killer changing the program name for his undertale to mock his chara every time they try to reopen the game to play 🥹 just like flowey does in the neutral route with "floweytale".........
TAGS: 18+, smut, villain!reader, enemies to lovers, clark is injured, reader helps clark to shower, reluctant caretaking, romantic/sexual tension, flash back that depicts p-in-v/creampies, clark accidentally 'laser beams' during an orgasm - smallville ref! (2.8k words)
𖤓 david corenswet masterlist | main masterlist | inbox 𖤓
PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE | PART FOUR | PART FIVE
It'd taken a full rehabilitation period for you to get back into your original state after getting pounded by Superman.
Comical as it seemed, you were feeling him even after days. As proven by the bruised hand marks you had, particularly around your hips, and deep purple hickeys littered over your torso.
He even had the audacity to try to cook breakfast for you the following morning. (Though you'd kicked him flat when he tried to have you 'join him'. The pancakes were great, you were pretty sure you didn't have any of those ingredients at home.)
By day four, you were feeling much better. All cooped up in your couch, knees tucked to your chest. You mindlessly cruised through the channels, all while your laptop screen flickers between surveillance footage of your next job.
The TV was more for ambient noise. It was a mindless routine for you, checking and scoping out blind spots for your jobs often meant staring at absolutely nothing, just looking for patterns and weaknesses you could very well exploit.
You were half-distracted with a pint of strawberry swirl ice cream, nothing but the dim halos of the digital screens keeping you company that evening.
The news breaks through your bubble of concentration with its' current subject.
BREAKING NEWS: Superman spotted earlier in downtown Metropolis, intervening with some sort of iron-like beast. Not winning, it seems.
Snapping for the remote, you increase the volume, watching him get flung and ricocheted through buildings. "Oooooooohhhhhh." You wince, a laughter stifled through your fists. "That's gotta hurt."
It'd turned into your half time show, and you'd ensued giving your own commentary. "Oh, oh, oh!" You slapped your hands together, throwing your head back in glee when he was practically flicked through memorial park. Unfortunately for you, good things never lasted for long.
"What? Come on!" You slump back, blowing raspberries in your cheeks. "The Justice Gang? Really?" Groaning, you'd shut the TV off in annoyance, of course he'd have people coming to bail him out. So much for the protector of earth.
Sometimes, you did wonder if he should've just done what his apparently parents sent him to earth for. It would work wonderfully considering he was pretty much big enough to do an IVF manually.
You had a full body shudder to that idea. The memories returning to you like war flashbacks. You drag yourself up, still a limp to your steps. Mostly from muscle aches on your thighs like you'd done an intense workout. Except they weren't. God knows you spent days dealing the phantom sensation of Superman's dick haunt your pussy in the weirdest moments.
Just as you open the fridge, the spoon from your pint clatters to your floor, clattering underneath. You sigh, flopping down to your knees to peek at where it tumbled to. "Just my luck…" Your hips arch uncomfortably, and the second you relax in said position, the deja-vu hits you.
"Oh, my, god!"
Your voice is hoarse from overexertion, you aren't even sure how many times you've cum by now. Clark had his entire body weight pressed onto you. Fucking you in deep thrusts while holding you in a firm headlock.
He's babbling incoherently, jumbles of you'resosoftandprettyandwarmoh!'s spilling into the shell of your ears. Incessant, is what it is. You're damn near relieved when he opts to grab your jaw up, tipping your head to him so he could kiss you. Drinking in all your mewls and drool. But it gives you away, the way you're clenching and kegeling on his cock when he's back to muttering even more praises into your mouth.
"Mhng—ah..mh. You're so, gosh darned perfect. C-Could do this, forever. S-She's squeezing me so tight.." He's licking a stripe at the corner of your lips, collecting the tears that drip.
"God, could you just say normal s-shit like pussy. Or whatever!" You ground out, cheeks falling limp on the security of his biceps.
"I can't do that." He mutters sheepishly, his face buried at the expanse of your neck. You'd never expected a man like Superman to be a whiny-little-mess, but it was starting to get to you, blooming godforsakened butterflies in your gut you desperately wanted to kill.
Clark lifts his head off you, feeling the all familiar tension in his gut, but it was another throb in his head that follows. He groans, snapping his hips into you deep, and slow. "O-Oh gosh, I'm gonna —"
The walls leave a long line of crackled indents at the string of laser beams he lets out between thrusts. Burning the surrounding paintings. You look up defeatedly. Sighing.
It barely surprises you this time. Considering the three other, still smoldering line of charred concrete following his eye line. You'd really rather he be a crier. Or premature ejaculator. But no, laser-beams-while-cumming was now apparently a thing.
You can hear Clark panting behind you, soothing the reddened marks on your hips apologetically. You don't offer him a response, merely burying your face in your sheets, voice muffled.,"stupid…fuckin'…alien ass.."
Your thigh still twitches from your overstimulated orgasms. Reddened pussy now pushing, gushing with his seed. "Y…ou're awfully quiet. You're not looking at my ass are you?" You throw your words over your shoulders.
The sight you offered him was pornographic & Clark was mesmerized.
He'd never considered himself to be the kind who'd want to breed a woman. Especially not after he'd found out his parents true intentions. But the way your pussy was pushing out his cum, in slow dribbles, it was stirring something innate in him.
"I swear supershit, if you're planning to poke that thing into my asshole I'll kill you." Your voice was croaked, but the point still got across. It doesn't hold much bite, you weren't completely against it, but not with Clark.
His thoughts instantly snap back to reality. And his head drops. Clark shakes his head with a groan. "Good gosh."
"Do you ever hear yourself speak? Actually?"
"Have you seen your dick?"
Obviously, you weren't bothered to take his criticisms to heart. "I take that as a no, then," he grunts when you swat at him with your ankles.
You were feeling better, considering how much easier it was for your body to snap back in shape. But even super-power-mutant bodies needed a goddamn break. A long, prolonged whine leaves you as you stretch — arms reached out. Your hip lifts, arching at the waist.
"Nnnngh—ohhh…that hit the spot."
Clark damn near doubles over. His cock twitching back to life. Nevermind that he was watching cum begin to trickle down your thighs in slow motion. It was the tremble of satisfaction of your left thigh that had him pawing at your hips once more.
"Woah —" Your head perks up, and you look back at him. A feeling akin to an electric shock takes you when he tugs you flush to the length of his cock. "Are you fucking kidding me?"
His snaps a palm out to rest on your headboard that splinters and crackles beneath his grip. Your head follows the sound. A feeling of utter dread fills you, and you shut your eyes in defeat.
"No, I am not."
You snap out of your daze with a stuttered breath.
Springing back up to sit on your thighs. Ridiculous was what it was? He was taking over your mind in the most annoying ways possible. Superman turned into a day-nightmare that plagued you even when you were awake.
You opted to grab the discarded utensils with your toes this time. Standing up and staring where your bed was, it was proper wrecked, walls painted with streaks of concrete melted and charred by his laser beams.
"This is has to be some divine punishment. Just has to be." While rubbing your temples, you reached out to water bottle on your kitchen island.
You choked mid-sip.
Water sputtering down your chin when sharp cracks and splintering glass ricochets entirely into your living room. You snap your head up to look at the dome skylight, shards raining into the room before your actual problem followed.
A blur of red and blue comes crashing into your floors. The impact of it rattling you to your core. A dust cloud blooms around the figure and you're wearily approaching it.
You cough once, and then twice, waving away the dust cloud to see a literal concrete crater beneath a broad-shouldered figure in its' center.
"Are you — " you stop, staring at the way he was breathing slow and heavy with his cape draped over him. Curls were fallen on his face in a frustratingly perfect manner, though his pretty face was bruised and bloodied, "— Out of your fucking mind?"
Clark was talking. Or at least that's what you were able to see with his mouth moving. "Couldn't make it to fortress…this…was closest…"
Your eyes are completely narrowed, knees bent in an awkward stance to try to haul him out of the apparent Superman-sized-crater in your living room. "Fortress. Manslaughter, Avunculicide, yes. You're saying words. I have no idea what the hell you're on about."
It's then you recalled from earlier that he was pretty much chewed and spit out by steel bewilder beast out there. You sigh, hooking your arms beneath his torso. Even with your strength, it was like carrying the dead weight of a building-adjacent alien. "UGH. C'mon, Big Blue. Can't —…"
Dead weight was dead weight, you supposed.
"Fantastic—ugh—I—mff—have—haaah—a..dog I..didn't..adopt. A six foot…" you grunted, dragging his body in shuffles, "possibly concussed..ugh—dog!" With a exhausted groan, you collapsed behind him halfway on your way to the foot of your bed.
"If you're dead. Tell me now. I'm just gonna just turn you into a campfire here."
Clark grunts at that, "…hey…that's real messed up…" he's mumbling in almost a boyish, whiny tone, before slumping his head onto your lap.
You're glaring at him with a disgruntled look. A tinge of pity at his state. You could leave him on the floor. Or. You wince at your thought of kindness.
"Hey." You snap twice before his face, "there's no way in hell i'm letting you on my sheets on your…" you paused. Raking over his rubble, grime coated super suit. "Outside clothes."
Clark makes a sound, a mix between a groan and a laugh. "..Didn't…think you..were a clean…freak.."
"Ohhh—hohhh supershit. I'm SO close to just throwing you out my front porch." With a mumble of encouragement to yourself, you drag maneuver him towards your bathroom.
"Move your freakin' feet!" You hiss when he nearly tips you over in your warm copper tiled shower.
"…They're movin'…" He manages, absolutely making no effort to move a muscle.
"You are THE worst patient." You huff out through gritted teeth. Propping him up against the glass doors.
"…Y'say that…as if…you had others.."
"Maybe I have. Maybe I haven't." You rolled your eyes, humoring him as you grabbing your shower head. "You're not special, you know."
Clark tilts his head to look at you, bruised & semi-conscious. It makes your heart twinge, but then, "liar." Lips quirking up just enough to be irritating.
You spray him point blank with water. "Oops. Itchy trigger finger."
He lets out a pained whimper at that, shielding himself. "You're mean." He whines out, and you kneel down. Fingers hooked around the waist band of his super-suit.
Clark catches your wrist and you raise your brows. "Are you seriously getting shy? When you've literally fucked the life out of m—"
He squeezes your cheeks, cutting you off. The effort to do that alone clearly costs him, and his head tips back against the glass. He finally relents, slumping as you peel the suit off of him. It lands in the corner in a wet, heavy slap.
It's different. Seeing him in daylight. You're hesitating, traitorous eyes raking down his sculpted body, heaving and exhausted from over exertion. Heat prickles at your neck when you drag your gaze up his slim waist, and his broad shoulders. Curls a little damper from your 'pre-mature' spray. You shake your head. Ignoring the fact you were taking a scenic route of assessing the extent of his injuries.
You grab his arm, lifting it while you press the purple blooming around his muscles. He lets out a yelp, his reflexes kicking in. "Okay. So it isn't broken. Quit moaning. You're fine."
It takes Clark a second to register that you weren't just hurting him for the heck of it. (He just couldn't prove that you were in fact enjoying seeing him in pain.)
"…You try getting flung through a building." He mutters, defensively.
Rolling your eyes for what seems to be the tenth time for the night, you reach out for the soap. Letting it lather in your palms before you coax it through Clark's hair. The dust & grime, suds up and rinses out. He leans into your touch, his shoulders visibly loosening. It was getting familiar. The care. And it'd been a long time since he was cared for like this.
Clark looks up, slightly dazed. Meeting your gaze. Your breath stutters at that — at the vulnerability of it, mostly. So you yank his head to whip his face away. "Don't look at me." The damage was done, your cheeks were warming up at an alarming rate.
A stubborn smile quirks at his lips. He hears the quickening of your pulse. But chooses not to point it out.
You're halfway through rinsing his back that his limbs were slack. "Hey." You grip around his bicep, shaking it. A groan rips through you when you realise that he'd passed out.
You haul him up once more, cursing every god that ever existed while you dragged him to your bed, muscles straining with his weight.
And in an even more uncharacteristic move? You put him in fresh clothes, and tossed him under your sheets.
Clark slowly blinks awake. Muscles feeling lighter, but aching still. His eyes flick around to see that he was in a bed that wasn't his. And then it drifts, to your silhouette, eyeing the soft curve of your waist and neck, asleep next to him.
He swallows thickly, trying to move, but it all feels restricted. Clark glances down to see a tight shirt spanned around his chest. He's squinting, faintly recognizing a profanity on it but not being able to read it with his hazy vision. Riding up enough to act like a crop top on him. It's then you stir beside him, frowning as you look over your shoulder at movement behind you.
A flicker, barely, of relief graces your expression.
"Wow. Seventy two hours of you being passed out. Impressive. Get out of my bed." You mutter, scratchy from sleep.
Clark grumbles under his breath about still feeling weak. And then a bunch of nonsense about not having enough sun, like he was a freaking plant. You're dismissively waving it off before curling into yourself.
"Hey," he mutters, and for a moment you think he might thank you for all you'd done for him. "What…do the words on this shirt say?"
You sigh. "Dad Fucker."
"…Yeah. That checks out."
Clark shifts, scooting closer to you. Instinctively, your butt lifts to scooch away. Before you were entirely successful, a heavy hand lands on your hips. Dragging you back and flush to his chest. You gasp in annoyance, heart stuttering in a mix of irritation and a flutter of a butterfly long overdue a stampede to death in your belly.
But then you still.
"…Is there a reason why you're hard." You breathe out incredulously, your lower back being poked that could only mean one obvious thing.
Clark is quiet, "…morning wood." Mumbling with a tinge of embarrassment, but shamelessness with the way he's bucking up against you.
"Your 'morning wood' is about three days late. Idiot."
He's nosing at your shoulder. His lips grazing just your neck.
"…I'm still sore." You admit quietly. He nods against you, thumbing at the waistband of your shorts.
"I won't put it in."
You bite the inside of your cheeks, the gravelly need in his voice making you falter in your resolve. Slowly, you tug your shorts down enough to toe it off. Clark's follows suit, adjusting his cock free. You bit down on your lips tight, holding back your moans as he slips his cock between your thighs. Snug on your folds.
"Go to sleep." He murmurs. Not exactly moving. "Just need the warmth."
Your eyes fluttered shut. Taking a composing breath.
| soldier boy being soldier boy, but he's actually nice to you. yeah.
── .✦ note; use of "dad"/"kid", in ref to fauxcest.
ben’s never one to be soft and gentle in bed. never been the guy to ask if what he’s doing is all right, or bother with some “liberal crap” like aftercare. sex doesn’t really mean anything for him– just another violent and volatile way for him to relieve himself of his feelings. sure, he could talk about it, like all guys seem to do these days, but that’s not him. that’s not how he works.
but then you come into the picture, and, well. maybe a guy like him can change. he’s not making any promises, though.
through spending enough time with you (wanted time, that is; not obliged through some vought thing or almost held against his will), he realises that you’re not too bad. possibly a bit too.. modern for his liking, but he can see past that. and let’s be real– you’re not a bad fuck, either.
one thing’s for certain, though; ben cares enough about you to actually give more than one fuck about what you like and dislike. and that’s definitely apparent in the bedroom.
for someone so.. infamously hated, seeing him be so nice to you is like seeing a fish out of water– he treats you like you’re a princess, something that’s safety and wants need prioritising before anything else. and considering he’s someone who puts his priorities first more times than anyone can count, it stuns you, but as soon as he starts sweet-talking you..
“you doin’ okay, kid?” ben mutters, mouth gently nipping at your own. he asks it like he’s having sex for the first time, afraid of getting it wrong. but you remember that’s not the case at all– not when he’s got you in that damn mating press– his heavy body over yours like he’s shielding you. “want me to start movin’?”
you’re obviously in no place to talk. aside from the overstimulation from his.. intense foreplay, this had been his idea of a “distraction”; something to make you forget about whatever plagues your mind that day. and by god, if he’s a man of his word, then you’ll forget all about your job, or your mental health, or whatever the hell it was you were crying about before he pinned you to the bed and–
“takin’ me so well, y’know that?” his tongue softly laps up the fresh tears that spill from your eyes, whispering anything that seems encouraging– it’s not the most comforting, but considering he’s praising you for letting him stick his dick in and not actually fuck your brains out like he usually does, you’ll take it. “doin’ so well f’me, kid. takin’ your dad so well.”
but everything that comes out of his mouth is accompanied by a grunt of groan of heavy anticipation, your cunt squeezing around him. ben’s desperate to move. “you gonna be okay if i..” he ends up trailing off, his hips shifting as he repositions himself.
you whine as he does, his cock slipping from your wet cunt just an inch or so. “please,” and this, he takes as the “go” sign; before you can say, or mumble, anything else, his thrusts begin to increase, his cock buried deep inside of you. “it’s– uh–”
his praise never stops, though, even as he goes balls-deep in you. “doin’ so fuckin’ good for your old man,” your feel ben grin into your neck, his teeth wet against your hot skin. “keep makin’ all those pretty sound f’me, yeah? fuckin’ music to me.”
you wrap your arms around his neck, holding him there. it’s the most comforting, reassuring thing you can think of, gripping onto him like he could suddenly disappear. you expect him to comment on it, some half-assed dig on how you’re the “neediest bitch i’ve ever fuckin’ met” (because you’ve definitely heard that more than once), but it never comes. and for now, you’ll keep your mouth shut. you know better than to mention his niceties that happen once in a blue moon.
“gonna make you forget all about.. whatever the fuck it was,” and you nod, your cunt involuntarily clenching around him again and making him groan loudly into your neck. the sound reverberates against you, and you whimper. “just let dad take care of it– take care of it all.”
“‘m close,” you tell him, your body tensing just a bit when ben presses on your abdomen. his mouth is hot, yet gentle, on your neck as he ravages it with kisses and nips, his teeth grazing the skin but never sinking in. “dad, ‘m so close–”
“yeah, you gonna cum f’me? feel me up in you, right there?” he presses again, because when he does– a trick he’s done before with you– you cum. you moan as you do, biting down hard on your lip. “such a pretty girl f’me when you do that.”
but he doesn’t stop there. he keeps fucking you, praising and kissing you like it’s some god-given right to. you’re exhausted, more overwhelmed than you were before all of this, but you can see that flicker in his eyes– the one that screams how he needs to keep going, release that pent-up frustration and anger, and all that other bullshit he feels but can never quite get out.
“hm, seems like we aren’t done here. should dad take care of you a bit more?”
[pls don't misgender scythe or grappling hook on this post so far i've noticed tumblr being at least half decent w it]
dont ask why the speech bubbles are so fucked idk how the hell i did them on the medkill post lol. if u cant tell my formatting is shit.
i spent like all week on this one but tbf i was like out of it lol. ~ 8.5 hours just on the inking and sketches but i was VERY distracted so maybe more like 4-5 of time actually spent locked in? then again i had to redraw every scythe panel at least like twice. 4.5 on the first day of rendering then 3 today finishing it up so 7.5 total rendering. I actually like rendering now!! it is fun. i def think next time i do this i wanna try and get closer to the stylization they have in the actual comic. I also wanna try and lock in more w line art caus idk what i was doing this time ive never used this brush before and i dont usually use a stabilizer? the brush doesnt even match ditf's brush and i had a preferred "smooth" brush i could've used if i rlly wanted? idk my terrible decisions elude me and I just live with the consequences.
som i drew while procrastinating. this is technically a double reference, first ofc gravity falls but then a comic i read like years ago like this but actually good and w nook and redd from animal crossing hehe.
ref i made for myself before even starting rlly
the process. there was even more slop before this but the writing was dogshit lol.
Next time i'll try not to force it for the sake of it still being relevant by the time i post it xd.. that, and working on making sure my foundation was more solid and not skimping out on finishing up w text bubbles but i am genuine when i say i forgot how i did the bubbles for medkill 100% like i think there was a tool or button i used to get them to look that way but idk what.
i'll also go ahead and say ty for 500+ notes on the medkill post and all the little notes yall left in the reblogs and comments were so cute ^^ i kinda. don't know what else to say about that other than the big number was not expected. and the ppl saying "one of the artists got out" are extremely flattering but i have no affiliation w boggio and I don't really have an interest in working on ditf or w boggio but one day I hope I can eventually recreate the style perfectly and trick ppl properly >:) muehehe /silly
I would like to eventually do my own phighting based comic but that's more of an oc thing and would very much be an AU. And I'd like it to be visually distinct from DITF but ofc inspired by it. First of all. I'm not doin all this nonsense. somethings gonna have to give i might go for a more sketchy or unrefined lining style.. i'd like to maybe keep some rendering tho idk? colors are important though. I've done some style tests. i'll figure it out shrug.
Vincent Whittman with improper use of microphone perhaps.. Idk i think he'd be shamefully into hearing all the sounds of his insides getting pushed around idunno don't look at me im too high to think abt it
(Also if this is too freaky, feel free to delete ok bye)
-🫀
Basically just fucking Vincent with a Microphone
Kinda an informal drabble because i’ve had horrendous writers block and no time but… this request is too good to not at least have a paragraph about.
In an other post I (mostly a very wise mutual) talked about how in the 1950s, sex toys were not readily available.. so in the case you wanted to peg this bastard, you’d have to get creative. It’d start with fingering every now and then— a sensation he welcomes because unfortunately a blowjob simply isn’t enough in his state of constant manic arousal. In ref to that other post, after maybe a month of coming into his office to finger fuck him, he’d start wanting more. Deeper, thicker, it’s just not enough.
So mid-sex, he shoves the closest thing on his desk in your hands: the microphone he was practicing his long preaching speeches on earlier that morning (Funnily enough he was really just distracting himself from the hardness in his pants, until he caved and just called you over to ‘do the finger thing’). “Fuck— j-just use this instead!”
You blink when he hands it to you, and you can tell he irritates at your hesitance. “What the fuck are you— ahah— waiting for? A… a pep talk?” He could hardly get the words out between ragged, desperate breaths.
“This is going to hurt,” You warn, although you care a little less about his comfort after his unattractive attitude.
He made an off handed comment about just getting over with, but his voice was whinier, and he subconsciously pushed himself into you; he needed it. So you gave it to him. It was definitely an adjustment, and at first the pain outweighed the pleasure, and Vincent actually felt tears prick his eyes. But then you started hitting that spot, and he dissolved into breathy, high pitched moans.
At a certain point he’d hear you shushing him softly, “Listen, vinny. Do you hear that?” He put his hand over his mouth to try and stop the noise, so he could hear. And he could: the microphone captured every thrust against his prostate, every time you slam into him with the large, uncomfortable instrument, he can hear how much it fills him up.
“Hear it?” You’d ask sweetly. Your honey-like tone is the only thing reminding him that he’s the man, and you’re the woman. Jesus, that was so embarrassing, but it just felt to good to turn him off. And so when you took of the hands he was using to prop himself up on the desk, placing it over his stomach where he could actually feel the bulge of the microphone, he cried out so loud he hoped no one could hear him outside his office. “Feel it?”
So I'm a big fan of Shane being super protective of Ilya on the ice and he gets the equivalent of road rage whenever he sees someone fouling his husband, because that's his baby and Shane will make sure that other guy understands not to fuck with him.
But! I'm also growing fond of the idea that Shane develops strong protective feelings for the entire Cens teams. Or maybe especially fo Wyatt.
There is something moving about how an entire team jumps to defend their goalie when an opposing players just dares to touch him. And now I have to imagine Shane, who always had to keep himself emotionally distanced from the Metros, suddenly let's his inner guard dog out with the Cens - it's just a matter of manners and honour to defend your goalie but also he is actually friends with Wyatt and doesn't want to see him hurt either and now Shane actually feels like he actively needs to do something about it instead of only discussing with the refs.
Shane is not a defender, obviously, so it's not his main job, but whenever it's a all hands on deck situation infront of their own goal, he is not above shoving an opposing team player out of the way that skated into Wyatt, and yelling "Don't you dare touch him, asshole!" (And Wyatt gets all flustered about it, angry Shane is even hotter).
Another time he's just right in time to see a forward crosschecking Wyatt and Shane immediately drops the gloves, proudly taking the penalty for fighting. (Which Ilya reprimands is not assistant captain behaviour, but actually he can't take Shane home fast enough to reward him with the sloppiest of blowjobs because yes, angry, fighting Shane is a vision).
Yet another game, and some player is trying to get under Wyatt's skin to distract, chirps turn more inti insults over the time, and after another busy situation infront of their crease, Shane checks that guy and with his voice dangerously gives a final warning: "Leave my goalie alone, man. Or you won't like what comes next." (And Wyatt seriously starts reconsidering his sexuality).
Shane still mostly solves problems by arguing with the refs, but he loves sticking up for his goalie.
T!! I am losing my mind over Nico!!! scrapping it up over Jack!!!! He said stay away from my wife!!! And he looked so mad in that penalty box!!!
we gotta set the scene okay Anon...
Overtime.
Just over a minute left.
Nemo, Jack, Nico out on the ice.
Jack goes down behind the net after some run in with Dubois.
Whistle gets blow and a penalty is called on Dubois.
Nemo is on his way off the ice. Nico is standing watching. And you can't really see him but Dubois is standing in front of Jack who is by the boards.
Dubois think Jack exaggerated so he pushed Jack into the boards and Nico fucking pounces.
That is Nico getting ready to fucking skate. Please take note of where Nemo is.
Quicker than the broadcast booth can say "powerplay" Nico is on Dubois. Also, Nemo has made it off screen.
Nemo's back.
But also, Nico is lunging at Dubois whilst being held back by another Cap.
Jack is about to get in there as well.
Jack's about to skate over, but Cap #3 is pulling through so Jack needs to handle that first.
Peep Marky.
Jack untangles himself from Cap #3 to try to make his way to where Nico is, just as Nemo gets there to grab Cap #3 by the collar, but Jack isn't quick enough because Jack gets re-accosted by Cap #3, whilst Nico is absolutely going through it.
Finally, finally, with the help of Nemo's amazing distracting skills, Jack is freed.
He makes his way over to Nico trying to pull Cap #2 away.
Meanwhile, Nemo is on a sidequest.
And then the refs and linesmen finally do something and the scrum is over.
But, then, Nico's in the fucking penalty box, with his helmet off yelling at Dubois...
You go after Jack, I have to. You know it.
like this is the shit I've read in hrpf a million times over. like this is literally just fanfic. we are seeing fanfic live on our screens.
Nico's hair all in his face and messy. Yelling. Christ.
