behind the dumpster with Eddie’s tongue in his mouth and his hands sneaking beneath the hem of his shirt, cigarettes long forgotten.

Eddie’s warm, draped all along the length of Steve’s body like a heated blanket, but it’s not enough to block out the chill of the late fall evening. Their cold noses bump against their flushed cheeks, and Eddie lets out an honest-to-god yelp when Steve’s hands come up to his jaw as their kisses deepen.

“Jesus Christ! Why are you so cold?”

“I’m waiting for you to warm me up,” Steve tells him with a suggestive smile.

Eddie frowns. “This isn’t going to be very sexy if you get frostbite and lose all your fingers.”

“You’ve been spending too much time with Robin.” Steve drops his mouth to Eddie’s neck to rewarm the spot where his hand had been. Just to be safe, Steve makes sure to suck hard enough to bruise. Bringing more blood to the surface will help them stay warm, right?

It’s enough to make Eddie’s hips jolt, rubbing his erection against Steve’s hip through two layers of denim. “Please don’t talk about Robin during sex,” he groans into the empty alley.

Steve pulls back to look at him in disbelief. “Baby, it’s literally freezing out here. How are we supposed to have sex if my dick is turning into an icicle?”

“Oh, is that why it’s so hard?” Eddie’s smile is adorably crooked, but his eyes are like fire beneath the shadow cast by his bangs. He sways back into Steve’s space to kiss him again, swallowing his gasp when their clothed cocks meet. “Let me fix that for you,” he says against Steve’s lips.

It takes all of Steve’s willpower to press his palms to Eddie’s chest and gently nudge him back a step. “What’s your plan here? Because I have a feeling that it will involve me coming in my pants and going back inside to be wet and sticky for at least another hour before we can leave and drop off Robin and Chrissy. And don’t say,” he points aggressively when Eddie opens his mouth, “that you’ll clean me up, or that you’ll just let me come in your mouth, because you already made me too aware of the possibility of getting frostbite and these pants are closed for business.”

“What if,” Eddie muses, holding himself up with a hand against the wall next to Steve’s head, “I make you come in your pants and we can make up a spilled drink emergency to convince Robin and Chrissy we have to leave early?”

“Or we jump to the fake emergency so we can go home early and have warm, comfortable sex in our bed instead of this disgusting alley?” Steve smooths his hands over the lapels of Eddie’s leather jacket.

Eddie narrows his eyes thoughtfully. “Compromise? Ten minutes of making out in this disgusting alley and then we can leave?”

“Five minutes. Just ‘cause I think you’d be really sad if my dick fell off,” Steve says with a sympathetic pout.

“Mmmm, I would be,” Eddie agrees reluctantly, with a fond glance down at the straining fly of Steve’s jeans. “Five minutes it is.”

Steve doesn’t waste any time pulling Eddie closer by the collar of his t-shirt and devouring his mouth. Now that they’ve put a time limit on their makeout session, there’s an urgency to their kisses– Steve has a deadline if he wants to take Eddie apart, leave him panting and desperate and hard in his pants. He wants to tease him now so he can blow his socks off later.

Eddie doesn’t resist, equally eager to crowd Steve against the brick until they’re pressed together head to toe. They’re basically the same height but Steve is slouching against the wall, making him feel small and safe with Eddie’s arms caging him in. Steve’s own arms wind around Eddie’s waist, settling his hands at the small of his back. Over his clothes, of course; he doesn’t want to cross the line from ‘teasing’ to ‘annoying’ by getting his icy fingers on Eddie’s skin again.

They physically can’t be any closer together with the layers of fabric between them, but Steve still tries, grinding his hips against the denim-clad thigh Eddie has pressed between his legs. It feels so good when they fit together like this, like they were meant to interlock, and Steve's grip at the back of Eddie’s jacket tightens in a futile attempt for more. He can tell Eddie feels the same from the tight hold he has on Steve’s hips.

The alley is quiet around them, save for the distant thumping of the bass from the speakers inside. They can’t hear much over the sounds of their mouths moving together wetly and their ragged breathing. When Eddie shifts to adjust their angle, Steve can see their exhalations turning to foggy clouds in the cold air.

“Okay, I can see our breath right now. Time’s up,” he announces.

Eddie drops his head with a resigned sigh. “Already?” he whines, nuzzling his cold nose along Steve’s jaw and making him shiver.

“I won’t be able to suck you off when we get home if I get hypno— hippo—” He looks at Eddie expectantly when he can't find the word.

“Hypothermia,” Eddie informs him with a final chaste kiss to his lips. “And you have a point, unfortunately. I think parts of me are going numb.”

Steve is about to make the obvious joke about restoring feeling to Eddie’s sensitive spots, but he’s interrupted when the back door of the club crashes open with a violent metallic creak.

He and Eddie all but leap apart, trying to look like anything but two queer boys who were just playing tonsil hockey.

“Steeeeve,” the newcomer whines. “We’ve been looking for you foreeeeeever.”

Steve breathes a sigh of relief when it turns out to be Robin, enjoying the loose and enthusiastic stage of drunkenness while Chrissy tries to keep her propped up like a scarecrow. “Rob, we’ve only been gone for, like, ten minutes max.”

“Yeah but I wanted to dance with you!” She blinks at him like she doesn’t get what he’s not understanding about her obvious motive.

Beside her, Chrissy is shaking her head emphatically and waving her hand in front of her throat, indicating that Robin is cut off for the night.

“You know what? That’s a great idea.” Steve uses a hand at the small of Eddie’s back to usher him forward. “I just need to get something first,” he lies.

“Oh! Can I come?” Robin asks excitedly, like this is some kind of epic adventure out of one of Eddie’s campaigns.

Steve ducks under Robin’s other arm, helping Chrissy to keep her upright as they walk down the alley in the direction of Steve’s car. While Robin is babbling away to Chrissy about how much fun she’s having, Steve turns his head toward Eddie and whispers, “See, no emergency needed.”

“She’s kind of her own emergency, isn’t she?” Eddie’s voice is low and husky with suppressed laughter.

It’s unfair how quickly Steve’s face heats up at the sound. “Stop being sexy until we get home. Twenty minutes, tops.”

“Twenty minutes,” Eddie repeats with a wicked smile. It’s a promise when he says it.

When Steve speeds the whole way back to Robin and Chrissy’s apartment, Eddie is the only one who notices.

#steddiesmuttyseptember #steddie #steddie fic #steve x eddie #steve/eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #mine

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embossross · 1 year

Text

From His Mind to Hers

chapter 12 >> Chapter 13 >> masterlist

✣ Pairing: Hanma x AFAB fem!Reader

✣ Warning: 18+, minors DNI; unhealthy relationships & dark content

✣ Chapter CW: DUBCON (oral gun play, ptv sex, rough sex), Assault (slapping, gun in mouth), revenge porn, descriptions of derealization/mental break, APPROACH WITH CAUTION

✣ Story CWs: patient/doctor relationships; smut (oral, ptv, pta, etc.), degradation, stalking, torture (not of y/n), murder, dubcon & abuse in c13, discussions of trauma and abuse, drug use, and more

✣ Synopsis: Forced into therapy, Hanma expects to waste his time and yours, but you’re not about to let the chance of a high-profile and higher paying patient slip through your grasp. The fact that you’re both attracted to each other doesn’t hurt either.

✣ Word Count: 6.5k+

Slipping into your bedroom, a haze of unreality deepens the shadows cast by what little furniture you own.

During the half hour walk here from Roppongi, Hanma’s dress shoes ripped holes in his heels, which he hardly noticed as his imagination fixated on what he would do once he arrived here, repeating the details again and again until they crystalized in his mind. The scene became real to him, closer to the fixed certainty of memory. The way you would wake to the death rattle of Amani Takashi as he choked on his own blood. In the absolute darkness, you wouldn’t recognize the reaper hovering above you, not until his hands, familiar as only a lover’s could be, closed around your bare throat and squeezed. As he choked the life from your body, you would realize the immensity of your mistake in betraying him, and oh, the weight of his satisfaction would be nearly sensual as you gargled out your apologies, your aborted pleas that would have no power over him in the dark, where he can’t see your eyes. It would be all over when those once seductive eyes closed forever.

The scene in his imagination is so vivid that upon entering your room and finding the details differ, a sense of derealization dizzies him. It’s like returning home after an earthquake to find all the furniture shifted almost imperceptibly to the left. Or, like he’s entered one of those children’s puzzles, where you spot the differences between two nearly identical pictures, the eye tripping over itself.

He catalogues each difference precisely as if to anchor himself.

The curtains are wide-open, letting in a blue-toned light that illuminates the bed where you sleep, alone. Your oh-so-lucky boyfriend is nowhere in sight. Tucked in tight with the covers pulled up to your chin as if shielding your throat, you dream the dreams of the innocent, peaceful and nearly glowing in the slight light.

Where he expected predatory excitement or at least the faint hum of purpose fulfilled, Hanma feels nothing but an emptiness, a hole. A vortex writhes within him, the chaos of feelings and impressions no quieter than before, but it sucks away all surface thought and feeling, all warmth, so entirely that he doubts they’ll ever be returned to him again. Suddenly, he feels the chill of winter upon him, those long nights returned to swallow him whole. He realizes his artificial buzz is gone. He’s left tired and dopamine deprived.

He watches you sleep for several long minutes until he fears he’ll lose what little soul he has left to the frostbite. Only once he’s reconciled the differences between the supposed “reality” of the scene with what he pictured in his head does he approach you and the bed with slow steps.

You don’t stir when he peels the blankets back to expose your throat and chest. Your nipples harden beneath your tee-shirt, delectable even now after everything. The bed dips under his weight as he kneels above you, a knee on either side of your waist, but you don’t even murmur, perhaps used to Takashi coming home late.

Again, he’s struck by your sleeping face, how you sleep with lips gently parted, trusting, like a woman with no secrets to condemn her. Many nights he’s watched you sleep just like this. All of his emotions are clogged down, muted, so that he doesn’t know if his feelings for you have changed, but the old instincts – to shield you from harm, to protect your precious sleep, and keep you closeted away somewhere, undeniably his – remain unsullied.

Bottom lip plush and glistening, your mouth beckons to him, and he wants to gently push a finger between those lips, past the blunt teeth and into the heated crevice of your mouth, the heart of you. But, those days are over. He knows this with the same detached certainty he knows when to shift gears when driving or when a piece of meat is chewed enough to swallow. Instead of his finger, Hanma taps the entrance of your mouth with his gun, and then, slides it inside.

For a brief moment, your expression morphs into disgust as you taste metal, but then the sleep recedes from your eyes and panic erupts there. You flail inelegantly against the intrusion, and then, more purposefully, as you recognize who looms above you and what has housed itself inside your mouth.

Hanma subdues you quickly by kneeling on your arms and seating himself on your chest. As you try to question him, mouth widening, the gun pushes its way in deeper, and the words come out an indistinguishable garble. You try to speak regardless, slobbering around the gun as your eyes beseech him, asking for some reassurance or explanation that is not fast in coming. There is nothing in his heart, nothing in his eyes or soul to comfort you. Just the cold.

For a moment, neither of you tries to speak.

Then, as if on autopilot, Hanma recites the words he imagined saying a hundred times already.

“I’ve been thinking about what you call a therapist when there is no patient confidentiality. And then it came to me. You call her an overpriced whore, who doesn’t know when to stop running her mouth.”

It’s as if he’s not the one speaking these words, watching himself from a distance, like an actor’s been hired to act out the part. It’s a rerun. He knows how this ends. Yes, he’s seen this one before.

Except, he’s not supposed to see your eyes. They disturb him, the way they peer up at the him who’s not him, squinting in confusion and protest. They lie for you better than the dialogue written in the script. Tears well along your lash line, and, when you blink, the tips of your eyelashes come away wet.

“I spoke to your friend today, Haitani Ran. Ah, see, there goes the innocent act,” the actor-Hanma sneers, while the real Hanma observes the understanding dawn on your face. “I wonder how much he had to give you to tell all my secrets. I’m always curious just how little people value their lives. How about it? How much was your life worth? What’s the number?”

Whatever you try to say in response is lost around the barrel of his gun.

It too looks strange in your mouth. Plastic, instead of cool metal, like a toy. It feels heavy like always in his hand, the weight of a murder, but what he sees doesn’t match. His brain argues that such a measly hunk of plastic could never be the thing that dims your eyes, now brimming with unshed tears, for good.

The scene simply isn’t right. Something needs to be done.

Breaking free from the script, Hanma decides to let you defend yourself a bit. He battles the actor-Hanma back and pulls the gun away.

“I didn’t!” you cry out immediately, the words slurring in your haste. “Shuji, I swear. I didn’t tell him anything. He cornered me and made me an offer, but I never –”

The barrel of the gun emits a jarring clanging sound as it rams into your front teeth. He won’t listen to you lie to him. Within the maelstrom of impressions that have been too loud to make out, one feeling floats free, taking on a familiar shape: anger.

Hanma can’t fathom how much you could have cost him. Had Haitani used the intel you slipped him to move against Toman, buggering the HKJ deal, he would have lost his shot at Mikey. In the aftermath, Kisaki would have had him killed for his role in it. No second chances. You’d be whacked, too, of course, for knowing too much, for being a liability. And, all that easy intimacy that you had built together over the last many months would be snuffed out as some no-account Toman lackey pureed you, entering you again and again with their knife, until your corpse was so mangled only dental records could hope to identify you someday.

You risked too much, stole too much, and his anger tastes like acid, coating the inside of his mouth.

Around the foul taste, Hanma – or maybe it’s the actor again? – spits the words, “Do you know how many stupid fucking corpses tried what you did in the past? Tried to use their bodies to get close, get my secrets. And it never fucking worked. There’s only one punishment that fits the crime when someone betrays Toman, betrays me, and you knew that when you took this job.”

The hand tattooed with the kanji for punishment pushes the gun deeper, unbothered by the way your soft palette rises on instinct as if you have any hope of choking him out. He forces through the resistance until you swallow his gun all the way to the trigger guard and the tip of the barrel knocks decisively against the back of your throat. Memories of past times when he broke through that same resistance echo, and his cock twitches. If he pulled the trigger at this angle, it would blow a hole clean through your trachea, not a quick and easy death.

Manipulative tears spill down your cheeks as you try to work out a blubbering sob. He wonders if you would have cried for him too had feeding Haitani secrets led him to the noose.

There’s no silencer to dampen the gunshot. It resounds in his ears, throbbing like a declaration.

Hanma doesn’t see the damage until sickly red blood floods your white pillowcases, forever staining them, and then mixing with your hair. You gurgle helplessly as you try to breathe around a compromised trachea, hands flying to your throat like you might massage it back to usefulness.

Condemning eyes glare at him. They’re like an ocean of blood, the waters slowly rising, until the whites of your eyes are gone and nothing but bloodred accusation stares back at him.

He blinks and the blood is gone.

The safety is still engaged. Your eyes are filled with translucent tears, hands still caged by his knees.

He shakes his head a few times. The force knocks his glasses around.

Of course, he didn’t shoot you through the neck. Earlier he strangled you with his own hands. No guns involved. When you died, it was like falling asleep, peaceful and lovely as he cradled your slowing pulse between his palms.

In your final moments, Hanma knows you didn’t spare a thought for Takashi, gut like a pig beside you.

Yes, you’re dead already.

He strangled you to death hours ago. Or minutes ago. Or.

He…or actor-Hanma…or.

No.

Hanma looks to the right where Takashi’s body should be and sees the empty space, the undisturbed blankets and half remembers. That’s right, Takashi wasn’t here when he arrived.

He hasn’t killed you yet. You’re still alive.

Unsure if up is down or down is up, Hanma giggles. In this twisted dreamscape, he thinks he could do anything, fuck the consequences. He can always change the outcome in the post-edit. He’s the director, actor, and audience.

Surreal as this scene may seem, the knowledge of his control over it fills him with an acute sense of power, enough to continue, unfettered by worries about what is or isn’t real.

“Lucky your boytoy isn’t here, right now. Think I’d have killed him first, so I could take the edge off. I want to take my time with you.”

He remembers – No! No pictures – how you would react to Takashi’s unceremonious demise. The corpse would serve as a dire warning, but you wouldn’t waste your tears on him. No, Takashi means nothing to you. Just a body even in life.

Except, Takashi too is still alive.

Every time Hanma blinks, he sees something else, like he’s peering into one of those optical illusion pictures, where if you cross your eyes, a hidden message appears and disappears. He is seeing doubles, triples, but he can’t make out what’s the hidden message underneath and what’s real anymore. He swallows and swears he tastes blood.

“Where is Takashi anyway?” Hanma says, hoping your answer – or lack of answer if you are really, truly dead – will anchor him.

At your gurgle, Hanma remembers the gun and pulls it out.

“Shuji, I swear, I never –”

He slaps you. Barely a love tap by the situation’s standards, but his palm connects with a crack, and your head snaps to the side, burying into the pillows, where you stay, chastened and too scared to try to speak lest he do it again. Breathing heavily, Hanma rewedges the gun between your lips. He’s sweating. Bullets of sweat plummet from his brow to plop on your neck, where the bones are so fragile they peek through the skin.

The tears behind your eyes dry up. The fear is gone in an instant. Hanma lowers his face until you’re nose-to-nose, staring directly into your eyes, looking for the fight, the will to live, but there is nothing. Only resignation.

Is it so hard for you to play your part? After all, actor-Hanma is doing his best to stick to the script even as these changes keep tripping him up.

You’re supposed to fight and plead for your miserable life, not throw it away for some cheap payday or perish without complaint in your bed. Where is the will, the wanting, that he nurtured inside you these last several months? Where is the woman he…

He hates seeing you like this. Hates it more than Haitani’s smug, smiling face, more than Kisaki barking orders at him like he’s nothing but a leashed dog, more than a listless weekend sunrise when the sleeping city threatens to drown him in boredom.

He loathes seeing you like this enough to spare you.

“This could only ever end in one way,” Hanma says, releasing the safety and cocking the gun. He aims the gun higher, so that when he shoots, the bullet will make a home in your brain, a cleaner, faster death. There is mercy in freeing you from this indignity as quickly as possible.

From the small space where your lips stretch obscenely, your tongue darts forward and laves the underside of the slide. The sight of it, incongruously pink on stainless steel, draws him up short. He watches as if hypnotized as you lap at the length of the gun not disappeared in your mouth with long, wet strokes. Craning your neck forward, you can just stretch your tongue to the trigger guard. Where his finger rests on the trigger, he can feel your breath, that wet heat that envelops him so completely.

His pulse ricochets, three beats a second drumming in his cock. Hanma doesn’t want to shoot you with a hard cock. Even by his standards, the idea is too perverse. He tries to will it down, but his blood rushes south like a dam breaking, and he is hard and aching before he can stop it.

Maybe it shows a lack of imagination on his part, but he’s never rammed his gun down a hot throat before. Like so many things in his life, this belongs to you and you alone.

You don’t break eye contact as you push your head forward until your throat restricts around the gun again. Delicious choking noises follow.

It’s faint, but as you suck off his gun, Hanma swears he sees a glimmer of desire warm your dead eyes. The life there, the personality, suits you better, and he lets out a long breath as if finally taking off a pair of shoes two sizes too small.

He still wants to hurt you. He wants to hurt you and, by proxy, the entire world. But, painfully hard as he is, he can’t imagine never feeling the heat of your mouth again, never enjoying the best pussy of his life again. A body like yours was made for him to enjoy. There will be time to make you suffer later.

Because once he pulls the trigger, you’ll go cold. The little life in your eyes will leech away by degrees. Your tongue will swell, stiff and useless in your slack maw.

It’s not fair that you would steal even this from him.

He won’t let you.

Hanma takes control. Not bothering to reengage the safety, he fucks in deeper, positively battering the back of your throat, so you spasm with each collision. It is brutal, harsher than any pounding he’s ever delivered with his cock, and tears and drool alike spill down your cheeks to coat his wrist. Intoxicating as the visual is, it’s the glugging noises that tumble helplessly from your throat that really spur him on. He rides high on the line between his pleasure and your pain, until the ache of his trapped cock spikes into a hurt that demands immediate relief.

A long, thick strand of spit connects your mouth to his gun when he pulls back to strip. You gasp and cough as if you just survived a waterboarding, debauched and pathetic as the drool settles on your chin. By the time he throws his jacket and shirt to the side and pulls his cock out of his fly, you have only just caught your breath.

The detached, dead-eyed gaze returns.

“Do whatever you have to do to get this out of your system, Shuji. Use me to get it out,” you whisper huskily, throat too sore to try anything louder, but he hears you as clearly as if you’d shouted.

He could do anything he wants to you now. The invitation is unnecessary. But it’s there between you now regardless. Through your words, he grants himself the permission to possess your cunt one last time, too selfish to deny himself the pleasure.

Things move quickly after that.

Hanma flips you onto your belly, ripping your sleep shorts and panties down the swell of your thighs, so they keep your legs pinned together. In this position, your ass and puffy pussy are perfect. Everything presses together as if to signal just how tight you feel on the inside. He can’t resist spanking your ass, harder than he’s ever hit you before, so that you shriek in pain and the flesh rebounds in his hand. It is a good reminder for you both – when the rush of lust threatens to envelop you and wash away all recollection of your betrayal – and so, he does it again on the other side for good measure.

Slipping one finger inside your cunt, he groans to find you soaked. It is a flood between your thighs, the kind of wet he usually only achieves after hours of edging you with his tongue.

He can’t wait.

Despite the wetness, you aren’t prepped enough for the stretch of his length in this position, so you emit pained whines as he forces his cock inside you. Every centimeter he pushes deeper is a struggle as your body fights against him, but eventually, your cunt yields to the pressure, and he sinks all the way to the balls, the tip battering your cervix cruelly in the process. And isn’t the cruelty half the point? He fucks you brutally, using his arms to leverage as much force as possible into each thrust, making sure to grind in as deep as your body can accept him.

There is a blissful annihilation in this, the mechanical thrusting of hips, the heat of your cunt hugging him, like a fire that burns away his every brain cell. He forgets about you altogether, uses your body like a cheap cocksleeve for his frustrations. One forceful thrust after another, and his brain empties and his balls unload. He moans as he fills you up.

The usual sensitivity follows; but to his surprise, his cock doesn’t go limp, remaining half hard. Like an agoraphobe refusing to go outside, clinging to the walls as his doctors try to force him out the door, his cock doesn’t want to leave this paradise.

Euphoria from his orgasm softens everything else around him, dulling the sound of his breathing, muting colors and smudging the lines of his vision. Hanma peers down on where your face is buried in the pillows as if you’ve been crying, and he feels sorry for you.

It’s his fault in a way, isn’t it? He should have taken better care of you. If he’d insisted on paying your bills sooner, you wouldn’t have been so easily tempted by Haitani’s offer.

And, if he’s honest, isn’t this part of what he loves so much about you? The way you continuously surprise him, never letting life grow dull?

The many days and nights that make up your torrid affair return to him. He remembers how sometimes, when you think he isn’t paying attention, you look at him with a softness that borders on reverence. On that night at the beach, when he got you high and took you dancing, you couldn’t have faked that openness, couldn’t have falsified the sincerity when you called him “Daddy” for the first time. Every moment was real for you.

There is no way you would have knowingly risked hurting him. Haitani must have manipulated you, convinced you that it was a win/win situation for all involved. You didn’t want to destroy him. You’re a brilliant woman, but sometimes, the stupid, greedy girl you buried and denied for so long wins out, that’s all. What you need is someone to teach you, to take care of that little girl with a firm hand.

Everything is his fault really.

Hanma’s thoughts eventually turn to marveling at how small you are in comparison to him. He could positively shroud you with his body if he chose. The space you take up in his life is larger than your body, larger than the shadow you cast when the sun is at its highest.

Hanma rolls to the side, bringing you with him, so you nestle into the give of his body. From where your calves rest against his thighs, up to where your cunt still spreads for his cock, and further up to where your head shelters in the crook of his neck, there is not a shred of space between you. Body-to-body, there is no space remaining for anger or betrayal either.

The heat of your body is a brand against him. He runs his fingers tenderly down the slope of your hip, fascinated by the way you can shiver as if from a chill. When he cradles your breasts, your nipples are tight stones against his palms. It should be impossible for you to feel the cold when your cunt burns him from the inside. The ache of winter nights spent dreaming of relief and sunshine feels like a distant memory. Inside you, with you, he doesn’t believe he’ll ever feel cold again.

The flesh between your thighs is slick when he spreads the lips of your hungry pussy. His fingers slip through the leak, almost unable to find your clit in the mess. It is the first time he’s not made you cum during a round of sex, and so he carefully manipulates your body until he hears your first whimper of pleasure.

Not immune to the sounds you make when your hungry pussy is still clenched around him, Hanma hardens once more inside you. The gentle hug of your cunt coils and tightens until it is a vice that grips him, and he can no longer resist. He wraps both his arms around your chest, crushing your breasts against his forearms, and just rocks against you. Eyes closed, he doesn’t think about anything but how wonderful you feel around him, how the only feeling better in the world is that same cunt squeezing rhythmically as you cum. It won’t be long now either. Between his fingers, your clit grows more engorged, your whimpers more frequent.

Patiently, he coaxes the orgasm out of you, but when you finally cum with a small cry, it is you who leads him right over the edge, so that he dumps a second load into your tired body.

They call it post-nut clarity for a reason, Hanma realizes because in the aftermath, everything once obscured appears so clear, like he had been trying to look at a painting through a dirty glass that’s since been cleaned.

Hanma is not willing to part with this for anything. What you did or might do in the future, your motives and feelings, they’re all irrelevant. Since he started fucking you, he hardly ever wakes up wishing a meteor would strike his building, just for a little novelty. He no longer smiles at the thought of a sinkhole opening up beneath his feet or an overdose slowing his heart to a halt, the kind of ignoble deaths he rejects on principle but would sometimes glitter seductively during life’s most boring moments. Knowing your set of pretty holes are waiting for him gives him a reason to get out of bed every day. And he is not going to let you take that from him over some irrelevant bullshit.

He will set you up in an apartment he owns, shower you in gifts and luxuries to ensure you’re a well-kept woman, happy and eager for his nightly visits. Nothing needs to change.

A frown darkens his face, and he inadvertently tightens his arms around your chest, hard enough to sting, when he realizes there’s still one remaining threat to his plan. Haitani knows you betrayed Toman and has already snitched on you once. If Haitani decides to run his mouth to the others, to Kisaki, you are dead regardless of what Hanma wants.

With his date with Mikey looming around the corner and promising to make the whole matter superfluous, Hanma considers leaving it to chance, but then decides against it. He should probably deal with Haitani. One last hunt before he shuffles off his mortal coil. He doesn’t pretend he won’t enjoy it.

You recover from your orgasm slowly. The pulse at your neck is skittish. Hanma can smell the sweat at the back of your neck. Your breathing takes minutes to return to something remotely steady. He enjoys holding you through these changes, wonders if you’ll fall asleep in his arms.

Kissing your back, Hanma tells you that he forgives you. Sincerity drips from his voice. He means it. It’s a blanket pardon for everything you have done until now. There are only so many days you have left to spend together.

You don’t answer immediately, but when you do, it’s to ask to use the bathroom in a small voice. Rolling aside, Hanma watches you free your body from his clutches and limp from the room, his cum leaking down your thigh. A long time passes. He hears the shower turn on and dozes off, still half-dressed atop your sheets.

Hyper-sensitive to danger, he blinks awake the moment you reenter the bedroom. Water clings to your hair, which dries freely, before puddling in your wake. A lemon-yellow towel wraps tightly around your form, and he wants to rip it off you, so he can watch your naked body strut about as you rifle through your dresser. If he had to put a name to it, he’d call his current feelings “proprietary.” This was a final test, and he controlled himself, and now, as his reward, he gets you. He’s a fair bit impressed with himself.

“I’m going to meet with my realtor tomorrow to tell him to move forward on the Ueno apartment. I’ll transfer it directly to your name, so you don’t need to worry about rent or what happens when I die. I’m free the day after next if you want to go shopping together, too. I don’t give a fuck how you want to decorate, but since I’ll be spending a lot of time there, I want to make sure the furniture’s comfortable at least. I swear half the chairs in this country are too short for me,” Hanma drones, pausing, annoyed, when you pull a massive sweatshirt, large enough to belong to a man, over your body. “You just need to dump that Takashi twat already. He’s not welcome in my apartment.”

You don’t respond. In fact, you haven’t said a word in the better part of an hour.

Looking more carefully – no longer with the distorting eye of a proud lover – he notices a shake to your hands as you tug on a pair of sweatpants. You stand nearly pressed to the door, like you might need to flee at any moment. You’re terrified.

Hanma sighs, regretting how harshly he dealt with you, though you’d left him no choice. Despite a few front row demonstrations of his business, you are mostly unexposed to the violence that characterizes his life, always discussing it in the abstract. If you were more yourself, he’s sure you’d tell him that it’s psychologically healthy to have a physiological response to eating a gun. All those months ago when you played Russian Roulette, your reaction was a lot more fun, but he supposes, special though you are, you are still a civilian, and this kind of response is to be expected.

Still, he doesn’t prefer you hurt or scared. It makes his brain itch.

The bed creaks when he stands. Approaching with slow steps, Hanma notices you literally shrink away from him, leaning more of your weight against the door.

Like soothing a spooked horse, Hanma stretches out an upturned hand, but you slap it away. Heat blazes behind your eyes. No different than a cowering animal, you lash out.

“Don’t touch me!”

This time, Hanma expels a very different sigh, a sigh of irritation at your overreaction. Given the nature of your betrayal, he could have done far worse and been justified. Comforting you is tedious, but he grits his teeth and forces himself to try.

“I forgive you, okay, Doc. You don’t need to worry. I’m not going to shoot you or anything else. I forgive you. You’re still my girl.”

“Oh, fuck you! I’m not your fucking girl!” you seethe, gnashing your teeth at him, like you might truly bite him if he comes closer.

Hanma patiently tries again, “I forgive you –”

“You’re actually insane to think I’m leaving Takashi – my loving, stable boyfriend – to play house with you in some shitty apartment. I’ve heard all your little hints about leaving him, and guess what? I haven’t! I didn’t leave him before you showed up in the middle of the night spewing baseless accusations and stuck a gun in my mouth. Now? You clearly need to find a new therapist because you’ve grown delusional to think I’d choose you over Takashi!”

Cold tendrils creep down his spine. He actually tries counting backwards from one hundred, like that useless technique first suggested to him in elementary school has ever helped him control his temper before.

As he fights down the beginnings of a rage to rival his anger when he first arrived tonight, you keep going in a voice like reinforced steel, “I thought about it in the shower, and the more I thought, the less I understood what you even bring to the table. Takashi is one hundred times the man you will ever be. Do you hear me? All you have going for you is good dick, and frankly, I can live without it. I’m firing you as a patient, effective immediately. I’m obviously not suited to help you as I’m just a…what did you call it? Overpriced whore? And for the record, I’m not interested in being your whore either, so…”

Your lips continue to move as you spit invectives at him, but Hanma tunes out the words. He can’t ignore escape your tone, how the heat slowly dampens, and you grow colder, the unfeeling mask you often wore when you first met returning. The heartless, robotic delivery is somehow more venomous, and the weight of your disdain washes over him like the sea, dragging him down, down, down into its bottomless depths.

With what little presence of mind he’s regained, Hanma knows that if he fights with you now, it will undo everything he accomplished. He’ll hurt you if he stays. And even if his knuckles strain against his closed fists with the desire to do just that, another stronger part of himself does not want to hurt you at all.

He – and you by virtue of being his therapist – deserve a goddamn medal because instead of lashing out at you, Hanma decides to leave.

“I can’t talk to you when you’re like this,” Hanma grits out. “It’s been a long day for us both. Get some sleep, and I’ll call you in the morning with what the realtor says.”

His feet drag like they’re stuck to the carpet, but step-by-step, he manages to walk towards the door, where you plaster yourself backwards to avoid the merest brush of his body against yours. Alone in the hallway, the pictures of you and Takashi stare down at him, smiling and false.

It is quiet as the grave on your little residential street. The sky is a deep grey, the faintest hint of light illuminating the world as the sun just begins to peek through the clouds. Sunrise is within the hour.

Only now, free from the oppressive shadows of your apartment, does Hanma acknowledge the miracle that you have somehow survived this night.

Hanma is too tired to hope for anything more. With his thoughts in a frenzy, he walks home. He is not ready for tomorrow, not yet.

Growing up, Hanma heard people joke that behind every real estate broker in this city, there hid three yakuza: one to hand out bribes, a second to threaten tenants, and a third to lap up the profits. Another version of the joke boasted that if the government ever nationalized real estate, the yakuza would dry up within the month.

In 2018, the yakuza have diversified their business ventures. The Kokonois of the world have dragged them into the twenty-first century, operating more like billion-dollar conglomerates than classic criminal syndicates. It’s the age of shell companies and tax shelters, stock shorts and corporate espionage. Still, Hanma holds a soft spot for the classics, and there is no shortage of realtors comfortably living in Toman’s pocket.

So, with Toman’s resources, Hanma fast-tracks the procurement of his new apartment, signing on the dotted line before lunch.

He calls it an apartment, but your new home is really only four units housed within a two-story building, squat and bookended by two larger apartment towers on either side. The realtor reassures him that the building meets both of Hanma’s requirements: it’s less than a fifteen-minute walk to your office and the quiet street is several blocks from any major thoroughfare, meaning little foot traffic.

The only complication arrives when Hanma asks about buying out all four apartments. Since he plans to spend much of his time in your apartment, he is willing to considerably drain his personal savings for the luxury.

The realtor, a paunchy, balding man despite not yet reaching forty years of age, named Obara, informs him that two of the other apartments will be simple enough to obtain. He remembers placing both families within the last five years and is confident they’re the reasonable sort who will jump at a generous offer. The problem is Itoh-san in unit four. Widowed for the better part of three decades, she has stubbornly clung to this apartment and the memories it houses. She will not be easily moved.

Your apartment will be on the first floor, unit two, while the old woman’s is directly above. Obara assures Hanma that she rarely leaves the house these days except for a weekly trip to the market or one of her many doctors’ appointments, so she probably won’t even notice his coming and going. But, if Hanma prefers absolute privacy, Obara gently suggests Hanma might send a few men from Toman around the following evening for a “productive conversation.”

Ten years into his real estate career, Obara is well accustomed to working with yaks. He doesn’t so much as blink as he suggests Hanma chase this little old lady out.

There is no need to make a decision just yet. Hanma tells Obara to make offers to the other residents and move forward with the paperwork. He will sleep on Itoh’s fate.

As he dials your number, Hanma reflects that he’s been damned generous of late.

The phone rings six times before clicking to your voicemail. Your voice is cool and impersonal in the recording as it encourages him to leave a message. Hanma foregoes the suggestion and texts you instead.

Hours pass. He pushes his body to the brink at the gym, fighting opponent after opponent until he can no longer recognize where one bruise ends and the next begins. He scalds his skin to a glowing cherry color in the shower and then sweats his brains out in the sauna. He places a few bets on the horses.

Between each activity, he calls you and is met by your voicemail.

Eventually, he can’t keep up the pretense any longer, acknowledging the growing ire inside him.

He pounds back shot after shot of tequila at a dingy izakaya, where he’s one of only two customers and the bartender knows better than to ask questions. As Hanma drinks, he thinks about how fucking entitled you are. After everything he has done for you, sparing you the punishment anyone else would have suffered, you reject him. He tries to remember that you’ve pulled these disappearing acts before and always been easy to lure back with a few false promises, but whenever he remembers your trembling hands, he knows this time is different.

The way you waxed poetic about Takashi yesterday infuriates him. You’re shrinking back into the prison you erected around yourself and called safety before he met you. Only he knows how to provide for you, help you make a real life in this world, rather than wasting away behind unlocked doors, too afraid of your own shadow to try the handle, to want anything.

One last chance, he vows to himself. He’ll give you one last chance to respond and after that, he’ll show you the same consideration you have shown him. None.

He calls your number.

When the fourth ring goes unanswered, he doesn’t bother waiting for your voicemail. He closes out the call and flips straight to his photo gallery, scrolling to the “hidden” folder. There are dozens of photos and videos of you here. Covertly taken, they capture you taking his cock in nearly every position, cockdrunk and desperate for it. He pauses to enjoy one where you lie on your back, neck extended off the bed, while he pushes his cock into your throat, slow and steady, hypnotized by the gush of spit that strings down your chin.

Hanma selects all the videos in the gallery and adds them to a text message with a recipient he knows only by memory.

He hits send.

As the electrical signals race from his phone to his recipient’s, Hanma sighs. This time, it’s a sigh of satisfaction. He honestly feels a lot better.

#hanma shuji #hanma x reader #tokyo rev smut #tokyo revengers smut #hanma smut #tokyo revengers x reader smut #tokyo revengers x reader

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hcdragonwrites · 1 year

Text

Cozy (a @jttw-monkeybusiness Drabble )

So I made another one- this one was inspired by this ask (I suck at Hyperlinks I’m so sorry)

It rolled a bit in my brain and kept begging to be fleshed out, so I decided to give it life ! Enjoy!

Snow

Snow fell in white flurries, chasing away the blossoms and birds that had been sitting in the trees just moments before. The storm was in a full frenzy now, peeling petals from overeager trees who had budded too soon, and throwing the birds from the sky. The wind whipped up the cold powder to spray back in the face of the pilgrims as they continued on their journey. They had left the warm subtropical forest only hours ago, where Sophie had rolled her sleeves up to relieve some of the excess heat. Now however, she was shivering.

None of the group, save for Wukong, was truly equipped for the snow and cold. Pigsys ears were turning purple from the temperature as he tried, and failed, to hide from the worst of it behind Sandy. Sandy silently continued on, carving a path for Sophie (who trailed farther behind) to walk through. The snow was already deep, coming to her knees as they continued to follow the tiny path up the mountain. Black rock jutted upward and outward like broken teeth into the white air. Horse and Monk both were struggling ahead, Yulongs sides shivering in the wet as the snow melted on his fur. Tripitaka called Wukong over, asking him to scout ahead to look for a place they could shelter for the duration of this storm. Sophie could see there heads bent together as Master and pupil discussed. Wukong, for once, didn’t reply with a snort or a quick jab at how Trip should be lucky for him to be his disciple. Instead he had somersaulted off, gone in a flash of fur and tiger stripes, into the air.

“Would be nice if I could just somersault out of here.” Sophie muttered.

A freak blizzard had not been on the list of things Sophie was ready for. She had faced shape-changing demons, women that turned to great tigers to devour Tripitaka, mountain gods throwing stones down into their path and the like. Sophie was prepared for any person or creature - or at least- expecting it. The weather however? She was severely underprepared for. She had the travel clothes she had bought with the coin purse she’d been given. They were meant for light rain and mild heat. Not for a snowstorm. Sophies hair was getting wet and the cold was starting to chill her ears from where it melted.

“It’s so cold…” she muttered. She kept following Sandys footpath, thankful for the giant of a river demon and his slow shuffling walk. If he was walking normally he would have left her far behind in the snow.

Her foot hit a rock and slipped, sending her flailing into a rapidly growing snowbank. “F-f-f-freezing! AH!” Snow had gone down her shirt, sending a chill up her spine. Faster than a wildcat she had hopped from the bank, shaking herself.

“Hate snow hate snow hate snow—“ she chanted her mantra as she slapped off the powder, trying to prevent it from melting and wetting her clothes. Wet clothes would only spell disaster. Sophie could recall all the cold born illnesses from one special National Geographic did on Everest and the extreme exposure the hikers faced there: pneumonia, Trench foot, frostbite, hypothermia, flu, Chilblains, bronchitis —

Her foot slipped again as her mind was listing all the things that could happen. Sophie would have been in the snowbank a second time except something caught her by the midriff and hauled her up.

“Stupid women stay on your feet!” Wukong snarled in her ear, setting her down. Sophie nodded, teeth chattering and nose turning red as the cold began to chap it. “Of all the people here I thought at least you had the common sense to be aware of ice!”

From up ahead came the faint cry and heavy fall as Pigsys fell face first in the snow. Sandy had to quickly turn to hid a chuckle as the drenched demon began wilding swinging his rake around in rage.

“S-s-sorry.” She mumbled, shoving her hands beneath her armpits. “Slipped.”

“What’s wrong with your speech? You sound like a squirrel.” Wukong cocked his head, an eyebrow raised. He rolled his eyes when Sophie didn’t banter back irritated she wasn’t snapping back at him. That agitation grew when he felt something like worry begin to itch his pelt. Of the pilgrims, the two mortals were in his charge of care and were the most delicate. While Wukong could fight off monsters and Demons and wicked minded mortals he could not fight a storm. Well- he could if he really wanted to find the celestial body responsible for its creation. But that would take time- and time was not on his side on this.

Tripitaka had put on a brave face when he had asked the Monkey King to find shelter. That didn’t mean Wukong had not noticed how his Masters hands had turned red at the growing cold, how his body shivered and his nose sniffed. Wukong would have teased, poked and prodded at his master- it was his nature to rile and cause mischief. But when he had seen the half awake expression on the mortal man’s face, Wukong had bit his tongue (with great effort) and had instead nodded.

Seeing Sophie in a similar state made the itch beneath his pelt grow worse as fire ants had begun to bite his skin.

“Damn it.” He cursed beneath his breath. He snatched her arm, avoiding her hand, and started dragging her behind him. “Come on just a bit farther you softie. I found a cave up ahead where we can get out of the worst of it. You mortals are ABSOLUTELY worthless when it comes to weather —“

Sophie was only half listening to Wukongs ranting. She allowed herself to be dragged up the mountain pass, trusting the Monkey King to find a better route than her own dimming senses. The cold was like a blanket she wanted to escape out of. Or escape into? She couldn’t remember clearly. If she closed her eyes… she was so tired. The snow looked inviting, comforting. Like the best downy comforter. Like the fluffiest pillow.

Maybe I just … need to lay … down in the comfort. Just close my eyes for a few minutes.

They had been walking for hours before the storm blew in. Her feet hurt, her hands shook and it was so cold. Cold. She just wanted to sleep.

“SOPHIE LOOK AT ME!” Wukong yanked her and she was rattled enough to open her eyes wider in surprise. Sun Wukong was right in her face, leaning so close she could see every line of his facial markings in detail. His breath came from between his teeth like some dragons as he glared.

“Ye-es?!”

“Stay awake- we're almost there. If you fall asleep while I’m dragging your ass up the mountain I will bite your pretty nose clean off!” The demonic monkey spat, then, half carried, half dragged Sophie the rest of the way. Leaning against his back Sophie sighed. Through the clothing she could feel it- like desert sand warmed by the sun. Delicious heat. Sophie - who wouldn’t in normal circumstances have cuddled so close- practically melted against the warmth. What else could she do? Wukong was dragging her up the mountain- practically carrying her. She could see the bend in the mountain pass- a steep cliff where the road cut itself around and hugged the mountain as a snake would do climbing along a vine. Almost there.

“How come you get to be so warm?” She grumbled, not realizing she had said it aloud. Wukong had heard however, and his face became a storm cloud as his heart took a shuddering beat.

“Maybe grow some fur or ask for the Buddha to make you some furry creature. Bet he would too.” Wukong grumbled back.

Stupid fucking women.

They reached the curve in the mountain where Pigsy and Sandy- mostly Sandy since the pig demon kept complaining about how cold his snout was- were setting up three tents. The tents were simple, the leather treated against wet weather and solid. All pigsy had to do was drive the stakes into the stone which, it seemed, he was failing at.

“It’s so damn cold!” Pigsy snorted angrily stamping his hands together, having missed the spike for the third time. “Blasted Heaven and whoever ordered a storm now of all times! Don’t they know who’s crossing these mountains?”

“Less talking more working.�� Sandy angrily chided. He had finished setting up the second tent all on his own. When Pigsy went to open his mouth to make another comment and the usually peaceful Sandy shoved him across the shallow cave to the last tent and the one closest to the entrance.

As Wukong walked past, Pigsy lifted an eyebrow at the strange sight. The Monkey King could see the pig beginning to lift a lip in a smirk only to stop when he noticed Sophie’s shivering.

“What did you do?” Those were the last words Wukong expected to come out of his fellow brothers mouth.

“WHAT DID I DO?!” He bared his teeth, fangs on display. He didn’t have time for Pigsy or for his own feelings to confuse him. He knew Sophie was practically clinging to his back like the newborn monkeys did to their mothers back on Flower Fruit Mountain. He was very aware of it. The last thing he needed was for this thick pink idiot to start shit with him.

“I DIDNT DO SHIT YOU THICK HEADED BOAR.” He spat, continuing past. “THIS IDIOT STARTED FALLING ASLEEP IN THE FUCKING STORM. NOW SHUT UP AND GET THE OTHER TENT SET UP.”

Wukong left Pigsy behind, angrily chattering to himself and feeling embarrassed all the while. He couldn’t let that thick womanizing boar know any of Wukongs feelings. If he did, the damn brute would only press his nose to it and route deeper. The sooner he got Sophie off his back the better. Even though he didn’t entirely want that.

He reached the back corner of the cave, setting Sophie down. She huffed, letting go with some reluctance to his warm back. The Monkey King knelt, leaning in. Sophie’s shivering was less. Good.

“I’ll be back- I have to make sure the pink ham doesn’t fuck up the last tent. Once I’ve tended Yulong and seen to my masters comforts I’ll be back to check on you.”

Sophie pulled her knees to her chest. She was still so cold. She wanted nothing more then to curl up and sleep- to find something warm and hold onto it. She heard Wukong from far off - but she nodded.

“S-S-sure… just gonna fall .. asleep.”

“Don’t fall asleep you idiot.” He snapped.

“Why not?” Sophie groaned. She was tired

“Remember. You are in wet clothes. Wake up just to remember - Think. Use that reading brain of yours.” He flicked her between the eyes. That woke Sophie up enough as the pain cleared her head.

“Ow, what the hell Wukong?!” Sophie felt like she had come out of a daze. Her fingers started rubbing at the pain. It wasn’t terrible but … she felt like a child be scolded. Sophie glared up into the smug monkey face.

“Awake? Good. Now fucking listen before you nod off again.” Wukong smirked just a bit. The itching beneath his fur had eased just enough upon seeing her get mad. He spoke slowly, for her sake but also to press in how much he enjoyed giving her orders- and being right about them. “Your clothes are wet. You can’t sleep in them. Change to new ones. In fact, bundle up as much as you can. I’ll be back to check on you.”

Wukong stood up, then turned back around to flick her on the forehead again.

“Ow! I’m up, I'm up!” Sophie rubbed at the space between her brows.

“Did you hear what I said?”

“Yes yes …” she uncurled herself and stood as well, looking down at the Monkey King. “Get out of wet clothes and get new ones. Bundle up. That really hurt you know.”

“If you are still in wet fucking clothes, I’ll do a lot worse then just smack you between the eyes.” And then he was away, already cussing Pigsy out who had, somehow, managed to rip the tent.

It was a only about twenty minutes later but Sophie had managed not to fall asleep. She had gotten into the tent and had peeled the worst of the wet clothes off. Her poor shoes were the worst for wear- the socks and the soles were soaked. She would have to wear her spare shoes tomorrow and let these ones dry. Sophie had set the wet clothes to the farthest side of the tent. She was now dressed in a pair of gray sweats, a long sleeve and her hoodie of bright orange with clementines decorating the front. She felt much warmer and absolutely exhausted. Her fingers were red where the cold had gotten them, her lips felt chapped from the dry air, and her body just kept shivering.

Sophie had retreated almost completely into the hoodie- only her face was viewable.

The tent flap lifted and Wukong stepped in, a bowl of some sort of wild berries and cold rice in one hand. He took one look at her huddled there on her sleeping mat and snorted.

“You look like some orange orangutan.”

“Hahah very funny. See how you like the cold when you don’t have fur.” She shot back. Wukong offered the bowl to her and she took it, digging into it with gusto.

“How’s Trip?” She asked between bites.

“Alive.” Wukong leaned back, putting his arms beneath his head as he stared up at the tent ceiling. “You two would have frozen if not for me- you were both starting to look pinker than yangmei fruit.”

“Thank you.” Sophie said.

“Mm? What are you thankful for ?”

Oh he was gonna ask her for all of it then? Sophie looked at him. Wukong had propped himself up enough to stare at her, waiting.

“Thank you for the food.” She lifted the now empty bowl- she had been famished - to him. “Thank you for finding a spot to rest. And … thanks for dragging me out of the snow.”

“You almost died I hope you know that.” He smirked, laying back down, eyes closing. She followed suit, too tired to sit up anymore or even bicker back with him.

“Yeah I did …” Sophie yawned. Usually she wouldn’t admit so readily to Wukong just how certain situations had made her dependent upon him. He was always, in some way or other, saving the lot of them. When Tripitaka was snatched up by some Goblins belonging to some chieftain of a nearby mountain, when Pigsy had boasted that they didn’t need Wukong and then (almost immediately) failed to find food when Wukong was sent away. He had stopped the dragon horse from foundering and taken to the care of his hooves and coat many a time. The Monkey King had seen to restoring the missing supplies from Sophie pack when a group of mischievous raccoon spirits had taken it. Wukong had even replaced Sandy’s teakettle when it was smashed in battle (Sophie was pretty sure he had stolen it).

He may act aloof and pompous but deep down, this big old brute cared for them. Even Pigsy.

Sophie felt her eyes grow heavy as Wukong kept talking about how she had stumbled in the snow like some “dumb struck fawn” until he came to help her.

As she relaxed to the sound of his voice rumbling on and on, it almost felt … cozy. Yes Wukong may like to slide the occasional wriggly salamander into her water skin, he may thumb through her things like they were his, he may call her idiot, stupid women, and softie. But. There was no real malice behind his actions.

He was also kind of … warm. She scooted closer, half listening to the Monkey ramble on about the idiocy of mortals and the greatness of beings such as him. He was rambling on about his natural prowess over mortals and how he had mastered the arts of immortality and Tripitaka couldn’t even master warding off a cold. Sophie fell asleep before he could get to the part about her looking like a slack jawed idiot in the snow.

Wukong was only a quarter way through his regaling of the story of how he had saved everyone this day when he felt hands wrap around his chest.

His heart nearly flew into his throat as he stopped dead in his speech. His mouth was open, voice cut off halfway through his speech. Sophie curled into his side, face buried in the crook of his neck and so close to his ear he could feel her breathing against its shell.

Electricity shot threw him, fur standing on end as if he had been in a thunderstorm.

He was suddenly very aware of many things. Of Sophie’s hands that had escaped that ridiculous orange sweatshirt and were now burrowed into his fur. One arm was across his chest. The second one was now, somehow beneath his head and tugging on his shoulder. Sophie’s face rested on his arm and in the curve of his neck, her face rubbing back and forth like a cat. As if … she was enjoying the feel of it.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Sophie moved just a bit, mumbling in his ear and Wukong felt his tail lash like it had just been bit. She didn’t say anything coherent but — the proximity alone—

Fucking Hell and all its Judges.

Sophie was … cuddling him.

She was practically twined around him.

And she smelled fantastic. Her scent always changed- sometimes it held a hint of lemons and the sweetness of grass, other times it floated like rain clouds and smelled of stones. But all of it together had a larger perfume beneath it. It was just her. Yes there were moments when her scent changed just enough that he felt like he was adding new spices onto his favorite dish. The essence of it, however, was just Sophie.

And now that cloud was all around him, filling his nose.

He looked at her, turning his head just a fraction to see.

Big mistake.

She was asleep, passed out completely. She looked so … fragile asleep. The dark circles beneath her eyes spoke of how she hadn’t been sleeping well. Her nose was stupidly pink like a Red Pika in her pale face. The cold must have chapped it. His eyes darted to her lips …

Mistake number two.

Wukong looked away, feeling his face flame. Fuck. Shit. He was stuck in a predicament now. He hadn’t meant to chat away about himself for so long that Sophie would fall asleep. Wukong was at war with himself. On one hand, he needed to get out of here. To leave before Pigsy and the others found out- before Sophie found out.

He couldn’t let anyone be that close to him- couldn’t let anyone be as close as Sophie was right now. It was a liability to his pride, to his reputation—

To his heart. Because if she rejected him it would ruin the friendship they had. And the feeling he had building in his chest- he would crush it in his fist before he let it jeopardize that peace between them.

I have to leave —

Wukong tried to move-

Only to feel Sophie’s fingers tug in his fur and her sleepy voice grumble “m’no don’t go.”

Jade Emperor flay me and boil me alive again.

In all the hundreds of years of living, Wukong had only felt trapped like this but once before. The first time he had lost his wager to the Buddha, having been unable to somersault out of his hand. The second time? He was trapped because he allowed it. He was trapped in a way no one in Heaven could have predicted- or had thought to do. Wukong had been placed in vats to be boiled, had wormed and tricked his way out of every trap and net that had attempted to keep his mischief managed. It had taken Buddha and his wager to finally end Wukongs terrorization of Heaven.

Wukong couldn’t move now. He was tethered here by frail fingers and the steady beat of a mortal's heart.

He could hear her heartbeat, feel it against his side. It was steady, soft. Like the steady roar of Water-Curtain Cave. Like the wind through the trees of the orchards on his mountain.

She was mortal. One day that steady beat would stop as all mortal hearts did.

That set his tail to lashing just a bit.

Hasn't she been afraid of dying? Of growing old? He remembered hearing a conversation late at night- when Tripataka and Sophie had those rare mortal conversations where he was explicitly not allowed to sit in on. He hadn’t known why it was such a secret conversation. So of course, since it wasn’t an order, Wukong had pulled a hair from his tail and made a doppel and floated somewhere nearby but out of sight to eavesdrop. The Monk and Reader had been chatting about death, about Sophie’s future.

Well her fears were unfounded. Doesn’t she know I would take care of her? Sophie shifted a bit closer as a gust of wind slipped beneath the tent flat he had left unsecured. Damn it all. Wukong carefully, o so carefully, shifted himself. He slid his body so he was now lying on his side, setting Sophie’s head beneath his chin. It was all the invitation Sophie needed to cuddle closer and escape from the wind.

“You stupid women.” He angrily whispered into her hair. He wouldn’t let her die. He would just fix that. He would fix a lot of her problems. She just had to tell him. He was Sun Wukong, Great Sage Equal to Heaven. He knew of a hundred different ways to achieve immortality. He could fix them all. Like her problem right now of being cold.

He was too tense to relax fully- too aware- but he grew just a fraction larger. His size now dwarfed Sophie’s a good bit and gave her a bit more to tangle into. And she did. Sophie curled her knees up, shivering slowing. Wukong waited. Watching. When finally the shivering had ceased he allowed just a fraction of tension to slide off of him. This stupid softie is gonna make me soft. The thought didn’t bother him as much as it would have months ago.

Maybe he wouldn’t get much sleep tonight but…

He could make her life Hell in the morning. It was something that she owed him on. His face was screwed furiously into a scowl because all he wanted to do was enjoy this moment but if he did- if he really truly did- he didn’t know if he would be able to stop.

She was most assuredly going to be bombarded tomorrow with the most annoying and snappish teasing and toying a King of Monkeys and tricks could give.

Sophie woke with a start as something cold and wet slapped her in the face. She panicked as any person would.

“GaH! DEMON!” She cried, grabbing at her face and throwing it aside. It was a wet rag.

“Relax.” Wukongs voice laughed at her. “Unless cloth can become possessed and has gained a hunger for red nosed mortal flesh, you're fine.”

He was at the tent flap, grinning ear to ear in a grin that promised problems. Really so early in the morning and he already wants to play games ?

“You could have woken me up in a number of other ways- why did you pick that?” Sophie rubbed at her face, feeling … huh. She didn’t feel as sore as she usually felt. When Sophie woke up there was almost a constant crick of pain in her neck from whatever odd angle she had slept in on the ground.

Maybe I had been so tired my body just finally didn’t care.

He shrugged. “You stink. Next place we stop at you better demand a bath of some sort or other.”

“Thanks….” She grumbled, letting the sarcasm drip off her words. She took the cloth up, rubbing the sleep out of her face and the worst of the dirt off her face and arms. She would kill for a warm bath, one that would wake up her bones and chase the last of the cold from her body. Once clean, she checked her wet clothes, bundling them away in a separate part of her pack to avoid them dampening the rest of her stuff. Then she stepped out of the tent, smelling the fire and the promise of breakfast being made.

Only for her feet to slip right from beneath her as a monkey foot stuck out and caught her ankle.

“WUKONG!”

He laughed, face full of malicious mischief as Sophie gathered herself up to chase after the errant Monkey. To do what, she didn’t know. He was a mystical demonic creature born of stone and she just a mortal women. As the morning light cut into the cave and Tripitaka had to order his disciple to calm down after he once again tripped her and she almost went sprawling into rocks, the pilgrims ate breakfast. They broke down their tents. And they were once again on the road.

None were the wiser of Wukongs happier mood. He hid it beneath a storm of frowns and a game of teasing torture as he became partically insufferable to Sophie. The threat of the hoop tightening spell was the only true damper to his mood when Tripataka heard Sophie scream as snow was dropped down the back of her shirt.

As the sun rose higher and the word was cast in a frosty flash of refracted gold, Wukong made a decision. He would solve Sophie problem of growing old. It was easy. And if Buddha couldn’t send her back…

Well she was a great sport for pestering and heckling. The least he could do as a benevolent King is give the poor women a roof over her head.

Maybe a few dresses down the line...

Girls liked dresses right?

“Hey Reader!” He called.

“What?”

“Dresses or suits ? What did you wear in that fake time long after this one ? Or whatever fake dimension you fell out of. What did you prefer ?”

And thus began the long hour debate that somehow pulled every one of them: Pigsy, Sandy and Tripitaka, into what was a heated discussion on the best attire for the best occasions.

#hcwrites #writing stuff #I DID ANOTHER ONE #thank you little anon for mentioning a cold snuggle scenario #I love when there’s cuddles even if one party doesn’t know or remember and the other is both ecstatic and pissed the fuck off about it #I Hope i wrote them well #the formatting took me longer then I thought #for jttw monkeybuisness #Sophie #Sophie and Wukong #sun wukong x reader #jttw sun wukong #jttw reader #jttw fanfic #I gave Sophie an orange hoodie because she already has a ‘magical’ peach kawaii cup.#make all her things fruit related #just writing the scene where Wukong walks back into the tent and has to pause because Sophie had turned into an orange made me laugh #I Hope i got your boy down Kiri!#thank you again for letting me write for you #this was a welcome break from my 30 page spree #I listened to two songs - the first part was #with Tourner Dans Le Vide #the second part where they are in the tent was with Of Monsters and Men ‘Love’#it helps to have a song hook you into writing because then you can follow the feeling of it and stay focused #I mean- songs are like a tempo to keep pace with.#sun wukong #jttw au #I did look up all the snow born illnesses to be a bit accurate.#also that falling asleep bit in the snow ? yeah that almost happened to me as a kid. it only took ten minutes - be wary of snow and cold #hcfanfics

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