#again this is for the frostbite shirt | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

confessedlyfannish · 5 months ago

Text

Six Years Ago

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

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

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

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

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

She pulls away.

"Sam?"

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

Out of the corner of his eye, he stiffens.

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

"Sam..."

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

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

"Make me a vessel."

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

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

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

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

"We were kids," Danny says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It'll be hard."

"It's been hard before."

"We'll have to fight."

"Done that too, once or twice."

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

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

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

"You're my family. End of."

"I'll change."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Medicine?" he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

"Blobert?"

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

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

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

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

The child nods.

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

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

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

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

"Hey!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"With you?"

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

"Hey!"

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah..."

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

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

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

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

"What if," Danny says, eyes bright.

"What if, indeed," Sam concurs.

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

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

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

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

"I like school," the kid blurts.

"Oh? Which grade are you in?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part Six

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

212 notes · View notes

themusingsofacurlyhairednerd · 1 year ago

Text

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.

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

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

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

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

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

"Do Illyrians run hot?" You asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"RHYSAND I CAN'T FUCKING SEE!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Please!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

989 notes · View notes

hypewinter · 2 years ago

Text

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

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

****

The injured halfa fell face first onto the ground.

"What the hell?" He heard someone say.

"Is he alive?" Another voice piped up.

He let out a weak groan in reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2K notes · View notes

kinichval · 29 days ago

Text

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.

#kval — unrated.#genshin impact #genshin impact fanfics #genshin impact oneshot #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact scaramouche #genshin scaramouche #scaramouche #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche oneshot #scaramouche fanfic

145 notes · View notes

midnight-shadow-cafe · 10 days ago

Text

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💜

92 notes · View notes

autism-on-titan · 2 months ago

Text

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

#scp #scp foundation #headcanon #ed mention #scp doctors #dr iceberg #dr gears #dr bright #dr clef #dr kondraki

64 notes · View notes

rel124c41 · 4 months ago

Text

NARC. floyd leech

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

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

word count: 9436

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“When you were out of commission.”

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

How altruistic of Schoenheit to remind you.

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

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

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

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

“And if it’s your boss?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eight days is nothing!

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

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

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

“Do you plan to make it nine?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not helping.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Remind him, Potato.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ya never had a burger?”

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

“It’s almost impossible to believe!”

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

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

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

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

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

“But seriously, how have ya not?”

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

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

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

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

“Nope! We’re goin’ out again!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You eat with your pinkies up?”

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

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

Floyd smiles, fond. “Cute.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Floyd?”

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

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

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

He looks handsome.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get your hands off me!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“...”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

INT. ASHENGROTTO’S BEDROOM

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

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

FLOYD.

(exuberantly)

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

YOU.

…

FLOYD.

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

YOU

Do you ever shut up?

FLOYD.

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

YOU.

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

FLOYD.

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

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

YOU.

(voice raising)

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

FLOYD.

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

YOU keep throwing punches, ignoring his words.

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

YOU twist yet are unable to escape the grasp.

FLOYD narrows his gold and olive brown eyes.

FLOYD. (CONT.)

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

YOU

(shaking their head and laughing, haggard)

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

FLOYD

(angry)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How close is Epel?”

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

“Yeah, I got enough time.”

“Potato?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

94 notes · View notes

buckysgrace · 1 month ago

Note

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.

#Gator Tillman #Gator Tillman smut #Gator Tillman fluff #Gator Tillman x you #Gator Tillman x reader #Gator Tillman x Y/N #Gator Tillman x reader smut #Gator Tillman x fem!reader #Gator Tillman x female reader #Gator Tillman x female!reader #Gator Tillman x reader fluff #Gator Tillman fargo

53 notes · View notes

new-revenant · 2 years ago

Text

A So Called Tamaranean

Edit: Ao3 Link!

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

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

☁︎

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Protect?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2K notes · View notes