#Waylon came to say sorry and left confused out of his mind.

[dcxdpdabbles]

Passion for Fashion Part 4

A loud ding-dong echoes through the house. Danny sits up from where he was lying, inches from a radio playing falling water.

He found it in the garbage a few days after the whole kidnapping of Fiesco- the police got all the models to safety while the Bats were able to rescue Tim Drake, but the primary muscle, some guy named Waylon, got away. - but the station it could pick up was a natural sound effects station.

Danny had been tinkering with it, trying to figure out how to get it to connect to the local radio mostly successfully for days now. He leaned back to look past the randomly hung clothes that Dan had been stringing across their house.

Fabrics still littered the place, and it's become less of a home and more of a fabric storage.

Danny has forgotten the color of the walls, so used to just seeing clothes everywhere. It was a bit embarrassing to be so messy but it's not like they had guests in this dimension.

Which meant the door ringing even stranger.

Ding Dong.

"Dan?"

His counterpart grunts from somewhere behind the blue and green fabrics. "What?"

"Nothing," Danny calls back, side-stepping fabrics and pushing aside some mannequins. Who was on the other side of the door if Dan was in the living room turned studio?

Ding Dong.

They should really think about installing some cameras or even a peephole. Danny hesitates for only a moment before he carefully turns the knob and opens the door slightly, only enough so his eye can see through the crack.

An EverBurning Lizardman stands on his doorstep. That's....not confusing at all. Maybe the ghost was sent by Clockwork? Oh, perhaps the time Ghost was sending them back up?

"Hello?" Danny asks, swinging it open. "Can I help you?"

The Lizardman squints at him. "Dan Fenton?"

"No. I'm Danny Fenton. Dan is my twin brother."

"Right. I'm Killer Croc," The EverBurning says, straightening out his back to tower over Danny in what he thinks is supposed to be menacing. To Danny, it just looks like someone standing to attention, a lot of the ghosts do that when he is crowed.

"Nice to meet you, Killer. Cool jean jacket by the way." Danny responds. He crosses his arms and leans on the doorframe, tilting his head like a bird. Killer Croc seems taken aback by his nonchalant mannerism. "Do you want me to get Dan?"

The EverBruning lips pull back, showcasing all of his teeth. Danny is impressed by how sharp and white they are. He must use a whiting paste. He'll have to ask for the secret later. A model needed a pearl-white smile, after all. "I would like to speak to you both."

Danny considered the request before nodding his chin to his house. "Come on in. Sorry about the mess; we weren't expecting guests."

As the significant being of rippling scales and muscles made its way inside, Danny shut the door and held out his hand towards Killer.

The Lizardman blinked down at him. "What?"

"Can I take your coat?" Danny asked, so used to offering guests back at home that he forgot big city folk may not do that.

Killer's eyes narrowed. "No."

"Alright." Accepting the denial Danny rocked on his heels, pushing a large indego piece of fabric out of his face. It reveals the slight path to the kitchen. "Can I offer you something to drink? Tea, water, soda....heated ectoplasm?"

"...Water is fine." Killer settles on staring at Danny like he is the most fascinating thing he's ever seen. Not surprising. Those from the Elemenal Sector of the Infinite Releams don't see human-shaped beings often. He had plenty of young Yeti children surround him when he visited because they had never seen someone who looked like Danny before.

"Hot or Cold?"

"....Cold."

Huh. An EverBurning who did not take their water boiling? Danny would ask him about it, but he didn't want to seem like he was playing into stereotypes.

"I'll bring it out in a minute. Please make yourself at home." Danny gestures to a corner of the room. "I think the couch is somewhere in that direction. "

He doesn't wait for the Lizardman to reply instead he turns to the last place he heard his counterpart shout. "Dan! Come out here, you have a visitor!"

"No! Tell whoever they are to piss off." Dan screams back. Danny's face twitches. He hates that guy so much sometimes.

"Don't be rude! Come out here!"

Dan makes a loud obnoxious sigh, pushing the fabrics out of his way. He's still wearing the same pair of sweatpants and stain t-shirt grey oversized shirt. His hair has obviously not been comb and there are slight bags under his eyes from where he refused to get some sleep the last few days.

In short, he looks like a right mess.

"Who the hell is even bothering us..." Dan's voice trails off, face paling when he sees Killer uncomfortably trying to sit. Dan glances down at his body and then screams in mortification, warping his arms around himself. He sprints further into the house before they can get a word in. "Don't look at me! I have to get dressed! I normally look hot, I swear!"

Danny blinks. "Well....I'll get you that water while Dan gets dressed."

Killer looks far more confused than before. "Sure, kid."

Now, Danny has always been an alley of the FarFrozen. Not only was FrostBite his doctor, his ice mentor, and his general instructor for the Infinite Realms, but he was also his friend.

Nearly as close as Sam and Tucker- FrostBite had become someone he sought companionship with, which went for all of FarFrozen. Danny spent more time in the winter wonderland than in his home. This meant he knew all about their rivals- the EverBurning.

The EverBurning were a tribe of Lizardmen in hot volcanic lands to the south of the FarFrozen. They were very similar to the FarFrozen in culture and civilization, with a bit more emphasis on arts than science.

Although they were polar opposites, FarFrozen and EverBurning had no abysmal relationship. Their meet-ups reminded Danny of rival high school sports teams at most.

Danny was just an alley to the FarFrozen first.

When he returned to the living room, he arrived with Killer looking highly uncomfortable as Dan sat awful close to him now dressed a looking....well looking like what the locals called "E-Boy" sexy.

Not to be confused with Goth. Danny didn't know what the difference was, but Dan almost bit his head off the last time he pointed it out. Apparently, the fashions were completely different.

"So, Papi. why were you looking for me?" Dan all but purs. Killer shudders and quickly stands up, causing Dan to fall onto the couch cushions.

"I came here to apologize." The Lizardman starts but is cut off by his slight jump as Danny appears at his elbow, holding out the tray. He needs to remember to make noise when he moves.

"Apologize for what?" Danny asks, observing his guest take the glass cup in a scaly hand. He seemed to do so carefully, but surprisingly not uncurling his claws away- does he not know how?

"For almost trafficking you. I ugh...I sell drugs, not people. I wasn't aware those idiots were doing that when I accepted the job to kidnap Tim Drake for a few hours. I have to eat somehow, you know?" Killer shrugs at the twin stare of surprise. "I'm an ugly son of bitch, but I'm not much of a monster."

"Papi, you are gorgeous-" Dan starts, placing one hand behind the couch seat and giving a flirtatious little smirk up at the Lizardman, but Killer cuts him off.

"Okay, seriously, kid you're starting to freak me out. Not that I'm not flattered. You're the first and only one ever interested in me, but I'm twenty-eight. You're way too young for me."

Dan frowns in confusion. "I'm twenty-six. Two years isn't that much of a difference."

Killer gestures at him. "You are fifteen at the least, kid."

Dan's face ripples through various emotions before he leans back and stares at his hands as if seeing them for the first time. He whispers to them in a hushed tone of angst. "I'm seventeen."

Right.

Danny clears his throat. "It's alright, Killer. We weren't sold, and neither were any of the other models. So, no harm was done. Apology accepted."

Killer Croc seems more thrown off balance than when Danny first opens the door. Poor guy. It must have been the ice water. Danny shouldn't have made it that cold. "Just like that?"

"Just like-"

Someone breaks through his living room window. The Fentons let out cries of surprise as Killer quickly grabbed them both and rolled the ground, using his large body to shield them from the shattering glass. The intruder was likely unaware of the strung-up fabrics, for they stumble into the tied strings and quickly become entangled.

They fall to the ground in heap as the strong wire wraps around them. Danny knew he shouldn't have allowed Dan to use metal wire for his heavier pieces- especially one that taught, but Dan had been so persuasive.

(He put them up anyway, and Danny was too lazy to take them down)

"Ah man, I liked that window," Danny whines as he peaks over Killer's shoulder.

"We have windows?"

"Killer Croc! Unhand the hostages!" The person on the ground screams, shimmering around until the clothes fall away, and Danny finally gets a good look at some guy in a red and black costume?

Dan points at the stranger "Who is that-"

"Red Robin" Killer all but snares, suddenly far more violent than usual. Dan takes one look at the EverBurning before he, too, is standing at the ready for a fight- it makes his outfit look really out of place, but Danny can't say much when he's still in his own sweats.

Maybe he should have changed too?

"Should we kill him?" Dan asks, and Red Robin stops, seemingly shocked that the fashion designer would ever suggest that.

"Woah woah woah," Danny says, stepping between the two groups. He has his hands up attempting to appease the ghosts first- for all Dan looked and had been human, he spent far more years as a full-time ghost so he was more ghost than human.

Killer claws have sharpened, and he just knows it's going to be a pain and a half to get them to stop. Thinking quickly, Danny crouched down to place a kiss on the frozen- no pun intended- human on the cheek. "There is no need for a fight. I asked him out on a date and sort of forgot what time he was picking me up."

Killer stared at him like he had grown a second head, but Dan dropped his raised fists. "Oh yeah? Have fun on your date brat."

"Thanks, Dan."

He hurled Red Robin to his feet and practically pushed him out into the street before the other could get his wits about him. Once they were safely out of Dan's hearing range, Danny crossed his arms, raising an unimpressed brow to the dressed-up stranger.

"Alright, who are you supposed to be, and why did you break through my window?"

"I-"

"Danny!" Dan shouts from the broken window. He waves around a duffle bag that he quickly throws at the confused teenager. "You can go on a date dress like that! I have a reputation as a fashion designer to keep. Put that on!"

Danny rolls his eyes, turning back to the other teenager- is he a teenager? Danny can't really tell with the mask but he sort of looks like it. "Do you mind waiting for me to get ready? I'll pay for pizza."

"W-wait what-no I'm here to rescue-are you serious about the date?"

"Yeah, why not? I dated a dead biker before and his crazy girlfriend. Sides, you're pretty cute."

"Are you aware that Killer Croc is in your house?"

"Killer? Yeah, my brother is trying to seduce him."

"......why?" Red Robin whispered in horror, "Why would he do that?"

"Why does Dan do anything?" Danny grins with a shrug. "I get it, though; Killer is a good-looking EverBurning."

"EverBurning?"

"A tribe in the Infinite Realms."

There is a spark of recognition in Red Robin's body language. Now, why does this stranger know about Danny's kingdom?

Red Robin's mouth opens and closes before slowly reaching up and pressing his ear. Danny realizes only after a moment that he's using a communicator as the other says, "I'm going offline for a bit. Got a date with someone from Constitine's Infinite Realms."

Hmmm, does that sound like a problem Danny should be dealking with? Nah, as long as Red Robin's not connected to Batman, he should be fine.

(Meanwhile, Dan is pouting as Waylon slips out the back door once again regretting his offer of going on their own date. Just his luck Clockwork's little twin idea is going to make dating a nightmare. There went the best tail he's ever seen)

Master Post Link

#dcxdpdabbles #dc x dp crossover #Fashion for Passion #Part 4 #Onesided Dan/Waylon #Dead tired #Danny is sort of rolling with things #Waylon came to say sorry and left confused out of his mind. #He likely thinks he was drugged #The bats are in fact screaming to NOT GO ON THAT DATE TIM OMF

[hearts-hunger]

them old love songs || frankie morales x reader

Read on AO3 | Masterlist

Summary: Frankie takes you on an early-morning drive and shows you just how much he loves you.

Pairings: Frankie “Catfish” Morales x Wife!Reader

Genre: Fluff, smut | Word Count: 4.3k 

Warnings: fingering, unprotected sex, semi-public sex, mention of PTSD

A/N: This is just my domestic yearning to be Frankie’s wife and give him some good lovin’ in the early morning while we listen to old honky tonk music. Very soft married smut. I hope you like it! ♡

You woke to an empty bed.

Propping yourself up on your elbow, you ran a hand over Frankie’s side of the bed and found it was cold. No wonder you’d woken up - Frankie was a furnace when he slept, and you were missing his warmth. You noticed that he’d taken the throw blanket from the foot of the bed and laid it out over you when he got up to make up for the loss of his warmth, and you smiled to yourself. Small acts of kindness like that came as easy as breathing to Frankie.

You glanced at the clock; the red numbers showed it was just shy of five in the morning. You tried to remember if Frankie had said he was going in early to the shop - some mornings, when he had paperwork to catch up on, he liked to go in before Catfish Auto opened and have the shop all to himself. He’d worked hard after Colombia to open up his own shop, and he was more at peace with his work than you’d ever known him to be. He had a steady income, work that he enjoyed and was very good at, and he got to come home in time for dinner every day. His handful of employees were loyal and hardworking, and Frankie was a good boss; he knew what it was like to be away from your family, and created a work environment that allowed his mechanics to make decent money and prioritize their families.

When Frankie came home to you in the evenings, he was tired in a good way, happy to be home and able to unwind in a way he hadn’t when he was in the Army. He helped you make dinner and sang while he did; he curled up with you on the couch and read books aloud to you, most recently To Kill a Mockingbird. He slept soundly, with few nightmares, holding you close until he kissed you goodbye in the mornings to head to work. To anyone else, it might have been boring; to you, it was a greater blessing than you could have hoped for. Your husband was happy, finally, and you loved watching him settle into his newfound peace.

He still wrestled with his PTSD, and he would for the rest of his life, but you weren’t going anywhere. Frankie knew that, and he knew he could lean on you when it got bad. He had Santi and Will and Benny too, and the five of you had become a tight-knit group. 

You were supposed to go over to Santi’s for dinner tonight. As you got out of bed and wrapped the throw blanket around your shoulders like a cape, you thought that might be why Frankie had decided to go in early, so he could get off a little earlier. You followed the aroma of coffee and expected to see him in the kitchen, but the lights were off except for the warm bulb above the stove.

You frowned. He never left without saying goodbye, and he wasn’t anywhere in the house. You pulled the cheery floral curtain back from one of the living room windows and peeked out, trying to see if he’d left already.

He was hard to see in the predawn darkness, but you saw with a bit of relief that he was leaned up against the hood of his truck, coffee mug in hand. You let the curtain fall back and opened the front door, wrapping your blanket closer around you as the cool morning air breezed in.

“Frankie?” you called, keeping your voice quiet for your neighbors' sake.

You heard the truck groan a little as he pushed off of it. “Right here, honey. You alright?”

You closed the door behind you and padded over to him, wanting his warmth; he collected you in a tight hug and ran his free hand over your back.

“Hi,” you said, resting your chin on his chest and smiling up at him.

He chuckled and kissed your forehead. “Hi. You’re up early.”

You snuggled closer to him and buried your face against his chest. “I got cold without you. I thought you left.”

“And go to work without my morning kisses? No way.” He took a sip of his coffee. “The weather’s so nice, I wanted to have my coffee outside. Sorry you got cold, honey.”

“It’s ok,” you said, your voice muffled by his shirt. “I’m not cold any more.”

He absently rubbed his fingers over the places he knew you held tension, and you melted against him. He smelled like Old Spice and Gain, comforting and homey; you traced your fingers over the Catfish Auto logo stitched into the breast of his shirt.

“You’re going in early?” you asked.

He shrugged. “Probably. I was going to, so I could duck out early for Santi’s tonight.”

You pulled back to see his face. He kept his arm around you, and you took one hand out from under your blanket to loop your fingers around his belt.

“You’re not now?” you asked.

He smiled down at you, the fading moon just bright enough to let you make out his soft features.

“Maybe,” he said. “I like spending my morning with you, Mrs. Morales. I might hang around if you’re staying awake.”

You closed your eyes when he kissed you, all soft touches and tenderness. If you’d thought of going back to bed, you forgot all about it as his kiss warmed you clear to your toes.

You gave him a dreamy smile when you came up for air. “I’ll stay up if you keep kissing me like that.”

He chuckled and ran his thumb over your bottom lip. “I’ll make you a deal. If you go on a ride with me, I’ll kiss you as long as you want.”

Your brow crinkled in confusion. “A ride? To where?”

He gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Anywhere. Wherever. Let’s go get breakfast or something.”

You considered that. Frankie loved to drive, be it on a cross-country road trip or down the street to the grocery store. His happy place was driving his beloved old Ford with the windows down, an old rock ‘n roll or honky-tonk song playing, one hand on the wheel and one on your thigh. You’d spent countless hours when you were dating just driving, to nowhere in particular, until Frankie couldn’t stand to keep from kissing you any longer and pulled off to slide you across the seat and into his arms.

You smiled at the memory of a much younger Frankie on the night before he’d left for basic training. He was nervous and brimming with excitement, and he couldn’t keep his hands off of you. He asked you to marry him that night, even though he didn’t have a ring and was about to be gone for months. You said yes, and the first time he came home, he’d had a ring to put on your finger.

You felt his ring as he brushed his knuckles against your cheek.

“What are you smiling at?” he asked affectionately.

You leaned into his touch. “Just thinking about the night before you left for basic. I thought you drove me out to the middle of nowhere to have your way with me, and you proposed to me instead.”

He grinned. “If I remember correctly, I did end up having my way with you too.”

So he had, and the memory built a flicker of desire in you even now. You tugged on the lapel of his jacket and brought him down to kiss you, fanning that flicker into a warm, comforting flame.

“I’ll go on a drive with you,” you said against his mouth. “If you have your way with me.”

You felt his smile. “It would be my pleasure, Mrs. Morales. Let me go get my keys.”

You followed him inside and took a moment to freshen up, brushing your teeth and making your hair less of a mess. Frankie loved you any which way, just rolled out of bed or all dolled up, but you wanted to be a little bit more put together for him if you could.

You saw he’d fixed you a cup of coffee and grabbed a few blankets and pillows. Taking your coffee with a quick kiss to thank him, you raised your brow at the bedding he had tucked under his arm.

“What are those for?” you asked. You’d assumed you were going the classic cramped, back seat route when it came to your early morning lovers’ tryst.

He tapped your nose. “How about you mind your business, nosy?”

You smiled, content to let him go through with whatever plans he had. Frankie was nothing if not attentive in his romancing, and he’d been that way from your very first date.

To make room for the pillows and blankets, you sidled up next to Frankie and leaned your head on his shoulder as he cranked the truck. You didn’t need the heat on; Frankie radiated warmth, and his hand on your thigh kept a different kind of warmth running through you. You cradled your coffee in one hand and turned on the tape player to see what he’d been listening to.

“It’s Waylon Jennings,” Frankie said. “You can change it if you want.”

You let it play, the strains of honky-tonk drawl mixing with the cool morning breeze coming through the open windows. You and Frankie had very similar tastes in music, and the tapes he kept in his truck had been there for as long as you’d known him; almost every track had a memory tied to it, some of them sad, most of them happy and comforting. You rested your arm on his shoulder and brushed your fingers through the curls that stuck out from under his baseball cap.

You studied his profile as he drove down the near-empty roads, each of his features very dear and beautiful to you: the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, the kiss-sized patch in his scruff, the slope of his Roman nose.

“Are we almost there?” you asked. You didn’t know if he even had a place in mind, but you were impatient to touch him, to shower his face with kisses. He gave you a smile that told you he was just as impatient for you, and you almost blushed.

You did blush when you saw where he’d taken you: a spot off the beaten path under the shelter of huge oak trees, well known for being a place young lovers went sparking. You were the only ones there at that hour, and a thrill of excitement and giddy nervousness went through you like you were a teenager. 

“This ok?” Frankie asked as he put the truck in park, waiting to turn off the ignition.

You grinned up at him. “We’re not too old for this, are we?”

He smiled. “We’re too old to come out here late at night,” he said. “Now that I’m a regular working man, you know I like to be in bed at a decent hour.”

“I know,” you said affectionately. You pushed his hat back a little to brush your fingers through his curls. “Kiss your woman, Mr. Morales.”

He did as you said, responding to your touch and your words with a gentle eagerness that made you smile. He took your coffee from you and set it in the cup holder, freeing up your hands to drape over his shoulders as he took you in a bear hug and kissed you soundly.

You loved it when he held you. You’d always thought Frankie would be good at giving hugs, and the first time he took you in his arms, you’d felt more at home than you had anywhere else. His love language was physical touch, and whether he was showing you how much he loved you or needed some comforting, he’d bury his face against your shoulder and hold you close to him like he couldn’t bear to let you go.

You kissed his cheek, his jaw, the bridge of his nose. “I love you, Frankie.”

He held you closer. “I love you too.”

After a minute, he finally pulled away. You didn’t want him to go, and pulled him back - he obliged you with another long kiss before he disentangled himself from your embrace.

“I’ll be right back, honey,” he said with a smile. “Sit tight.”

You reluctantly let him go. He turned the truck off but left the music on, reaching over you to grab the pillows and blankets. You watched through the back window as he made a cosy pallet in the bed of his truck, smiling at his attention to detail in smoothing out the wrinkles as best he could.

“Your honeymoon suite, my lady,” he said when he came back around, offering you his hand in a gallant gesture. You giggled and took his hand as he led you to the back of the truck; he picked you up by the waist and sat you on the tailgate, standing between your knees to kiss you.

“I sure do love you, Mrs. Morales,” he said, cradling your face in his hands. His thumbs brushed over your temples. “You know that, don’t you?”

You smiled. “Yeah, I know.” As if you could be unaware of the great gentleness and patience and kindness of his love, the depth of his devotion to you. “I sure do love you too.”

You kissed for a long while, long enough for the birds to start singing their morning arias as you fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. His hands found their way under your shirt, cupping your breasts in his big palms, his ministrations gentle and wanting.

“Get up there,” he said breathlessly, nodding behind you. You did as he said, leaning on your hands so you could watch him make quick work of his shirt, undershirt, and work boots. He took his cap off and tossed it heedlessly, his expression dark with desire and love as he climbed up into the bed of the truck with you.

“Beautiful,” he said, hovering over you. You laid back on the pillows, thankful he’d thought to bring them, and let yourself relax against him as he kissed all over your face and down your neck.

“Frankie,” you breathed, tilting your head back to give him better access to your jaw. His scruff rasped against your skin, and you drove your fingers through his thick curls.

He hummed at his name. “What is it, querida? ”

You kissed him again. “Let me take my shirt off.”

He pulled back and gave you just enough space for you to pull your shirt over your head. He grabbed the big quilt he’d taken from your bed and draped it over both of you, his touch less teasing for the moment and more intended to warm you up. While his hands roamed, he pressed kisses against your skin, between your breasts and all over your stomach. You shivered, but it wasn’t from the cool air.

“Alright, sweetheart?” he asked. “Warm enough?”

You nodded. Between Frankie’s warmth and his fingers tracing over the waistband of your pajama bottoms, it could have been below zero and you wouldn’t have cared.

“Let me take your shorts off, honey,” he said gently. You lifted your hips so he could tug off every last scrap of fabric you had on you, leaving you vulnerable and needy under him.

“I love you so much,” he said, almost reverently. “Hermosa, mi amor.”

He kissed you for a while, worshiping you with his hands, praising you for your beauty, your loveliness. Both of you laughed as he tried to get his jeans off, wrestling with his belt and the sturdy denim; once they were off he eased himself down next to you, tucking you close to his chest. You traced your fingers over the familiar planes of his body, each dip and swell like a map to a treasure only you had the privilege of knowing. You pressed kisses to his old army scars and paid special attention to the thin white scar on his cheek he’d gotten in Colombia.

“You’re beautiful,” you said, kissing the spot on his jaw where his beard stubbornly refused to grow. His cheeks pinked a little, warm against your skin.

“Thank you for spending your morning with me,” he said. He ran his hand down your thigh, gently drawing your leg to rest over his. “Eres el amor de mi vida, cariño.”

You sighed against his mouth as his fingers dipped into your heat. “You’re the love of my life too, Frankie.”

He kissed you and nuzzled against you as he drew circles between your legs, easing one finger into you, then two. He drew you out with tenderness and skill, capturing the breathless moans tumbling from your mouth as he kissed you deeply. You carded your hands through his hair, rocking against his hand, giving little whines as you neared your orgasm.

“Love to hear you like this, querida,” he murmured against your skin. “So beautiful for me.”

“'M close,” you sighed, the sound catching a little as he crooked his fingers inside you. “Frankie, please.”

You pressed close to him as he tipped you over the edge, pleasure washing over you with a comforting, languid satisfaction. Frankie was very good when he did you quickly, every movement decisive and strong, but he was downright talented at slow lovemaking, drawing you to orgasm like it was an act of worship. He groaned a little as you moaned and tightened around his fingers, enjoying your pleasure as much as you did. He cradled you close as you came down from your high, pressing kisses everywhere he could reach.

“I want to be inside you, amor,” he said, sucking love marks into the base of your neck. “Take me inside you, please.”

You moved to lay on your back and pulled him with you, his skin pressed against yours, running your hands over the muscles of his back. He hovered over you again, rolling his hips against yours, humming along to the soft song that spilled from the radio.

“Wish I had me a true fine woman,” he sang as he nuzzled your jaw. “Let her rock me all night long. Baby we could get it together, like people do in them old love songs.”

You smiled at the sound of his voice, warm and soft and comforting. You loved it when he sang to you; he did it all the time, when he danced you around the kitchen or when he washed your hair for you in the shower or when he made love to you.

You pushed his boxers down, taking your time in running your fingers over his waist, his hip bones, the softness of his tummy. He buried his face in your neck and laughed a little; he was very ticklish, and you beamed at the sound of his laughter.

“I love you,” you said, pressing your cheek to his.

He pulled back to look at you, laugh lines crinkling by his eyes, bumping your noses together. “I love you too, pretty lady.” 

He kissed you and settled between your legs; he eased himself into you, steady and sure until you were completely joined. He held you there for a moment, both of you basking in the feel of each other.

“Oh, Frankie,” you sighed when he started to move. You raised your hips to meet him, finding that familiar rhythm of your bodies together, pleasure rolling over you in waves with every press of his hips against yours. You held onto him with one hand and ran your fingers through his curls with the other, telling him how good he was, how much you loved him.

He groaned and sighed against your neck, and the sounds of his pleasure unraveled you completely. It was always like this with Frankie, both of you falling to pieces with each other, mending each other with every kiss and touch and movement. You held him close to you, feeling complete with him inside you, like he was the missing piece in the jigsaw of your heart. 

“I love you, I love you,” he said, over and over, and you felt yourself tighten around him, drawing him close as you neared the crest of the wave building through your whole body.

“Baby, please,” he gasped, the roll of his hips needy and desperate. “I need you, I need - God, querida, you’re so good, so good for me.”

You held him tight enough to leave bruises as his praise brought you over the edge, moaning and tightening around him as your orgasm crashed over you. He followed quickly, praising you through it, kissing you even though both of you were breathless.

He lay close to you as both of you settled, resting his head on your chest, running his fingers over your hip. You brushed your hand through his hair, gently untangling his soft curls as you rested in the feel of him. Dawn was peeking through the hazy blue of early morning, pinking the sky and waking the rest of the rest of the birds that flitted to and fro in the branches above you.

“‘M gonna fall asleep,” Frankie mumbled after a while.

You moved your hand down his neck and across his shoulders, scratching lightly. “That’s ok, honey.”

He chuckled and snuggled closer to you. “You want me to take a nap out here with you with no clothes on?”

You smiled. “Okay, maybe not. But we can go home and lay down if you want.”

You knew he wouldn’t take you up on the offer; he was a morning person, and once he was up, he was up. You’d probably go back to bed for a few hours once you got home, or else take a while to actually be up and a productive member of society, but Frankie wouldn’t mind. He often said he liked you all sleepy and soft in the mornings, even if you were a little grumpy before he put a cup of coffee in your hands.

Like you’d expected him to, Frankie gave you one last squeeze before he sat up and started getting dressed. You splayed your fingers over his back, a parting touch to the sun-kissed skin that got covered by his undershirt and then his work shirt.

“Can you grab my clothes?” you asked, sitting up and holding the quilt to your chest. He rifled through the blankets until he found your pajamas, and stopped with his hand halfway stretched out to you when he turned to give them to you.

You blushed. “What?” He was studying you awfully hard, like a puzzle he couldn’t quite figure out.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just...” 

He shook his head, his expression softening with a smile. “You’re gorgeous. I don’t tell you that enough.”

You tucked your hair behind your ear. That was categorically untrue, as Frankie told you every single day how beautiful you were. It never failed to make you blush and feel butterflies like it had the first time he’d said it, and you gave him a slightly wobbly smile.

“Thank you,” you said. 

He grinned at you like you were the dearest thing in the world to him.

“You sure are pretty when you blush, Mrs. Morales,” he said. He gently tweaked your cheek and kissed you; when you gave a little huff of protest at getting just one kiss, he laughed.

“Get dressed and I’ll give you some more kisses, honey.”

You did as he said and helped him gather up the blankets and put them back in the cab. You stole his ball cap and put it on your head, turning to him with a grin for his approval; he tapped the brim and said you looked better in it than he ever had. 

True to his word, it took him much longer than it should have to get the truck cranked and on the road because he paused to give you as many kisses as you wanted. He put his arm over your shoulders and drew you close, one hand draped over the steering wheel with that effortless cool that drove you wild when you were younger and made you smile now that you knew how much of a goofball your husband really was.

You kissed his cheek and put his hat back on his head, where it belonged. “I love you, Francisco.”

His expression crinkled in a confused smile. “Francisco?” he repeated. You hardly ever called him that.

“Yeah,” you said, grinning up at him. The first rays of sunshine caught in his hair, bringing out a honey golden color to his curls. “Or... how do you say ‘catfish’ in Spanish?”

He winced. “Bagre. But don’t call me that. Santi thought it was the gold standard of comedy for a few weeks in basic.”

You laughed. “Oh, I definitely will now, especially since Santi started it.” You softened and patted his chest.

“Frankie, then,” you said. “My Frankie.” 

You touched your fingers to your lips, then to his. “I love you, Frankie Morales. I’m really glad I’m your wife.”

His smile was a little bashful. “Aw, honey.” He stole a kiss, quick and sweet.

“I’m really glad I’m your husband,” he said. “I love you too.”

You cuddled close to him, resting against his solid warmth as the sun spread pink and gold over the sky to welcome a new day. With the music playing softly, the windows down, and Frankie beside you, you couldn’t think of any place you’d rather be.

pedro pascal character taglist: @punkgeekcryptid​​​​, @tv-saved-the-teenage-girl​​​​, @stardust-galaxies​​​, @theorganasolo​​​​, @qhbr2013​​​​ ♡

let me know if you’d like to be added! ♡

#i hope you guys like it :) i think it's pretty cute <3 #frankie morales x reader #catfish morales x reader #frankie catfish morales #francisco morales #frankie morales fluff #frankie morales smut #maddie writes stuff! #clan dinui #usercaty

[seashellwriter]

A Charming Obsession Ch. 2

Tap, tap, tap.

Nimble fingers flash across keyboard keys, dull, blue eyes glued onto a brightly lit screen. One of Waylon's legs bounces up and down in a nervous tick, his laptop lighting up his face in the inky blackness of his study. His eyes dart across the screen, rereading his email to the detective assigned to his case, before sending it with a tap on the enter key. In the back of his mind, he's unsure if he even should contact him, not knowing if the police will let him help out on finding the murderer of his wife, or his kids. But, he can't just... Sit here and do nothing... He can't... Not when...

Not when the ones who killed his wife and kids are out there, free.

Why did Lisa have to die? Why did his boys have to die?

Was it because... He went out to a bar when he should've apologized to Lisa instead? Was it because he should've watched the boys more carefully, instead of going to the restroom and leaving them out as perfect pickings for a deranged lunatic?

A lump is forming in his throat as he grits his teeth, slapping his face into the palms of his hands before scrubbing at his sore eyes.

If he came home sooner... If he only watched the kids and ensured their safety... They'd still be alive, wouldn't they?  

He chokes out a sob, shuddering breaths escaping him as tears spill out from his eyes and wet his hands. Each cry that escapes him wracks his form, a deep gloom pressing against his ribcage almost painfully.

Lisa and his kids didn’t deserve to die… to be murdered… To be carelessly printed across headlines depicting their gruesome deaths.  

God he swore... If he ever found the murderer of his wife, or the murderer of his kids... He'd... He'd-  

Do what?

Could he really hurt someone?

Loud, clear knocks on his front door startle him out of his grief, making him whip his head around to look over his shoulder into the dark. He's hesitantly standing up from his computer chair, wiping at his red, puffy eyes, and wondering who in their right mind would be visiting him at... A glance at the digital clock on his laptop tells him it's midnight. His bare feet slap against the cool, wooden floor as he walks warily to the front door, grateful that the owner of the apartment complex let him move into a new room, otherwise he'd be walking by where he found... He's taking a deep breath, fumbling with the lock on the knob.

'What if it's Lisa's murderer?'

The sudden thought has his hands freezing in midair, before he shakes his head roughly to knock some sense back into himself.

'I need to stop scaring myself like that... It's probably just the police wanting to question me again, or even a harmless late-night doorbell ditcher. I'm just being paranoid.'

'I'm just being fucking paranoid.'

Despite these reassuring thoughts, it takes him a moment to gather up enough courage to crack open the door, tensing up and swallowing thickly. He's puzzled to find not a single soul outside, swinging the door open fully before turning his head left and right, only to see the empty, gray walkway, lined with railing and lit up by a row of dim lights, casting menacing shadows over numbered doors. When he boldly takes a step forward out and is about to confirm that yes, his theory about a late-night doorbell ditcher is correct, his foot crunches against something smooth. His gaze turns down and lands onto a white envelope, along with a bouquet of vibrant, red roses.  

"Huh?" His eyes widen in surprise, his brow furrowing in confusion.

Is this some kind of joke? Maybe someone got the wrong apartment.

He plucks the envelope off of the door mat, smoothing it out with his fingertips before turning it over to see if there's any sign to who it's really for. 'To my darling Waylon' is written neatly on the back in black ink, written in a familiar cursive that he's sworn he's seen before.  

It... Really is for him.

Eyes.... It suddenly feels as if there's eyes on him, sharp and watching his every move, pinning him like a helpless bug. A chill runs up his spine, goosebumps prickling up his arms and legs. He quickly snatches the flowers up before turning on his heel and slamming the door closed behind him, locking everything back up in a flash.

'Fuck, fuck calm down...'

He's taking in shaky breaths, his hands trembling more from fear than from the cold outside.

This is ridiculous, there's no reason to be scared... He's acting like a child...

But, why would someone leave roses and a letter on his doorstep in the middle of the night?

It's probably someone fucking with him, maybe they thought it'd be funny to scare him, they're probably laughing their ass off from how easily he got spooked and rushed back inside.  

But... How do they know his name?

He gingerly sets the roses down onto the island in the kitchen, before his blunt nails dig into the sealed crease of the envelope, ripping it open. Dread is curling around in his gut as he lifts out the nicely folded up piece of paper contained within the envelope. Curiosity has him pressing onward as conflicting thoughts threaten to stop him, unfolding the paper carefully before narrowing his eyes at the neat cursive covering the page.

'Dear Waylon,

I hope you’re doing alright, darling. It pains me to see you suffering without me, your face twisting with a sorrow I've never seen from you before. You aren’t alone, I promise my dear. Trust me. You don’t need them.  

Not when I’m always here for you.’

He’s frozen in shock, blue eyes sliding across the words again, before he lets out a startled yelp from the sudden loud blaring of his phone. The letter leaves his hands, in favor of taking out the noisy device from his jeans and answering the phone in a blind panic.

"H-Hello?"

"Hey... Is this Waylon Park?" The voice on the other line belongs to a man, his tone unsure and hesitant.

"Um... Yes..."

"Oh good!" The man perks up, obviously relieved, "Sorry to be all allusive and everything, I just wanted to make sure that I have the right number. I'm detective Miles Upshur, I just got your email."

Relief floods through Waylon, his stiff shoulders relaxing, "Heh, it's fine. I didn’t expect you to contact me so soon.”

“Well, I guess you can say that I’m married to my work,” Mr. Upshur jokes, before his tone takes a more serious turn, “Anyways… You said you wanted to discuss your wife’s case?”

“Y-Yeah...” Waylon murmurs out, scratching the back his neck with his free hand.

Now that he’s actually talking to him, he… Can’t seem to find the right words.

“I… I want to help out… With the case,” He blurts out.

There’s a pause, moments ticking by, before Mr. Upshur speaks again, “You know... You actually might be of some use actually.”

“Wha- really?” He hardly believes it.

That was easier than he thought.

“Yes...” Mr. Upshur states slowly,  papers rustling in the background from the phone. “How about we meet up at my office and discuss this… It isn’t good to do it on the phone. Wouldn’t want this to somehow get out.”

“I… Yes. Thank you!”

“Don’t thank me yet, I said you might be of some use. Anyways… Does tomorrow sound good to you?”  

Waylon goes quiet at that, before letting out a quiet sigh, “Oh… I can’t tomorrow… I’m going to my wife’s funeral…. But, the day after tomorrow I can.”

Dread pools at the bottom of his stomach, he doesn’t want to go to her funeral… It’s one of the reasons he can’t sleep, besides not being able to get the image of his wife, butchered up and bloody, strewn across the floor, lifeless… not moving… out of his mind.

“Ah… I’m sorry…. Yeah, Wednesday will work,” There’s sympathy in Mr. Upshur’s tone, but Waylon doesn’t react to it.

He’s soon scrambling to grab a pen and a sticky note when Mr. Upshur starts giving him the address and time to meet up at. They then exchange their goodbyes, before hanging up the phone.

Waylon sighs again, setting his phone beside the beautiful roses sitting on the counter top. He glances down at the fallen paper on the floor, bending over and picking it back up before smoothing it out. Now that he’s thinking a bit more clearly… He realizes that this note... It's a lot like the note he found after he got wasted... It would explain why the handwriting and diction is so eerily familiar.

He swallows at the realization, a jolt of terror running up his spine.

‘I’ll be seeing you again soon.’  

His face pales into a few shades of white, his stomach dropping, before crumpling up the note with firm, trembling hands.

How the hell is he supposed to get any sleep tonight?

…

It's hard to look at Lisa's polished, wooden coffin, when it’s easy to imagine what lies beyond the closed lid.

Lifeless green eyes.

That metallic stench searing onto his nostrils like a branding iron.

Blood....  

So much blood.

'Fuck, fuck, breathe.'

He's numb, cold, the chatter and mourning of relatives nothing but background noise, almost static to Waylon’s ears, as his glazed, blue eyes gaze down on her coffin. His sons' two headstones aren't too far away, right by the area where his wife is about to rest for eternity.

'They're gone.'  

The thought hits him like a bucket of shards stabbing into him.

'I'll never see them again.'

His breathing has gone ragged, his dress shoes skidding against frost coated grass as he distances himself from the crowd, from Lisa's disappearing coffin, from his two buried boys with skittish steps. His right-hand clenches down onto his arm in an iron grip, nails digging into the fabric of his black suit, as he can only watch as Lisa's slowly lowered into the ground.

"How could you?!"

He’s jostled out of his agonized reverie when a man violently grabs him by the collar, his eyes meeting an intense, hate filled gaze.

It's... Lisa's father.

"Why weren't you with Lisa?! Why?" The old man's grasp is shaky with anger, his teeth bared as his voice cracks from how loud he's screaming, "Why?!"

Why wasn't he with Lisa?

Why did he go out to a bar instead?

Why, why, why?  

If only he knew how much he fucking asked himself that same exact question. How if only he tried to coax Lisa into letting him back in, perhaps things would’ve ended up differently, perhaps he could've protected her, perhaps Lisa would still be alive.

"Let him go, Charles! Leave the poor man alone! Don't do this here... Not at her funeral... Please..." Lisa's mother steps in, hands squeezing onto the old man's shoulder and arm in desperation, until finally, he unhands Waylon.

Waylon immediately takes a couple of steps back, but Lisa's father only stands there, wearing a defeated, worn out expression that makes him look older and frailer.  

"You're such a coward for leaving her alone like that."

The blond’s eyes are cast down, tracing the individual specks of ice decorating the ground, as shame swirls within his gut. It's true, he was a god damn coward for running away from his wife like that, for trying to escape his personal struggles with alcohol. He can’t even deny it. He lets out a sigh before turning on his heel, walking away from the gloom ridden area.

“What, don’t tell me you’re running away again, boy,” Lisa’s father jabs, voice cool and rough on the winter air.

He almost makes a sarcastic quip in response, but instead holds his tongue, not wanting to deal with another confrontation. He doesn’t even turn back or stop on the short path to his worn down, grey car, effectively ignoring the old man.

‘I’m sorry Lisa, I hope you can forgive me for leaving early.’

...

Snow pelts against the tiny car’s frame, windshield wipers frantically wiping away at white spots of snow obscuring Waylon’s line of sight. Great, tall mountain peaks stretch high into the sky before him, white, glittering puffs of snow lining the icy road. The road is barren, with the exception of a red pickup truck about a car length behind him. He's bored out of his mind, forgoing the radio to instead sit in utter silence, Lisa could pop up anytime on the news after all.  

'Lisa...'

He's sighing, loosening the black tie around his neck in order to distract himself temporarily, when suddenly, a blur of brown and black darts out in front of him from the corner of his eye. He's slamming on the brakes, his tires releasing a shrill screech, as he narrowly avoids the lone deer deciding to cross the road. His car goes into a spin from his sudden move on the ice caked pavement, a terrified, shocked cry ripping from him as he tries to regain control of his car. His car is flying off the road and heading right smack into a pine tree before he can even blink.

SMASH!

He's panting after the impact, his fingernails biting into the leather of the steering wheel as his heart threatens to leap out of his ribcage. Adrenaline pumps through his veins as he recovers, slowly letting go of the steering wheel from his tight grasp. A loud, brisk knock on the driver's window has him turning his head in a daze, the sight of a tall, well-built man greeting him with concerned blue eyes.

"Are you ok?!"

Waylon blinks hard a few times, everything coming at him so fast.

"W-What?"

The man presses a gloved hand against the window, his other trying to yank open the door in a worried, frantic manner. Waylon however made sure to lock it before even starting the drive home, so it doesn't budge.  

"Please, tell me you're ok! Are you injured?" The man's talking again, but this time Waylon's able to decipher his words.

Waylon's eyes swipe over his own sitting form, searching for any injuries and spotting none, before glancing around at the warped, pressed in interior of his car.

"I... I don't think so," He murmurs out slowly, before moving his hand over to unlock the door and open it.  

He shivers at the sudden blast of cold air washing over him, and the man's immediately on him, placing a firm hand on his shoulder and helping him out of the car. His legs are shaky and unstable due to how shell shocked he still is, causing one of his hands to grab onto the stranger's thick, black coat in order to keep himself upright. He manages to glance back at the smashed up, grey wreckage of his car, wincing at the sight of it.

'Fuck.'

"Come, darling, we'll be safer away from the wreckage."

Waylon's led by a strong hand curled around his arm, towards a red pickup truck parked on the side of the road. He recognizes the car as the one that was behind him earlier. The man's taking out a flip phone as soon as they reach it, wrapping an arm around Waylon in order to support him. He barely catches the man calling 911, before he manages to untangle himself from the man's arm when he has his bearings gathered, taking a few steps back to a breathable distance. He finds himself glancing back again at what's left of his poor car.

The universe must really have it out for him...

The man eventually hangs up the phone with a charming goodbye, before snapping the phone closed with a single flick of his wrist. He turns his gaze down at the shaken up blond, worry filling those big blue orbs.

"Are you alright?" His voice is deep and soft, speaking to Waylon as if he's about to break into a million pieces.

"Y-Yeah... Just... My car..." He lets out a defeated huff at his own statement, before crossing his arms tightly over his chest from the chilly temperature outside.

'Why do I even try?'

A light, warm weight is suddenly draped over Waylon's shoulders, causing the blond to snap up from his slouched posture out of surprise.  

"Wha-" Is all that comes out of his mouth, as he looks over the large coat now covering his form.

His pale blue eyes finally rise up to meet the man's tender gaze, his brows knitting in confusion at his generous act.

"Please, take it, darling... You were shivering."

"Um... Alright. Thank you," He murmurs out, his face reddening as he tugs the coat over himself a little more.

The man dashingly smiles at him in reply, white pearly teeth showing from his peeled back lips.  

Waylon's eyes trace over the man's sharp jaw line, and prominent cheek bones, before eyeing the smoothed out black hair topping his head. The stranger's surprisingly tall, and Waylon's always considered himself as a tall guy, having the proud height of 6'1. But, this man towers over him, having to have another foot over him. This, added with his broad shoulders and hulking chest, has Waylon on edge, even though it shouldn't... He seems nice enough.

“The police will be here within an hour... In the meantime, I suggest we wait and warm up in my car, in order for you to not catch a cold, Waylon.”

The simple statement has Waylon snapping his attention over to the man’s eyes with his shocked own.

“How… How do you know my name?” A disconcerting twist in his gut has his voice cracking nervously, causing him to take a small step back.

“I’ve seen you on the news,” The man replies, his face a calm mask of indifference, “I’m awfully sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you…”

“No, it’s fine… I should’ve known,” The blond sighs out, relief flooding over him, as tension leaves his rigid form, “I… Haven’t been watching the news… I suppose you can guess why.”

He lets out a hushed, humorless laugh, pain flickering across his face, “I was actually just at… Never mind.”

The man’s staring down at him worriedly now- and ah fuck, he really did it this time with his self-pitying bullshit.

He puts on a fake smile in order to assure the kind stranger, “I’m fine... really!”

What a blatant lie.

“I can’t imagine what you must be going through, darling,” The stranger takes a step closer towards Waylon and is reaching out a hand in order to comfort him.

The movement has Waylon tensing up, the large hand resting on his shoulder causing his whole body to freeze up as he attempts to smooth out his expression to feign indifference.

'It's ok... This guy is ok... He's not going to hurt you... He was just leading you to his fucking car a moment ago for Christ sake!'

"Y-You know... That was a pretty big deer that I-I almost... H-Hit..." Waylon stutters out loudly, putting on a sheepish grin.

The man’s hand falls, an almost hurt expression passing over his face, but it’s gone before Waylon can really even process it.

“Yes… That was a rather brave feat you did, skidding and avoiding that ignorant creature.”

“Heh… Y-Yeah… I j-just… I don’t know if I’d be able to stand myself if I hurt another living creature like that… Even if it was accidental…” Waylon pictures the mashed-up deer, what could've easily been, and shivers with how much the mental image reminds him of his dead wife.

“I know…”  

“Huh?”

“You just seem like the kind of person to be… exceptionally heroic,” The man states, his deep blue eyes distant and glazed as if he’s remembering something.

“Oh… I do? Uh… Well thanks I guess,” Waylon says, before letting out a nervous chuckle.

The two of them stand there for some time, the conversation eventually tampering out, until they're surrounded in a peaceful, comfortable silence. Waylon never does take up the stranger’s offer to sit in the pickup truck, too paranoid, too unsafe in his mind, and luckily the man never comments on it. Eventually a cop car arrives through the falling snowflakes and obscuring gray fog, and Waylon's immediately on his feet, running towards the car in a rush. As he's turning back around and explaining the car accident, he notices the stranger is gone.

He’s left confused by the man simply up and leaving, the only reminder of him is the black coat still draped over his shoulders.  

He didn’t even get his name.

He decides to push the… unique… encounter out of his head forcefully, before dealing with the police with as clear of a mind as he can manage.

…

Waylon arrives home tired and weary, his legs heavy as he drags himself up the stairs to his second floor apartment. He’s wringing his tie out of its neat knot, his other hand unlocking the door. He’s almost expecting to greet Lisa with his two sons, but the little living space is empty, completely devoid of anyone. It wretches at his heart painfully, but he manages to bottle his emotions up, to keep everything in. That’s when he catches something out of place-

The roses that he left lying out on the kitchen counter last night, are now sitting upright in a vase of water.

#outlast whistleblower #outlast #eddie gluskin #waylon park #Lisa Park #miles upshur #grief #this took a while to write xD #my writing

[underheart-magica2000]

UnderHeart - Warning: Turtles Bite Too

Chapter 20!?1?!!! What! Can you Loves believe it!?! We are all the way on chapter 20! This is insane! \^o^/

Well we all the drill by now, but just because i guess its tradition now, the story is below, under the cut. (Hope you enjoy and super big thanks for reading this! :)

“Come on, come on, come on!” MK bounces, chocolate eyes alight with overflowing excitement. “We don’t want to miss it!” He cries, swishing his tail around behind us like a very mad broom.

“I’m hurrying,” I say with a little huff, hoisting the sunshine yellow umbrella a little higher into the air so the rain will stop hitting MK on the top of his spikes. “And what are we trying to see anyway?”

MK’s eyes sparkle and his face twists into a huge smile that shows off all his little sharp teeth, “Why, I’m going to show you the most amazing monster in the whole Underground!”

I raise an eyebrow at that statement, because I highly doubt anyone could be cooler then Sans, or tougher then Undyne, or kinder then Toriel, or as good a cook as Papyrus, but I still nod at MK’s statement. Obviously whoever this monster was they meant a lot to him, so I will wait to make my own judgments.

Before to long we finally make it out of the Waterfall part of Waterfall, MK runs ahead as I try to get the umbrella back in it’s holder, abandoning me to the cold wet caves all by myself. I hurry after him as fast as I can, and I do finally catch up, but only because MK’s staring into space dreamily in the middle of the cave.

He snaps out of it pretty quick and then proceeds to gush on and on about some monster I haven’t even meet, and about how cool he is and how dangerous and amazing his job as the The Captain of the Royal Gaurd is, and if only I had run a little faster I could have seen him. I nod along, but overall just try to get him back on track, which is us getting out of this cold wet cave.

“I cannot believe how unlucky you are!” MK says with a bounce as we start heading across a bridge made of rock that hangs over a cliff I can’t see the bottom of. “If you had just-,”

“MK,” I breathe heavily with a sigh, “I get it, I’m sorry I missed it, can we adventure now?”

MK smiles sheepishly and nods in agreement, spinning around quickly so I won’t see his reddening scales. “Let’s just-,” he slips on wet rocks as he tries to hurry across the bridge. “Annabell!” He yells as he slides over the edge, his sharp shark like teeth the only thing keeping him from falling into the pit below.

“Hold on I’m-,”

“And wha’ are you two youngens up to?” An amused and powerful voice asks from the the side of the cave we just left.

“My friend is in trouble!” I explain quickly, not sparing the new monster a glance as I tug on MK’s sweater, trying and failing to pull him up. “Can you help me-,”

“Now why in the name of the Stars would I ever help you?” The voice asks, with the same lighthearted tone. “I bet it’s your fault he’s down there in the first place,” he goes on, “right human?” And this time the voice is directly behind me. I freeze up, scared out of my mind, but I keep my grip on MK and pull again. I won’t let him die just because I’m a weak human.

“Annabell’s my friend!” MK protests, unlatching from the ledge to yell. He slides another five inches down the side of the bridge before he grabs another outcropping of rock with his teeth.

“Please you have to-,” I’m pushed roughly out of the way, and almost go tumbling over the edge of the bridge myself. In my place stands a turtle, a turtle with light yellow skin and a grey shell, covered with pictures of war, in the very middle is the same Delta Rune as my cloak. He walks on two legs despite being a giant turtle and has a large hammer strapped to his belt.

“Here we go youngen,” he says, easily hoisting MK over the edge by the back of his yellow sweater and dropping him on his butt, safe and sound on top of the bridge. “No more careless ‘ventures for you, k?” He orders pointing a rather dismissive finger at the armless monster. “Now run ‘long. I have business with this here human, and it isn’t pleasant for youn’ eyes to be witnessin’.”

MK jumps to his feet quicker then the turtle monster can turn around, “She’s my friend!” He yells, hoping over to where I am and definitely standing in front of me, with a glare in his eyes. “You have to understand Gerson!” He cries as the turtle monster with a mustache, Gerson, sighs deeply. “She tried to save me! No evil human would do that!”

Gerson ponders that for a second and it’s all the time MK needs, he bends down and grabs my cloak in his teeth pulling me up and then dragging me off the bridge. “Hey! Get back here ye two!” Gerson yells after us as we race through the maze of slippery caves and glowing mushrooms.

“We just have to make it to Hotland!” MK yells over Gerson’s constant stream of monster bad words, “he doesn’t like the heat and won’t follow us!”

“How much longer?” I ask as I notice that we’re starting to lose ground and my lungs are burning.

“Not far!” He pants rounding a corner with wide eyes, “THERE!”

In front of us stretches a faint neon sign, which reads “HOTLAND”. It seems we did make it. I won’t die here, I’ll keep my promise to Waylon, I’ll find him!

Suddenly everything stops, I trip over the air and land face first on the hard stone ground. MK slides to a stop in front of me, his eyes wide in horror, looking back I understand why, a Fight screen as appeared in front of me, along with my floating white soul.

Gerson huffs in his place 20 feet from me, his own fight screen floating before him, though his soul is nowhere to be seen. He squints funnily at my white soul and eyes the spot where my [ATTACK] button should be with a strange expression on his face.

“Finally caught ya human,” he huffs hand hovering over his [ATTACK] button, “Now we can finish tis the right way.”

I swallow thickly as MK yells from behind me for Gerson to stop. His own Fight Screen and white soul appearing before him as he slides into place next to me, a determined look in his chocolate eyes. I want to tell him to leave, to run away and leave me, because there is no way we can beat this monster, the leader of the Royal Guard. But I know MK won’t leave no matter what I say, so I take a deep breath and prepare myself to defend MK.

“Look,” Gerson sighs shaking his head in annoyance, but never removing his hand from its position above the [FIGHT] button. “I know you’re jus’ tryin’ to protect your friend. But listen here youngen that’s a human, and it’s going to kill you. So before it does I’m going to kill it.”

MK doesn’t say anything for a long moment, then he takes a deep breath and head buts the [ACT] button, pulling up another menu which leaves me breathless at its contents. Every single option is [DEFEND].

He head buts the screen again and moves in front of me, puffing out his shoulders and standing on the tips of his toes so he’s taller and more imposing. “I used to look up to you!” MK yells across the field, “You’re the strongest monster in the whole Underground and they say you’re the reason the King came back alive from the final battle!” He yells, as Gerson flinches at the memory. “But you’re just a bully! Annabell is my friend and you’re not going to hurt her! Human or not she saved me!!”

Gerson stares at us, wide eyed and mouth agape, confusion etched into his very soul. But pain also clouds his startled eyes, pain and fear. The Fight screens vanish along with our souls.

“Thank you for not-,” I start to say, only to blink in confusion when I stare at an empty cave, Gerson is gone.

………………………..

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#underheart #undertale #ivory canon timeline #undertaleAU #ivory soul #ivory timeline #fanfic #annabell #MK #chapter 20 #more umbrellas #My writing #gerson #fighting(almost) #waterfall #Gerson is the new Undyne #MK is the bestest of best friends #titled this chapter warning 'fish will bite' and confused myself...