#don’t trust dr. fuse

[mollyrosaria]

Day 1: Peach

Hiiiiii Kikirunt :)

@tealmaskmybeloved

[kiki-and-carmi]

“Hello? Is anybody there? What is this app…?”

Asks are open! Rules in pinned post!

[doctorfuse]

not an assistant, no. just an unfortunate watcher with no power here. what's your name?

“Oh… I see…” [They frown, casting their eyes to the wall.]

[They inhale, then exhale] “I’m…” [They pause for a moment.] “…you can call me Mutt.”

[teamskyappreciator]

Skyvember 2024 day 8: fusion

Decided to do Snake from @doctorfuse. A funky little guy. Thank you to @mewintheflesh-2 for creating this challenge.

Prompt post here

[mollyrosaria]

LMAOAOAAOAOOAOAAOOOOO oh my god thank you 😭😭😭

[internetdaddy98]

The Anatomy of Want

Previous | Next [Series Masterlist]

Pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!SeniorResident!Reader Summary: Robby reflects on the aftermath of his explosive encounter in the car with Y/N, and how it didn’t quiet their need, but intensified it. Despite his guilt, despite knowing it’s wrong, he’s addicted. To your voice. Your body. Your submission. Your trust.

Word Count: 1.4 K Content Warning: 18+ MDNI, Explicit Content, Explicit Language, Unresolved tension. Warning: The next 3 chapters or so are 18+

He hadn’t meant to fuck you in the car.

Not like that. Not so unhinged, so fast, so goddamn desperate he couldn’t wait to even get you home. But there’d been something about your voice when you said don’t stop. Something about the way your eyes looked when you stopped being his resident and just became his.

He thought it would end there, the need, the ache. He thought giving in once would burn it out of his system. A single, catastrophic mistake. But it hadn’t burned anything out.

It lit a fuse.

And now, it wouldn’t stop.

He was a man made of fire and tension and shame, walking the ER halls with a permanent bruise behind his ribs. Not because they’d crossed a line, but because he was still standing on it. Wanting to leap again. Needing to.

It was the noises you made.

Christ, the noises.

That soft whimper when you're trying not to beg. The little gasp you let out when he touches you like he knows your body better than you do. The desperate please when you're on the edge. The ragged sound you made when you came around him in the car, like a prayer and a curse all at once.

It haunted him. 

He thought about them at inopportune moments, in trauma rounds, while charting. Walking past you in the hall. Teaching students. He’d glance up from a tablet and see you across the nurses’ station and remember the exact way your voice broke when you said his name mid-climax, and it would destroy him.

He wanted you again. Wanted to hear those sounds again. Only for him.

Not just once. Not just when it boiled over.

All the time.

In his bed. Against his door. Bent over the couch in his apartment, moaning into his neck because you couldn’t stay quiet.

In the ER, when they’re on night shift and no one’s around, his hand under your scrubs, your mouth against his shoulder to muffle every soft, broken sound you made while he touched you.

At a restaurant, his fingers under the table, your thighs trembling. Your jaw tight as you tried not to make a sound, and him waiting for the moment you failed.

He wanted to corrupt you.

He wanted your mouth open and gasping. He wanted you unraveled and aching, for him and no one else. He knew it was wrong. Every ethical part of his brain screamed at him, she’s your resident, she’s half your age, she trusts you.

But you wanted this.

You looked at him like he was gravity. And when you came apart for him, you gave him everything, your voice, your body, your trust and he wanted to keep it. Covet it.

Own it.

He’d lie in bed and hear you in his mind, every sound you’d made. The sound you made when you came, and again when he didn’t stop. The hitch in your breath when he kissed the underside of your jaw. The way you said Michael when you were about to come.

He used to think he was a good man. A restrained one, and now he wasn’t so sure.

The next time he saw you, you were sitting at a workstation, typing away at notes, lip between your teeth. Your hair was falling loose from its tie, your scrub top rumpled.

He didn’t speak. Just watched you. Imagined what your voice would sound like if he kissed the back of your neck right then and pressed you into the table.

You looked up suddenly, sensing him.

Your eyes locked. Your lips parted, just slightly.

And in that fraction of a second, he knew.

You were remembering the same things.

You looked away first, cheeks pink. “Hi.”

He swallowed. “Hey.”

His voice was rougher than it should’ve been. You caught it. Your eyes flicked to his mouth. He stood there, hands clenched, arousal and frustration bleeding into every nerve.

Jesus Christ.

Yeah. He was fucked. --------------------------------------------------------------

It was late, past midnight, his apartment was still, low-lit. He’d barely gotten out of the shower when there was a knock at the door. He knew it was you before he even checked.

When he opened it, you were standing in the hallway in an oversized t-shirt and sweatpants, your hair loose and messy, eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you said softly, no apology in your voice. Just honesty.

He didn't ask you what you needed. He already knew.

Because he needed the same.

He stepped back. Held the door. Watched you move past him and into the warmth of his apartment like you’d done it a hundred times.

You hadn’t. You never had.

Their silence filled the room more than any conversation could. And then you said it.

“I don’t know how to stop wanting you.”

He yanked you forward and kissed you like a man starved. Your hands clutched his shirt, nails dragging over skin as he forced your mouth open and swallowed the sound you made. A gasp. A whimper. That same sweet little noise he hadn’t stopped thinking about since the last time he had you cornered and breathless.

He pushed you back against the wall, lips trailing down your neck.

“You’re too fucking quiet, Little Sheri,” he murmured, teeth grazing the skin under your jaw. “You come in here all shy and sweet, but I know what you sound like when I fuck you right.”

You whimpered, again, and that sound nearly made him snap.

“I think about it,” he growled into your neck. “All day. Every goddamn shift. What it takes to make you break. What it takes to make you loud.”

You clung to him now, legs wrapping around his waist as he lifted you off the ground, carried you down the hallway like you weighed nothing. Like he’d waited his whole life to do it again.

They didn’t make it to the bed.

He dropped you onto the couch, dragged your pants down roughly, and stripped you bare with hands that knew exactly what they wanted. There was no finesse. No soft pacing. This wasn’t tenderness.

This was him undoing you.

He knelt between your thighs and held you open.

“You want to be good,” he rasped, licking slowly, “but you love being ruined.”

And you did. He felt it in every tremble. Every moan.

When he finally pushed into you, you arched up with a broken cry, your fingers digging into his biceps, and he lost whatever control he had left. His rhythm was brutal, unforgiving, his hips snapping hard against yours as your body gave in to him over and over, each movement pulling another sound from your mouth that was just for him.

“God, listen to you,” he groaned. “You like it like this, don’t you?”

You couldn’t answer, you were too busy falling apart.

And he wanted more.

He flipped you over, dragged you to the edge of the couch, one hand wrapped in your hair as he drove into you from behind. You gasp, loud, and his hands grips your lower back,  pinning you to the couch.

“Stay still while I fuck you sweetheart,” The rhythm is relentless. Fast. Deep. Your hands tucked into you. Your forehead pressed into the couch. You’re so full of him, all you can do is sob as your orgasm crashes over you. He fucks you through it. Doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. Just grits out

“Say my name,” he demanded. “Let me hear you.”

“Robby. Fuck. Michael please—”

That did it.

He came hard, with a low, guttural groan that vibrated through his chest as he collapsed against you, mouth at your shoulder, biting down just hard enough to leave a mark.

Just hard enough to say mine.

They lay there in silence after, sweaty and panting.

He was draped over you like a blanket, temple to your back.

But something had changed.

He'd taken you apart and you’d let him.

No fear. No hesitation. Only want.

And now, he couldn’t stop wanting you.

He wanted to hear you beg in his office. Moan into his palm in the ER supply closet. Whimper with your mouth pressed to his throat while he fucked you in the backseat of his car after a long shift. He wanted to hear you break every time. Just for him. ------------------------------------------------------- Want to join the taglist? shoot me a comment! @rosiepoise88 @nosebeers @andabuttonnose @luvr4miya @cannonindeez @hagarsays @captainoates @lemonlime09 @delicateflorencia @iceb1ink1uck @moonshooter

[mollyrosaria]

Day 2: Chain

@tealmaskmybeloved

[kiki-and-carmi]

Deep down.

In a laboratory.

Lies a young boy

in his cellar.

Separated from his Sister

and his DNA mangled.

This is the Story of Runt, and his sister, Ogre.

ASKS ARE CLOSED.

๑ About!! (Last updated: October 8th, 4:17pm, central time)

🍡 → This is an ask blog for the characters Kieran and Carmine from the video game Pokemon Scarlet and Violet, specifically taking place in my alternate universe, dubbed Don’t Trust Dr. Fuse.

👺 → This is an art ask blog. All art is mine unless it’s stated otherwise. Effort put into each piece may fluctuate violently. The amount of effort put into answering an ask is not an indicator for how thankful I am for you sending in asks. Every ask is very much appreciated no matter how much the effort put into the art in the answers fluctuates.

🍑 → Runt uses he/him.

🍡 → Mod Mew uses any pronouns and does not use labels.

👺 → Asks are not answered chronologically.

๑ Available for Asks!!

🍑 → As of right now: Runt is available for asks

๑ Rules!!

🍡 → 1. Nsfw asks are NOT ALLOWED.

👺 → 2. No bigotry whatsoever I literally don’t care keep that shit away from me. I’m usually okay with some slurs but not for this ask blog.

🍑 → 3. Be. Nice. Remember there is a real living breathing person behind this account. You can be mean to Runt that’s fine but not to Mod Mew. If you aren’t happy with a response you get it’s not my fault.

🍡 → 4. No asks about politics. The owner of this account is very much radical left if that’s what you call it if you’re curious.

👺 → 5. If you want something tagged then ask.

🍑 → 6. Magic anons will not affect canon!

🍡 → 7. PLEASE SPECIFY WHO YOURE SENDING THE ASK TO IF THERE ARE MULTIPLE CHARACTERS AVAILABLE FOR ASKS.

๑ DNI!

👺 → Pro isreal, antisemites, neo nazis, transphobes, transmeds, truscum, anti-mogai, terfs/swerfs, anti-endogenics, sysmeds, MAPS, homophobes, aphobes, anti contradicting labels. Anti-kink, purists.

[mollyrosaria]

Me with Dr. Fuse

He’s my OC now sorry (I am not sorry. You can pry him from my cold dead hands.)

[doctorfuse]

[A flicker of static is all you see before the screen clears,

it’s another concrete room, but cleaner this time.

no red splatters, no stuffing, no broken glass.

just… empty.

aside from one thing, that is.

There’s a person in this cell as well. But they look different from the last person that was in one of these.

immensely different.

they’re sitting on the floor, chains around their torso, bonding a large tail to their back. Their hair is brown, and They’re clad in green and black clothing, with simple yellow and red accents. A jacket, shirt, and shorts. Through some of the fabric protrudes fins, almost like a fish, but thicker.

there appears to be black lines coming from their eyes, and horns coming from the top of their head, four total, two on each side. And from their eyes sprouts two golden chain-like… something’s.

Their legs aren’t human. More reptile like than anything, with four sharp claws on each foot, three in front, one sprouting from the heel.

They look up, directly at the camera. They seem to notice someone’s watching them. Sluggishly, they float up to the camera, and they just stare. Right into the lens. Their eyes are completely black exempt from white irises, fangs protrude from their lips, a golden oval lies on their forehead, half covered by their hairline, looking a lot like the golden chains from their eyes, and there appears to be scales on their cheeks.

…

The feed cuts off.]

[teamskyappreciator]

Skyvember prompt 19: Fusion

Minor Blood warning under the cut.

This is a au(?) of Mewintheflesh-2's (they also created this challenge) Don't Trust Dr. Fuse au and Mikey's Team Sky Pokémon Infinite Fusion video. Dr. Fuse would definitely manipulate Mikey into doing what ever he wants by "promising" that once he fulfils his propose to Dr. Fuse, he can go back to his world. (He is lying, after Mikey fulfils his purpose he will just kill him).

[artchvies]

i wish you would write an abo fic where oscar was a pediatric doctor and lando as a single dad who brought in his daughter (i love girl dad lando sm) and they fall in love at first sight

this is such a ridiculously cute prompt and i had so many ideas for it. ended up writing their first meeting (it took forever i know i’m sorry)

i wasn’t totally sure how to make the abo dynamics feel natural here so i tried playing with the scent stuff a bit… hopefully it reads okay!

(1,7k words, abo kid fic)

The waiting room smells like antiseptic and, inexplicably, apple juice. Lando’s ninety-nine percent sure that last bit is Victoria’s fault.

She’s clinging to his leg, half hiding her face in the sleeve of his hoodie, half peeking up at the giant fish mural on the wall.

Her little curls are all smushed on one side from the car seat. Lando gently smooths them down. They spring back up five seconds later.

“It’s okay, love,” he murmurs, and she presses her nose into his thigh in response, scenting him faintly.

Then the door swings open. And Lando looks up, ready to half-smile at Dr. Greene, except.

Except it’s not Dr. Greene.

This doctor is new. Young. Blue scrubs, white coat.

Omega, Lando’s instincts say before his brain catches up.

Omega, his lungs say again, as if they’ve suddenly forgotten how to work.

“Victoria Norris?” the man says, voice smooth and warm.

Vic doesn’t move. Just tightens her grip on Lando’s jeans like she’s trying to become molecularly fused to them.

“Oh,” Lando says, standing. “That’s us. Um. She’s shy.”

“Not a problem,” the doctor replies, with a small smile that is objectively not allowed before 9 a.m. “I’m Dr. Oscar Piastri. I’ll be seeing you today—Dr. Greene has transferred.”

“Right,” Lando says. “Okay. Cool.”

He picks Victoria up. She promptly curls into his chest, tucks her head under his chin like a tiny koala.

Dr. Piastri gestures them down the hallway. He’s composed, not saying anything unnecessary. Doesn’t ask Victoria any questions yet. Just opens the door to the exam room and steps aside.

Lando sits her on the table. She immediately grabs his hand like she thinks someone’s going to try and separate them with force.

And that’s when it hits him—Dr. Piastri’s scent. Not showy, but there.

Steady and unblocked and real, like lavender and clean linen and something warmer underneath, something that sneaks past Lando’s defenses and coils soft in his chest.

It makes his own scent twitch uncomfortably, like it wants to respond without permission. He hadn’t even realized how starved he was for something like that until now.

“You’re not wearing blockers,” Lando blurts, and then immediately contemplates launching himself into the sun.

Dr. Piastri—glances over, unreadable. “I don’t need them.”

“Right. Yeah. Obviously,” Lando says. “Sorry. That was weird. I didn’t mean—I mean, I’m not weird about it.”

Oscar mouth twitches, which Lando decides to count as a win. “Alright.”

“She doesn’t talk much when she’s nervous,” Lando offers, when the silence gets too full. “Or to new people. Or really anyone who hasn’t been properly vetted. But give her a week and she’ll be demanding to know your opinion on triceratops.”

Oscar crouches a little, carefully. Doesn’t speak yet, just lets his scent do the work—slow, safe.

Victoria stares at him from behind her pacifier. Her eyes are big and skeptical.

“That’s alright,” Oscar says. “We can take our time.”

Lando watches him with something that might be awe.

Oscar doesn’t push. Doesn’t coax. Just… lets her be. His scent is like a blanket in winter. Not overwhelming. Just there.

And Lando realizes with a sudden, sharp ache that his instincts are flaring for a reason.

Oscar isn’t just calm—he’s safe. Every quiet Omega cue Lando’s ever known is right there, in his voice, in the way he moves, in the way his scent stays low and steady.

It hits Lando like a freight train, how much he wants to trust this man with everything.

Not just Victoria’s health, but his… actual heart, apparently. Which is stupid. Objectively ridiculous. But it feels a bit like fate anyway.

“She’s here for her yearly?” Oscar asks, glancing at the chart.

“Yeah,” Lando says, a beat late. “Usual stuff. She’s been healthy. Big fan of bananas, if that matters.”

Oscar lifts a single eyebrow, amused. “Good to know.”

Victoria chooses this moment to squeeze Lando’s wrist. He takes that as a cue to stop talking.

There’s a pause while Oscar reads through her file. His scent shifts a little—thoughtful, maybe. It catches in Lando’s throat.

“I’m going to check your heartbeat, alright?” Oscar says, very clearly addressing Victoria, and not her over-anxious father. He holds up the stethoscope for inspection.

She doesn’t say anything. Just sticks out her foot.

Oscar doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t correct her. Just hums. “Fair enough,” he says, and gently takes her ankle like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

The rest of the check-up goes easier than Lando could’ve predicted.

No words from Victoria, but she watches Oscar with curiosity.

Lando leans in a little. “Hey—if you get her to ditch that pacifier, I’ll owe you. I’ve tried. Her last doctor tried. I got called a monster.”

Oscar glances up from the blood pressure cuff, that almost-smile back. “A monster?”

“I mean, not in words. But the vibe was there,” Lando mutters. “You, though—she’s looking at you like you invented gravity, so. Magic Omega powers and all that.”

Oscar hums. His scent shifts again, warm with quiet amusement. “I’ll see what I can do.”

And apparently, he means immediately.

Victoria’s still parked on the exam table, legs swinging like little pendulums, when Oscar turns to the cabinet and retrieves something—small, soft, and unmistakably grey.

He crouches again, calm as ever. “Hey, Victoria,” he says gently, holding it out. “I brought you something.”

It’s a bunny. One of those squishy comfort ones with velvet ears and a stitched-on expression that’s either sleepy or enlightened. There’s a faded ribbon around its neck.

Victoria stares at it like it’s the Mona Lisa.

“If you give your pacifier to your dad today,” Oscar continues, “you can take this home instead. Deal?”

There’s a pause. She doesn’t blink. Just slowly reaches up, removes the pacifier with the solemnity of a monk surrendering a worldly possession, and hands it over to Lando without ceremony.

Then she takes the bunny. Turns it over once, inspecting. And—very seriously—she lifts one tiny hand and points directly at its embroidered front teeth.

“Just like you,” she says.

Oscar freezes.

Lando makes a noise somewhere between a gasp and a bark. “Oh my god,” he whispers, delighted and horrified all at once.

Oscar’s ears flush pink. His scent flares.

“It’s the teeth?” he mutters, wounded.

Lando just stares at him. He’s trying very hard not to fall in love on the spot. Unclear if it’s working.

Oscar clears his throat while Vic is already cradling the bunny like it’s her newborn child.

Lando watches the two of them and then watches his own heart do something ill-advised in real time. The instinct is loud. Unhelpful.

“She seems healthy,” Oscar says eventually, recovering just enough to stand and wash his hands. “Maybe a little tired.”

Lando nods. “She’s been clingy lately. Might be a growth spurt.”

“Or,” Oscar says, glancing over his shoulder, “she might be picking up on something.”

Lando blinks. “Like what?”

Oscar shrugs. “Stress. Unrest. If your scent’s been changing, she’ll notice.”

Which—alright. Fair. Lando’s been a little off-kilter lately. New job. New flat. The whole being-in-love-with-your-kid’s-doctor thing just now. He hadn’t thought it would show. But of course it does. He’s always been scent-reactive.

“She likes you,” he says instead of responding. “She doesn’t usually warm up that fast.”

Oscar gives a tiny smile, then leans down to offer Victoria a sticker. She takes it with both hands.

“I like her too,” he replies, and that tugs at something deep in Lando’s chest.

His glands hum, unhelpfully. He’s never been the kind of Alpha to scent anyone outside of a bond. But right now, it’s not even a decision. Just instinct. His scent curls softly into the air, not claiming. Just—present.

Oscar doesn’t push back. But there’s a shift. Subtle. And maybe—maybe—Lando’s not imagining it after all.

“Thanks,” he says, picking Vic up and adjusting her in his arms. “For everything.”

Oscar glances up. His eyes linger just a beat too long. “Anytime.”

For a moment they just look at each other—one of those pauses where everything seems to hold still, where Lando’s heart starts going far too fast for something as simple as small talk.

He clears his throat. “Right,” he says, fumbling. “Guess we’ll be going, then.”

“Wait,” Victoria says before he can take a step. Her voice is very small.

“Yes, sweetheart?” Lando asks, startled.

Victoria hesitates. Then—“His name.”

“Oh. That’s Dr. Piastri,” Lando says.

She shakes her head, serious now. “What’s his name.”

Oscar’s ears go pink.

“It’s Oscar,” he says softly.

Victoria nods, apparently satisfied. She hides her face again. Lando can’t help but laugh, a little dazed.

“Well, Oscar,” he says, testing it, letting it sit in the air between them. “Thanks again. And—uh. If you ever want to talk about dinosaurs sometime, she’s very open to visitors. We’re usually at the park on weekends.”

Oscar bites the inside of his cheek. “I’d like that.”

And Lando, high off of nothing but his own feelings, bold for reasons even he doesn’t understand, adds quickly, “Also, if you ever wanted to—have a coffee or something. With me. Not just her. If that’s not weird. I just meant—”

Oscar blinks. “Oh. I don’t like coffee.”

Lando’s stomach drops clean through the floor. “Right. Yeah. Of course. I mean, obviously. That’s not—yeah. Forget it.” He gestures vaguely with one hand. “You’re my kid’s doctor, I wasn’t— It wasn’t—”

Oscar flushes. Deeply. He scrambles to speak, all composure evaporating. “No, I meant— I really don’t like coffee. Like, the drink. I didn’t mean—” He stops, flustered. “Hot chocolate?”

Lando stares at him.

“Hot chocolate would be nice,” Oscar says shyly.

“I like chocolate,” Victoria announces from Lando’s shoulder, very helpfully.

Oscar laughs, soft and a little helpless.

Lando beams. “Alright,” he says. “Hot chocolate it is.”

Oscar hesitates for just a moment, then reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a pen.

“Here,” he murmurs, scribbling his number on the back of a clinic appointment card. “In case you ever need to reschedule. Or—uh. For hot chocolate logistics.”

Lando takes it like it’s something delicate. His fingers brush Oscar’s, and it feels like a jolt straight down to his spine.

“Right,” he says, ears pink, brain barely functional.

And when they finally leave—Victoria clutching her new bunny, Lando clutching that little card—he feels like he’s floating.

[mollyrosaria]

*coughcough* fusing their body with that of a pokemon’s *coughcough*

Forced body modification in Whump should be more popular, methinks.

Forcing Whumpee to get a tattoo, cutting or burning initials into their skin. Sharpening the canines of an “attack dog” Whumpee to make them look scarier. Giving them piercings they wouldn’t give themselves, or an ID tag to hang from their ear. Changing their hair color. Deciding what they wear, what they eat, how they speak, who they are.

[agentmarvel]

Hello hello!! I am so excited about your challenge (literally been thinking about what prompt I could do for dayyyyys now🤭)

Could I please do angst 💔 to fluff 🩷 (if I can’t do two I’m sorry, I’ll stick to fluff 🩷 pls), with my main squeeze Johnny "Soap" MacTavish 🧼, annnnnnd the buzz words being American reader, secret relationship, “stay away from her”

Thank you🤍🤍

thank you so much for requesting! 🥰 i'm so excited to FINALLY get one for soap! this ended up being WAAAAAAY longer than i intended, almost 2k.

johnny "soap" mactavish x fem!reader

cw: graves being gross

mdni - 18+; minors and ageless blogs will be blocked

Heartbreak is a special kind of beast, the Mr. Hyde to falling in love’s Dr. Jekyll. No matter how tough you think you are, how thick or calloused your skin may be, it tears its way out, rearing its ugly head with a thunderous roar that commands you to feed it. The gluttonous craving is grief. It gnaws at your bones with a bloodied maw, snarling as it downs your tears by the gallon, and there’s no proven way to set yourself free. It will sneak back up on you when you least expect it.

That gaping wound in your chest has sat hollow since you ended things with Johnny, or as you know him now, simply Sergeant MacTavish. It wasn’t pleasant, you didn’t want this, but he was too keen on keeping you a secret. He expressly forbade you from telling even your closest friends about your relationship for over three years for a slew of reasons that just became muddier over the months.

Each time you reached your limit, he’d beg you to raise your ceiling built of tolerance and patience. He swore up and down that it wouldn’t be like this forever, that someday, he’d put a ring on your finger, and you’d both be able to display your love to the entire world. But his rationale got weaker and weaker as the hourglass began to run out, and it crushed you into those final grains of sand, trickling through the tiny gap into a vicious pit of loneliness.

“You good?” A voice comes from over your shoulder, and you glance back. Commander Graves, your direct supervisor, is stationed behind you, a look of concern painted across his face.

You nod, albeit meekly, unable to trust your voice after hearing the call from General Shepherd. Shadows have been called in as air support for Task Force 141 in Mexico, and you haven’t seen Johnny - no, MacTavish - since the break-up. Oxygen catches in your chest, awaiting any sort of spark that will light the fuse on your dynamite tongue, and that’s not a conversation you really want to have with Graves.

“You know you don’t have to lie to me, right?” he says softly, putting a hand on your shoulder. You resist the urge to shrug it off, instead nodding again. “Listen, I know you’re still pretty new to my team, but you’re still part of my team. If something is going on, if something about this mission has you freaked out, you need to tell me. Can’t fix it if you won’t let me in.”

You smile, forced and small.

“I know, sir. I’m good, I promise. Just… Tired.”

He eyes you warily. The disbelief is evident, but he doesn’t press you on it. He merely offers a few oddly sincere pats on your shoulder and walks away. You let out a sigh, and focus in on your screen, a distraction to pass time until you touch down in Las Almas. 

It works almost too well. Seemingly, you’ve only blinked before you’re back in the air after gear checks, restocks, and a fuel top-off. Through the comms, you can hear Graves trying to make contact with the 141. You dread the moment you hear MacTavish’s voice again, but it crackles to life in your ear before you can truly brace yourself for it.

He sounds worn and tired, and a pang of guilt spears you in the gut for thinking he deserves it just a little. Some days, you hope he’s still hurting. You hope he’s felt even a fraction of the pain you have.

But those thoughts have no place in your line of work, not while you’re trying to help him stay alive. So your brain shuts off, autopilot kicks on, and you work as a cog in a well-oiled machine until the job is done.

*

Shadows always party after a win, no matter how small it may be. Despite having to release Hassan and it being well after midnight, the drinks came quickly at Fuerza Especiales headquarters.

You, however, couldn’t quite get into the partying mood. The inevitability of seeing him again filled your stomach with rocks, weighing you down. You mask the weight well, though. It’s not unusual for you to stick to the edge of the group; polite smiles, meaningless small talk, and high fives leaving your teammates none the wiser.

The moment you see Graves scanning the crowd of Shadows and Vaqueros, both parties equally rowdy, your heart drops. If he’s here, you know they won’t be far behind. It’s too much; you’re not ready for this. You’re not ready to be in the same city as him, much less the same room. Anxiety grips you at the thought of him even seeing you. You don’t know how he’ll react. What he’ll say, what he’ll do… You used to think his unpredictability was one of the best things about him. Now, you’re not so sure.

Graves beelines for you the second he spots you. You can see the bundles parting to accommodate his passing through. As much as your brain wills you to move, finish your drink and take off to grab another, you seem to be rooted in place. Your feet won’t move, and you silently curse them, not exactly up for a chat.

“Hey, you,” your commander hums, sidling up in front of you. “Glad to see you stuck around.”

“Was just about to leave, actually,” you answer plainly, staring down at the honeyed whiskey in your glass. He nudges you with the toe of his boot until you look up.

“It’s a good thing you didn’t.” It’s an attempt to sound earnest, but it comes off as more condescending than anything. “I was hoping we’d have some time to get to know each other a little better. You’re still pretty new, and I like to know my soldiers pretty intimately.”

You open your mouth to respond, off-put but polite, but words seem to elude you as you catch sight of a familiar mohawk. Even from this distance, you can still see just how blue his eyes are. You can still make out the Scottish brogue as he laughs with the man in the skull mask - Ghost, Simon, right?

It hurts. Every bone, muscle, vessel, nerve screams. Seeing him again, knowing he’s just out of reach and you have to stand your ground. No matter how much your being craves him - mind, body, and soul - you can’t. You just can’t. Your throat goes dry, heart racing, eyes welling up. And when he looks your way, looks you right in the eye, you crack. 

“Mind tellin’ me what’s got you so distracted, Shadow?” Graves asks softly, hand finding your shoulder again, like before. You shake your head, teary eyed, unwilling to look away from MacTavish as he makes his way towards you. “C’mon, darlin’, somethin’s gotta give.”

“I’m sorry, sir - “

“Phil. Just call me Phil, okay?”

You sigh, wiping the tears from your cheeks with the back of your hand.

“Okay, I… I’m sorry, Phil. I can’t really talk about it.”

“Business or personal?”

“Personal, sir. It’s complicated.”

He takes hold of your chin between his thumb and forefinger, a gentle warning to look at him. You struggle with it, but you relent, hoping that maybe you’re just hallucinating.

“Relationship troubles?”

You hesitate.

“No… I mean, yes, but no. Like I said, it’s complicated.”

“So, you’re not seein’ anyone?”

He pauses for a moment, the look in his eye shifting from something sincere and worried to something unnervingly predatory. A faint glimmer of that sincerity remains, and that’s all it takes to tell you it’s all been a charade. It’s not about welcoming you to his team or bonding. He’s trying to fuck you.

“No, I’m not, but - ”

“Then how about we take some time when we get home, clear those thoughts outta your pretty little brain, and we’ll make some memories to replace him.”

You recoil, taking a step back in the implication. It’s disgusting, to say the least. But you don’t get the chance to answer for yourself.

“Like fuckin’ hell ye will,” MacTavish barks, fighting tooth and nail to get through a stone wall in the form of Ghost and Alejandro. “Ye better stay the fuck away from her, Graves. Only gonna warn ye once.”

“Soap, I was wonderin’ when you were gonna try to swoop in and snatch her up. You can smell a pretty girl from a mile away, can’t ya? Too bad I beat you to it. Don’t pay him no mind, sweetheart; thinks he’s irresistible.”

“I swear tae God, Graves, ye better get yer bloody fuckin’ hands offa her. I’ll - Ghost, fuckin’ move!” He’s still struggling, Ghost’s brick shithouse body being the only thing in his way.

Graves raises an eyebrow, never looking away from you.

“Wait, you know him, don’t you?” You don’t answer straight away. “Is good ol’ Johnny what makes things complicated?”

Again, MacTavish butts in.

“Nothin’ complicated about it, ye fuckin’ bawbag. S’my fuckin’ wife!”

Everything stops. Graves goes quiet, Ghost’s stock-still, and you can’t hear the chatter around you anymore. You look at Johnny, wide-eyed and wired. He’s staring right at you with those bright blue eyes, a pleading expression on his beautiful face. You swallow hard.

“John,” you breathe, blinking back more tears.

“Don’t,” he warns, side-stepping the shellshocked Simon. “Dinnae say it. I love ye, and I ken ye still love me. No point in wastin’ yer time on a lavvy heid like Graves. I won’t keep secrets anymore, bonnie. Lemme show ye I’ll be better for ye.”

Graves looks between the two of you briefly before leaning over to whisper in your ear.

“When you two are done with whatever this is, come find me. I’ll make ya feel better.”

He chucks you under the chin with a click of his tongue before losing himself in the throngs. You didn’t even get the opportunity to tell him to go fuck himself.

Johnny is on you in a split second, inches away with your face cradled in his palms. He wholly consumes all of your senses, blocking out the rest of the world with the breadth of his shoulders, the smell of his aftershave. You’re frozen in place, trails of tears dripping off your cheeks.

“Can we please talk privately?” he asks softly. “Away from all this. Just us. I need ye tae hear me out, and ‘m not above beggin’, bon. Meant what I said; I love ye. Just wanna talk, okay? Please?”

You sigh. The options hold equal weight. But a soft swipe of his thumb across your cheek decides for you.

“Okay,” you whisper, nearly inaudible above the echoing din. He raises an eyebrow. You nod. “Yeah, okay. Can we just… step outside?”

“Ye got a bunk on base for the night? Let’s go grab yer things and talk there, yeah?”

“John, I can’t just leave. I still have a job to do.”

“Nah, yer done with this shite.” He shakes his head resolutely, moving to wrap both of his hands around one of yours. “I’ll call Shepherd myself if I have tae, tell ‘im yer takin’ immediate leave for an emergency. Not lettin’ ye get away again, bonnie. I ken I fucked it up, and I’ll spend the rest of my life makin’ it up tae ye.”

pick your prompt here! 💌

[put-me-on-a-hitlist]

I’ve seen several of these and now it has me excited so here’s my MHA DR intro :3

Personal information:

Names: Murasami Miyo (biological), Taiyō (prefered/villain alias)

Nickname: Sun

Gender: Transmasculine he/him

Age: 16 (01/02)

Nationality: Japanese/French

Family

- Father: Murasami (Shimura) Kazuya

- Mother: Murasami Mai (Mai Beausoleil)

- Sisters: Yōko and Miaka

- Brothers: Yagi Shikoko (Murasami Taeko) and Moshonora Kotai (soul brother)

- Cousin: Shigiraki Tomura (Shimura Tenko)

- Paternal grandmother: Shimura Nana

- Children (adopted) (not right off but about a year and a half in): Rin and Riku

Quirks

(Only Storage [and maybe venom I can’t remember tbh] are my own creation, the others I found on various websites for quirk ideas so all credits to them)

- Fuse:

Only natural born quirk, allows him to touch an object and after a set amount of time the object will explode/catch fire. The time is up to four hours. Only two fuses can be made at a time

- Glitch:

Allows him to control another persons bodily functions such as passing out and pain receptors as well as his own. With it, he can also glitch through walls, doors, floors, etc. similar to Mirio’s permeation. However, when used it causes severe pain both to the person being affected and the user. Stress and other strong emotions can also cause to accidentally glitch through things or just have his image glitch out.

- Storage:

Allows him to put and pull objects out of like another dimension (honestly don’t know how to describe this one I’m still ironing details out). The heavier the objects are that are in storage, the more stamina and energy it takes. They can stay the infinitely and can only be taken out forcefully when he passes out from quirk exhaustion.

- Venom:

Allows him to store all venoms, toxins, and poisons in his body when he consumes them. He still has side effects but it would take a lot more than the normal amount to kill him. He can then use them on someone else either through retractable fangs or secreting it from his skin.

- Black flame:

Allows him to produce and control black flames that he can determine the heat of and also make that they have a healing property instead of burning one.

(There are more but I’m terrible with coming up with and finding quirks I like so I just trust my subconscious to come up with more I like)

Partners

- Todoroki Touya (17)

- Takami Keigo (18)

(Both are aged down because for some reason my brain hates the idea of making myself an adult. Dunno why)

Backstory

Childhood friend of Takami Keigo. When they were five/six they were both picked up by the HPSC to join the Heroic Prodigy Program. A program to raise kids to become heroes. When he was there, he finally met the boy who he had already been set to marry in the future by his father: Todoroki Touya. Together the three of them lived several years with Prodigy. When he was eleven, his family was caught in a villain fight and they all died (they didn’t but they did have to pretend they did for reasons I will get into with Shikoko’s intro). Then Enji got to a point where he thought Sun was more of a problem than a help when he was 12. He hired some people from the underground to kill him however they only kidnapped him and claimed they killed him. There they were testing how well living bodies could handle having multiple quirks as research for All for One. Eventually they realized he wasn’t like the other people they had tested on (due to a genetic factor from his mothers quirk that I will go into more detail about when I make one of these for his brother/my other drself Shikoko) and they started to put energy into him as a backup for Tomura. After about a year, he escaped and found that Touya had died and Keigo was no where to be found and presumably dead as well. Then the Labs found him again and dragged him back. Two years later he escaped for good and was picked up off the streets by a man named Tashima who was friends of Giran and took him under his wing. When he realized Keigo was still alive, he decided against reaching out because it was safer for Keigo and it would only be selfish of him to do so. Several months later is when all plot really picks up and when I shift in the December before classes start at UA when he bumps into Dabi and reaches out to Keigo as Taiyō.

Stances

Taiyō does join the league of villains with Dabi for two reasons: 1. He still wants to get revenge on the hero system and Endeavour and it is almost a sure fire shot to get him to where he needs to be to do so. And 2. He realizes Tomura is his cousin. However, though he does join the League, I wouldn’t classify him as a villain. More of an anti-hero or a vigilante. He wants to tear down the hero system, sure, but because it’s corrupted from the inside out. He wants to tear it down to build it back up again and that not all heroes are bad but that a lot of them are. He doesn’t believe in unjustified murder or things the league does. In those cases, he refuses to partake. In disaster situations (such as after Jaku, in Kyushu, other big fights) Taiyō does his best to save anyone he can.

Canon vs. Shift

A lot of things are different mainly because I added so many new people, factors, backgrounds, and even a quirk on par with All for One and One for all (will elaborate more with Shikoko’s intro). And the Final War goes completely different with a third party fighting in it. At the end of the war, almost everyone survives and put on trial for their crimes. After a couple months of legal battles and a couple months of hospital stays where the league was psychologically evaluated, they were able to be free. After that, Taiyō, Touya and Keigo along with others begin the process of putting things back together.

Anyways, this is kind of the basics. I’ll probably do Shikoko’s soon. This is my main DR and it’s very personal to me. I may at some point do more details (such as the main plot, the prodigy program, etc.) it just depends if I’m comfortable and if anyone really wants to hear it. If anyone wants details about how people are in my DR that’s cool too. Anyways bye now :DD

[binomech]

“I have decided to take a calculated risk,” Søren says, “and ask you about this Dr. Gottlieb whom you curiously ignore for three hours of drinking but whom you decide that you need to message precisely and only in the midst of my very well-executed elevator seduction.”

“Ugh,” Newt says, dragging one hand over his face and kind of leaving it there because when one puts it like that, well, yikes. “Noooo I did not do that. I did not do that and I did not do it like that, nope. You are wrong. Totally wrong. No.”

“Poor Newt,” Søren says.

Newt shakes his head, one hand still over his eyes.

“You need not discuss it,” Søren says.

“No,” Newt says. “Yes,” Newt says. “Okay, no, fine. This is good. This will be great actually.” He drinks more of his disgusting vodka. “It’s not a complicated story.”

“I find this difficult to believe,” Søren says.

“Shut up. You’re wrong. It’s extremely straightforward. This is what happened. In 2013, after Trespasser did what Tresspasser did to San Francisco, I wrote to a whole bunch of physicists about the nature of the Breach. He wrote back right away. Dr. Hermann Gottlieb. I’d caught him on a terrible day, and it was a great letter. You know the kind. A great letter. It was amazing. He sends me a manuscript. Like—” Newt shakes his head, shutting his eyes, “a detailed, unpublished mathematical treatment synthesizing everything he’s pulled out of the publically available NOAA and USGS databases. I’m not sure if you understand—what that means. The implications. Unpublished. Unreviewed.”

“I do. Of course I do, you ass. I still work in academia, you know.”

“Okay, sorry. Sorry. It’s just—I was extremely impressed. Right out of the gate—total trust. He had total trust in me and my intentions. Total disclosure. Total respect for the conceptual foundation of my interest and the credibility of my credentials. It was weird.”

“Commendable,” Søren says, interested-listener style.

Newt is giving too much detail. This much detail is not required. He decides that he will skip two years of passionate correspondence, he will condense it down, he will contextualize and forget about that day in Manila, when he had sat with his back against destroyed wall, breathing through a respirator with a filter that kept clogging, trying to navigate through the golden haze of dust that blotted out the sun, soaked with sweat, exhausted, composing a letter to a mathematician who was freezing in Alaska, and learning how to torque his thoughts so some machine could fuse him to a person that would always understand him. Better than Newt would. Newt, who was half a world away dehydrating to death and trying to terrify a team of former academics into being careful enough that an already-dead kaiju wouldn’t kill them.

No, Søren does not need any of that. Neither does Newt. There was nothing special about any of it. Best to be accurate.

“We corresponded for several years,” Newt says, “and we arranged to meet. But when we met, it did not go well.”

“You had feelings for him,” Søren says. “Already. At the time of your meeting.”

“No,” Newt says reflexively.

“Newt,” Søren says.

“Okay, a little bit, yes, but I am very irritating and he has a low tolerance for anything even remotely akin to indecorousness, so, long story short, he most definitely wasn’t interested, and then I became less interested over time, and that’s the end of the story.”

“That story is pathetic,” Søren says, “it is not a story. If you don’t want to tell me, that is fine; I do not insist. But either tell me the salient details or do not tell me anything; I am extremely busy, I could be asking you about metaphysics right now.”

“True,” Newt says, drinking more Arctic Berry vodka. “Okay, sure. Saliency. I can render up some salience for you, Dr. Sen. It would be my pleasure. I am in a state of baseline upset post the death of a close friend and colleague. Consequently, my stupid brain is latching onto a broad array of misery subtypes and deciding to test them out. I tell it to stop, grow up, get a life, but it’s not listening to me. This is alarming another close friend and colleague with whom my relationship is significantly more complicated, because he’s arguably better filed under ‘failed romantic partner’ than ‘professional buddy.’ It gives everything a little bit of a weird vibe, because he cares more than he should and knows more than he should about my personal psychology, and so this tends to bother me, to irritate me, possibly to slightly upset me under circumstances such as these, where I’m constantly accidentally looking for a dead person at an unfamiliar coffee break, feeling nostalgic about being back in the city where Dr. Gottlieb and I totally tanked any potential relationship, and, oh, you know, doing my best to kill a diversion of funding that’s going to have the end effect of screwing our entire species straight into extinction in, oh, I don’t know, the four-to-seven year range.”

Out of Many Scattered Things by cleanwhiteroom