#again this is for the frostbite shirt

[silvergarnet12]

Frostbite.

[kuuttituutti]

i'm leaving to go back to my hometown for christmas/january. And it's nice cause it's so much easier to travel to other places from there (only two hour train ride can you believe,,,) until I remember that i will need to pack clothes for every single event i plan on going to at once and decide what i want to wear weeks beforehand

[ddejavvu]

so i absolutely love the best friend james potter fic where he warms his hands between the reader’s thighs and the idea of him having really bad circulation just makes sense to me, so can we get a technically kinda part two but instead of between the readers thighs it’s that portion of underboob that just heats up so much for no reason whatsoever? 🙇🙇🙇

Sirius's canine form requires him to get at least twelve hours of outdoor time per week, but during the winter months it becomes a chore delegated to the least lucky of the group: take Padfoot for a walk.

"Please, Jamie?" You'd leveled James with puppy eyes that rivalled Sirius himself, and now two sets of footprints lay in the snow beside pawprints that wind around them in happy trails.

"It's bloody cold out here." James comments, like your own nose isn't burning from the temperature, "Sirius, can't you piss on trees faster?"

Padfoot, who greatly resents the tree-pissing stereotype, takes a snapping lunge at James's ankles that sends him careening into you from your left.

"James!" You shriek as your feet and his knock clumsily together, all four united in trying to stabilize you. His arm wraps around your waist and he finds his footing first, which means that you're supported by his grip as you find your own. You find yourself inches away from his face, his nose stained red akin to his cheeks as you both laugh at how you've ended up pinned to a tree in the forest. Sirius barks at you, sounding suspiciously giddy, and James drags his hands off of your back, trailing them over your stomach as he goes.

"Gonna put a muzzle on you for that one, mutt." James threatens Sirius, who dashes off to find a stick or lick a toad or whatever else his dog brain fancies at the moment. You're left trailing beside James once again, wishing that you had your own stick to drag through the snow.

"You were really warm," James reminisces, his hands surely going numb, "Like- your stomach?"

"It's my boobs," You snicker, "No matter how cold a girl gets, the space beneath her tits will always be warm."

"Really?" James peers curiously at you, "That's cool. It's like a life hack."

"Right. It's-" You stick a hand guilelessly beneath your shirt, nestling it beneath the curve of your bra, "It's not, like, sweaty or anything. Just warm."

"Fascinating." James pushes his glasses up his nose with a single outstretched finger, "Wish I had some of those."

"You can borrow mine," You concede, taking James's hand in your own and sliding it up your stomach until his hand is leeching off of the same warmth you'd felt only seconds prior, "Feel it?"

His jaw drops, one of his unruly curls bouncing stubbornly in front of his face.

"Darling, you weren't kidding! It's like an oven in here." He hums, his other hand greedily reaching for the excess space beneath your chest, "Oh my god, if I had this I'd never stop touching it."

When Padfoot returns it's to James pressing you against another tree, hands pressed firmly to the space beneath your tits. He charges for James determinedly, latching his teeth around the man's elbow and pulling with all of his might to separate his friend from you.

"Pads- ouch! She's- relax, Fido, she's let me. I'm warming my hands, thank you very much."

James manages to pry Padfoot's maw off of him, hissing at the skin surely bruised beneath his thick wool coat.

"It's alright, Sirius." You rub sweetly between the dog's ears, "His hands were cold, that's all. Don't want to bring him back to the castle with less than ten fingers."

Sirius's resulting growl towards James sounds suspiciously like he's going to lose fingers anyways, whether it be from frostbite or a dog's bite.

[blue-jisungs]

promise

# author's note ... oh i love making deals w zanna bc i get to write this banger (idk what possesed me) and she will write me pt 2 of this masterpiece mwahahahah (go read it btw its so good like vampire hanbin>>>>>)

# setting ... boxer gunwook

# summary ... gunwook comes home after a fight, missing a date... but he can't understand why are you quiet

# warnings ... angsty, hurt to comfort (i think...?), mention of wounds n blood, nursing trope (its me n zanna, come on.... if uve been around for a while u know we r sucker for nursing teehee) also it was written at 2am so sorry for any misrtakes !!!

# word count ... 1k

the door opened quietly but gunwook could swear it was the loudest noise ever. your small but cozy apartment was dipped in the darkness of the night, only occasional beams of moonlight shining on the floor. 

however, there was one more source of light coming from the kitchen. gunwook sighed and took off his shoes. 

his footsteps were soft, trying to keep the noise as low as possible. maybe you’re asleep. maybe you forgot and just left the light on… 

his hopes died upon seeing your silhouette. your back was facing him, legs crossed and head resting on something (probably your arm). 

“you’re home” 

your voice was cold and stung like frostbite but gunwook knew it was well deserved. 

“i’m home” he whispered and you finally turned around. 

now it was your turn to sigh upon seeing his bruised face, busted brow and dried blood on his cheek, along with some cuts. 

“couldn’t you at least take care of yourself?” you murmured and stood up, reaching for the usual spot with a heavy heart. 

gunwook stayed silent because you both knew the answer. he preferred when you took care of him. 

without additional words from you, he went to change into fresh pyjamas that he kept at your place. then he swapped his eye contacts to his glasses, scanning his injuries in the mirror. 

guilt washed over his gut, wounded knuckles turning white from gripping the sink. you’re too sweet for him. 

“wookie?” your soft voice called him, causing a pang in his heart. 

your boyfriend soon enough came out from the bathroom, a sad look on his face. if it wasn’t for his savaged face, you’d think it was a normal night. his black t-shirt, red and black checkered pj pants, glasses resting on the bridge his nose and framing his handsome face. even his raven-colored locks were still slightly wet, probably after the shower he took at the gym. 

gunwook sat on the chair you were previously sitting, spreading his legs and resting his fists on top of his thighs. 

you took a quick glance at the clock, which read 1:31am. your boyfriend caught your worried look and bit the inside of his cheek. 

there were so many things you could say, yell. how he forgot about the date that he promised you two weeks ago. how late it was. how he got hurt again. how he didn’t let you know where was he… or if he was fine. it puzzled gunwook; why were you so quiet? 

he closed his eyes, unable to bare your eyes on him. focusing on the calming feeling of your fingers instead, he tried to think of a reason. maybe you will break up with him? 

you both knew that with his lifestyle of a boxer it won’t be easy. you knew he wouldn’t give up on his passion and way of living but he promised you to stop being careless. 

your fingertips gently caressed the unharmed skin of his right cheek. then he felt a stinging sensation on the left onr, just where he got hit by someone’s fist. 

gunwook felt two or three fingers tucking his hair away from his forehead softly, followed by a feather light kiss on that spot. 

only then he realized it’s your way of speaking. the kiss meant ‘i love you’. the fingers tracing his nose gently to see if it’s broken shouted ‘you should’ve been more careful!’. a slightly wet smudge being smeared by shaking fingers right under his busted brow meant ‘i was worried’.

gunwook's eyes shot open and he realized you’re crying, crystal tears trickling down your face. 

“hey, it’s fine. i’m here now, i’m fine. look, i’m in one piece” he choked out and grabbed your hand to cup it against his right cheek. you just nodded your head, trying to silence the sobs “y/n…” 

you raised your other hand to your eyes, hiding your face into your elbow. 

“you’re so reckless” a muffled cry leaving your lips made his heart clench “and… and, it’s not even about the date anymore. i just wish i could fall asleep without worrying about you, about your life” 

you’re standing right in front of him, between his legs, shaking and crying. and gunwook felt helpless, also taken aback by your words. 

he knew you were worried about him but every time he’d miss a date because of his fights you would say you’re angry. angry because you didn’t get to go on it, angry because you wasted time preparing. 

now he just realized it was a lie. it was a cover up for your true feelings, for your energy draining and - so it seemed - endless worry. 

“you don’t have to worry about me, sunshine. i know i get home looking like something tan me over but i always win” gunwook hummed, his thumb tracing over your knuckles. you just shook your head, face still hidden in your elbow. 

your boyfriend moved his hands to your hips and pulled you down into his lap, ignoring the stinging bruises on his legs. 

instantly, you wrapped your arms around his neck and started crying your heart out into his shoulder. his large, calloused from fighting, hands found its way to your back. rubbing it in soothing motions, gunwook gave you time to let it all out and eventually calm down. ignoring his own aching wounds (the biggest one being the red muscle clenching inside his ribcage), he let the time pass. 

finally you leaned away, eyes puffed. gunwook immediately gently cupped your face with one of his hands, wiping the wet traces after your crystal tears. 

“you didn’t answer your phone” a faint, barely audible, whisper escaped your lips. gunwook moved his thumb and wiped it over your upper lip. 

“i’m sorry. i don’t know what i was thinking” he replied honestly, locking eyes with yours. 

“i know you love boxing, wookie. but promise me…” your voice trailed off, hand wrapping around his wrist. gunwook looked at you expectantly, already willing to agree on anything “promise me to come back home safely. to me. please” 

“i promise” your boyfriend hummed and sealed the promise with a long, passionate kiss. despite his aching body - and even more aching heart upon seeing your state - he put all of his energy and life force into that kiss. and you felt that. because if there was something gunwook was passionate about other than boxing, it was you; loving you.

masterlist <3

taglist. @slytherinshua ,, @haecien ,, @weird-bookworm

[missmaymay13]

serendipity - m.celebrini w.smith

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

m.celebrini x fem!oc | 2.5k

Summary: the two young sharks rookie decide to have an adventure before a game and end up getting lost. desperate and with no way back to the arena, they enlist the help of two girls who happened to be at the right place at the right time.

a/n: let me know if you guys would want a pt.2!

masterlist

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The bus wasn’t even supposed to pull in for another two hours, but apparently, someone had either seriously messed up the schedule—or more likely, Will Smith had just misread it entirely—and now the San Jose Sharks found themselves standing awkwardly early outside Climate Pledge Arena. They looked like a group of over-dressed teenagers dropped off way too early for prom, loitering around the team bus in full game day suits, checking their phones, yawning, and stretching like they were about to step into a cage match instead of a professional hockey game.

"We are so painfully early," Macklin Celebrini muttered under his breath, tugging at the collar of his dress shirt like it had suddenly become sentient and was trying to strangle him. His gaze slid sideways toward Will, who stood a few feet away with the unearned enthusiasm of someone who clearly hadn’t gotten the memo that it was still barely morning.

Will’s eyes were practically sparkling with the energy of a golden retriever that just saw its leash. "This is fate," he announced dramatically, stuffing his phone into his pocket and turning to face Mack with a grin that could only mean trouble. "We’re exploring. There’s this TikTok-famous coffee shop, like, two blocks from here."

Mack raised an unimpressed eyebrow, already regretting every life choice that had led him to this moment. "You mean the one that’s always packed and impossible to find?"

Will’s grin only widened, that dangerous little glint in his eyes shining brighter. "Exactly. Come on, we’ve got time."

Mack groaned audibly. "We’ve got pre-game in two hours."

"Exactly!" Will beamed. "Time for a little adventure."

Against every rational thought in his brain, Mack followed him.

Thirty minutes later, the adventure had devolved into a slow-moving disaster. Will was spinning in circles on a cracked sidewalk like a malfunctioning GPS, pointing at random buildings. "I swear it was right here! This is exactly what it looked like in the video."

Mack, already freezing in his too-thin suit, tugged his jacket tighter around himself and leveled a withering glare at Will. "That video was probably filmed in 2022. There is no coffee here. There is no cozy aesthetic or magical TikTok oasis. There is only windburn, the smell of questionable alley hot dogs, and the creeping terror of being late to warm-ups."

Will waved him off with the blind confidence of a man who’d never admitted fault in his life. "We’re close, I swear. I’ve got this whole mental map."

"Your GPS skills are a hate crime," Mack muttered. "You've pointed at three identical brick buildings in a row and said 'it’s definitely that one.' I’m beginning to think you just want us to die before the game starts."

Will spun around, scanning the street again like it might suddenly reveal itself if he blinked hard enough. "Look, if we just take one more left—"

"You said that three turns ago. We’ve taken more lefts than a Nascar driver."

"Okay, rude, but fair," Will replied, unbothered, still leading them deeper into architectural nowhere.

Mack sighed deeply, the kind of exhale that carried the weight of regret and frostbite. "I’m never letting you near a map again. Ever."

Will glanced down at his phone and frowned. "Okay... Uber says the nearest ride is thirty minutes away."

Mack inhaled deeply, slowly, and said, "I hate you."

Will patted his shoulder like they were on a sitcom. "You love me."

"In the most begrudging way imaginable."

And then they turned the corner—and walked straight into fate.

Or rather, directly into two unsuspecting women holding coffee cups.

"Oh my god—are you kidding me?!" the taller girl yelped as she stumbled backward, miraculously managing not to spill a single drop of her drink. Her friend, a petite brunette with the sharpest blue eyes Mack had ever seen, caught her arm to steady her and immediately zeroed in on them with an unimpressed look.

"Dude, watch it—Jesus," she said, squinting up at Will and Mack like she was already ranking them on a scale of stupidity.

There was a silence. Not the regular kind. The kind that was drawn out, socially awkward, heavy with the weight of two people realizing they just knocked into two complete strangers while wearing thousand-dollar suits.

Will blinked. Mack looked like he wanted the sidewalk to swallow him whole.

Then Will tilted his head in a very exaggerated, very obvious way. Mack gave him a death glare. Will widened his eyes meaningfully. Mack sighed like a man who had resigned himself to whatever chaos was about to happen.

"Are you guys... having a stroke?" the short one asked, brows raised high.

Will grinned with zero shame. "Slightly. But actually—we were wondering if maybe you were headed near the arena? Like, soon?"

Mack practically hissed, "Dude," under his breath.

The taller girl, who was now regarding them with skeptical eyes, narrowed them even further. "This is a bad idea."

"We’re going to the game anyway," the shorter one—Issy—shrugged. "I mean, if you don’t mind sharing a backseat full of gym bags, thrifted records, and like, three water bottles that may or may not be from last week."

Will clapped his hands like she had just offered him a golden ticket. "You’re angels. Literal angels."

"This is how people get murdered," Mack muttered as they followed the girls toward a tiny hatchback parked nearby.

The inside of Issy’s car was best described as... lived-in. The backseat was an eclectic jungle of bags, clothing, a yoga mat, and something suspiciously glittery. Will, of course, had called shotgun before the door even opened. He was already playing with the aux cord, grinning like he’d won the lottery.

"Issy," he said, dramatically turning to her as she buckled in. "Do you believe in the unifying power of early 2010s pop?"

"Only every day of my life."

Mack climbed into the backseat, folding himself like a pretzel. Ari slid in after him, careful not to knock over the chaos occupying most of the seat.

"Sorry about the mess," she whispered, cheeks already turning pink.

"It’s fine," Mack replied quickly, eyes fixed on the back of the front seat as if avoiding eye contact would help his ears stop burning.

Issy peeled out of the lot like she was trying to qualify for NASCAR. Will screamed.

"DEAR GOD, USE YOUR BLINKER!"

"I LITERALLY DID!"

"THIS IS HOW I DIE!"

In the back, Mack gripped the side handle like a man on a rollercoaster. Ari tried to keep herself steady, but when Issy made a particularly sharp turn, she toppled sideways, colliding gently into Mack’s shoulder.

They both froze.

"S-sorry!" Ari stammered, pulling herself upright with comical speed, only to find her hand accidentally landing on his.

Her fingers touched his.

Time paused.

Her head snapped up, her eyes locked with his, and for a moment, the entire car disappeared. Then she yanked her hand back, face flushed to her ears, and turned to stare at the window like it had personally betrayed her.

Mack, meanwhile, was trying to remember how to breathe.

"You’re bad at directions," Issy said casually, breaking the moment from the front seat.

"You’re bad at driving," Will retorted.

"You screamed when I made a legal U-turn."

"Because you did it in front of a semi!"

Ari let out a soft laugh that warmed something in Mack’s chest. He glanced at her again, and when she looked back at him, they both smiled—shy and slow.

"You guys are something," she murmured.

"That’s one way to put it," he said, voice quiet, amused.

They screeched into the arena parking lot with a minute to spare. The boys practically fell out of the car, straightening their ties and brushing down their suits like they hadn’t just risked their lives for a cup of coffee that never even existed.

Issy leaned out the window, grinning. "You’re welcome for the worst Uber ride of your life."

Will winked. "Five stars. Would almost die again."

Mack turned to Ari, who was brushing crumbs off her lap. "Thanks... for not judging too hard."

She smiled, teasing. "Too late for that."

They laughed. It was quiet, awkward, and warm.

Then, as if coordinated, the boys whipped out their phones.

"Instagram or Snapchat?" Will asked.

"Both," Issy said, already pulling out hers.

Ari blinked. "Wait... are you—"

Will cut her off, voice smug. "If we win tonight, it’s because of this."

Ari rolled her eyes. Mack was still watching her.

She looked away.

He smiled.

The game hadn’t started yet.

But something else had.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The arena buzzed with pre-game energy, a low rumble of chatter and anticipation rippling through the crowd as Arabelle and Issy found their way to their seats. They were a few rows up behind the Kraken bench, with a perfect view of the ice and, more importantly, the chaos that was bound to ensue once the puck dropped. Issy flopped dramatically into her seat, taking a massive sip of her soda before turning toward Ari with a smug grin.

"Sooooo," she sing-songed, eyebrows waggling. "You and the Macklin were pretty cozy back there."

Ari didn’t even look at her. She just rolled her eyes and muttered, "Pretty sure that’s because we were jammed in next to a yoga mat and half your closet."

"Uh-huh," Issy said, all knowing. "I saw the moment. You touched hands. There was eye contact. Blushing."

Ari groaned. "Oh my god, you were watching us? No wonder we were swerving all over the place—you were too busy spying instead of looking at the damn road."

Issy burst out laughing, unapologetic. "Guilty. But seriously. Did you think he was cute?"

Ari hesitated for a second, then sighed. "I mean... yeah. Obviously. He’s gorgeous."

Issy turned, fully facing her now with wide, expectant eyes.

"But he lives in San Jose, Iss," Ari added quickly. "He’s an NHL superstar. I’m just some random girl who gave him and his buddy a ride because they were too dumb to plan ahead. He probably has a thousand girls throwing themselves at him every day. He’s not interested."

Issy snorted, but before she could respond, the lights dropped and the arena erupted in cheers.

The game began, and with each shift, Ari tried to keep her focus on the action—on the Kraken, the fans, anything that wasn’t the fact that every single time Macklin Celebrini skated near the bench, he looked up. And not just a passing glance. It was direct. Intentional. Like he was checking to make sure she was still there.

And every time it happened, Ari felt her cheeks heat up in an embarrassing, impossible-to-ignore way. She’d duck her head, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling, but Issy noticed. Of course she noticed.

"He’s looking at you again," Issy whispered.

"Shut up."

"You shut up. I think he just smiled."

"Issy."

"I’m just saying!"

The game ended in a tight 3-2 win for the Kraken, and as the final buzzer sounded, Ari clapped and cheered with everyone else. But there was a little pang of disappointment she wasn’t expecting as Mack disappeared down the tunnel.

"We are not going home yet," Issy declared, grabbing Ari’s hand as they exited the arena. "There’s this bar like two blocks away that always has cheap drinks after home games."

"I’m not even dressed to go out."

"Neither are half the people there. Let’s go."

Ari, too emotionally drained to fight it, followed.

The bar was cozy, crowded, and loud—the kind of place where conversations happened over thumping bass and neon signs. About an hour in, they were nursing cocktails and split fries when the door opened with a gust of cold air and a sudden shift in energy.

A group of men stepped in, all tall, all effortlessly cool in jeans and jackets. And very, very familiar.

"No. Way," Issy whispered, her eyes locked on the door.

"What?"

Issy reached for her phone, typing furiously. "That’s them. That’s like—half the Sharks. Oh my god."

Ari’s stomach flipped as she scanned the group. Sure enough, there was Will, laughing about something, and right behind him—Macklin.

Before she could fully process it, Will spotted them. He grinned, said something to Mack, and the two peeled off from the group, heading straight toward their table like this was totally normal.

Will dropped into the chair next to Issy without hesitation, throwing an arm across the back of it like he belonged there. Mack approached more slowly, still a little cautious, and took the seat next to Ari.

"Hey," he said with a shy smile. "Didn’t expect to see you here."

"Seattle’s a small town," Ari replied, her heart doing somersaults. "Or you’re just following us."

"Maybe a little of both."

Meanwhile, Issy and Will had already descended into a whirlwind of laughter, bickering about music, road trips, and something about cheese fries.

Ari and Mack sat in their own little bubble of quiet. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t exactly effortless yet either. After a few beats, Ari leaned in slightly.

"You played great out there. Sorry you guys lost."

Mack shrugged, smile sheepish. "I knew what I was signing up for when I signed that contract. Sharks are a work in progress."

"Still," she said. "You looked good."

He looked down for a second, then back up at her. "Thanks. That means a lot."

The conversation started to flow from there—easier, looser. They talked about Seattle, about the road schedule, about how exhausting it was to live out of hotel rooms. They talked about Ari’s job, her favorite places to eat in the city, how she used to play rec soccer before an ankle injury sidelined her. Gradually, they leaned in closer, shoulders brushing now and then, smiles wide and easy.

Then—WHACK.

A large hand clapped Macklin’s back, nearly sending him face-first into the table.

"There you guys are!" William Eklund, clearly a drink or two in, leaned heavily on the table. "Come play pool. We need more people. Come onnnn."

Will was already dragging Issy toward the tables before either girl could protest.

"You in?" Mack asked, glancing at Ari.

"I guess I don’t have a choice."

They stood together at a nearby high-top as Will and Eklund went head-to-head in a truly chaotic round of pool. Ari and Mack stayed close, still chatting, their laughter blending easily into the noise around them.

Ari glanced up at him, his face lit by the neon overhead light, smiling in a way that felt entirely too dangerous.

Oh god, she thought. This is not good.

She couldn’t catch feelings for a guy who lived thousands of miles away. Who belonged in a different world. One where cameras followed him, fans adored him, and his time wasn’t really his own. She was just... Ari. A girl with a beat-up car and a spontaneous streak. This couldn’t be anything.

Right?

As the night wound down and the crowd thinned, Mack leaned a little closer, his voice low.

"I really enjoyed getting to know you tonight."

Ari’s breath caught. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, trying to play it cool. "Me too."

Before anything more could be said, Will and Issy reappeared, cheeks flushed from laughing.

"Ugh," Issy groaned. "Why does the night have to end?"

Will turned to the girls. "What are you doing in February? During our All-Star break?"

Ari blinked. "We’re going to Boston. Visiting a few friends. Probably going to the Beanpot."

Will and Mack exchanged a look and smiled.

Ari squinted at them. "Why are you smiling like that? It’s weird."

Mack tilted his head. "We’re going to be in Boston too. Watching the Beanpot."

Issy gasped. "Shut up."

"Seriously?" Ari asked.

Will nodded. "Guess we’ll see you there."

Before the girls could even fully process that, Mack added, "We’re doing a quick golf trip to Arizona the next week too, during the break. You guys should come."

Issy looked at Ari. Ari looked at Issy.

The look said everything: Why not?

They grinned.

"Sure," Ari said. "Why not."

Whatever this was—it was just beginning.

[demonic0angel]

Your Damian Fenton post gave me severe Uncles+Aunt Everlasting Trio vibes.

After the Moment TM of Danny being jealous about Jazz fixating so much on Damian, and everything had been said and resolved, I can imagine Damian being a little insecure, because his own Uncle looked like he didn't like him.

The goggles being a gift from Danny would be the turning point for the two of them.

Imagine, Danny in the lab, looking over notes from Frostbite about some experiment that he wanted to try out, maybe to take neutral ectoplasm and make it into healing ectoplasm, and he's pulling out his hair a little bit, because it's a lot all at once, and Damian wanders into the room, a little nervous, because while Uncle Danny already said it wasn't his fault, Damian still desperately wants his family to like him.

It's the "lightbulb moment" of a successful experiment that turns it around into Danny and Dakian being thick as thieves.

Danny bouncing on the spot, watching the mixture settle and change colors, and as he feels Damian approach curiously, in true Jack Fenton fashion, Damian gets to be squished against Danny's chest like a teddy bear while listening to his Uncle rapid-fire explain what just happened. It's actually pretty nice, getting to go limp and be swung around while cradled against Danny's chest, while Danny purrs with joy.

By the time he's set down again, Damian has a cursory understanding of what the experiment was, and also undeniable proof of love from his Uncle.

From there, Danny breaks out his old lab coat, from when he was Damian's size with the matching safety goggles, and has Damian put them on so they can take a photo together and send it to Jazz.

I can imagine Danny ruffling Damian's hair, giving him the Gremlin Smile and telling him "your mother's gonna flip if she catches you here without safety gear. But don't worry, your uncle's gonna make sure you know how to stay safe."

Danny gets whapped with the newspaper for using Lab Time as a bonding moment, but Damian is still clinging to him and constantly swishing the ends of his lab coat like he can't believe he's wearing it.

From there, by the time Danny, Sam and Tucker finally start dating, Damian has at least one patch in all his jeans, courtesy of Tucker, and he keeps stealing one specific t-shirt from Sam, because she left it in Danny's room and Damian thought it was the coolest thing ever, so he's going to steal it, like the gremlin Fenton child that he's learning to be.

Sam shows up the next day with a whole suitcase of graphic t-shirts for Damian to try.

Do you think the reason why Damian meets the Bats is because the Trio have eventually moved to Gotham, and Jazz+Damian are taking a vacation to go see his Aunt and Uncles?

The Trio take their nephew to a dog park so he can pet the dogs? Maybe also because they adopted a puppy from a shelter and whenever Damian is with them he HAS to be involved in walking the dog every day?

Regardless, one of the Bats see this mini-Bruce racing a dog through the park, and immediately have to go stick their nose into it, to great distress to Damian, and some seriously ruffled feathers from his Uncles, Aunt and Mother. Luckily, not Grandma and Grandpa, this time, because they're busy attending a seminar with Frostbite and his students, or there would be even more threats of bodily harm than there already were.

Danny, Tucker, and Sam were definitely a large part of his life since they babysat him when Jazz was busy. He bonded with them a lot over shared hobbies and interests (Sam with gardening and plants, Tucker with cars and machinery, Danny with ghosts and science and stars).

Honestly, when I thought of Danny being jealous of Damian, it was meant to be a moment between Jazz and Danny since Damian would've been like,,, seven when it happened. However, your idea is super cute! Danny and Damian do often do experiments and hang out with each other, but that's a post for another day 😌 the coat is specifically from Jazz since she gave it to him for his first birthday with them.

The reason why Damian meets the Bats is that the entire Fenton family went there to visit for vacation, but the real reason was that Jazz was planning to move there for work and wanted to take Damian with her, so she wanted to check it out first. Of course, shenanigans ensue as Damian makes friends with the Batkids (who are endeared by the tiny, mad scientist) and then eventually meets Bruce.

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

"Hey—sorry 'm in a bit later than I thought I would be," Daryl said, coming into the kitchen in a rush as you were standing at the counter preparing dinner.

"No worries," you said, glancing back over your shoulder at him and giving him a smile.

He came up behind you and his arms looped around you from behind. He breathed in the scent of you, his face tucked gently into your hair. You laughed at the slight tickle of the sensation. Then his fingertips brushed the back of your neck and you jolted.

"Geez! Your hands are freezing!"

"Ah, yeah. There's a good breeze kicked up and it's got a chill on it," he replied. "Winter ain't far off. Mind if I warm 'em up?"

"Don't—Daryl! Don't! They're like ice!" You jumped again as he attempted to slip them under the hem of your shirt to press them to the soft, warm skin of your sides. "Don't touch me!" you laughed, squirming in his arms. You turned to face him.

"Aw, c'mon. They can't be that bad," he drawled, slipping them under the cotton of your shirt.

"They are!" you whined.

"Ya big baby," he teased you, his palms finally landing flush on your skin. The chill drew a hiss of breath from your lips but you gave in. He was smirking at you, clearly quite pleased with himself.

You looped your arms around his neck and shot him a look. "Fine. But you know there will be payback," you said, leaning your body against his, enjoying the feeling of him back home with you again, even if he was being a slight pest teasing you.

"Payback?"

"Mhm."

"What d'ya mean?" he asked, half-distracted as he looked at the rabbit you'd been preparing for dinner on the counter behind you.

"In bed tonight. When my feet are cold—"

His eyes snapped back over to your face. "Nah—hey—"

"They're going right on you for warmth."

"C'mon, that ain't fair! Tha's a whole different level. Yer feet could give me damn frostbite. It ain't natural," he argued.

"Well, you shouldn't have shoved your frigid hands under my shirt then," you sassed back, brushing some stray strands of his hair away from his face.

"Mm," he hummed thoughtfully. "They're warm now. So, is it okay if I put 'em back under yer shirt?" he asked with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

You grinned at him. "What about dinner? Aren't you starving?"

"Not for rabbit," he said, giving you a pointed and heated look.

All you could do was laugh and let him whisk you away... Dinner could wait.

Prompt: "Your hands are freezing! Don't touch me!" A/N: UGGGHHHH soft domestic Daryl scenes just hit so good MAH HEART

[confessedlyfannish]

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.

Part Six

[jackiequick]

Livin’ On A Prayer | Top Gun Marverick Fanfic AU ✈️

Established Pairings: Jake ‘Hangman’ x Amber ‘Skysolo’ Kazansky , Tom ‘Iceman’ Kazansky x Hazel ‘Daredevil’ Quinn

Characters mentioned: Wraith, Georgia ‘Peach’ Wells, Frostbite, Dane ‘Bone Saw’ Bradshaw & Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw, Maverick and etc

Timeline: 3 Years Post-Top Gun Maverick

Summary: Jacob Seresin never in a million years thought he’d be asking the Admiral a very simple yet important question

Notes: ITS BEEN SO LONG SINCE I WRITTEN A FIC FOR THIS FANDOM 😘 (pls be nice!!)

~~~

~~~~~~

He was sweating. He was nervous. He might as well been a little nauseous.

This was rare for him. Hangman is never this anxious for anything. But the fact that he was so happy yet terrified of the prospect? That made him nervous.

For the past three years, he’s been on cloud nine.

He’s studying to become an official member of Top Gun, to someday teach a group of young pilots and not just go out on missions where he’s deployed from weeks or months at a time. He has been able to rekindle friendships with his fellow Daggers and been to a few of their previous projects as well. But the biggest thing was that he found himself in the position of being with The Admiral’s daughter.

Amber Nic Kazansky.

Never in a billion years would Jake ever believe he’d be here. He’s been so busy and terrified of a commitment relationship before, in fear that if he’d ever get into a situation where something bad happened to him—he will be leaving his loved ones behind and completely heartbroken. Or worse.

But when a certain Angel walked into his life? Oh jeez, he couldn’t help but feel a burst of emotion and curiosity, that made him completely uneasy yet excited at the same time.

And now, here he stood outside of her parent’s house about to ask the biggest question of his life.

Yeah, sure, he could’ve asked Maverick or Frost to Amber’s hand in marriage. But he knew deep down, he’d just needed to get to the source of his love. Daredevil and Iceman—Tom and Hazel. Wraith, Danny, Frostbite and even his own sister said, he’d probably chock on his own spit. Oh god, he hoped not.

With a deep and steady breath, he knocked on the door of the house today. He waited on the front porch eyeing every single detail of the house. The flowers, the swing on the front porch, the coloring of the door, and how the windows to the living room were cracked open to let in the cold breeze. Oh gosh—this must’ve been anyone’s guess to run now and save yourself.

GAH! What was Jake saying?! He’s been to this house plenty of times before and even cracked a beer with this family more times than he can count! Suddenly he’s scared shitless? Great job, Hangman…you’re screwed.

He quickly snapped out of it once the door swung open to showcase the lovely brunette who lived here. Hazel smiled softly, her hair was tossed in a low bun, black jeans and a navy blue graphic t-shirt hung loosely underneath her sweater. Hell, she was wearing slippers with socks on. That gave Jake some relief.

“Jake, hi.” Hazel greeted him, leaning her body weight over the doorway, “How are you, honey?”

“Hi ma’am.” He greeted in return with a smile, “I’m doing well, thanks for asking.”

“That’s good, sweetheart. Um Amber isn’t here, she’s out with Peach and Phoenix, sorry.”

“Oh no, no! I mean…I know, I know that she is. I actually came by to see you.”

“Me? For what for? Did you boys get in trouble again?”

Jake laughed and shook his head. Maverick, him and the rest of daggers had a silly reputation of getting in trouble sometimes, resulting in needing someone to bail them out. Mainly Audrey, Ice and Hazel.

“No, no, we’re fine.” He replied reassuringly her, “I think it’s better if I do this inside. It’s pretty chilly out here.”

Hazel nods smiling as she led him into the kitchen. The two chatted softly about work and how things were going in their personal lives, as Hazel poured him a drink. They chuckled and smiled as they spoke, until the brunette remembered what Jake originally came here for.

“So, Jake, what did you want to ask me?” Hazel asked kindly, taking a sip of her drink.

He paused sipping his drink midway through as he took a breather and answered, “Well…um, it’s something involving me and your daughter.”

“You’re not having trouble with your relationship, are you? Because then there will be an issue. ”

“What?! No! No! We’re good, we’re pretty good. Honestly we’re doing amazing, I think.”

Hazel put her drink down in curiosity, as she searched Hangman’s eyes for an answer. From the moment he walked in, she could practically smell something was happening in his behavior. He was usually cheeky, extremely warm and friendly with others, aside from his cocky demeanor at times. Overall she liked him. But today? He was pretty much just not his usual self.

“Jake.” She started with a kind yet strong tone, “Whatever it is. You can tell me, might as well say it now or forever hold your peace.”

He nods and cleared his throat before smiling as he strongly stated, “I want to marry your daughter, Ms. Kazansky.”

Hazel was silent for a moment. Her expression seemed almost content yet calm, as if trying to figure out what exactly he was implying here. Yet, she couldn’t help but let a grin rise to her lips. She shook her head fondly and exhaled lightly. She did tell him to say it now or forever hold his peace. And he stated that firmly, she admired that part. She’ll have to talk with Tom about all of this later on, of course.

Jake stood there, shifting between his hands and her gaze, waiting for her to speak and say something. But by her expression, he could tell she was thinking positive about his statement.

“Yes.” Hazel said softly after a long pause as she nodded fondly, “Okay.”

“Okay?” Jake asked repeatedly her words, trying to understand what she meant by that.

“Mhm, ‘okay’ as in, yes, you can marry Amber.”

Jake just stared at her blankly as Hazel burst into laughter and shook her head fondly, running her fingers through her hair.

“What? You thought I was going to bite your head off?” She asked, snorting and grinning at him.

He only nodded and awkwardly shrugging before replying, “Sorta? Bradshaw practically said that you might as well, straight up kick me out.”

“Bradley is just to scare ya. If anything, the person who would try to do that is Wraith. Me on the other hand? You, Jake, have earned my respect and trust in your decision to be with Amber.”

“Thanks, Ms. Kazansky. It means a lot coming from you, really.”

She couldn’t help but smirk as she asked, “Now, did my future son in law buy my girl a ring yet?”

Jake only shook his head and chuckled, “No, no, i haven’t. Coyote is planning on helping me out with that later…”

“…but first you need my husband’s permission for her hand in marriage?”

“Yup.” Jake replied before chuckling to himself remembering how he stood earlier, “Actually I was terrified that he would be the one to open the door first and not you.”

Hazel once more chuckled and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder before replying, “Hey, you have nothing to worry about, Jake.”

“Eh, did you forget that your husband has diplomatic immunity in 46 countries?”

“…right. Well, he knows you will never hurt his girl, and if you did? Kid, you might as well have asked Maverick first to save your ass. Good luck, honey.”

~~~~

~~~~~~~

Mrs. Quinn-Kazansky pointed out that her husband was in his study as usual on Wednesday afternoons.

Tom always had a rather decent routine on Wednesdays—wake up early for a walk, head over to the library with his wife, check on his friendships and return home to stay in his home office to get as much work done as possible—afterwards the rest of the day, he was in his study. Then as the night came, he’ll find himself on the couch enjoying a movie.

The older blonde was sitting at his desk, dressed in grey sweatpants, a dark green cardigan, and some sandals. Not to forget his reading glasses. His fingers were tapping against the keyboard as he wrote another email. He heard a knock on the door.

“Come in!” He called out, as his gaze fell upon the door that slowly swung open.

His expression softened slightly seeing who entered his study, however his eyebrows stayed harden as they furrowed. Hangman was in his study this afternoon. It wasn’t uncommon for the young blonde to be at his house for multiple reasons, but it was odd for him to enter his study. Rare even.

“Sir.” Jake greeted him politely with a soft smile as he walked in further, “Is this a bad time?”

Tom inhales deeply checking the time on his watch and then shifted his focus to Jake. He could always use a much needed break from his schedule. He shook his head and stood up from the chair briefly to greet him as he smiled.

“Not at all, Jake.” He replied shaking his head and gesturing for him to sit down in one of chairs provided. “How you been?”

“Good, I’ve been good, sir.” Answered the younger blonde with a light smile. “How about you?”

“Ah, you know how it is. Work, travel and going to events every so often.”

“Sounds busy.” Jake said chuckling softly.

Tom nods as he chuckled, “More or less, if not I’ll hand over my work to Slider.”

“Anything in particular that you’re looking forward to?”

“The Naval Ball.” Tom answered as a grin approached on his lips, “Are you going this year?”

Jake broke into a matching expression and chuckled before nodding, “I will. And hopefully I might get to join your family at the table soon.”

“I don’t truly follow, kid. What do you mean?”

At that, Jake realized he might’ve slipped a little too early on the reason why he’s here. He bit in his inner, shifting his gaze between the older blonde and the pictures frames on his desks, as if trying to figure out what to say next. Tom’s expression was one of confusion, intrigue and slight patience, as his eyebrows grew more firm.

Seresin will never admit but if anything, he’s a bit more anxious than he expected. Ever since he realize he was dating The Admiral ‘Iceman’ Kazansky’s daughter—His only child that he had raised since birth by himself, until Hazel came along and made their family grow into something amazing—he knew if ever broke Amber’s heart, he’d be a dead man.

As calm, sharp and collected as Tom can be on the outside, with a presence that can make anyone respect him, on the inside? There was an ice cold storm brewing, that you won’t find until you provoked it hard enough or you did something wrong to make it relevant to the game. Overall? Tom is one of the most respectable and kindhearted man in the lineup of Admirals within this side of the country.

And if asking Hazel seemed easier than expected, then Tom would be tougher to deal with. That meant he had to choose his words carefully.

~~~

After a long pause, realizing that he might’ve zoned out into his thoughts and cleared his throat, catching the other man’s attention. Jake took a breath before speaking.

“I meant, it’s actually the exact reason I came here, sir.” Jake started sitting up a bit in his chair. “As you know, I’ve been with your daughter for the past three years now…and we’ve been doing pretty well so far.”

Tom nods as he smiled, “That I do know, yes. You make my daughter very happy, Jake, and I’m glad about that fact.”

“Uh, thank you, Mr. Kazansky. I’m always happy to hear that you’re feeling good about our relationship, because I want to ask you something about that.”

“Go on. I’m sure it must be important if you came here to see me personally.”

“It is, yes..”

Jake took a breath, inhaling deeply and pushing away his nerves as it said the next line.

“I’ll like to have your permission to marry Amber, sir.” Jake said firmly, however you can hear in the unfamiliar tone in his speech. “Look. I understand I might not have been the first choice, you had when you pictured sharing your daughter with…I’m a bit impulsive, and unprofessional at times, I even been known loose my cool if I feel like I need to one up the competition…but you seen my record and reports on the field. I like to believe I’m a good pilot.”

Tom just nodded silently, his expression stern and steady as if he was reading the younger blonde.

Jake continued, “But when it comes to Amber, well…from the very first moment I saw her, I didn’t know what hit me in that bar, I just knew I needed to say something. Before I knew it, the weeks went by and I fell in love with her. And ever since, as much as I may act dumb..or silly, I do it to make sure she’s okay. She’s my angel in a way…? So anyways, I just want you to know that I promise to be a good man to her, even if you deny my request..”

Tom simply doesn’t say a single word as he nods once more. He just watches Jake.

He wasn’t blindsided by the fact that the man in front of him was a good pilot or proud fighter. He wasn’t afraid to tell his friends that Jake was a good boyfriend to Amber. He wasn’t a bit surprised by the way he respects and praised her. Tom knew his daughter was a beauty to care for and protect at the end of the day.

However, he grew increasingly worried as Amber was growing up that she will never find anyone who appreciated and gave her the same amount of patience or encouragement that he gave her. Before Hazel, he was just him and his daughter, along with their friends. In response? He grew protective and almost always steered away from anyone who tried to mess with her.

Maverick would call him overprotective but then again, his best friend and wing man, understood deeply onto the feelings he held for his child.

Tom made sure that if Amber ever had a boyfriend, they will know he meant business. Ice cold, no mistakes, just like his callsign. His daughter wasn’t something to mess around with and if someone harmed her? Well, there is a reason his best friends were ranked very well, in the positions they played.

He knew someday his little girl will be walked down the aisle to her future husband and Tom will never admitted—it’s probably a cliche at best—but no man will ever make his princess happy as much as him. No one was ever good enough for his daughter. That she’d stay young forever and never leave his arms.

Or so he thought.

And here stood Jacob ‘Hangman’ Seresin in a moment of vulnerability asking for his permission to have his own daughter, become his wife.

“Okay.” Tom started in a soft tone, “To be honest, when Amber first told me about you, I thought that she was incredibly tired and wasn’t thinking straight. Because most pilots you met at the bar aren’t always in your best interest.”

“I-sir.” Jake said opening his mouth to defend himself, but was cut off by the older men who held up his hand.

“I thought that my Amby is going to have to be extremely cautious about this. Especially when I found out your position on the Uranium Mission with Maverick and the other Daggers. And when I read your file? I realized what my wingman and I had to keep an eye out for you as time went on.”

“Sir, in my defense i was—”

“And then you saved the day in the end. Maverick sang yours and the Daggers praises…so i figured, why not give this hot shot a chance? And as you know, I wasn’t too excited about meeting, but i was earger..”

“I know..”

~~~~

Suddenly, Tom stood up pouring himself a glass of water seltzer, due to Hazel’s persistence in making sure he stayed in good health, and kindly offered him a glass. Jake gladly accepted the offer and took a sip of his drink, waiting for Tom to continue. His gaze followed the older blonde as he nodded.

“But afterwards, I realized that you had very strong potential to earn my respect.” Tom said taking a sip of her seltzer water and turning around to lean around the countertop as he smile. “Soon enough, in the past 3 years, you earned my respect, my trust and my credibility. You proved how much you value your career, your friendships and loved ones. Most importantly? You proved to me how passionate and commitment, you are to my Amber.”

Jake couldn’t help but smile graciously at his compliments. He nods politely, having never heard anything like that, from any other father he met before. It gave him a sense of pride and hope for the rest of his day.

Tom continued, “But Jake, i gotta know, if you marry her, you understand that with the career you have, there are risks? She’ll be married to that part and you will have to accept everything in between.”

Jake furrowed his eyebrows at his question, because he knew that his girlfriend was a daughter of an Admiral, so she understood things. But he also marriage to Amber meant that it’s different in a sense, because she would be more likely involved in things. Moving into a larger house, deployments will hurt a bit more, planning or going to events, kids might be involved someday and so much more.

But he thought, hey if I managed to do this relationship with Amber so far, what’s the long haul for anyway? It’s a ride that he’s willing to take!

His gaze shifted to Iceman with a confident expression as he nods, “I understand that, sir. And I intend to make sure I can go back home at the end of the day to be with her…”

Tom smiled, staring off into the distance as he responded, “You know? When I first married Hazel, I wasn’t so sure of everything that will happen to us but I had confidence that we will figure it out. The best part was—is coming home to her in the end, knowing that we were okay.”

“That sounds lovely. I hope I can feel the same way someday.”

“Oh, you will.”

Jake furrow his eyebrows in confusion as Tom opened up one of a drawers, and removed a small piece of jewelry from it. In a swift gesture, he took the younger blonde’s hand and carefully placed in his palm, as Jake looked at him with a wide smile.

“You have my full respect and permission to marry her.” Tom said grinning softly, his voice filled with high regard. “Make me proud, son.”

“I will.” Jake replied returning the soft grin.

~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~

~~~

AHHH I WROTE THIS WITHOUT A DAY, SO I HOPE YALL LIKE IT!! 🙈✨I didn’t proofread this but I had a fun time making it.

Pls let me know what you think 💭 remember to like, comment and share

Tags: @rose-of-oz @gaminggirlsstuff @gcthvile @aidanxsophxoxo @missstrawbs2001 @halesfavoriteharlot @topgun-imagines @mandylove1000 @starkleila @buckysteveloki-me @hangmanbrainrot @teacupsandtopgun @djs8891 @rickb-chaos @infinetlyforgotten @meiramel @sherloquestea @yetanotherwells @ximehs @rowinablx @daggerspared @superspookyjanelle @starryinspace @triptuckers @hardballoonlove @savemewattpad @alldaysdreamers @fallout-girl219 @ohgodnotagainn etc

[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

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.

[dp-marvel94]

Real -Chapter 7

Summary:

While hiding from his parents in Gotham, an ill-timed encounter with his neighbor, Jason, has Danny pretending to be his own twin. Fortunately for Danny, the more he pretends the easier it gets. Until he is not pretending at all. Or: Danny names a duplicate and via ghost logic, said duplicate ends up becoming real.

First->Previous-> Next

Also on AO3

Note:

A very emotional chapter incoming! Prepare yourselves. 😢

The door closes and Danny and Jamie are alone. The half ghost drops his book bag at the foot of one of the beds.

Danny stands, wobbling on his feet as he takes in the room. Now that all the people are gone, the explanations done, exhaustion washes over him. He stumbles onto the bed, heart sinking. Anxiety prickles, despite Alfred’s words. He doesn’t want to worry, not with the Waynes trying so hard to make both of them feel welcome. But the reality of almost watching his brother die….

Jamie’s almost core churns, Danny’s hand resting over his own. “Are you okay?” He whispers to his brother.

Not really. The clone sighs.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

No. The feeling is like Jamie chewing on his lip, averting his eyes.

Danny sighs, rubbing his forehead. A shiver runs through him, the elastic pull of duplication. He lowers his hand. “We don’t have to separate.”

The tugging stubbornly continues.

The half ghost shakes his head. “It’s not going to work like that. You’re not a duplicate. You’ve already got your own body. You just… need to collect your own ectoplasm and step out.”

Another cold shiver. Then… a breathless gasp. A glacial wave crashes over him, senses going fuzzy and distant.

The next breath, Jamie is stilling on the opposite bed, ghostly form faintly glowing.

“You did it.” Danny mildly congratulates.

His brother shrugs, head bowed.

The half ghost sighs. “I’m going to take a shower." He stands, collecting sweatpants and a t-shirt from the bookbag before walking to the bathroom. Pausing in the doorway, he turns back. “Jamie.” Expression serious, he waits for his brother’s gaze to dart up, confirmation that the other boy is listening. “If you start feeling weird or melty at all, yell for me. And if it’s really bad…” He swallows. “You have full permission to overshadow me right then. I don’t care if I’m getting dressed or asleep. Your life means a whole hell of a lot more to me than my privacy.”

Another pause, waiting for Jamie’s response. The clone’s eyes flicker up again. He gives a half-hearted nod.

Heart in his throat, Danny closes the door to the bathroom. He undresses, steps into the shower, and as the water runs, lets himself cry. The tears aren’t loud, aren’t chest heaving, aren’t hopelessly devastated. They are quiet and slow but at the same time, still deeply upset.

He’s scared. He’s tired. He’s shaken. He… he almost lost Jamie.

But… he didn’t. Jamie is still here, safe in the other room. He didn’t lose his brother.

And he won’t lose him. He could be more devastated. Maybe he should be. But he trusts Jason. He trusts Jason’s family. The Bats will do everything in their power to help them. They’ll deal with the GIW and the Fentons. They’ll find a way to access a portal. And the Far Frozen… Frostbite will know what do, how to stabilize Jamie. He’ll check on Ellie and get to talk to Jazz and Sam and Tucker. He’ll soon get to introduce his loved ones to his new brother.

Danny believes it. He believes all of it, comforted and reassured by Jason’s confidence and the care the man has shown him and his brother.

And yet… Jamie’s core, perpetually refusing to solidify. His earlier fear at telling Jason the truth. His continued silence.

All of it has Danny’s stomach in knots. He’s worried, anxious, and… confused. Jamie lied about his origin. Why? Why would he lie about that of everything? Claiming to be one of Plasmius’ clones… how is that better than reality?

After a long fifteen minutes of ruminating in his thoughts, Danny turns off the water. He steps out of the shower, wrapping a towel around himself and waiting a few minutes to dry.

On the other side of the door, Jamie is quiet. Then… Danny hears a sigh from the other boy. A flash of light, the creak of a now heavier body settling on the mattress. His brother turns human again… or his version of it, at least. Heavy and warm, a pulse beating under his skin, heart fluttering in his chest. Even if it seems to pump ectoplasm instead of blood. Yet another conundrum.

The bed creaks again, the soft sound of footsteps. Drawers open and close. The ruffle of fabric. Jamie must be getting dressed. With his own sigh, Danny does the same.

A minute later, the half ghost opens the door. His eyes survey the room and… his heart aches. Jamie lies on the bed closest to the bathroom, pajama-clad form above the covers. His blue eyes stare at the ceiling, brow furrowed in something eerily distant.

“I… Jamie.” Danny walks to the other bed, sitting on the side closest to his brother. “I know you don’t want to talk but… I’m worried.”

The clone says nothing, even as his far away expression flickers ever so slightly.

The older boy continues. “I know Jason and his family are going to help us. We’ll figure out how to stabilize you. And your core… we’ll figure out why it won’t solidify.”

Jamie’s eyes flicker to the side, looking at him. “You noticed that?”

“Yeah.” Danny blinks once, eyes widening. “Wait, you knew. Why didn’t you say anything? Do you know why it’s doing that?”

The clone shrugs, lips pursed, shoulders almost rising to his ears. The motion is almost forcefully casual, even as he pointedly avoids Danny’s eyes.

Danny sighs, trying another angle. “You lied to Jason about where you came from.”

Another shrug. “So?”

“So? You’ve never destabilized before. You’re not even a full ghost. You’re not one of Plasmuis’ clones. He didn’t make you. I…it was…” Danny stumbles over the words, blushing. “I’m the… you know. It was-”

“It was you.” Jamie cuts in, voice oddly even. “You can say it. It was you. You made Jamie… me.”

“I… yes, it was me. I made… god, this is weird to say.” Jamie’s eyes dart to him, something that might be hurt. Danny forces himself to finish the words. “I made you.”

“Yes, you did.” There’s the smallest bit of edge to the words, the clone’s brow furrowed.

Danny’s mouth feels dry, pieces seeming to connect. “Do you… do you think I’m ashamed of you? Is that why you didn’t want to tell Jason? Because… yeah, I’ve not been that free with talking about it…. I… I didn’t expect for this to happen. I still don’t really understand how. I don’t understand how you exist. You were… were just a duplicate and then you weren’t. And… yeah, it’s weird by human standard. But I’m not human. So I don’t know how but I made you and… and I’m not ashamed of-“

“Damn it Danny.” Jamie interrupts with surprising heat. “It’s not all about you.”

Danny’s mouth snaps shut, feeling chastised. At the same time, the anxious self-consciousness dies. No, this isn’t about him, is it? Jamie is the one who’s hurting.

When the half ghost speaks again, his voice is soft, almost coaxing. “What is this about then?”

“Nothing you’d understand.” The clone bites back, the gentle tone seeming to have the opposite effect.

“You’re really going to use that one on me?” Danny raises a brow, voice still calm.

Jamie says nothing, lips a hard line.

“Jamie, you know I love you.” The half ghost continues. “I want to help.”

“Just stop.” The words are a harsh growl.

“No, I’m not going to.” Danny cut in, determination giving his own voice a hard edge. “I’m not going to stop fighting for you. You don’t want to tell the Bats I made you? Fine. But let me understand.”

Through gritted teeth. “I said, stop.”

He really shouldn’t still be pushing. He really shouldn’t. But if he could just get his twin to believe him… “I’ve been scared too. The Bats finding out about all this terrified me. I get being scared.”

“Stop.” Blue eyes glare.

“You’re scared too, of how Jason will reaction. I get it.” If he could remind Jamie of how much he was known and loved…. “I’ve literally known you as long as you’ve existed. You and me, from the beginning. If anyone understands-.”

“No, you don’t.” The words cut, a blade of fire. “You don’t understand.” In a blink, the clone sits up, eyes glowing green. “You’re real. You’re not some illusion dreamed up by a lonely teenager.” He spreads his arms, voice rising. “You didn’t just suddenly exist one day and have to deal with all the pain and fear and…“

Jamie trails off, fiery anger flickering ever so slightly into something pale and haunted.

Danny’s mind stutters, overwhelmed with the biting words. “You… you asked for this.” A misstep; his brain screams to reverse...  “I looked you in the face and asked if you wanted to exist and-“

“I know that!” The words are a shout, even as Jamie’s eyes start to mist. “I know!” The next shout cracks, something broken and distraught. “I… I…” The tears spill. “I know.” The sentence falls heavy, as devasted as it is hauntedly resigned.

The half ghost blinks, thoughts sputtering. He watches, frozen as his twin’s cries turn into sobs. Jamie rocks slightly, arms wrapped around his chest in something that might be self-soothing. Danny’s heart shatters and his mind, finally, spurns into action.

In a heartbeat, he is sitting on the bed beside his brother, drawing the devastated Jamie into his arms. The clone sobs into his shoulder, chest heaving. Danny’s hands ball into his brother’s lose shirt and his mind can’t help but flashback.

That night his lonely core cried for someone to embrace, and a miracle appeared to comfort him. The first time he saw the spark which would grow into his Jamie.

The reminder hurts, a sick kind of symmetry. Then Jamie held him, even just sparked into being. And now, Danny holds him, the clone mourning that very existence.

The half ghost’s heart pounds, raw and aching. He fights to keep the tears from his face. He… he doesn’t know what to do, what to say, how to make this better. Can he even make this better?

He doesn’t regret making Jamie. He can’t. He won’t. He never will. It’s much too late to even think of regret. The deed is already done. Jamie exists. It’s too late to let him fade away. Not that Danny thinks he ever could have done that.

So Danny does all he can, he holds Jamie while he cries.

Slowly, the tears quiet. The heaving of the clone’s chest slows. He sniffs, a shaky breath. The grief-curled shoulders lift, arms dropping to his sides. Just when Danny thinks Jamie will pull away, arms wrap around his back.

“Spectra was… was right.” His brother whimpers, broken voice right beside his ear. “I’m not strong enough. I’ll never… never be strong enough to be real.”

Danny’s heart stutters at the words. Still, he’s not as surprised as he’d expect. “Spectra is a liar.” The words are emphatic, the glare over the other boy’s shoulder, directed at the absent shadow ghost, wrathful. Then a breath to calm. “You are real.” His voice gentles. “You are real. I promise you are. I…I just wish I could get you to see that too.”

With that, Jamie finally does pull away. His eyes fix down on his lap, a look of disappointment. “Maybe if I try… try harder-”

“No.” The half ghost’s eyes widen. “That’s not…” He shakes his head fervently. “You don’t have to try harder to be real. It’s not about how strong you are, or what you do, or how much effort you put in. It’s just… who you are. You already are real.”

The clone doesn’t say anything for a long moment. His brow furrows, pained eyes far away.

Finally, Jamie breathes shakily. “Then why does it hurt?” New tears well. “If…if this is it, if this is being real, why does it hurt so much?”

The question strikes, driving a stake through Danny’s heart. Guilt bubbles. It threatens to tear at his throat. Despite the choice Jamie had, the older half ghost still pulled him into this life. And yet…

His pained eyes drift to his lap. “It’s not just you.” Even as young as Danny himself is, he knows this. “Pain is a part of life for everyone.” The half ghost drags his head up, sorrowfully meeting Jamie’s eyes. “You know how I ended up in Gotham.”

The clone’s shoulder falls, biting his lip. “How do you deal with it?”

“I… I don’t know.” Danny wishes Jazz was here. She would have an answer, the perfect words to comfort. Or for one heart shattering moment… he wishes for his mom or dad, for some wise parental advice. But… Danny swallows. “I’m still trying to figure that out. I guess… I’ve just kept going ‘cause I have to, but…” Something churns in his core, a flicker of hope. “Having you here, not being a lone has really helped.”

Still, Jamie looks disappointed. Resigned words are muttered. “That is why you made Jamie.”

“No.” Danny bites his tongue, cursing yet another misstep. “That’s not… that’s not what I mean. I’m not trying to make this about me. It’s about you.” His voice pleads. “You deserve to not be alone, to have people who love you. I love you. I love you so much.” He reaches for Jamie, hand resting beside the other boy’s on the bed but not quite touching.  “But you deserve so much more than just me. More family, more friends. You deserve… you deserve the world.”

The clone boy does not say anything for a long moment, head hung low and eyes avoidant. At the same time, Danny’s heart bleeds in his chest. He silently begs. Please, let Jamie listen, understand, believe the words.

Finally, his twin’s head lifts slightly, hand lifting to cover his. “Other people…” He hesitates over the words. “You mean Jazz, Sam, Tucker, and Ellie. You really do want me to meet them.”

“Yes.” Danny nods, full of sincerity. “They’re going to love you so much, if you give them a chance.”

“And Jason…” He bites his lip, hesitant. “He’ll love Jamie… me too, if give him a chance?”

“He already cares about you a lot.” Danny reassures. “Telling him you started out as my duplicate won’t change that. If anything, it’ll let him understand you and help you better. You saw how he was tonight, before leaving for vigilante stuff. All that concern. He worries because he cares.”

Jamie’s expression softens ever so slightly. “Know that. Know that. Want to trust him. But…” Something between doubt and guilt flickers in his eyes.

“Trusting is hard.” Danny guesses, heart aching in empathy. “I get it. After everything I’ve been through… I get it.” He frowns, his own flicker of guilt in his eyes. “You probably inherited some of that from me and… I’m sorry for that.”

The clone shakes his head. “It’s not just from you. It’s…” He hisses through his teeth, a pained sound. “Everything is so much. It’s... it’s so hard.” One hand balls the fabric of his shirt over his chest. “Everything… trying to exist is hard. Being new is hard and scary and…” His voice trembles. “Earlier, when you went to tell Jason…. Got scared. Started panicking, started melting and…”

Danny shifts his hand, moving to hold his brother’s. “It’s okay now. You’re safe.”

Jamie’s trembling hand squeezes his. “Just thought…” Tears starts to well again. “Just keep thinking. If… if Jason finds out, he’ll be so mad. He’ll know… he’ll know Jamie isn’t real-“

“You are real.” Danny cuts in, once more emphatic. His clone frowns, expression watery. Still, the older presses on. “I will keep saying that to you until you believe it.”

A long, heavy pause. Again, the tears fell. Danny waits, again pulling Jamie into his arms. He hugs, keenly aware of the cacophony of emotions radiating from his twin. The fear, sorrow, guilt, and a thousand other nuisances Danny can’t parse, whisper, a dim reflection of the storm in the other boy’s heart.

Finally, his brother whimpers. “Want to… want to believe. Want to but…” Gently he pulls way, wiping at his face. “In here, says…” He points to his head. “Here sometimes says that Jamie is real. Sometimes says that Jamie isn’t. Isn’t real. Just… just a duplicate, not strong enough or good enough to be anything… anything more.” He shakes his head, eyes pinned on his lap. “Want to… want to believe. Want to be real. But… real is scary and hurts. And being real… being Jamie…don’t…. don’t know how…” The words trail off.

Danny’s heart breaks, yet again “That’s… none of that is true. You’re not a duplicate.” Again, he pleads. “You are real. You deserve to be real. And you are strong enough. You are.”

A thickness in his throat chokes his words. The echo of previous pleas ring in his head. He has vowed that Jamie is real, just earlier in this conversation. But….  slowly, memories of other times trickle into his mind.

Just earlier today, Jamie crying that he wasn’t strong enough, while melting on the floor. After Spectra, his twin whimpering that it wasn’t safe for him to exist. Their fight about calling Duke, stuttering that they can’t ask for help because Jamie isn’t real. The first time Jamie overshadowed him, shakingly asking if Jamie is supposed to be human too. Each time marked with guilt and doubt, with tremblingly fearful uncertainty.

Each time, Danny offered comfort. Warm hugs, loving care rippling across their bond, words of reassurance. That Jamie was strong enough, that he was worth the danger, that his brother was real, that Jamie is just “supposed” to be what he is. Yes, he didn’t do that great a job during their fight but he has tried so hard.

And yet…

The clone smiles softly, the crease of his lips unquestioningly real. And the light in his eyes… “I’m so happy you’re here.” The spark is brighter than ever.

Jamie shrugs. “This was your doing.”

“Yeah, I’m the one who made a duplicate. But,” Danny chuckles. “I have no idea how you’re real.”

For a second, an expression flickers on the clone’s face. It ripples through their bond, an emotion that Danny does not quite understand. Something like self-doubt…

That… that was so early in his twin’s development, just after the first time Jason meet the real Jamie.

And now… Jamie wipes his face of tears again. That same doubt flickers over his features, the same complex emotion.

Doubt and fear, present even back then and building over all these weeks. Guilt stabs at Danny’s heart, an ugly feeling. Just now he finally noticed the full depth of those feelings.

And… the doubt in his brother’s almost core, even after Danny empathic core-felt reassurance.

The guilt in Danny’s chest curdles into something distressed. A bitter realization dawns.

He… he can’t make Jamie believe him, not matter how many times he says the words, more matter how strong his pleas. Jamie is his own person, he can choose to believe the comfort or he cannot. Jamie can choose to accept he is real, or as paradoxical as it sounds, he can reject that fact. Danny can never make the decision for him.

This revelation… it shatters his heart. A feeling of helplessness wells, terror at the futility of his words. In a flashing second, it threatens to drown.

But…

No! The half ghost clamps down on the feeling, wilting under Jamie’s side-eye. His twin just began to sense that hopeless feeling. But… no, he can’t think like this. He can’t. He…

He remembers. Danny remembers. Devastated and alone, Jamie hugging him. Jazz, Sam, and Tucker before him. His sister’s determined eyes that never gave up on him, Sam’s hands that tendered his injuries, Tucker’s laughing quips that distracted from the pain. At his lowest and most depressed, even the trustiest comforting words could stab like a knife. But despite his rejection of their words, his loved ones always stayed by his side.

Finally, Danny breathes shakily. “I… I know you don’t believe me but…” The better realization blooms through watery eyes. “You are real. I won’t give up on you. I’ll keep fighting for you, whether you believe me or not.”

He will keep loving his twin, no matter what.

For a long moment, Jamie does not response. At least not with words. His doubtful expression twitches, morphing into something as tentative as it is pained. And across their bond…. A feeling that isn’t belief but is almost wanting, a faltering desire to believe.

The older boy’s brow furrows, mind searching for words until…. Danny yawns, his eyes watering after the exhale.

Jamie’s face finally does soften. “You should sleep. You didn’t get a nap earlier.”

Danny opens his mouth to argue, but his brother pins him with a look, one eyebrow raised. The older sighs, conceding. He stands from the bed, walking to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

A few minutes later, he returns and Jamie rises to do that same. Danny lifts the covers of the bed closest to the door, settling underneath. True to his yawning, he is tired but worry still wraps its cold fingers around his core.

The anger that led to Jamie snapping at him, his maker. Was that bitterness, resentment at being made to exist? And the fear and pain his twin struggles to cope with. The terror at trusting Jason with his origin. Is Danny right in thinking that panic is what led to Jamie’s destabilizing? All these tangled feelings. And at their core…

Jamie still doubts he is real.

Core still anxiously churning, the half ghost barely registers the bathroom door closing.

Jamie doubts he is real and the revelation stings.

The lights flicker off, leaving the room in darkness.

Spectra most certainly had an impact, her words haunting longer after they were spoken. But…

The sound of Jamie’s foots steps approach.

The guilt stabs again. Danny can’t help but wonder if he did something wrong.

The covers lift. The mattress shifts, the weight of a body added to it. The movement jerks the older boy out of his spiraling thoughts.

His breath holds, eyes wide as Jamie lies down on his bed, back facing Danny’s chest.

His twin’s shy, quiet voice. “Is this okay?”

The half ghost’s mind catches up. “Yeah.” He blinks once. “It’s okay.”

Even quieter. “Can… can Ja… I sleep with you?”

The anxiety and surprise vanish. Warm and tender, Danny’s heart squeezes.

“Yes, of course.” He quickly agrees.

Part of him argues, it is practical. If Jamie starts destabilizing in the night, it will be quicker to stop it if the younger boy is closer. But a larger, more tender part remembers being eight and crawling into bed with Jazz after a nightmare. And…. Even just months again, after traveling to the future and seeing a monster with his face destroy the world… Danny isn’t too proud to admit that he cried to his sister after those hellish nightmares too.

Danny exhales, arms moving forward to wrap around his brother. “Come here.”

Jamie shuffles back slightly, back pressed to his older brother’s chest.

“It’s going to be alright.” Danny soothes, an echo of what Jazz had said to him.

The clone nods, offering his own shakily repeat. “It is going to be okay.” Slowly, his body relaxes. The nervous pattering of his imitation heart calms. His breathing begins to slow.

Danny breathes, his own muscles and heart doing the same. His mind slows and calms, drifting into dark fuzziness.

Still holding each other, the brothers fall asleep.

Notes:

I've debated a lot of how much of my heart behind this story I want to share here. But as painful as vulnerability can be, this is too important. (Heavy discussion incoming) I live in the US, so I'd say it's not surprising that my musing on the pain and uncertainty of life have something to do with current events. I'm like Jamie in this situation, hurting and scared. Last week, when those feelings were particularly bad, there was some cursing even being born. And I'm also like Danny. I'm seeing other people hurting, both distantly through the internet and as close as my immediate family (my dad is a federal employee who's spent the last two week angry and terrified off getting fired at the drop of a hat.). And I'm so completely helpless to do anything, to materially help or even offer comforting words. So, I'm trying my best to do what I'm always called to do: love the people around me as best I can. Religious (Christian) discussion below so feel free to skip if that doesn't interest you.

God is sovereign. I tell myself this all the time. This is what I told my parents, who are both Christians, on the phone earlier to try and comfort them. God is in control. He is working all things together for good, though I do not understand how this plan is good. I know every single wrong will either be absolved by Jesus's death on the cross or it will be answered for by those who refuse to repent. I know this but those words by themselves are so hard to believe. Sometime, words alone fall short. I've seen that even last night, when offering my family, who all very much know and love God, the comforting truth, only for the words to barely even register. I cannot comfort perfectly, I am just human. Nor do I have all the answers. I struggle to believe too.

But the best advice I can offer: Go to Jesus. In my experience when the darkness and fear are too much, the only solution that offers real peace, real comfort is going to Jesus.

Listen to his words in Matthew 11.

28 Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. 29 Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. 30 For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

Come to Jesus. Bring Him your pain, your fears, your uncertainty. He promises rest, relief, comfort.

One of my favorite passages in the Bible: Hebrews 4:14-19

14Therefore, since we have a great high priest who has ascended into heaven, Jesus the Son of God, let us hold firmly to the faith we profess. 15For we do not have a high priest who is unable to empathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who has been tempted in every way, just as we are—yet he did not sin. 16Let us then approach God’s throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need.

Jesus, our high priest, lives to intercede with God the Father for us. He understands every human pain, every frailty. He empathizes with you. He weeps with you in your pain. And more than all that, if we approach God's throne of grace, if we cry out to him, we will receive grace to helps us. God is rich in mercy and grace. He loves to pour it out on us.

I am saying all this to you as some who has felt and seen these promises fulfilled. God has been here, by my side through every single day of my 30 years of life. Every battle with depression and anxiety, every trouble big and small. He has comforted me in the dead of night when I cried myself to sleep. He pursued me when I ran from Him, when I was angry at Him, blaming Him for my circumstances. Jesus has never given up on me.

And He will never give up on you. So if you need comfort, go to Him. Pray, talk to Jesus like you would a trusted friend. Read the Bible, God's words of love to humanity. He promises that if you seek Him, you will find Him. That if you cry out, He will answer. If these words spoke to you at all, I plead with you to listen and to pray. Approach Jesus with your uncertainty and doubt, even with your anger and questions. He will answer.

[buckysgrace]

Gator request : reader spending Christmas with Gator at a cabin or something, away from his family (Roy) where they open presents, drink hot chocolats, etc. ; it can be fluff and/or smut your choice 😉 yes, im already in the Christmas spirit

Me too so this is perfect, thank you!! Fluff and smut it is <3

Gator Tillman x reader

CW: Unprotected sex, fem receiving oral sex

Gator and you spend Christmas away from everyone else.

The snow crunched underneath your boots as you walked back towards the wooden cabin, your fingers tightly knitted with Gator's as the wind continued to blow through your flesh and rattle your bones.

"Christ," He cursed as he pushed the door open, wincing as it slammed against the wall, "Fuck." He cursed as he looked at it, almost offended by the loud sound.

"S'alright," You told him as you gripped the door, holding it open until he slid inside, "I got it." You nodded your head encouragingly, doing your best to keep from wincing as well. The wind was harsh, bitter even.

You were instantly greeted with the scent of peppermint, your old candle doing the trick of keeping the slightly musty smell at bay. It was old, a little cramped. But it was comfortable, with just enough room for the two of you. You enjoyed it a lot, even if the mattress was a little uneven and bumpy.

"S'fucking freezin' out there." He replied as he shook his shoulders, little flakes of snow falling onto the floor beneath him. You did the same, hoping that you could soon feel your fingertips once again. Sledding had been fun, but it was so cold you were almost fearful that the two of you had gotten frostbite from how red his nose had gotten.

"How about we start the fire then?" You asked as you looked around, "That'll make it cozy in here." You suggested as you wrinkled your nose up, feeling like it would be more comfortable too.

"I can do it." He nodded his head as he tossed his heavy coat aside, keeping on his hat and gloves as he strutted across the room. You grinned to yourself, not enjoying working with the wood anyways.

"I was hoping you'd say that," You grinned as you stripped yourself from your layers, "I can get some hot chocolate going." You replied as you neatly hung his coat up next to yours. You held your hands out near it, wincing at the way the hooks creaked underneath the weight of your heavy coats.

"Sounds delicious," He grinned as he turned towards you, knelt down by the fireplace, "Did you get those peppermint spoons?" He asked as he cocked his eyebrows, a hopeful look hidden away on his features.

"I wouldn't dream about forgetting them." You teased him, but also remained serious at the same time. You held onto every little thing that he enjoyed like it was delicate, fearful that you might forget it.

You pulled out one of the smaller pans from the cabinets, the paint faded from all of the years it had been used. Next, you gathered up the milk and poured it inside. Preferring to use that over water. You knew of a homemade recipe, but you had been too tired to make that.

"Is it done?" You asked as you leaned against the corner, noting the proud way he gestured towards the fireplace. It was lit, the wood crackling and filling the cabin with warmth.

"Not bad," He grinned as he walked towards you, a cocky look in his eyes, "You still cold?" He asked as he rubbed his palms across your shoulders, giving you some friction.

"A bit," You admitted as you bit down on your bottom lip, "But the fire will help." You told him, thinking that the hot chocolate would be nice too.

"I know a faster way." He hummed as he pressed his hands underneath your shirt, stripping away your layers easily. You grinned as he shimmed your pants off your waist, then squealed as he brought you down to the floor.

His lips were everywhere; across your knee and thighs, your hip, your abdomen and then across your collarbone. He lingered against your neck, kissing sweetly before he brought his mouth against your own.

You savored the feeling of his lips against your own, drawing out the kiss much longer than you needed to. But you were desperate for the taste of him on your tongue, for the feeling of his hands against your flesh.

"You're so beautiful," He groaned as he kissed back down the curve of your body, leaving a trail of spit as he went further and further. You bit your bottom lip as he spread your thighs apart, exposing you to him, "Your tang is so pretty. So wet for me." He replied with a little smirk, his brown eyes cocky as he looked up towards you again.

A gasp left your lips as he dragged his fingers through your folds. Your heart hammered roughly inside of your skin, electricity pulsing inside of you as he pressed his finger softly against your clit.

You couldn't find the words to speak as he bent down and pressed his lips against your sensitive bud, giving your cunt a little kiss as a gasp left your lips. Your eyes fluttered shut, your lips parting in bliss as he slid his tongue out against your slick pussy.

"Mhm," You hummed in appreciation, moaning as he messily licked at your folds. You gaped as you rocked your hips forward, enjoying the feeling of his mouth across your cunt, "Feels so nice." You praised him, the heat rushing across your body.

Gator groaned between your legs, the sound vibrating across your skin and through your body. His mouth was sloppy, messy as he greedily licked at your folds. His nose was pressing against your clit, dragging into your bud as you rutted against him.

You tangled your fingers through his gelled hair, not caring how long he spent working on it, as you continued to grind your hips up against his face. His groans grew, his eyes latching onto yours as he began to rock his hips down against the floor. Something inside of you burst, twisting in pleasure at the sight of him so turned on from the taste of your cunt.

He dug his fingertips into your flesh as he wrapped his lips around your swollen clit, sucking harshly as you reached your hands above your head. You whined as your toes curled, the pleasure attacked you roughly.

You came with a cry, your insides twisting with bliss as the lust burned deep inside of you. You rocked your hips forward, body trembling underneath his strong grip as he licked you clean.

"You got the tastiest tang, doll," He groaned as he sat up quickly on his knees, his bulge straining in his pants as he quickly forced them down to his thighs, "Need ya bad."

You giggled as he quickly lined himself up against your entrance, rubbing his fat tip against your slick hole. He groaned as he pressed his dick inside your soaked walls, sliding in inch by inch. His pleasure was etched on his features, his eyelashes fluttering as he bottomed out inside of you.

"Fuck," He cursed as his balls fell against your skin, warm and heavy as his cock pulsed inside your cunt, "You feel so good." He spit out quickly, cheeks flushed as he looked down at where your bodies were connected.

You moaned as you rolled your hips forward slowly, gaping at the deep way his cock slid against you. Your insides burned in pleasure, your mind fuzzy with awe. He pressed his hips forward slowly, rocking in and out of your weeping cunt.

"Gator," You moaned as you gripped a hold of him, fingers digging into his strong muscles as he dragged his cock in and out of your pussy, "Don't stop, baby. You make me feel so good." You praised him, biting back a smirk at the little whimper that left his lips.

His body was rough against yours, warm as he leaned against your skin. You savored the feeling of your skin brushing against his, sure there was no way that he could fill you any deeper.

His lips were hot against the crook of your neck, licking and sucking as your moans filled the tiny cabin. His teeth grazed your skin, lightly biting down as his cock pressed against your bundle of nerves.

You shook around him, thighs trembling as you desperately clawed him closer to you. His grunts were loud, mingling with your moans as he crashed his lips towards yours.

You could taste yourself on his tongue, dirty and filthy, as you licked at his mouth. You craved the taste at the same time, because it was him. You could taste the vape he'd been huffing on earlier too, sweet like watermelon.

The sounds of your bodies meeting was like heaven in your ears, deep and rough as he pressed himself harder and harder into you. Your mind consisted of him, feeling him, smelling him, tasting him. It was overwhelming, but you invited it all the same.

You couldn't find words to speak as you came with a cry, giving him no warning as your body shook and trembled underneath him. Your walls clamped down around him, squeezing him roughly as you leaked around his long dick.

"Feel that good, huh?" He teased as his nose fell against your cheek, a smirk on his lips as he continued to keep the same pleasurable rhythm. You barely nodded in response, still trembling with awe from your high.

Your cunt ached around him as his thrusts became slower, even deeper as he buried himself inside of you. His groans were more raspy, slightly higher pitched as he dug his fingertips into your hips. Holding you closely.

"Fuck," He cursed as he came, pressing himself roughly inside of you as his features wrinkled up into bliss. You savored that picture of him, whimpering from how handsome he looked, "You're incredible." He spit out all at once, his eyes hazy and filled with adoration.

You brought your hand up to push the messy strands out of his face, enjoying the way that you were able to look at him fully. You had never met someone so handsome before. Your eyes traced the curve of his nose, how his lips were shaped, the moles across his cheeks. You were so lucky.

And then realization hit you.

"Shit!" You cursed as you pushed him aside, jumping up in all of your glory and rushing towards the kitchen, "The hot chocolate!" You proclaimed, feeling like a mad man as you pulled the pan off the stove and pushed it into the sink. His laughter filled the room as you examined the mess and smoke in horror. The damage was done.

Damn him and his sweet eyes.

[kinichval]

when our paths cross again

missing your flight to inazuma and crashing your ex's place for the holidays is certainly not in your 2024 bingo card, nor is it your ideal way of celebrating the year-end. but here you are anyway.

content. ex!scaramouche x fem!reader, modern!au, angst, tension, YEARNING, profanities. | 3.1k words.

december 23rd, 20:34.

“i deeply apologize, ma'am. however, the earliest available flight to inazuma is 72 hours from now.”

great. great.

is the world punishing you for splurging the past three days before coming home to inazuma for the holidays by miscalculating your estimated time of arrival at the airport?

not only did you not have a place to stay, your wallet is tight on cash, and also the fact that you're basically stuck in sumeru for the rest of december unless you wait a whole three days ‘til you're flying back to inazuma. it wouldn't be a problem waiting if you didn't have businesses to resume after the twenty-fifth.

sighing in defeat, you could only offer your gratitude to the lady behind the desk for accommodating your concern. neither does she hold any power to twist your situation favoring the happy ending of eating a delicious buffet with your family, drinking wine all night, and unwrapping the gifts that were held in secret for who knows how long.

now, you sit by the window of a small cafe near the airport. a cup of warm americano accompanying your bummed out ass on this extra cold winter night. there's no snow blanketing sumeru city, but tonight puts you on the border of frostbites with this god awful truth that you won't be home for the holidays.

and then there's that additional layer of coldness that hits your skin when you stood up and was about to exit the cafe, destination still in progress, but all thoughts are cut off when you look up and find sickeningly familiar purplish, cool-toned irises staring at you with wrinkled nose bridge from that scrunched up expression that makes you want to slap the hell out of him.

what a fucking self-entitled bastard to be the one looking all disgusted at this displeasing predicament when he was the one saying “we should break up.” four years ago on a just as cold monday night in december.

“are you not going to apologize for spilling cold water on my shirt?” you hiss, shivering underneath as the multitude of glaciers penetrate your skin.

“why would i apologize if i meant for it to spill?”

an asshole he is, scaramouche is a fucking asshole.

except you're in this asshole's passenger seat because apparently you're too broke to afford a few more days of ‘vacation’, so you're—not by choice—accepting his offer to spend christmas with him at his place.

considering the menacing scheme he pulled, you're wary of other ill-intent motives he has tucked in under his visage of kindness.

you grit your teeth. great. this is not what you wrote to santa, sadly there's no return system and you have to endure whatever bullshit this man is envisioning in his mind.

december 23rd, 22:08.

so far, scaramouche is acting strangely kind after purposely tipping his glass of ice cold water on you. the drive to his apartment was quiet, except for the series of korean r&b songs he hummed along to; he opened the car door and brought up your luggage to his unit; and he asked if you wanted a meal or snack.

“you're being weird. what do you want from me?” your cold tone mirrored the air of december, your eyes narrowed in disbelief and pursued to unveil the mischief playing in his head. “you're in a situation, i offered help, you accepted.” he simply responds as if it's a common thing to do for exes, for exes who have never seen each other for four years.

“how are you so casual about this? we're exes.”

“would you rather get hypothermia out in the city looking for a cheap and open place to stay?”

“i—”

“if you did, you wouldn't be here right now. but look at us.”

he has a point. he only offered, it was you who accepted.

part of you wanted to walk away out of pettiness and embarrassment because you knew if this reaches your best friend's ears, you'd be sitting down and earning an earshot of a lecture from her about not reconnecting with exes regardless of the situation.

“okay fine, you win. i'll just sleep here tonight and i'll be on my merry way tomorrow.” exhaustion is already catching up to you, a yawn escapes past your lips. “you can sleep in my room, i'll be in the other bedroom.” there's that casual reply of his again, words spill out of him like this was just a normal, platonic conversation.

“it's even weirder sleeping in my ex's room, i'll just stay here.” you pat down on the soft cushion on his sofa, scaramouche shrugs and accepts your decision.

how odd of you to expect that he'll insist on having you sleep comfortably in his room?

december 24th, 2:21.

it's even odder and definitely out of character that scaramouche is still within your sight after declaring that you'll be sleeping a few hours ago.

but what the hell are you doing chatting and bickering with an abandoned christmas movie in the background?

somehow, you don't find it in yourself to push him out of your sight.

all those hours of biting back and forth had you writing notes of his life after you—the life that consisted of him being eligible for an exchange student here in sumeru city to which he proved he deserved that he was offered a scholarship to transfer in the esteemed akademiya, scaramouche will be graduating next year.

and you want to slap yourself for that one second of thinking what would be a nice graduation gift.

you also learned that scaramouche shares this apartment with a guy named sethos, he's currently on a holiday vacation which cancels out the wandering thought of why does scaramouche's apartment have two bedrooms.

and about his little stunt, he admitted to swearing to himself that when he sees you, he will pour water all over your top—with high hopes that you're wearing your favorite shirt—and see that horrified expression that he believes will satiate his reasonable amount of hate towards you (no, he doesn't hate you but he won't admit it.)

on the other hand, scaramouche now knows why you're stranded in sumeru and why your wallet forces itself shut in your pocket.

as one of the well performing employees in the company, your boss included you in his entourage for this business trip in sumeru. the schedule was a hassle, it was an almost three week business operation because christmas was in the middle of the whole thing so there's four free days to which your boss decided to go back to inazuma then return on the twenty-sixth. you followed his plan, come home for the holidays—you even spent the morning of the twenty-third buying presents for your family and peers—then fly back on the night of the twenty-fifth to continue your job.

but alas, you were late to arrive at the airport. underestimating the christmas rush in the center of the city, traffic clogs the road causing frustration as everyone was thinking of the same thing: it's christmas.

and you were old enough to know that santa wouldn't give you a miracle that someone was willing to give up their seat in the next flight to inazuma, not that the thought didn't give you a flicker of hope. but you end that idea with a bitter chuckle.

“why didn't you come home for the holidays?” you wonder, your mind traveling back to the last few christmas if he ever flew to inazuma to celebrate the winter holidays back home.

“i don't come home during vacations.” he avoids your curious stare when he answers, seemingly having more words stuck in his throat that he swallows. 

you don't press it further, you know that scaramouche makes up his mind whether or not the reason behind a decision is substantial. 

“is sumeru better than inazuma?” curiosity is getting the best of you, it's an innocent query to anyone. maybe you were just trying to gain insight because of migration plans or vacation ideas. “well, i like it here.” his response has you tilting your head, a subtle sign of wanting to know more.

“i don't know, i'm surviving here so i guess it's not that bad.”

“are you coming back to inazuma after you graduate?”

“no.”

the zero second gap between your sentences startles you. it intrigues you, a quiet voice telling you to find whatever truth he keeps inside his heart.

because despite scaramouche doing most things according to the law of just because and how he wants things to be, this one seems to bear a reason that he dares not to tell a soul.

there's a weighted silence draped over you, but you feel the tempting force to keep scaramouche here overpowering the former.

december 24th, 12:49.

the afternoon rays of the sun pierces through your skin as the wind gently blows the curtains allowing the sun's presence to grace over your slumber.

rubbing your eyes, you try to recover the memory of last night. oh, right, you and scaramouche… in his apartment on christmas eve, what a totally normal ex-lover reunion, truly.

hell no—

“how long are you sleeping? it's afternoon already.”

scaramouche's voice rings through your ears and suddenly you want to deactivate your sense of hearing. your brain cogs were turning, processing a remark that will hopefully crush his soul, his whole life, his dreams, his—

“lunch is ready. get up while (favorite dish) is still hot.”

and you're bolting to the kitchen, accidentally bumping on the corner of the wall, but all is well as you hide the pain in your knee under the dining table.

“you cook now?” you raise your eyebrow. four years ago, scaramouche only knew how to heat up food and modern era's favorite instant noodles. 

“how do you think i survive?” he retorts back, handing you an ice pack before sitting down across you. “that must've hurt. deserve.” he strikes, you squeeze hard on the ice pack which quickly returns your pressure with the coldness it possesses.

four years later, scaramouche changed, but somehow you still feel the same scaramouche you loved lingering. you wonder if who you were four years ago would believe that this is what happens four years later—that you'll break up on a december night and find your ex lover again on a december night.

albeit the second night feels much more colder than the first fall of snow. ironic, because sumeru doesn't experience a snowy weather.

you flinch at the contact of the ice pack to your poor knee, your face contorts. scaramouche fights back a laugh, you hear the slipping sound of him swallowing it down, “just hold the ice pack, i'll feed you.” your brain freezes, unable to wholly process his words and he's already moved to sit beside you, grabbing the spoon and put in front of your lips.

you comply anyway, parting your lips to let him feed you. it's your favorite, you didn't want to pass up the opportunity even though your face is already heating up because why the fuck is scaramouche so close—you're already in his apartment, if that's not already an invasion of personal space (as exes) then you're at loss with the chaotic beating of your heart clouding your perception.

scaramouche continues to feed you, alternating his own portion in between. scaramouche is kind, but he hasn't pulled any mean gimmicks, there's the unfriendly remarks and triggers of annoyance—but he's not acting up. not yet, you suppose.

maybe he'll pull tricks on you on christmas.

a gift of revenge, you thought he would think of it as such.

december 24th, 17:31.

you're unable to read what exactly is going on in scaramouche's mind. is he carefully watching your steps align with his plan and waiting for that go signal to surprise you with the ultimate revenge or is he secretly still in love with you and he's trying to win you back through the little things he knows would matter to you?

either way, you couldn't reject his offer to drive down the city on the evening of christmas eve.

“is this how you spent christmas since you moved here?”

scaramouche pursues his lips into a thin line, eyes still on the road, he takes a few moments to respond.

“depends, last year i just slept through the whole thing.” he shrugs it off, your shoulder drops and a deadpan replaces your anticipating look.

“but i drive a lot at night.” he says, your eyebrow raises, “you're not from here so might as well make this a free vacation.” he finally glances at you, albeit teasingly.

“what kind of ex does that?”

“your ex.”

air gets stuck in your throat, why the fuck did it sound like he's still giving you the right of ownership? your ex. yours, even if he isn't.

“did you not date anyone in the akademiya?”

“why would i?”

“i don't know. did no one seem interesting or did you get rejected?”

“they're not you.”

scaramouche is charged guilty after all.

december 24th, 18:00.

scaramouche opens a can of carbonated soda, the fizz loud enough to turn your attention on him. the stars are twinkling bright over your heads and they hear your longing.

the stars know about your yearning.

the breeze of the night grazes over your skin, you flinch at the coolness, wrapping your arms around yourself. the two of you sit inside his car, windows rolled down; scaramouche brought you to where edge of sumeru.

the coastal highway, a familiar scenery.

ah, right, scaramouche has always been expressive of sitting down staring at the ocean beside the road.

“so—”

“i—”

eyes nervously look at each other, the enemy-esque banter is out of the window when you realize that the both of you aren't trying piss the other off.

scaramouche gulps, heaving a sigh.

“i'm sorry, yn. i'm sorry for leaving you.”

you're confused, why would he apologize after four years? you remember vividly how his last words before he turned his back against you was “let's break up, i'm sorry.”

your heart sinks, unable to yield a thought. it seems you're paralyzed as if all the suppressed feelings that you buried were resurrected and has you on chokehold.

“are you sorry because you still love me?”

scaramouche is silent, he doesn't look at you.

“i'm sorry because i didn't know what to do and breaking up seemed to be the only less damaging route.”

he reasons as his head lowers down, eyes fixate on the can in his hand, “i love you, but it didn't take rocket science to see that we were ruining each other.” you notice the bitter smile curve on his lips.

“yn, i know you were sacrificing too much for us. i know that any more of it will break you.”

“no—”

“you can't tell me otherwise when i saw it in your eyes that you needed to breathe.”

well, curse the fucking tears for ruining your supposed composed being. you hate believe his words.

“i needed you, scar.”

you did, you desperately needed your scar to save you from the chaotic world.

“but i needed me too, yn. and you needed yourself.”

oh.

“then, why do you hate me?”

your voice cracks.

“if i hated you, i wouldn't have looked your way back in the cafe.” he chuckles, “if it's because i spilled water on you, that was just me trying to get your attention.” he admits, your heart tightens.

“four years since we broke up and i still love you, yn.” he chugs down his soda, doing all that he can to avoid seeing your teary eyes, “it's not that i didn't fight for us, i did. but how can i let you suffer like that when i'm already short of what i promised you? i was compromising both you and my future.” he hears you sob and he breaks, his heart equally as broken as yours.

after all, you two truly were in love.

but love as it is will never be enough.

“if we stayed, i'm afraid i'll lose you in the worst way.”

“losing you is already the worst, scar.”

time is a lousely doctor, because until this moment, there's a silent plead for the other half to come back—to love again.

“i'm sorry, scar.” you cry, reaching out to hold him but fall mid-way. your memories flash before your eyes when the nights leading to the break-up consisted of more sincere apologies than the warmth of ‘i love you's.

it kills you to hear more ‘i'm sorry’s.

well, the last blow, the ultimate death was when you heard ‘let's break up’ because after then, you won't be hearing his voice.

you bitterly laugh to yourself, you realized it would've been more painful to hear apologies like it's your routine, a cycle of missteps that muttering a sorry is also part of the egg shells.

you knew no one was to blame, but someone had to cut that cycle. if it had to be scaramouche, then so be it, even if he had to suffer knowing that you suffer because of his loss from your life.

and he knows that if you had realized it sooner, it would've been you who saved your individual lives.

now, silence envelops you, the high tide moves the waves further to the shore allowing its crash to be heard from your position.

december 24th, 23:11.

you and scaramouche still love each other, there's a mutual hope for things to fall back into place. but time isn't the same as four years ago, neither are you and scaramouche.

for all that it's worth, you lay in his arms, his chest heave behind your back.

for what love can allow you to be, scaramouche settles his chin on the crown of your head.

for what you know should just be, yours fingers are intertwined and small bits of laughter blend in with the air as you share moments in your life that made you thought of the other.

you wish for scaramouche to come back as your lover and for you to love him unconditionally, without the constraint of losing yourself.

because you and scaramouche changed over the past four years, and if love allows a second chance,

“i will get to know the newer versions of you than ever think of meeting someone else.”

but alas, things won't be that easy for love alone can not hold a lifetime.

and so, as the seconds inch nearer to christmas, you only have one wish that you hopefully will come true the next year—

“i want our paths to cross again, and maybe then, we can start anew.”

“i'll catch up to you, yn.”

december 25th, 00:00.

merry christmas, please find me again.

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Paint Me Like One of Your French Girls

Pairing: John "Soap" MacTavish x Female!Reader

Warnings: Fluff, playful banter/chasing, suggestive content, smut, female reader sooo female anatomy (sorry to my baby boys out there reading this)

Author’s Note: I hope you’re ready for our yummy Scott. I have no clue if I used the work Bonnie right, I apologize if I didn’t (feel free to correct me)

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

The soft morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the bedroom as you stirred awake. Johnny was already up—or rather, awake—but he hadn’t left the bed. He was propped up on one elbow, watching you sleep with a lopsided grin.

“You’re staring again,” you muttered, your voice still heavy with sleep.

“Can’t help it,” he said, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “Yer the bonniest sight I’ve ever seen.”

“Bonnie? I probably drooled all over the pillow,” you mumbled, turning your face into the mattress.

Johnny chuckled, his deep laugh rumbling through the quiet room. “Aye, maybe just a wee bit.”

You groaned, reaching out to swat at him, but he caught your wrist, kissing your knuckles. “Ach, don’t be embarrassed, lass. I think it’s adorable.”

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, but you couldn’t help smiling as he tangled his legs with yours, holding you close.

“Stay here the day,” he murmured, his voice soft and thick with his brogue.

You tilted your head to look up at him, raising an eyebrow. “And let you burn the house down unsupervised? I don’t think so.”

Johnny gasped, clutching his chest as if you’d mortally wounded him. “Burn the house down? That was one time, and I told ye—”

“—‘The curry needed more fire,’” you finished for him, grinning. “And then the fire department had to show up.”

“Yer dramatizin’,” he said, though the pink flush creeping up his neck gave him away.

“You set off *three* alarms, Johnny.”

“Alright, fine,” he relented with a laugh. “But I’ve learned since then. Let me make breakfast, and I’ll prove it tae ye.”

“Mhmm,” you hummed, unconvinced, but you let him pull you out of bed.

---

In the kitchen, Johnny’s enthusiasm quickly outpaced his skill. He stood at the stove with a spatula in hand, flipping pancakes like it was a military operation. Unfortunately, the first few came out a little too... crispy.

“See? I told ye I’ve improved,” he said proudly, holding up a pancake that was burned on one side and raw on the other.

“Improved? That pancake’s got a sunburn *and* frostbite,” you teased, snatching it out of his hand.

“Yer a hard woman tae please,” he grumbled, but there was no heat in his tone.

You laughed, stepping in to take over. “Alright, step aside, Picasso. I’ll handle this.”

He pouted but didn’t argue, instead wrapping his arms around your waist from behind as you worked. “Ye know, this isn’t fair. How’s a man supposed tae concentrate when yer standin’ there lookin’ so perfect?”

“Johnny, I’m literally in sweatpants and an old T-shirt,” you said, flipping a pancake.

“Doesnae matter. Yer still my bonnie lass,” he said, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

By the time breakfast was finished, you’d managed to salvage the meal, though Johnny still claimed all the credit.

---

After breakfast, Johnny drifted over to the corner of the living room where his art supplies were set up. It was a little nook you’d put together for him, complete with an easel, a sturdy desk, and shelves lined with sketchbooks and paints.

“Back tae the pencils again?” you asked, leaning on the doorway as he pulled out a fresh sketchbook.

“Aye,” he said, glancing at you briefly before settling in.

You tilted your head, watching as he began to sketch. Every now and then, he’d look up at you, his eyes soft and thoughtful, before quickly turning back to his work.

“You’re staring again,” you pointed out, raising an eyebrow.

“Can ye blame me?” he shot back, his lips twitching into a grin. “Yer distractin’, lass.”

The day passed in comfortable silence, broken only by the sound of his pencil scratching across the paper and the occasional rustle of you turning the pages of your book. But as the hours wore on, your curiosity grew.

“What are ye workin’ on?” you asked casually, pretending not to care.

“Just somethin’ small,” he said, his tone evasive.

You squinted at him. “Johnny…”

“Dinnae worry about it,” he said, waving you off. “It’s no ready yet.”

His dodgy answers only made you more determined to find out. By the time dinner rolled around, you couldn’t resist pressing him.

“Alright, spill,” you said as you both cleaned up. “What’s in the sketchbook?”

“Nosy, aren’t ye?” he teased, drying his hands on a towel.

“Yes! Because you’ve been working on it all day and won’t let me see!”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Ye’ll see it when I’m ready, love.”

That answer didn’t satisfy you, and the mischievous glint in his eye only made you more suspicious. You waited until he was distracted, then made a grab for the sketchbook.

“Oi!” Johnny shouted, laughing as he snatched it back.

“Let me see!” you demanded, trying to wrestle it away.

“Not a chance, lass!”

And just like that, the chase was on. You darted through the house, laughing and shouting as you tried to grab the sketchbook. Johnny was faster, but you were more determined.

When you finally managed to snatch it, you bolted into the bedroom and locked the door behind you.

“Open the door, woman!” Johnny called, pounding lightly on the wood.

“Not until I see what’s in here!” you yelled back, flipping open the sketchbook.

The sight of the drawings stole your breath. Page after page was filled with you—not just your face, but the little details he loved most. The way you tucked your hair behind your ear. The curve of your smile when you laughed. The peaceful look on your face when you slept.

Johnny burst through the door just as you were staring at one particularly tender sketch.

“Ye weren’t supposed tae see those yet,” he said softly, his cheeks tinged pink.

“They’re beautiful,” you whispered, looking up at him.

He crossed the room in a few quick strides, pulling you into his arms. “Not as beautiful as ye.”

You smiled, unable to resist teasing him. “So… when are you going to paint me like one of your French girls?”

Johnny froze, then burst into laughter. “Ye did not just say that.”

“Oh, I absolutely did.”

His laughter faded, and a wicked grin spread across his face. “Ye know, I could make that happen.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah?”

“Aye,” he murmured, his voice dropping as he leaned in close. “But first…”

His lips brushed against your ear as he whispered, “Yer gonna have tae stay very, very still.” His lips traveled down from your ear over your neck to the swell of where your breasts reside, his hands traveling under your shirt as he slides it up. His head goes to your stomach and kisses up to the valley of your breasts. Johnny's hands slid under your shirt, his calloused fingers splaying across the smooth skin of your stomach. He looked up at you with hooded eyes, his expression a mix of tenderness and barely restrained desire. Slowly, he began to inch your shirt upward, his lips trailing kisses along the exposed flesh.

"Johnny..." you breathed, tangling your fingers in his short brown hair. Your heart raced as he worked his way up to the swell of your breasts, his breath hot against your skin.

He paused, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. "Shh, lass," he murmured, his voice low and rough. "I told ye, ye need tae stay still." His hands slid higher, pushing your shirt up and over your breasts.

You bit your lip, trying to stifle a whimper as he bared you to his hungry gaze. Your nipples pebbled under the cool air and his intense stare. Johnny let out a low groan, his fingers skimming over the sensitive peaks.

"Beautiful," he breathed, before dipping his head down to take one into his mouth. He sucked and laved at the sensitive bud, his tongue swirling around it. His other hand kneaded the soft flesh of your breast, rolling and plucking at the nipple he'd left bare.

Pleasure sparked through you, making your back arch and your hips buck against him. Johnny just growled, the sound vibrating against your breast as he continued his sensual assault. His hand slid down your stomach, teasing along the waistband of your sweatpants before slipping inside.

Two fingers delved between your folds, finding you already wet and wanting. Johnny groaned around your nipple as he felt your slick arousal. He released your breast with a wet pop, only to turn his attention to the other. As he suckled and teased your nipple, his fingers stroked through your dripping slit, circling your clit with teasing pressure.

"Johnny, please," you gasped, tugging at his hair as you ground your hips against his hand. You needed more, craved the feel of him inside you.

He lifted his head to capture your mouth in a searing kiss, swallowing your moans as he slowly pushed one long finger inside your tight channel. He stroked in and out, curling against that special spot deep inside that made stars explode behind your eyelids.

Breaking the kiss, Johnny blazed a trail down your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point. His finger was joined by a second, pumping slowly and steadily in and out of your heat. Your inner muscles clenched around the digits, trying to draw them deeper.

"I need..." you gasped, unsure if you could form a coherent sentence. Your body felt like it was on fire, every nerve ending alight and singing with pleasure.

"Aye, I know what ye need, lass," Johnny murmured, his breath hot against your ear. "Ye need me inside ye, fillin' this greedy wee cunny."

To emphasize his point, he rubbed tight circles over your clit, making you cry out. Your hips jerked against his hand, desperately seeking more of that blissful friction.

"Patience, bonnie," he crooned, his fingers still stroking steadily in and out of your dripping sex. "I'll give ye what ye need. I promise."

He withdrew his fingers and you whimpered at the loss, only to moan loudly when he quickly replaced them with the thick head of his cock. He rubbed it through your slick folds, coating himself in your arousal before slowly, steadily sinking inside you.

You gasped as he stretched you open, your walls fluttering around his hard length as he filled you completely. He paused once he was fully seated inside you, letting you adjust to the feel of him deep in your core.

"Fuck, lass," he grunted, his hips pressed flush against yours. "Ye feel incredible. So fuckin' tight and perfect."

He rolled his hips, grinding against your clit, before drawing back and thrusting deep. He set a slow, sensual rhythm, making love to you with long, deep strokes that hit that special spot inside you dead on.

Your nails raked down his back as you clung to him, meeting him thrust for thrust. The room filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin and your mingled moans and grunts of pleasure.

Johnny's hand slid between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing quick, tight circles over the sensitive nub. Your cries grew louder, your body tensing as your climax approached.

"That's it, lass," Johnny encouraged, his voice strained with his own impending release. "Come for me. Let me feel this sweet cunny squeeze my cock."

His words, combined with the relentless pressure on your clit and the deep, driving thrusts of his hips, pushed you over the edge. You came with a scream of his name, your body convulsing around his as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over you.

Johnny followed a second later, flooding your spasming channel with his hot seed. He groaned your name, long and low, as he spilled inside you. His hips jerked and shuddered as he rode out the aftershocks of his climax.

Finally spent, he collapsed against you, careful not to crush you with his weight. He tucked your face into the crook of his neck, his fingers stroking through your damp hair.

"Ye did so well, bonnie," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. "I'm proud of ye."

You just hummed, a satisfied smile curling your lips as you snuggled closer, your body sated and content. Johnny held you tight, his heart beating in time with yours as the two of you drifted off to sleep, wrapped in each other's arms.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[autism-on-titan]

MASSIVE COLLECTION OF SCP HEADCANONS

Under the cut bc it's gonna be long, also some of these might have some sensitive subject matter (in tags)

Dr. Bright (or whatever you call him)

ADHD

Autistic

He eats horribly because he knows it won't affect him when he switches bodies, then wonders why he's tired all the time

Has one of those gross old yellow pillows, he won't get rid of it

Crippling body dysmorphia, avoids mirrors

Bipolar disorder

Has the cilantro soap gene, it follows him somehow

Likes Funko Pops

Dr Clef

Developed bulimia when he was a teenager, recovered some time after joining the foundation

Wears goth crocs

Intersex (not sure exactly what kind)

Collects the ugliest Hawaiian shirts he can find

He used to be really insecure about his appearance

Also has ADHD and autism

The kind of person to say "______er? I hardly know her!" "That's what she said!" That kinda thing

Either thinks mayo is spicy or eats California Reapers for fun

Dr. Iceberg

Severe frostbite in his fingers and toes, like the kind that turns black

It's awful being in a room with him because he turns the thermostat way up

Has ARFID, basically lives off of chicken nuggets and fries

Loves cats, but cats hate him

Looks really scrawny but is actually super strong (he can carry Gears princess style)

Disgusting stinky man with greasy hair

Burnt himself a lot by accident after the incident trying to get warm again

Autism, again

Dr Gears

Has CIP (congenital insensitivity to pain)

Surprise, more autism!

Regularly works until he passes out where he's standing

He's a trans man. He just randomly realised while he was working, finished up whatever report he was filing, signed it as "Dr. Charles (formerly Charlotte) Gears, got up, grabbed a pair of scissors, cut his hair short and went back to his desk like nothing happened.

Chews on the inside of his mouth as a stim, ends up bleeding

Dr. Kondraki

paints his nails so he won't bite them

Has Tourette's Syndrome

Takes melatonin gummies to sleep, but they melted together so he's just guessing at the dosage

Can't cook for shit, once made microwave ramen without adding water and it caught on fire

[rel124c41]

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.