#i really had so much fun writing this

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

I hope you take this as the compliment it is intended to be, but you strike the same chord of irreverence-as-love, jokes-to-showcase-sencerity that I get from Chuck Tingle, and I adore both of you.

You have bestowed the greatest honour upon me.

[sceletaflores]

slippery when wet!

pairing: patrick zweig x fem!reader

summary: “so who fucks better?” he asks bluntly, a bead of sweat dripping down the column of his throat and into the neck of his tank. a shocked laugh bursts from your lips. “what?” you ask, crossing your arms over your chest. “who fucks better?” he repeats slowly, leaning down to meet your eye. “me or art? don’t fucking lie to me and tell me that prissy farmer boy makes you come harder than i do.”

—or: patrick puts you in your place three months later.

word count: 4.3k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, p in v, fighting as foreplay, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it y’all!), rough sex, semi-public sex, oral sex (m!receiving), fingering...kinda (fem!receiving), very light spanking, choking, degradation, creampie, throat fucking, mean!reader my beloved, art donaldson is there in spirit, patrick is gay for art, porn with a little plot, no use of y/n.

author’s note: no one can stop me from writing rough sex patrick fics. it's all i think about 24/7, and you guys are no help but like i love it so it's fine. i'm here to serve you and this is clearly what you want so who am i to deny you that? thank you to the beautiful anon who requested this, i hope you don't mind that i changed it from a locker room scene to a bathroom scene but that was just calling to me hehe. okay bye! hope you love it! xoxo mwah.

psst! tftw series masterlist!

You’ve been on the court for at least an hour and a half, running drills and trying to sweat out all of your stress. You were the only one in the building, but it was always less busy during finals week. Most people were camped out in their dorms cramming for fifty question tests or four part lab practicals. 

Art politely declined your invite, too busy studying for his business final on Monday. So you rented a tennis machine and worked on your backhand that way. It was a nice distraction, emptying your head enough that all the anxiety of finals started to melt away as you slid into a steady rhythm with the machine.

The door bangs open with a loud creak behind you, bursting the little bubble of tranquility surrounding you. The back of your head burns with the unmistakable feeling of someone glaring at you.

You hear him before you see him, a loud call of your name followed by heavy footsteps quickly coming towards you. The sound of his voice immediately grates on your nerves, all angry and shouty. You choose to ignore it, focusing on hitting each new ball the machine spits out.

It may have been a couple months since you’ve seen Patrick, but you’d always recognize the familiar way his voice wraps around each syllable in your name.

Three months, to be exact. It’s been three months since your big fight over the phone with Patrick. You blocked his number right after you hung up, so you haven’t spoken to him in just as long. He never tried to reach out, never messaged you on AOL or Facebook. The petty fuck actually went out of his way to unfriend you on both, so you knew he wasn’t exactly torn up about your abrupt split. 

“Hey! I’m talking to you,” Patrick shouts over the loud humming, sounding closer to you than he was before. You pointedly keep ignoring him, eyes fixed stubbornly on the machine. “You deaf or something?” he mocks, stepping up so you can see him in your peripheral vision. You say nothing, swinging your racket harder with each hit.

Patrick scoffs, stomping over to the machine and slamming his hand over the stop button. It makes a loud beeping sound, before shutting off completely. “Jesus Christ, you’re such a fucking baby.” you groan, throwing your head back in annoyance. When you finally turn to glare at him, you’re shocked at the state he’s in.

Patrick’s dressed in a tank and the almost too short shorts he’d usually wear to a match, and he’s dripping sweat. Curly black hair plastered to his forehead with it, his cheeks red and blotchy like he’d been in the sun. You raise your brow, looking at him with a confused expression on your face. “Where the hell did you even come from? How did you know I was here?” 

He walks back over to you, hands balled into fists by his side. “I was at a tournament in Mountain View,” he explains, jerking his head in the vague direction he came from, ”it was so close I thought it’d be wrong of me to not stop by and check up on you.”

You laugh, nodding your head lightly. “Okay, so you flunked out of another tournament and hunted me down like a creepy stalker to what? Yell at me some more? Call me a cunt again?” you step closer, lightly swishing your racket through the air dismissively. “I’m not fucking interested in whatever it is you have to say Patrick, we’re over.”

He smirks but you can see the way his jaw clenches, ticking in anger. “But you’re interested in what Art has to say?”

There it is. You really should have known it would all come back to this eventually.

You sigh, casting your eyes to the ceiling in exasperation. “What’s your point?”

Patrick takes a step closer. “My point is that you’re not fucking stupid, and Art can’t lie to save his goddamn life. You knew exactly what he was doing.” His tone is accusatory, his brows pinched together hard enough to crease his skin. 

Your heart beat picks up in your chest, anger beginning to bubble up inside you. “I didn’t need Art’s help to realize that you’re an arrogant piece of shit and a gigantic waste of my time, you made it easy enough to pick up on all by yourself.”

Patrick laughs, loud and abrasive. “No, you just didn’t care.” he states darkly, shaking his head back and forth a few times. You can feel a few drops of sweat fling from his hair to land on the bare skin of your shoulders as he does. “You’re so easy that you’d spread your legs from him to stroke your own ego. You’re only playing into his whole kicked puppy charade to justify acting like a fucking whore, ‘Poor Art, he’s so sad and pathetic, I’ll let him fuck my slutty pussy to help his raise his self esteem!’.” He mocks, voice pitched up in an exaggerated impression of you.

Your grip tightens on the handle of your racket, knuckles turning white with it. You feel hot all over, anger simmering under your sweaty skin. “You’re seriously trying to lecture me about egos? This has nothing to do with Art! This is about you being a bratty little rich boy who’s never been told ‘no’ before so you can’t handle rejection. It’s fucking embarrassing.”

Patrick nostrils flare, brows pinching together in anger. “Art has nothing to do with this, really? You’re delusional if you actually think that he’s just this saint among men or some shit. He’s not, he’s a fucking snake.”

“Trust me, Art doesn’t have to be a saint to be better than you.” you sneer, voice sharp and unwavering. Your hands are shaking, blind rage racking through your body like thunder. “The only redeeming quality you’ll ever have is dangling between your legs so you better get used to this, because sooner or later everyone will leave you once they see past all your bullshit and realize that you’re nothing more than a worthless loser.”

Patrick’s jaw works furiously, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. You think something like hurt flashes through his eyes, but only for a second. It's gone just as fast, replaced by a mocking smirk that stretches over his lips slowly. He crosses his arms in front of him, shamelessly raking his eyes over your body. You can practically see the gears turning in his head. 

“So who fucks better?” he asks bluntly, a bead of sweat dripping down the column of his throat and into the neck of his tank.

A shocked laugh bursts from your lips before you can stop it. “What?” you ask, arms dropping to your sides limply. The completely one-eighty of his mood sends your head reeling. 

Patrick takes another step closer, invading your personal space. “Who fucks better?” he repeats slowly, leaning down to meet your eye. “Me or Art? Don’t fucking lie to me and tell me that prissy farmer boy makes you come harder than I do.”

You laugh again, shaking your head in disbelief. “God, everything is always a dick measuring contest with you. It’s so pathetic like, seriously–”

“Answer the question.” Patrick demands, cutting you off sharply. He’s practically looming over you now, so close that you can smell him. That natural, manly, musky scent he always has after a game that drives you fucking crazy. 

It reminds you of when he’d come back to your dorm fresh off a match, still in the same clothes and not showered. Pumped full of adrenaline and so pent up, needing something to take his energy out on. You were always that something. He’d fuck your mouth like he’d fuck your pussy, like it was just another hole for him drain his balls into. You’d be face down in his crotch for what seemed like hours, right where his smell was the strongest. Forced to breathe it in so deeply you’d feel high off it, your brain turned to mush every time.

Heat swirls deep in your stomach, you haven’t been this close to Patrick in what seems like forever. You kind of forgot how much he affects you, especially like this. The sex was always better when you’d fight before.

“You’re a child.”

“You still haven’t answered the question.”

You huff, narrowing your eyes at him. There’s a sort of crazed look on his face, his pupils blown out and dark. It makes you pause, it’s the look you’d get right before he’d pounce on you. You’ve seen it enough times to know that something is different about it. He looks needier, more hungry. 

It has some of your anger subsiding, twisted amusement swiftly taking its place. If Patrick wants to ambush you like this, after weeks of radio silence, you might as well use it as a chance to fuck with him.

You smirk, cocking your head to the side slightly. “Art,” you say slowly, taking a small step towards Patrick, “is a better fuck than you ever were.”

Patrick pouts like an honest to God child, sticking out his bottom lip in indignation. “I told you not to lie–”

“I’m not lying,” you say innocently, voice dropping down to a whisper as you lean in even closer. You can see the freckles sprinkled across his nose and cheeks, darker than usual thanks to all the sun he’s been getting. “Last night he ate me out for hours, made me squirt all over his fucking tongue.” 

For the first time since you’ve met him, Patrick Zweig is shocked into silence. His eyes darken, you can’t even see the green anymore, the solid black of his pupils swallowing it entirely. “Bullshit,” he says quietly, clipped and skeptical. His breath fans hotly over your lips, it makes your spine start to tingle.

You smile sweetly, giving a small shrug of your shoulders. “I’ll send you the video.”

Patrick physically reels back, blinking slowly with the realization of what you just said. His lips barely part in surprise, pink and enticing. You revel in it, smirking at him smugly. His eyes flit across your face like he’s trying to figure out if you’re lying or not. You stare back at him unrelenting, all the proof you need is sitting in the video gallery of your pink motorola razr. 

Patrick swallows hard, you watch the way his adam’s apple bobs with it. He shifts his lower body subtly, but you’re too close to not notice it. Your eyes immediately dart down, and you’re almost giddy at what you find. 

He’s hard, the fabric of his shorts stretched over the length of his dick obscenely. You can see the faint outline of the tip pressing against the seam, a wet patch seeping through the gray material around it.

“Oh my god, you’re actually getting off on this!” you laugh wickedly, eyes glued to the lewd tent of his dick. “You’re calling me a whore when you’re the one getting wet just thinking about your best friend's mouth on my pussy. That’s fucking pathetic even for you, Ricky.”

Patrick is silent, breathing heavily through his nose as he stares you down so intensely you can almost feel the heavy weight of his eyes as they bore into you. 

It happens in less than a second, Patrick closing the distance between you and taking your arm in his strong hand so he can force you in the direction of the showers. His grip is tight on your bicep, fingers meanly digging into your skin and forcing you to walk with him. You put up a fight, kicking and scratching but he’s stronger than you. Not letting your slaps to his chest or nails sinking into his arm deter him from dragging you across the court. 

“Let me go asshole!” you snap, trying in vain to yank your arm out of his grip while you stumble over your own feet. “You’re such a fucking psycho!” Patrick ignores you, bursting into the men's showers and marching you into the first stall. He drags you inside, whirling you around to shove your back against the door of it roughly. It knocks the wind out of you for a second, the lock digs into your back hard enough to hurt.

“Art doesn’t have any fucking idea how to deal with a bitch like you.” he grates, fisting a handful of your harshly. “He’s too soft. Too busy letting you lead him around by his dick to try putting you in your fucking place.”

The sting of your scalp only adds to the warmth pulsing in your pussy, sticky arousal dripping wet in your panties. You meet his eyes, all the fire and want swirling in them mirror your own. “Art has a bigger dick than you bitch.” You spit, standing on your tiptoes to lessen the distance of him tugging on your hair. It’s a low blow, immature and basic but you don’t care.

Patrick just hum noncommittally, roughly hooking his fingers into your cheeks and dragging you forward until the tip of your nose is touching his. “Then your throat is still nice and stretched out for me.”

He drops his hands to your shoulders, forcing you onto your knees. You hit the ground with a heavy thud, a dull ache blooms in your knees at the force of it. “Fuck,” you hiss, pulling back instinctively but the hard plastic of the shower door pressing onto the back of your head keeps you pinned in place. Your hands fly up to his legs to try and push him away.

Patrick grips your hair tight, tipping your face up to look at him. You have a perfect view of him pushing his shorts down, letting his hard dick slip out as the fabric stretches taught across his thick thighs. “Open your mouth,” he demands, yanking your head to the side meanly.

“Fuck you,” you snarl, teeth bared in anger as you fight to stand up. Patrick’s strong hand on your shoulder keeps you down while the other starts to idly stroke his dick. He’s just as big as you remember, thick and hard only a few inches away from your face. The tip all red and weepy when he pulls his foreskin back on each tug, a thick vein running up the side that you want to trace with your tongue.

“Don’t be like that, baby,” he coos softly, rubbing his leaking tip across your bottom lip a couple times, smearing his pre-come around your mouth like lip gloss. “We both know you love it.”

He’s so cocky, so sure of himself that you want to keep denying him. But he’s also right, you can feel your resolve slowly start to crack when he pushes the head between your parted lips. The familiar heady taste of him oozing onto your tongue has you sighing contently, jaw relaxing the tiniest bit almost like a reflex.

The second you give Patrick an inch and he’ll take a mile. 

“There we go,” he mutters sweetly, pulling back slightly and then thrusting forward until your nose is buried in the short curls at the base. 

Your whole body tenses, throat constricting over the length of his dick as your fist his shorts in your hands. As quickly as he thrust in, he pulls out, letting you sharply gasp for air before it’s back and pressing insistently on your tongue. You let him in, forcing your throat to relax as he slides forward to press his hips into your face.

“You’re such a fucking brat,” he bites out, thrusting down your throat roughly. “Pussy’s so greedy it jumped on the next dick that perked up around it.”

You could only whine around Patrick’s dick, mouth too full to do anything but try and work your tongue over the throbbing length of him. Your throat burns, spit flowing down your chin messily along with his pre-come still steadily leaking from the hot tip of his dick. His big hands have an iron grip on either side of your head, his balls slap against your chin as he thrusts over and over and over. The back of your skull throbs, knocking into the stall with each pump of his hips.

“Fuck,” he groans, dropping his forehead down to the stall with a small thunk. “You look so good like this,” he breathes, looking down at you through half-lidded eyes, “so fucking pretty with my dick down your throat to shut you up.” You glace up to meet his gaze, 

Your pussy aches, so empty that you want to shove your hand down your shorts and stuff yourself full of your own fingers to dull the need. Your thighs glide together slickly, the wetness of your arousal soaking through your clothes.

It gets harder to breathe. Your choked off, spluttering gags start loudly echoing off the tile walls. Your hand slaps Patrick’s thigh a few times, he thrusts hard once more before he finally pulls back, smearing spit all over your tongue and out of your mouth.

“God, that was good baby.” he praises, slapping his dick against your right cheek lewdly. “As much as I want to pump this load down your throat,” he says casually, stroking his spit slick dick lazily, ”I want it in your pussy more.”

“I fucking hate you,” you growl weakly, voice absolutley wrecked. The tears sitting in your waterline blur your vision, you blink them away to see Patrick’s smug smile beaming down at you. 

“Then tell me to stop,” he shrugs, tilting his head to the side condescendingly. You glare up at him, but you don’t say anything. He snorts, brow raising in amusement. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” 

He shoves his shorts the rest of the way down, stepping out of them and hauling you up to your feet. You’re still desperately trying to catch your breath, chest heaving as you cough and gasp. Patrick rips your shirt over your head, flinging it over the stall along with his own. He turns you by your shoulder, pushing you against the wall as he yanks the shower handle to start the stream.

Water rains down around you, shockingly cold for a few seconds before it finally starts to warm up. Patrick makes quick work of your shorts and panites, yanking them down your legs and off your feet, tossing them in the corner of the stall with a wet thwack. He kicks your feet further apart, one hand on your shoulder and the other lining his hard dick up with your tight hole, letting the leaking tip press into you with the smallest amount of pressure.

“I know you missed my dick slut,” he says, bringing his hand down on your ass quickly, kneading the stinging skin roughly. “Art could be the best fuck in the world, he still can’t give it to you like I can.” He pops the head in, groaning quietly before he bullies his thick dick the rest of the way into you.

Your hole shakes around him. Patick is right. Patrick is always right, but you’d never tell him that. You wanted this. You missed this. The burn of Patrick’s dick forcing you open, stretching you so wide your toes curl. Him not giving you even a second to react before he’s pulling back and pounding into you brutally.

You cry out, eyes screwing shut at the sharp sting. You can tell through the haze of you brain that this won’t take long at all, the both of you already so worked up from Patrick fucking your throat. His right hand drops from your shoulder to your hip while his left slides up your torso, sliding along your skin to wrap around the column of your throat firmly. You keen loudly, throwing your head back to give him more room.

“I taught him how to use that fucking dick,” he goads into your ear, grip tightening on your throat. “Did he tell you about that? Huh?” He takes your earlobe between your teeth, biting hard enough to make you squeal into the wall. The title digs into your cheek, roughly scraping against your skin every time Patrick fucks back into you. 

You’re hovering over the edge, pussy throbbing with the burning need to come. Your clit pulses, swollen and sensitive but you can’t find the strength to drop your down hand between your thighs. They’re too busy scrambling for any kind of purchase on the slippery wall of the shower, manicured nails scratching against the tile uselessly.

You gasp for air, fighting to speak up under the intense pressure of his hand, “I could tell,” you choke out, barely audible, “you both fuck like you have something to prove.”

“You think?” he sneers, thrusting harder, your ass stinging each time he slams his hips into you. “Maybe that’s because we do. Maybe that’s because we both like seeing you fucking fall apart like this, seeing you beg for it after you finally stop being a little pissy bitch.” 

Your breath hitches as his other hand drops from your hip, delving between your thighs to slide the calloused pads of his fingertips over your swollen clit. You moan, thighs clenching together as he rubs fast circles over you. “You like that, don’t you? Being used like a fucking toy.” His hand squeezes just a bit tighter. “Say it. Tell me you love being our little slut.”

The words spill out of your mouth before you can stop them, a mix of desperation and raw honesty, “I love it,” you cry out as loud as you can, “I love being your slut.”

“God, you sound just like him,” Patrick chuckles into your ear, low and sinister. His hold on your throat tightens, cutting off your air entirely. You sputter, hand coming up to clutch his wrist like a vice. Your pulse thunders, hard enough that he can probably feel it against his palm. “Who do you think made him come harder?”

The image alone of Patrick and Art like that sends you flying to the edge. “Ah— Patrick! ” you moan, voice hoarse and strained, “Pat, I’m gonna— fuck—“

“Do it,” he goads, sliding his hand from your clit down to where your pussy is spread open on him. He pushes his thick index finger right up next to his pulsing dick, hooking it inside or you and stretching you that much wider. “Come on my fucking dick like the greedy whore you are.”

You let out a sharp cry as your forehead hits the wall, thighs shaking violently as Patrick’s hips become relentless. Your whole body tensing up as you come so hard your vision blacks out. You think you’re screaming, but it’s hard to hear anything over the white noise buzzing in your ears. Patrick’s hips don’t stop, fucking your abused pussy into overstimulation as he chases his own orgasm. His hand drops from your throat to dig into your hip to put more power behind his thrusts. You’re immediately gasping for air, taking in greedy lungfuls of it.

Patrick’s chest is plastered to your back, face buried in your neck as he rambles out more nonsensical obscenities. His dick pulses and twitches in your pussy, so close to filling you up.

An idea pierces through the fog of your brain, an idea so fucking filthy it has your pussy clenching weakly. You think back to the first night Art fucked you, how he almost came all over Patrick’s pants just because they were his, just because you said his name. How worked up and hard Patrick got when you started talking about Art. 

“When he fucked me for the first time, I was wearing your sweats, the green ones,” your voice is scratchy and quiet, barely audible over the shower’s spray, “he noticed.”

“Fuck– fuck you,” he grates out, hips faltering ever so slightly. “God, gonna come,” his hold on your hip tightens, strong enough that it’ll be sure to bruise.

You keep talking, spurred on by his reaction. “He almost came right there, he wasn’t even inside me yet, just rubbed his dick all over them like he could fucking feel you.”

Patrick gives one final slam of his hips, burying himself as deep as he can in your pussy. His low groans and curses fill the room as he unloads into you, pumping you so full of his come that you can feel each hot splash of it painting the walls of your pussy. 

He slumps down against you, hips twitching as he works through the aftershocks. You can feel his breath puff over the shell of your ear. 

You and Patrick say nothing for a long few minutes, running water the only thing to keep the room from being completely silent. Patrick is still pressed to your back, his chest heaves against your shoulders. You think you’d collapse if his hands weren’t still on your hips, practically holding you up.

You’re the one to break the silence, voice low and wrecked, “Art lasts so much longer than that…”

Patrick snorts against your back. “Fuck you.” he says, biting your shoulder hard and pulling his dick out of you in one swift move. You gasp sharply as his come floods from your puffy, wrecked hole. Thick streams of it dripping down your thighs until the water washes it away to swirl down the drain. 

You turn on unsteady legs, hair plastered to your face with water. Patrick is right there, knees knocking against yours as he shifts the two of you closer to the spray. He looks like a marble statue, water dripping down the tip of his nose and between the hard planes of his abs. He grins smugly down at you, “I’m staying at a hotel close to campus, unblock my number and I’ll send you my room number,” he wagers, hands sliding up and down the wet skin of your back. “I think you, Art, and I have something we need to work out.”

“Yeah,” you agree, nodding your head with a small grin. “I think we do”

tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!

[2nd2tar]

proud to say i was never a story mode hater.

[a-dope-fiend]

It irritates me alot when people say that making medic more compassionate is ''missing the point of his character'' when he is literally shown to be in the comics.... did you miss the part where he showed concern for both sniper and miss pauling's well being in comic 5 and 6.

His actions are a combination of genuine attachment + clinical interest and these things do not cancel out one another. He is always pushing boundaries and going against the grain and i think this is what led to him losing his license in the first place. He felt stifled by the rules imposed on him.

He is shown to be extremely passionate so it makes sense that he would use his endless fascination with medicine as a way to show his affection. He loves his friends so he will find a way to make them borderline indestructible. Malpractice is his love language.

[starry-bi-sky]

Stuck in the middle of a forest made of

Flesh and bones and they're all scared of

A lost little boy who has lost his heart

Fear's not enough, they have to

Tear him apart —-------

There are two things Daniel Fenton knows that his family knows as well: 

He’s adopted.

He can’t remember anything else before that.  

‘Adoption’ is a loose term, implying that they went through the official legal processes and troubles of adopting a child into their home willingly, and with the full intention of doing so going into it. That is not what happened. What happened is that Jasmine Fenton found a half-dead child, in strange clothing, in the middle of the woods at her Aunt Alicia’s cabin, and then she went and got her parents. 

What happened is that a twelve year old Danny woke up in the same cabin, wearing clothes much too big on him that didn’t belong to him, and with very little memory of before that moment. He wakes up like a spring being set loose, sitting up so fast he scares the daylights out of Jasmine Fenton sitting next to him. He wakes up, reaching for his sleeve for something that isn’t there, and when it isn’t his mind stutters, like he’s tripped at the top of a steep hill. 

When they ask him for his name, he tells them, clearing muddled thoughts from his mind; Danny. He’s twelve.

(He thinks that’s his name, at least. It sounds right; it feels right. If he thinks really hard about it, he thinks he can remember someone calling him that, utter adoration in their voice. So it must be his name.) 

The Jasmine girl convinces her parents to take him home with them, and they give him the spare guest room upstairs. He has nothing to fill it with.

It’s… a strange experience, to go to a ‘new’ home when he doesn’t even remember his old one. 

The official adoption process… happens. He can’t say it’s easy, or difficult. He’s oblivious for the most of it, Jasmine intends on helping him settle in and Danny can’t say he enjoys the smothering. He learns that he is stubbornly self-independent, that’s one new thing he knows about himself. 

His adoption papers say ‘Daniel J. Fenton’. Danny remembers staring at the name ‘Daniel’ for a long, long moment, something curdling sour in his sternum. His name is Danny, that he knows. But it’s not Daniel. But he doesn’t know any other way of saying it, so he keeps his complaints to himself.

(Jack Fenton boisterously claps his hand on Danny’s shoulder and jerks him around, grinning wide as he welcomes him into the Fenton Family. Danny’s mind blanches at the touch on his shoulder, an instinct snapping like the maw of a snake, telling him to cut off the man’s fingers for daring to touch him.) 

(He keeps the thought to himself, tension rising up his shoulders the longer Jack Fenton’s heavy hand stays on him.) 

They found Danny in the summer. It’s a perfect coincidence, Maddie Fenton says before she goes back into her lab with Jack Fenton. She says it’s enough time to allow Danny to adjust; that they’ll enroll him into the school year in the fall. Then she stuffs a canister of ectoplasm onto the top shelf, and disappears like the ghosts she studies back down the stairs.  

(There’s something eerily familiar about the ectoplasm sitting in the fridge, something unsettlingly so. Danny knows what that stuff is, but he doesn’t know where. When the house is empty, he takes a can from the fridge and inspects it.)

Jazz wants him to leave the house. Danny doesn’t want to step foot outside of the FentonWorks building until he has something that quells the feeling of vulnerability he gets whenever he does. He tried to once, and he felt exposed. Unsafe. 

He turned back around and went inside.

—-------

Where do we go

When the river's running slow

Where do we run

When the cats kill one by one

—------

One day, when the house is empty — or, as empty as it can be; the Fenton parents down in the lab, and jazz out with friends. Danny is making a sandwich, and he caves into the urge to flip the knife in his hands between his fingers. A childish impulse, but one he falls for nonetheless. It comes to him easily, like second nature, in fact. The slip of the blade between his fingers is seamless, flowing with an ease like water running down the wall.  

He’s almost startled by it; his body holds memories that his mind does not. Muscles that know which way to move and twist, limbs that know how to hold and how to throw. He continues twirling it, fascinated, as if he were a scientist discovering a new species of animal. 

It’s not for a handful of minutes when a new thought hits him; an impulsive thought that pops in the back of his mind like a firecracker; Danny moves without thinking. 

He turns, and throws the knife. The pull of his shoulder, the flick of his elbow, is familiar like a hug. He knows when to let go, and the blade flies through the air in impressive speed, embedding itself into the wall with a hearty, loud thunk. Sinking into the drywall like butter. 

Danny stares at it in shock, he feels relieved — about what? — before he feels the guilt. He scrambles across the kitchen to pull it out, heart racing in his chest at being caught, and prays no one notices the hole it left behind. 

(He runs up the stairs before anyone can find him, food forgotten, and hides the knife beneath his mattress like a guilty murder weapon.)

After that, he leaves the house more. It’s more out of fear of being caught than the desire to leave. But Danny is quickly learning that among all things, he is someone who was dangerous, before he lost his memory. Even with his mind in fractures, he is still dangerous. 

He’s not sure how to feel about that — he thinks he should be scared. He feels a little proud, instead.

—------

Hazel beneath our claws

While we wait for cerulean to cry

Unsettled ticks run through time

Enough for the hunt to go awry

—-----

There’s another thing he learns about himself. That he knows about since he woke up. He knows that he left someone behind. He doesn’t know who, but he knows they must have been close; he’s always looking down and finding himself surprised when the only shadow he sees is his own. 

He thinks that he must have sung to them a lot; he finds himself humming familiar melodies when he’s lost in thought. Lullabies lingering at the tip of his tongue, an instinct to turn and sing them to someone beside him. He can’t remember the lyrics, but his mouth does, it tries to get him to say them when he’s not thinking. He can’t. 

Danny’s found himself humming under his breath more times than he can count, trying to recall whatever it is his mind is trying to claw forward. 

(“That’s a pretty song, Danny.” Jazz tells him at breakfast one day, Danny screws his mouth shut. He hadn’t realized he was humming. “What is it?”) 

(Something mean and possessive rears its head on instinct, uncoiling like a snake from its ball. His shoulders hunch defensively, he bites his cheek to prevent himself from baring his teeth. He doesn’t know what song it is, but it’s not for her. “I don’t know.”)  

He misses his person. Dearly. He knows, the longer he is without them, that they must have been close. Otherwise, he wouldn’t feel like he’s missing a chunk from himself. He wouldn’t be turning to someone who's not there; reaching for a hand that’s missing, birdsong on his tongue, a story to tell. 

A dream haunts him one night. Warm and familiar, he’s holding onto someone smaller than him, they’re tucked into his side like a puzzle piece. He’s humming one of his songs that is always playing in the back of his mind, an unfinished tale of a harpy and a hare. Danny can’t remember their face, not all of it. He remembers green eyes, hair dark like his own, skin brown like his. 

He loves them more than anything else in the world, a fact he knows down to his soul. He loves them so much it fills his heart with sunlight. Danny squeezes them tight, nuzzling into their hair; he makes them laugh. Then, he proudly boasts something. That when he takes something of their father’s, that his person — a sibling? That feels right — will be… the word fades from Danny’s mind before he can make sense of it. 

His person hugs him tight, his… brother? And their mother — a woman whose face he can’t remember either, but who he loves like a limb nonetheless — appears, smiling. Her hands reach for them both, voice calling them, ‘her sons’. There’s ticking in the distance, it sounds like the fastening of chains.

Danny wakes up cold, tears streaming down his face. The details of the dream already fading from his mind like the cold pull of a corpse.   

—-------

Harpy hare

Where have you buried all your children?

Tell me so I say

—-------

When school starts that Fall, Danny joins the sixth grade class, and quickly learns more things about himself. One of those things being that he’s smarter than the rest of his grade, whatever education he had before, it was better than the one he’s getting now. 

Everyone knows he’s adopted right off the bat. He tells them when the teacher forces himself to introduce himself, but it’s not like they needed him to tell them for them to know; he never existed in their little world before now, and the Fentons are pale as they come. Danny is not.

He befriends Sam Manson and Tucker Foley; they ask him about the scars fading up and down his arms, they ask him about the scar carved diagonal across his face.

Danny, as politely as he can, tells them he doesn’t remember. He thought kindness would come second nature to him, his dream burned into his mind where he hugged his brother so sweetly. Apparently, his sweetness is only second nature to people he considers his own. 

(It becomes even more apparent when Dash Baxter tries to bully him later that day, and Danny ruffles like an eagle threatened. His mind whispers, hissy and agitated, sinking like a shadow at his shoulder, several different ways Danny could kill him for talking to him like that, and fifteen more ways he could cripple him.)

(Danny ignores those thoughts, up until Dash Baxter tries to grab him. Then he breaks his nose on the wood of his desk. It’s easy how quickly the rest of his grade sinks him down to the status of social pariah.)

(At least Sam and Tucker still talk to him after that. When Danny goes to the principal’s office later, he wisely doesn’t mention the worse things he could’ve done than break Dash Baxter’s nose.)  

—--------------

It clicks and it clatters in corners and borders

And they will never

Hear me here listen to croons and a calling

I'll tell them all the

Story, the sun, and the swallow, her sorrow

Singing me the tale of the Harpy and the Hare

—-------

More dreams come, of course they do. Each one halfway to forgotten whenever he wakes up, ticking faint in his ears. He is many different ages. He is young, shorter than a table. He is older, holding onto his little brother. He is singing in almost every single one. He is singing to his brother. 

Danny can barely remember the lyrics, he’s begun leaving a journal by his bedside so that it’s the first thing he can write down when he wakes up. He’s a storyteller, he learns. He feels like a historian, trying to piece together a culture long dead and forgotten. 

His most vivid dream-like memory is not a happy one, and for once he’s almost relieved he barely recalls it. He is somewhere that isn’t home, but his mother and brother are there. He is dressed in black, blades keen in his hands. 

They are atop a moving train. They are fleeing something. His brother is struggling to keep up, he is small, and young. It’s beautifully sunny, they are somewhere green and lovely. 

It is a fast dream. 

His brother stumbles on something, and Danny, fast as a whip, snatches him by the back of his shirt and hoists him up to his feet before he can fall. “Watch your feet, habibi.” He murmurs low, a hand on his back. It’s hard to hear, there is wind in their ears.

His brother, face obscured in all but his eyes, which are green as emeralds, nods. 

The dream blurs, but Danny falls behind. His foot catches on air — impossible, it should’ve been, at least. He never trips. — and he lands against the roof with a thud and a grunt. His mother and brother stop, and turn for him. 

The train hits a turn before Danny can get up, and he shouldn’t have, something pulls on him, he swears, but he slips. He can’t find the purchase to pull himself up, cold fear hits him as his nails scrape against the metal. 

His mother and brother’s horrified faces are the last thing he sees before he disappears off the side of the train. 

(The ticking is at its loudest when he wakes up, pounding against his inner skull. He only manages to write down ‘train fall’ in his journal, before he’s flipping over to press his head into his pillow to get the pain to stop.) 

—---  

She can't keep them all safe

They will die and be afraid

Mother, tell me so I say

(Mother, tell me so I say)

—-------

When Danny is fourteen he is still humming songs he can’t remember, his mind still in a broken puzzle. But his room is now decorated with stars and plants in every corner. He has a guitar he keeps in the corner of his room, and he plays the lullabies in his head on the strings over and over again. 

The ectoplasm in the fridge still unsettles him, still reminds him of a past he can’t recall. The knife beneath his mattress has returned to the kitchen — he doesn’t need it. He found a box in the attic last year, it had his name on it, and inside he found familiar, strange clothes, and more weapons than he thought was possible to carry on one person. 

(Even without knowing that the Fentons prefer guns to blades, Danny knows, instinctively, that they were his weapons. He was — was? Is — a dangerous person. He takes the box down to his room to sort through. The weapons all fit into his callused hands almost perfectly — the grooves worn to fit his palm. They’re just a little small.) 

(He tentatively takes a small blade with him to school one day, and feels much more comfortable with it sheathed beneath his shirt. He’s kept it on him ever since, like he’s reunited a lost limb to himself.)   

Danny doesn’t have a name for his person, his little brother, nor does he have a name for his beloved mother. He’s haunted by dreams every few weeks, many of them repeating. He’s ingrained the words he can remember to memory, and the ones he doesn’t, he writes down in his journal. His little brother; Danny calls him a bird, he can’t figure out what kind. His little bird of some kind; when Danny takes something from their father — what, he can’t remember what — then his little brother will be a little bird. 

(He doesn’t have a name for his brother, yet, but he’s calling his birdie in his head. It’s better than nothing.)

—------

Seeker, do you ever come to wonder

If what you're looking for is within where you hold

Will you leave a trail for them to follow a path

You'll soon forget

Home

—---------

When he’s fourteen, Danny dies. It does nothing to fix his fractured memories, much to his consternation. It just confirms something he already knows; that he was someone dangerous, and that he still is. 

When the shock of death has worn off, Danny inspects his ghost in the metal reflection of the closest table. It’s blurry, hard to see, but shock green eyes pierce back at him, green like the portal. Lazarus, Danny’s mind whispers, and he blinks rapidly.

‘Lazarus,’ he mouths to himself. It’s familiar. Sam shows him with her phone what he looks like, joking that he looks like an assassin. Danny doesn’t think she’s that too far off. 

He doesn’t tell her that. He tucks the thought away with the rest of his secrets, and fiddles with the hood gathering at his neck, attached to a cape with torn edges swinging down to his ankles. He pulls it over his shock white hair. It shadows over his face impossibly so, until all you can see are his green-green eyes peering out like a wolf hiding in the brush.

He ends up calling himself Phantom. 

(Maybe now he can start putting lyrics to his lullabies; his memories may not have returned, locked away with the sound of a clock, but the dead can talk. One of them may just have answers.) 

----------

Home is where we are

Home is where you are

Home is where I am

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

Dedicated to @gascansposts for being the one who introduced me to the band Yaelokre, and thus being the whole reason I was inspired to write this in the first place >:] Those lyrics at the line breaks are all from their album Hayfields.

[buttdumplin]

I’m still on the latine reader train and fucking of course I had to do one of their baby’s ears getting pierced. The boys all react a little differently, but boy, are they amazing fathers.

cw: poly 141, gn!reader, latine reader, piercing mentioned but not described, baby is nicknamed Bug word count: 3k

It’s not something you’d spend a lot of time thinking about, getting your baby girl’s ear pierced. Hell, it wasn’t something you had a hard opinion on even before she came into your lives. But one day, something stirs in you. She’s around 5mos old, trying her hardest to roll over in the center of a nest of pillows her fathers have piled up around her, when you make the call. And while your partners are all understanding and loving, Kyle is the one you approach.

You plop down on the couch next to him, pulling his arms around you to make him hold you. Testing the waters, you spread small, quick kisses on his cheek. It’s a clear gauge of his current mood, and it has him squinting down at you. Not judging, more curious. He knows you’re about to drop something. 

“I’m thinking about getting Bug little golden studs.”

“That would make a lovely heirloom for when she gets older, something she can keep on her.”

“No, I mean la voy a llevar down to the piercer this week.”

His arms stiffen around you, and his lack of immediate response makes you turn to look at him. Kyle’s eyes are locked on the baby, his face perfectly neutral in a way you know he’s mastered for his job, like this was also somehow a threat to national security, to life as he knew it to be.

 “Vida mía… are you sure?” concern finally creeping in to scrunch his eyebrows.

“Yeah, I’m worried arracadas would snag on something as she’s learning to move more.”

It’s his turn to look at you, and all Kyle finds on your face is the stillness of peace that comes with having made a decision. 

“We’ll wait to tell the others,” he knows better than to ask and it has you throwing a big, beaming smile his way. All he can do at this point is return your kisses and ask you to share a link to the shop you want to take your baby girl to. 

You got to bed excited that night, thrilled by Kyle’s support. He, on the other hand, stays up late hidden in the bathroom, digging up as much info as he can on the shop to make sure it’s a reputable place. He’s reading every single review folks have left on both the individual piercers and the place itself, and he’s pinching in on every picture to zoom in and look for even the smallest sign of something wrong. A single picture of misaligned piercings would be all that it takes from him to call it all off. But he finds nothing. No skeezy people in the shop, no questionable client pictures, and the shop even has their health and safety certifications on proud display. Well, at least it seems like you chose a good shop.

The next day, Kyle is driving you down to the shop, hands tight on the steering wheel. He wants to be there. He has to be there. Pleased with all his digging and research on the shop, he holds Bug and coos down at her as you run through the details with the piercer. He’s straining his ears like never before, just to try to catch the piercer saying a single thing that sounds off so he can haul you both out of the shop and back home. But again, everything checks out. 

His voice is low and rough as he says, “I’d like to hold her as you do it, if that’s alright.”

You know he’s just trying to look out for Bug, trying to maintain some type of control in this terrifying moment, so you just kiss his shoulder and nod at him. Kyle doesn’t say much else. He sits still with his little girl in his arms, eyes wider than usual, taking in every detail he can.

Are the needles and jewelry sterile? The piercer’s pen marks look even on her little ears. Are the piercer’s hands shaking? This close to her little face?

It all happens quickly and nearly painlessly. You’re pretty sure Bug only cried out from how tense Kyle’s arms got as the needle came closer, scared just from sensing his fear. As the piercer finishes cleaning off your little girl’s ears, you hear Kyle release what must have been a held breath. The strain around his eyes immediately warns you of the blistering headache he just gave himself. 

You take his hand gently, “All done.”

He nods shakily and presses a kiss to the top of Bug’s head.

He’s never been so proud of his baby girl before. She faced off with something sharp and pain, and she barely batted an eye. Even after, it was almost like nothing had happened. Bug went back to babbling away in an attempt to talk to the piercer, who was kind enough to carry on a short conversation with her. It makes his heart swell with an unbelievable amount of hope. She’ll be able to face the entire world itself by the time she’s grown.

Kyle spends the drive back home in the backseat, looking for any signs of discomfort as your little girl sleeps, her little hand locked around his finger, his smile completely stuck on his face.

~

Simon is the only one home when you get back. He sits in the living room, putzing around with all of Bug’s toys and rugs, clearly waiting for you to get home and preparing for some play time. There aren’t any Baby and Me classes that day, at least as far as he knows. So it must have been something else that pulled you from the house.

He greets both you and Kyle with a soft kiss and a little hum, then reaches for the carseat, “How’s our sweet girl?”

Her gurgles answer him, and she gives him a big gummy smile as he pulls her from the seat. You and Kyle slowly move to put the key and car seat and jackets away, keeping a careful eye on Simon. He lays his baby girl down in his lap, helping bicycle her little legs with big, tender hands. And everything seems fine. Simon is clearly happy to be spending time with Bug again, and you and Kyle both let out a not-so-subtle sigh of relief. The sound of it, unfortunately, is bigger than it should in the room, taking up all the space left open by Simon’s absolute silence. Your eyes go wide and meet Kyle’s, his own reflecting the slight worry in yours, and you both sit on either side of Simon.

“Cariño, are you alright?” you plant a kiss on his cheek, Kyle’s arm finds its way around Simon’s back.

Now that you’re next to him, you can see the little quiver of his lower lip and the tears gathering on blonde lashes, eyes locked in on the little golden studs. His stuttered breathing is the only thing to break the silence.

“She’s so little,” he chokes out, “It must have hurt her so bad.” His tears finally fall as his fingers hover near the baby’s ears. 

Kyle presses himself against Simon’s side, “Oh, sweetheart. She’s alright, just look at how happy she is to be with you now.”

“Le dolió más a Kyle than it did her, and he just held her through the whole thing.”

Simon immediately remembers all the times he’s held his baby girl as she’s gotten her shots, how she’s squirmed and cried til she was purple in the face, and he takes another stuttering breath, “What if it makes her scared of jewelry, what if she comes to associate it all with pain?”

You can’t help but smile a little at the stark differences of the picture before you. Simon’s big frame hunches over the baby and his large, scarred hands gently hold her, his face growing ruddy as more tears fall and he starts to sniffle. Meanwhile Bug is wiggling away happily as she lays against the warmth of his thighs, little fists swinging around, feet kicking excitedly at the sound of Simon’s voice. 

“I think she’ll be glad she won’t have to heal those piercings as an adult,” you say, carefully wiping his tears away. 

Simon chuckles at your comment, taking a tissue from Kyle to clean up his nose, “Yeah, I suppose it is easier now since she’s still sleeping on her back.”

“Plus think of all the jewelry we’ll get to buy her as she grows, toda chipleada.”

Simon gives a full laugh at that, his hands returning to bicycling Bug’s legs. His chest moves with the deep breaths he finally allows himself, his little girl’s infectious smile catching on his face too. What a beautiful, softhearted man he is. He turns to give you each a kiss on the forehead as you and Kyle lean against him, “I’ll have to start tucking away some more money for that then.”

By the time he’s bringing Bug down to the ground to get her moving and playing with her toys, his tears have stopped. A few sniffles pop up every now and then, but he’s smiling, his big, brown eyes warm with love as he plays with her. Simon slowly moves to lay down next to her, mimicking her as she lays on her tummy, his head resting against his folded arms. His eyes flick to her ears every now and then, as if he’s trying to keep an eye out for a potential reaction. But the more pressing matter turns out to be how hard her little hands grab at his face, pulling at his lip until he’s giggling too. He doesn’t flinch a single time. He never will, not with his loved ones. They’re the people he trusts with his entire being. 

~

Johnny’s the next one to come home, arriving just a couple of hours later. He comes in the door to find you’re all working on setting up lunch: Kyle is on table duty and sets out drinks, you’re finishing up shoving doritos into the sandwiches, and Simon is still in the living room with baby Bug. Johnny smiles so big his face hurts a little. There are few things he loves as much as just seeing his little family. He could have the single worst day at work, but coming home to yall? That fixes his entire world. 

He stands by the door, where he can see all of you, and throws his arms out, “My loves, my dearest ones, I am home.” 

You all turn to smile at him. Normally, you’d all come up to greet him with a kiss. It’s a cute little ritual he’s come to love. But you’re all understandably occupied, so it’s his turn to make rounds. He steps to you and Kyle in the kitchen first, pulling you both into his arms so he can place light, lingering kisses to your mouths.

“Feeling your lips against mine once again has righted the world,” his big declarations of love will never truly end, but yall well know just how ecstatic he is to be home again. He’s quick to steal a couple of chips from you, shoving them into his mouth before you can reprimand him. Kyle receives a quick swat to his bum and he chases after Johnny a couple of steps, mirth lighting both their faces.

Johnny jogs over to join Simon on the floor, giving him a careful kiss as well.

“Our sweet Bug, trying so hard to roll. What a perfect little-”

And you know he’s clocked it. The sunshine gleaming off her little studs catches his eye.

“What’s this?” he rises back to his feet, eyes darting to each of your faces.

 Simon is the first to try to address his concern, “She’s alright, love. Watch, she’s moving about like nothing happened.”

“No. No. She’s too small to be dealing with this,” Johnny’s pacing the room, hand in his hair as his eyes continue to bounce between your faces. He keeps looking down at his baby girl, the little gold in her ears still shining, her happy little babbling only stopping as she tries to pull Simon’s finger into her mouth. And still, Johnny paces. 

 “It’s perfectly safe for her age, and the shop was of the highest quality,” Kyle says, stepping into the living room as Johnny continues to wear a track into the carpet. The technical reassurance has him pausing for a moment, the hand clenched in his hair relaxing a fraction. 

“But why?” Johnny’s voice climbs a little higher. He’ll never shout at any of you, but the emotion has to come out somehow. “She’s so young. This could have waited.”

More and more questions and rationalizations sprout from his mouth as his pacing picks back up. He brings up his sisters, he brings up his ma. None of them got piercings until they were much older. Then they could pick what they wanted and where. He briefly mentions consent, worried that this means he’s also overstepped as a father. And at one point he just says the word “baptism” and lets out a long groan. Still, he paces. His eyes turn electric with the sheer need to understand. He’s spiraling.

“Johnny, it’s cultural,” you cut through his rambling. It stops him in his tracks. 

“Cultural?”

You give him a nod, and his shoulders ease down from their tense clench. 

“Well, why didn’t you say so? We’ll have so many cute options for her once they heal,” he says with a smile once again adorning his face, plopping down to join Simon and Bug. “Is there a sandwich for me too, or should I make my own?”

 You let out a breathless laugh, the boys look up at you from the floor, smiles toothy and proud.

Kyle covers his face with his hands for a moment, mumbling something to himself before going back into the kitchen, “Yeah, we already have one for you, you brat.”

~

When Price arrives home, he lingers by the door for just a moment, taking in all the sounds of his family chattering and giggling away. He’ll never say it out loud, at least not unless he’s directly asked, but the sound alone of all of you happy and healthy and safe rejuvenates him, adds another 5 years to his life every time. He smiles a little to himself as he puts his shoes into the rack, mindful of where he stores his pack too. You’ve been kind enough to help figure out a system to keep all their shit straight and easily accessible for coming and going, and he tries to reinforce it so much with the other boys that he’s not about to fuck it up.

He’s still smiling as he joins the rest of you in the living room. Price is expecting the usual big smiles and lunging for hugs, but instead, he’s met with all of you trying to talk over each other. Kyle’s on the floor with Simon, both with a hand to help Bug sit up, and you and Johnny are shoving and trying to push the other behind. He can make out Johnny saying the word “cultural” over and over again, but the rest is jumbling together. 

Price raises a single hand, immediately silencing the room, “You can all explain what exactly is going on, one at a time, but first I will make my rounds.” 

He makes his way around the room, carefully bending for a kiss from each of you. Truly, of all the rules yall have put in place, this is one of Price’s favorites, the greeting smooches for everyone when they come in the door. It gives yall a chance to reconnect, and it really helps him settle back into the peace of his role as a father and partner. He gets to focus on his family in these moments, and he wouldn’t trade that for the fucking world.

As he picks Bug up to give her her own little smooch, the commotion starts again, making him raise his hand once more. He looks over his sweet little girl, taking in her excited little noises and smiling in return.

“Gold looks beautiful on you, Bug,” he murmurs as he gives her another smooch, enjoying the little squealing his facial hair causes. 

You let out a little whoop and the rest of the boys give a joyous little cheer as well, immediately launching into how they can use this new development to best spoil their precious Bug. And that’s all there is to it. At least in that moment.

Later on, as you’re all getting ready for bed, you notice Price is still in the nursery. He’s messing with the baby monitor, turning it on and off a couple of times to check the battery, bringing it in as close to the crib as he can. All he needs to do is tap on it to check the mic to complete a full system check. And just as you’re about to call him to bed, he does just that. He turns at the sound of your chuckle, his face so pink you know it’s spread all the way down his neck.

“You bought the top-of-the-line monitor, remember, corazon? Todo ese dinero on fancy walkie-talkies,” you press the words against his chest as he holds you close.

“Can never be too sure.”

A couple of hours later, you’re trying to untangle yourself from the too-warm cuddle puddle and all the entangled legs when you notice Price is no longer in bed. But you hear it before you get too far in your search for him, his gravelly voice humming a song through the baby monitor. 

You walk into the nursery to spot him on the big rocking chair, his legs up and reclined as possible, Bug sleeping against his bare chest. 

“She’s wounded,” he croaks as you run your fingers through his hair, “she needs her daddy to heal.” 

You don’t bring attention to the way his voice is choked up with tears, “Claro que sí, papi.”

“You were her age when you got yours?”

“I was younger.”

“And it didn’t hurt?”

“Never.”

He goes quiet, relishing the feeling of her little back rising and falling under his hand as she breathes.

“Can we take her to the guest room? Sleep with her? At least for tonight?” his nervousness seeps into his voice as he asks.

You grab the baby monitor with you as you walk him towards the guest room, just so the boys don’t panic when they wake up. Thank god yall regularly maintain the guest rooms, it makes settling the pillows and bedding much easier this late at night.

Price shakes his head when you motion towards the center of the bed for him to lay Bug down. Instead, he climbs in alongside you, keeping a sleeping Bug on his chest.

“Just for tonight,” he whispers, “Just for tonight.”

In the morning, Kyle’s voice wakes you, “I don’t know how Bug does it. She sleeps better through his snoring than any of us.”

AN: Once again, HUGE fucking shoutout to @mikichko for encouraging this and also giving us Price's precious line of "she's wounded, she needs her daddy to heal." I can't thank you enough, Kiko.

[amoscontorta]

Roleplay, Undercurrents, and Rising Curtain: Sylus's POV

It really bothers me in the game that the clearly traumatic experiences MC undergoes in the canon storyline don't seem to have any consequences for MC's character development. Yes, yes, this is a self-insert gacha mobile game, blah blah. MC has PTSD from chapter 4 (you know the one), and no one can convince me otherwise, so I re-wrote the auction bits from Sylus's POV to fix this grievous oversight, because I am also firmly convinced he is a champ at handling MC's issues.

Third person POV (Sylus), second person POV (gender-neutral reader/MC) CWs: violence, murder, foul language, cursing, mentions of trauma/PTSD/panic attacks, Sylus is giddy being able to be near MC again even though MC is still mean to him

SFW if you think murder and Sylus's singing is SFW

ao3 link here

He is watching you from the shadowed doorway as you examine yourself in the mirror. He can almost see your mind tick, tick, ticking away, evaluating the quality of your costume for tonight, the slight frown on your face betraying your uncertainty that you, and he, will be able to pull tonight off and emerge on the other side in one piece.

He is used to this type of soirée, a viper’s den wrapped in velvet and silk, the veneer of civility paper-thin, where one wrong look or clumsy response can cost you your reputation, or much, much more. And as a betting man, he’d gamble that you, on the other hand, are not used to this type of gathering at all. You who are straightforward, with your fangs bared and guns blazing, the honesty palpable in your bright eyes and laughter, in your scowl and impatience and eagerness.

He steps into the light, revealing his presence to you through the mirror, and watches as you turn to him, draped in scarlet, and a pulse of satisfaction has his lips lifting. You look delicious, with your head tilted haughtily, the red jewels flashing from your neck and wrists. Your outfits match, and you’re dripping in stones and fabric the color of his eyes. He hasn’t felt this sense of satiation in a long, long time. He pins the brooch above your heart and looks into your eyes, and it doesn’t matter that even though you know the truth now, you are still looking at him with the cold unfamiliarity of someone constantly assessing the possible threat in every gesture he makes. It doesn’t matter that even though he’s helping you, you’re still treating him like the enemy, when it is everyone outside these walls who threaten you, and he is currently the only one defending the gates and preparing to shatter the siege.

None of that matters. Because you’re right here, finally. You’re allowing him to touch you, as he smooths the fabric around where he has just pinned the brooch, your heartbeat strong and steady under his palm—you’re reaching out to him, sliding your hand in his; he can’t feel your skin through your gloves but he can feel your heat at his side, in his palm. He will ensure that, with time, the look in your eyes changes when you feel him appear behind you, when your palms touch.

You say something biting to him, full of doubt, the wariness and spite palpable, and he revels in how safe you must feel with him already to extend your claws around him like this, to be reckless and treat him like an insufferable puppy that you’re forced to indulge instead of the half-feral wolf that he is to so many others. The progress from hate and fear from just a few days ago, to this snarky impatience is intoxicating, better than any gin fizz or successful wager—it’s faster than he had calculated as the blood poured from his heart and you spitefully jammed your palms into his chest in an attempt to stem the flow.

In short, Sylus is in a great mood tonight and he’s looking forward to exterminating the rest of the vermin that have been gnawing away at the foundations of his house in his long absence. And he’s going to make damn well sure that he gets to dance with you before the fireworks truly begin.

***

Things are going according to plan—he snickers, recalling that this plan is the one you accused him of not having. He will show you, in time, that he always has plans, with backup plans, and backups to the backup plans. He can forgive you for not knowing that about him yet. But you’re the only person he’s in a forgiving mood toward tonight. He has deposited you safely at the bidding room of the auction, the subtle glow of the protocores illuminating the lovely line of your haughtily upturned nose as you sauntered away from him clutching his black card, the other guests whispering in a painfully unsubtle manner behind their hands, speculating about who you are and the nature of your relationship to him. Mine, he had declared, as he handed over his proverbial wallet and told you to have fun.

As he strides down the dimly lit hall of the hotel in which the auction is being held, the deep carpet shushing his purposeful steps, he spots one of Sherman’s minions standing at attention at a closed door and can’t prevent the excitement rushing through him. He is so close to the craven idiot who dared act in his name, who sowed discord in his ranks, who hurt you so terribly and deprived you of your ‘family’, who, regardless of Sylus’s opinion of them, you clearly loved deeply. He is eager to kill two birds with one stone (apologies to Mephisto): wipe Sherman’s existential stain off this plane of existence, clean his house, avenge your loss, and be back to dance with you in a matter of minutes. The lackey finally notices him, begins lifting his wrist to speak into his earpiece, but unfortunately for him, he is little too late, as Sylus’ evol jerks him into the air by his neck—he is about to tighten it to snap the fuck’s spine in two when he hears your gorgeous voice through his own earpiece.

He pauses, suddenly anxious that something has gone wrong for you that and you’re in danger and that he’s not there, when he hears you say, “Do you mind if I use your card to buy one of these protocores?”

He shakes his head a little. Did he just hear you correctly? He might have to re-evaluate his estimation of your intelligence. He will continue to adore you even if you’re a little slow; your other qualities more than make up for any deficiencies in the intelligence department. Because why the fuck else would he hand you the equivalent of unfettered access to his bank account and tell you to have fun? Of course you can buy whatever the hell you want with it. But he knows you’re clever; the way you meet and counter his sarcasm, taunts and challenges without hesitation makes that clear. And you wouldn’t have survived for this long, risen to one of the elite teams in the Association’s ranks, if you were an imbecile. But he is busy, your sudden question made him anxious for you, and he's frothing at the mouth to get back to you to claim his dance.

“Do not bother me with such trivial matters!” he hisses into his own earpiece, and watches as the eyes of the idiot, who he still has by the throat, bulge further in response to his assailant angry-whispering into the empty hallway.

He’s about to finish this when he hears your voice again, offering an offensively low sum for the highest grade protocore this pretentious establishment has to offer.

“5 million!” he counters in a whisper-shout. He is not going to let these clowns think that your man is broke. He waits to hear your response, finally noticing that the guard he still has suspended in the air has passed out. When he hears you double the amount he had ordered you to offer, and then proceed to demand the rest of the items up for bid, Sylus laughs so hard that he momentarily loses control of his evol and the unconscious goon falls with an unceremonious, muffled thump onto the richly carpeted floor. Sylus contemplates his crumpled form for a moment, wiping the tears from his eyes. Suddenly he doesn’t have it in him to kill a guy who is probably only here for a paycheck, even if he does have atrocious taste in employers.

“You can thank my charming guest for your life tonight, if you manage to get through it alive,” he murmurs to the lump on the floor, before punching the door open with his evol-wrapped fist and striding in to find Sherman turning with a look of horror on his face as he recognizes who, precisely, was just laughing like a madman on the other side of the now ruined door.

After, once Sylus has successfully avenged himself and more importantly, you, he hums a little tune as he picks up Sherman’s detonator and saunters back to the ballroom. Maybe, if things keep going as well as they’re going now, and you like him a little better, he’ll sing it to you as a treat. Because of you, he's having so much fun.

***

And now, finally, he is going to claim his own treat before the action really begins. The utter boredom he was forced to endure while interrogating Sherman and uncovering his trite motivations is replaced by an eagerness bordering on mania to get back to his interesting little Hunter. He watches in amusement as a man sidles up to you and shows interest in your brooch, after having thoroughly shown interest in the rest of you before mustering the courage to actually speak to you.

He watches with slightly less amusement as your curiosity is piqued and you ask with your customary eagerness to learn new things, “Hightower? What’s that?” The man’s eyes light up at this apparent interest of yours, seeing an in with you and assertively requesting that you join him for the banquet dance.

Aaaand that’s enough. Sylus steps into the light and slides his hand around your waist, pulling you decisively into his side and feeling that dangerously seductive calm wash over him, as it always does, when he’s allowed to touch you. He knows it makes him weak. He does not care. His other strengths more than compensate for the crack in his armor you represent. Unlike Achilles, he knows exactly how to protect his vulnerability. His hand flexes involuntarily, fingers pressing a little too hard into your hip, until he is able to will it relaxed again.

“A Hightower is a type of gun. Just one can level this entire building,” he answers your question, fingering the detonator in his other pocket. He doesn’t need a Hightower to finish what he started tonight, and the thought translates into an the intense smugness as you frown at him for interrupting your conversation with your luckless suitor. “The brooch is a gift from me, I’m afraid,” he says smoothly, more than ready to send this guy scurrying along his way and draw your entire focus back to him, where he likes it best.

“You weren’t trying to sell it now, were you, kitten?” he goads you, just to see how you’ll respond to this blatant mischaracterization of the situation.

You don’t disappoint him: with your tight jaw belying your coy tone of voice, you run your hands  up his chest, underneath the coat draped over his shoulders, and pretend to be a spoiled, thrill seeking brat testing a sugar daddy’s patience. Finally, the insignificant obstacle standing between him and the dance he has been looking forward to all evening gets the hint and slinks back into the crowded shadows.

And finally, finally, the music begins, bodies are moving around the two of you, and you’re in his arms as he gracefully leads you through the steps of the dance. He soaks in the feeling of his arm around your waist, your hand in his, your chests brushing against each other as you sway together across the dance floor. He notices that your attention is split between expressing doubt about whether he’s telling the truth regarding knowing the aether core’s location and constantly assessing potential threats—but Sylus does not want your eyes drifting elsewhere. He smoothly draws your eyes back to his, where they belong, and ensures that the only thing you can see is him by tightening his arm around your waist, drawing you in closer, and refusing to give you a direct answer to all of your questions. He sees your little scowl, the frustration in the line of your mouth, suppresses a wince when you deliberately stomp on his foot—but he doesn’t mind. Just as he doesn’t mind that you might not believe that he’s fulfilled his part of the deal, that he knows exactly where the aether core is, and that he has his own house’s situation finally under control with Sherman’s demise. In time, you’ll learn that you can trust him. And he has all the time in the world, now that you’re finally here and not trying to kill him.

He's in such a good mood he’s floating like a feather, until you mention the protocore bombs and something changes in the expression on your face. If he hadn’t been staring at your lovely face for weeks now, from afar through Mephisto and hacked security cameras, and while you were sleeping under his roof (if you have an objection to him exploiting your proximity by watching you as you sleep when you’re right there, under his roof, then sue him), and if he wasn’t currently in the process of soaking in every microexpression flitting across your upturned face from this close as you dance together, he might have missed it. But he doesn’t miss it. And he certainly doesn’t miss the involuntary shudder that runs through your body pressed to his. He realizes in a flash of intuition that the idea of the bombs bothers you—

He watches your throat as you swallow, and the very light sheen of sweat gathering at your temples, he watches your eyes begin to dart around again, your hand flexing with what is likely the need to grab your gun from underneath the fabric of your outfit, and he realizes that you’re starting to panic. Or have a panic attack. At the thought of bombs—

Like the bomb that destroyed your family and came so close to killing you too

He has watched you for weeks, seen the way you’ve worked almost non-stop, taking on assignment after assignment with hardly any rest in between except for when you were on the brink of collapse. When you weren’t working, you were training, kilometer after kilometer on the treadmill, heavier and heavier weight sets. And when you weren’t training, you were trying to orchestrate a way to infiltrate his territory, to hunt him and the aether core down. You weren’t sleeping, and you weren’t attending counseling. You haven’t processed what happened to you at all, and no one around you has forced you to confront what you have been avoiding this whole time. The dark circles under your precious eyes, the short fuse and oh so transparent mask of a smile plastered across your lovely, exhausted face—how they just let you continue as you have been infuriates him, and only the thought that he’s here now, in your life, whether you like it or not, is the only thing that stops him from adding new names to his extermination list. He will succeed where they have failed to care for you, even if you hate him for it.

However, he takes a moment to reproach himself, as just a few hours ago he was gloating to himself that soon you’d learn that his contingency plans have contingencies, that you could trust him to think of all the variables and know how to dismantle any obstacles. Yet he has been missing something so obvious while making his calculations of how tonight would go. Of course you’d have remaining trauma from what you have survived and what has been taken from you.

He recalculates—it’s too late to change the state of play now, but instead of the fireworks he has been looking forward to unleashing into chaos, this is now going to have to be a controlled demolition.

He lifts his hand and runs his fingertips along the curve of your jaw to return your focus to him. Once your too wide eyes are locked on his, he tightens his hold around your waist again.

“Look at me. Look only at me.” He waits, and something inside of him crows in triumph as, your hands tightening on him, you follow his directions and stare into his eyes, letting him continue speaking without struggle.

“We are going to detonate the bombs now that were originally intended later for me, kitten. It’s going to be loud, and most of this place will be rubble when we’re done.”

Before you can ask the how and why, he continues. “I have the detonator. I know you’re frightened. I’m sorry this is the method that I have tonight. But keep your eyes on me, and breathe. We’ll get through this together, do you understand?”

He can sense the shift in the energy of the room, the metaflux fluctuations and the increasing violent mood of the crowd, but he will make time for this and deal with any fallout from this slight delay. He will ensure that you get through this without spiraling into a panic attack and possibly getting hurt.

“Do you understand?” he asks again. And that same satisfaction, the sense of calm, that only you seem to be able to give him floods through him as you take a shuddering breath and nod, ever so slightly, eyes never leaving his.

He lets his fingers drift down your face, takes your hand in his and slips both of them into his pocket, pulling you even closer, your cheek coming to rest against his chest. He guides your hand around the detonator in his pocket, squeezing your hand gently in reassurance. “We’ll do this together. You’re in control,” he murmurs, eyes scanning the crowd now, having utter faith that you will have the courage to press the button despite the dread that must be filling you right now.

And you, with your cheek pressed against his warm chest, his steady heartbeat drowning out all the other sounds, including the ringing in your ears, your own thundering heartbeat, flashes of memory, a door closing, Caleb’s last words to you—you close your eyes and press, and the world explodes around the two of you. But you’re breathing, and Sylus is still holding you tight, and you’re alive, and you’ll deal with the terror threatening to drown you after you’ve gotten what you came for.

After you take one deep, slow breath, you reach for your gun, shove Sylus to the side and shoot the wanderer that was about to stab him in the back.

[civetfish]

Nerd-to-nerd communication

Something super pointless and self-indulgent I've had on the backburner for a while. I love trying to make the pieces they gave us fit together!

Al-AN and Robin would absolutely bond over learning about each other's biology. I could talk about this forever but I'll get into all of the headcanons I have for these two in another post eventually

Below the cut is another version with some extra bits and pieces and the transcription

Transcript :

Architect Anatomy A. Architect "Brain" - Doesn't "store" information so much as allow for easy communication with the network B. Brainstem - connects the information received to the central nervous/circulatory system C. "Heart" - Circulatory system pumps the bioluminescent fluid to other organ systems and surface veins. Each node connects to a vast vasculature network D. "Kidneys" - Organs that filter the bioluminescent "blood" and other bodily fluids, absorbing and distributing collected material E. Nerve Center - Receives raw sensory data and filters it. Filtering can be unconscious or intentional

F. "Respiratory" Tract - Intakes gases or liquids and filters out material for use. Disposes of waste on exhale. Provides cooling to internal systems

The respiratory tract functions less like a set of lungs and more akin to a computer's cooling system, with the ability to absorb material from the environment to use in other parts of the body. It also would likely help the architect's body analyze the environment it is currently exposed to on a molecular level. It is also truly unidirectional, with the intake vents near the "collarbone" and the exhaust vents on both sides of the abdomen

The architect organ cache in-game felt like it was definitely not a complete model of the internal organs, so I wanted to come up with something to fill some more space. I also just really liked the idea of Al-An being capable of something similar to breathing, without having a respiratory system in the traditional sense. Feel free to use any of this in your own headcanons if you would like :)

BONUS - a gif of all the layers!

[cerise-on-top]

Hi!!

I really love your works and writing on cod! I really enjoy reading it! ❤

Can I request Konig, Nikolai, Rudy and Alejandro reacting to reader speaking to their native tongue?

Take all the time you need! ❤🐱

Hello, I'm glad I can write something people can enjoy! And of course you can, even if I'm not sure I understood this ask perfectly! I wrote it as reader speaking the native language of the lads with them, so I hope that's okay! If you wanted reader simply speaking their own native language, please let me know! Thank you for the request, this one was very fun to write for!

Alejandro, Rodolfo, Nikolai and König with an S/O who Speaks Their Language with Them

Alejandro: He’d definitely be surprised if it comes out of nowhere, but he’s anything but mad. He can speak English fluently, has no problems whatsoever with it, but if he can speak Spanish then he definitely won’t mind either. If you’re a beginner and it’s evident by how you stutter in Spanish, then he’ll be patient with you. He’ll speak slowly and clearly so you can follow while also getting a good feel for the intonations the language has. However, when he just wants to tease you a bit then he’ll speak the way he’d usually speak while also not shutting up either. Alejandro can be eloquent in Spanish if he tries, but he barely ever does, only when he wants to confuse you with words you’d likely only hear from people who are 100 years old. The more you look like you’re in despair, the more it cracks him up. He will apologize afterwards, though, and give you a kiss on the cheek. If your Spanish is already pretty good, however, and you just wanted to surprise him, then congratulations, he’s likely going to speak a whole lot more Spanish with you than before. Just because it’s a popular language doesn’t mean everyone speaks it, so when he wants to tell you something for your ears only while there are people around, he’ll say it in Spanish. It’s comfortable for him, getting to speak his mother tongue with you. He thinks in Spanish, so it’s a whole lot easier for him as well. Tells a lot more jokes in Spanish too, even though they’re some of the worst ones the language has to offer. While they may not be Ghost-level lame, they’re something else still. Come up with your own and he’ll be so proud of you, rewarding you with more awful puns he came up with. He’s just happy he gets to share his language with you.

Rodolfo: As soon as you come up to him somewhat timidly and strike up a conversation in Spanish he’ll be a bit surprised, but absolutely smitten. Since it’s obvious you’re still learning he’ll try to use “nicer” Spanish on you, so more words that aren’t just exclusive to his dialect, or Las Almas in general. Very supportive, he would never judge you for making grammar mistakes while speaking, taking a while to remember a word or mispronouncing something, it’s part of learning a language, after all. Might nudge you in the right direction or correct you gently, but he’d never mean it in a bad way, he just wants to help you. He’ll speak clearly to you, slowly as well, so you can learn from him. It’s not often he gets carried away, but sometimes hearing you speak Spanish is just so cute that he might chuckle a bit or be a bit more excited than usual. A very patient teacher, who can appreciate you trying to learn something new. Now, if your Spanish is already pretty good then he does like holding a conversation with you in Spanish every once in a while. It’s just nice to turn your brain off without having to translate every other word into another language since he, too, thinks in his native tongue. Soft petnames from time to time, or maybe just mixing English and Spanish together when he can’t think of the word immediately as well. Somehow, as soon as he knows you speak Spanish, he’ll believe you’ve taken an interest in the corresponding culture, so he’ll teach you more about Mexico if he can. Teaches you how to cook the food, the customs, what the people are like in general. While he may not be as connected to his culture as Alejandro, he does like talking about it from time to time.

Nikolai: The second you greet him with a cheerful privet he knows you’re in for something. You should have expected such from him as well, though. It’s a gamble with him, he’ll either speak more quickly than he usually does just to mess with you or he’ll hold a prim and proper conversation with you and it all depends on how playful he’s feeling that day. Overall, he’s pretty chill about it, though. You wanna know how to pronounce something? You wanna know what gender a noun has? What his neighbor was yelling about again? He’s got your back. You can ask him the most embarrassing questions a million times, he won’t mind. Besides, if you want to then you can come to Russia and experience everything there first hand. Nikolai knows all the good places in Russia that are suitable for someone who’s not usually there, so you won’t have to worry about anything either. If you want to hold a whole conversation about how tortoises have survived for millions of years, then you can. Besides, hearing you botch the pronunciation from time to time is just the most precious thing there is. Will smile a bit when you pronounce something incorrectly, but won’t ever outright mock you for it. As mentioned before, he just thinks it’s cute. And when you know Russian very well, then he still won’t speak it too often. Nikolai knows eight languages, he doesn’t always think in Russian, usually in English since that’s what most of his closest friends speak with him. If you really insist on speaking Russian with him, he will, but won’t think too much of it. Many people know the language, Russia is a big country, after all. If you want to, then you can spend some holidays there and he’ll show you around since there likely isn’t a better guide in the whole country than him. But he will not make a big fuss out of it.

König: German isn’t a very popular language due to its grammar, so you can imagine his surprise when you walked up to him with the most adorable Grüß Gott he’s ever heard. He could just squish you then and there, but he refrains from doing so and instead focuses on trying to have a meaningful conversation with you. Doesn’t matter if it’s good, doesn’t matter if you’re just asking him how he’s doing, a conversation is a conversation and you’re learning. Besides, you learning German, especially if it’s just because of him, does move him just a bit. Might not always initiate a conversation in German with you because what if you’re not in the mood? But you can always just talk to him in German, he doesn’t mind it at all. Though, he might not be the best person to learn German from since he uses regional words that people his age use. While he does try to speak high German with you, he does not really care much for it, so his dialect slips in every once in a while. But hey, at the very least you get to learn his dialect. As soon as he hears you call someone Hawara he becomes oddly proud of himself, thinking he’s doing well as a teacher even if he barely does anything. He loves Austria, so if you really want to see it, he’s more than happy to take you home, show you Vienna, Styria and Lower Austria and make you try some good old Brettljause. If you already know German, then chances are you’ll only know high German, which is alright too, but please know that from time to time, König will speak his dialect with you, which you might not always understand. He barks quite a bit when he speaks too, making it a bit harder to understand him as well. However, he’s always more than happy to play translator for you and teach you words no one uses anymore, such as hal. Austrian words are a must know for you, therefore you’ll learn fairly early on what a Seidl or an Erdapfl is.

[wishluc]

Hello hello, may i request for yandere Diavolo OM where hes tightly hugging darling because he's afraid that they'll disappear? You feel his hands all over you body and he whispers how much he loves you while slowly crushing you body (accidentally)

✧ CW: yandere character, non-consensual hugging, non-consensual kissing, power imbalance in relationship

✧ PAIRING: Diavolo x GN! reader

You can't say no to Lord Diavolo.

He's always been kind to you, greeting you warmly, and offering to help make your stay more comfortable, but you've never realized just how hard it is to turn him down. You've become comfortable with agreeing with him, because all he ever asked of you before was if you'd like to show him around your hometown in the human world or if you'd like to join him for tea, or if you'd stay for a weekend in his place (and even then, he said it as though he wanted you to have a break from the chaos in the House of Lamentation and not for the real reason—that he wanted to monopolize your attention, if only for a few days).

But he's never been so...upfront about such an odd request. So when he called you to his office and abruptly wrapped his arms around you, you were at a loss for words. This was unfamiliar; Diavolo's affection had never gone past an occasional pat on the back and a warm smile. And he just doesn't let go.

He sighs against the top of your head and calls out your name softly, so only you could hear—like an intimate whisper, "why don't you stay here a little while longer?"

How did he expect you to respond when he had you in such a position? Your head was almost tucked into him, and your arms painfully stiff by your sides, caged by his own bigger ones. He didn't seem bothered by how rigid and inflexible you were, and not even by your lack of response, content with being able to hold you so close.

Any words you would have said would have been too muffled for him to hear, but you were already frozen in place, your mind racing and your head spinning. Could you deny him?

"Don't worry about the legalities of it all," he continues, "I could just as easily keep you in here with me if there's anything stopping my appeal. To be honest, I'd much rather it be that way—the brothers have had too much time with you since you've come here, and I don't want them taking any more."

A hand around you moves a little lower, and you're unable to breathe yet again. Sweat trails down your front as Diavolo brings you in even closer (if that was even possible). Where was this coming from?

Suddenly, he laughs, not the usually boisterous sound you're familiar with, but softer, and goes to place a soft kiss on your head, fondness clouding his voice, "I don't dislike them for all their antics, but I don't know if any of them know just how much I like you. It frustrates me endlessly to see them constantly all over you, smothering you, right in front of me. And if you were unaware, I hope I made things clear now. I love you."

Just when you thought things couldn't get worse, with a firm arm tightening its hold around you with the hand stroking your side, another finding purchase on the small of your back, and your body almost melting into his, he just had to drop a confession on you. A confession from the future king of the Devildom, the man who was overlooking your stay here, and the only one with the power to send you home—not that it seemed he wanted to anymore. Could you be honest with him? Could you tell him that you didn't feel the same and that you wanted to go home once it was all over?

Could you risk upsetting the man who was being so vulnerable with you right now? Especially when you were well aware of exactly what he didn't want to hear from you.

"I wanted to make this more romantic," he confessed, the hand at your back simultaneously rubbing circles and pressing you down into him, "I had it all planned out, but you'll be leaving in a week. I don't want you to go and leave me," the whisper of your name is heart-achingly tender, "I truly love you. More than you could imagine. More than I should. Won't you consider staying with me? I promise to keep you happy, even down here in the Devildom."

"If you miss the morning light of the human world, I'll find a way to bring it to you. If you want to meet your friends there, I'll take you myself. All I ask of you is to stay with me a little longer." The unspoken condition registers itself to you all the same—to reciprocate his love.

Your breathing stills for a moment when his grip suddenly tightens and he buries his face into your hair, kissing you over and over. It's almost too tight, but with his strength and size, any attempt at fighting back would have gone unnoticed. All you can do is wait for him to let go.

Just as you start feeling lightheaded, he pulls away and instead caresses your cheek with his hand, beaming down at you with that achingly familiar smile you had always trusted before swiftly pressing his lips onto yours. It was almost innocent, a quick peck—but you knew this was only him testing the waters.

"I'm so happy. I love you," he echoes the words again, though they no longer have an effect on you. The tips of your fingers and your tongue feels numb, and your head is heavy with sorrow. It doesn't escape you that you've yet to respond to any of his words or actions, that he doesn't care about how you feel. All of this was merely an illusion of you having a choice.

How did things turn out this way?

all works © wishluc. do not copy, steal or repost my works on other platforms. (including translations)

[deedala]

art for shameless big bang fic:

Last Night at the Verona Grand Hotel by @the-rat-wins

special thanks to @whaticameherefor for taking over the organizing!

[sysig]

Blood sugar levels (Patreon)

[fearandhatred]

i was thinking about this line from my fic:

But the fall had hurt, too. Because the wind had cut into his useless wings like knives, his skin and grace peeling away under the friction, and he had been looking right up at the multicoloured and unreachable expanse of sky just to see it fade from his eyes into dull greys.

and i came up with this. i hope the vision came through

[katkat030]

There’s a fond tilt to his lips as he begins carding his fingers through Bdubs’ hair, the sensation of the strands slipping through his fingers and the weight of the head pillowed on his chest grounding. It feels right, just so, a surety that seeps into his bones and nestles there. With Bdubs curled up on the grass beside him, face turned outwards and the sleepy smile tugging at his expression just barely peeking out from beneath the arm thrown over his eyes, the irony isn’t lost on him.

Six months in the making! :) An Ethubs-focused one shot based on @shepscapades' Detroit Become Hermitcraft au!

[sprimps]

they're thinking about very different things

[butchcarmy]

hi tuna! i was wondering if you could write something where carmy and reader are at a house party and either one of them is sitting on the roof smoking a joint and the other finds them up and there joins them? thank u in advance <3

YES. I really loved this prompt... so here ya go!

word count: 1.4k

content tags: smoking, substance use, first meetings

Parties like this aren't usually your scene. 

It's not like you can't appreciate it as a bystander—you suppose there's an appeal to music so loud you can't hear your own thoughts. There are certainly some days where you want to lose yourself in a crowd, drunk and careless. Today is not one of those days. 

You can't quite remember how your friend convinced you to come to their party. It'll be fun, they promised, a nice change of pace. It is a nice change of pace, sure. It's different from sitting by yourself at home, but…

Now you're just sitting by yourself at someone else's home, smoking a joint on their porch. 

This is more your pace. You're relaxed into one of your friend's water stained outdoor chairs, feet propped up on a low table. This is about all you can handle today—slow drags of weed and the sound of summer bugs in the trees. The sound of the party lays muffled behind you, sealed by the porch door. 

The noise of the music and dancing inside becomes sharp for a moment as you hear the door opening. You look over your shoulder to see someone you don't recognize hastily stepping out. He seems frazzled, brushing back the brown waves in his face back with his hand. He also seems very…handsome.

“Sorry, didn't know anyone was out here,” is the first thing he says. He has a nice voice, low and smooth. And nervous, you notice. 

“It's cool. It's not like I own the porch.” You shrug, taking another inhale from your sizzling joint. You had hoped that your comment would loosen the tension that'd tied knots all in his face, but it doesn't. He just laughs breathlessly back, short and shaky. “Not a party person?”

“Not really.” He pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket. That's when you notice the tattoos on his hands, emblazoned across the backs and his knuckles. Pretty. “You?”

“Sometimes. But not today.” That works—you see him visibly relax, even if just a little bit. “My friend invited me—it's their party—but I, I don't know. I guess I thought I'd be up for it, but…” You shrug. “And now I'm here.”

“I see. I get that. Uh—” He pauses, taking a slow hit from his white cigarette. “My coworkers, um, they invited me. I didn't wanna be an asshole, so I came, but…” He sighs. “Yeah. Now I'm here.”

“Tough.” You nod at the empty seat next to you. “Seat's open, if you want it.”

“Thanks.” He takes the seat next to you. This is when you really take notice of his muscles, especially his biceps and pecs wrapped tightly in that white t-shirt of his. A burst of attraction rushes through you.

“Uh—” You should keep talking. Distract yourself from his, uh, everything. “Do you smoke?” He gives you a funny look, eyes glancing towards his cigarette. “Fuck, I mean, do you smoke weed? Sorry, I'm a little high.”

“It's cool.” He's actually smiling now. It's a nice smile. “Yeah, not often, but I do.”

“Well.” You extend your hand towards him, offering him the joint. “You can have some of this if you want. Might help you relax. No pressure, of course.”

“...Actually, yeah. That'd be nice. Thank you.” He takes the joint from you with his other hand. Now he's got a cigarette in one and a joint in another. You both share an amused, knowing look. “You smoke cigs?”

“Sometimes. Here, let's trade.” He hands you his cigarette. “Not that there's anything wrong with dual-wielding. Take one hit off the joint, and then off the cig…”

“Dual-wielding,” he repeats, laughing under his breath. You chuckle, entertained by the thought and his reaction. You don't mean to watch him as he brings the joint up to his lips and pulls, but you do anyway. You're not sure if him smoking a cigarette or a joint looks more attractive. 

“I feel like we should know each other's names now.” You know it sounds a bit forward, but the high's making you brave. You introduce yourself to him. “And your name is?”

“I'm Carmen.” Of course even his name is pretty. “Most people just call me Carmy, though.”

“Carmy.” You can't help your smile. “That's cute. Do you have a preference?”

“Uh—” He looks good with a little bit of pink on his cheeks. “Carmy's fine.”

“Okay, then. Carmy it is.” 

You two develop a rhythm. You trade the joint and cigarette back and forth, inhaling puffs of weed and tobacco back to back. Intimate is not quite the right word to describe it, but you're not sure if there's a better word for it. You definitely feel something of a connection pulling the both of you closer together. You even think that somehow, the space between your seats is shrinking too.

“I used to smoke more weed back in college,” Carmy says. The joint's almost finished by now, and with it, you both become a lot more loose-lipped. He's staring into the distance like he's remembering something. “You ever green out?”

“Oh yeah, plenty of times.” You laugh to yourself, shaking your head. “Back when I first started smoking—well, I started with edibles.”

“As does everyone.”

“Yeah, and it's stupid. It's way too easy to go overboard with edibles.”

“Seriously. I've only ever had edibles once, and. Well.”

“Ah…It was bad, I take it?”

“Yep.” He laughs quietly, and the infectious sound of it makes you smile. “It was awful. I even threw up.”

“Oh no,” you gasp. “That's how you know it's bad. I've managed to stop myself from throwing up, but I've definitely felt like I was dying a couple times.”

“Oh, of course. As it goes.” You both chuckle. “I thought my tolerance was high enough. It wasn't that many milligrams, but I guess my body hated it.”

“It happens.” The cigarette dies out in your hands, burned right down to the filter. You snub it out on the arm of your chair. “I used to enjoy edibles, but ever since I greened out real bad one time, I just can't do them anymore. They just wreck my shit.”

“Maybe that's for the best.” He puts out the joint too. “Just stick to regular lung damage like the rest of us.”

“Lessons learned, I guess.” You grin. A comfortable pause settles. “...Carmy?”

“Yeah?”

“We've smoked it all. Everything.”

“I have some more cigarettes if you want one.”

“No, no…” You lean forward, propping your elbows on your knees. He instinctively mirrors you, sitting up in his chair. “It's all gone.”

“Oh. Well.” He tilts his head to the side. “What should we do now?”

“We could sit here and suffer. Or…” You rest your chin in the palms of your hands, cradling your face. “I could roll us another joint back at my place.”

“Oh.” Looks like it clicked. His blue eyes are widened with surprise.

“You don't have to,” you say quickly, “really. But I've been having a good time with you, and I…I like you. I think you're cute.” Ordinarily, you wouldn't be this forward, but you swear you feel something here. “Sorry if this is—too much.”

“No, not at all,” he replies, just as quick. “Don't apologize. Please. I just—” He fumbles, making a vague hand gesture. “This has been really, really nice. You're so easy to talk to, and I, I'm not used to that.” He smiles at you, shy and adorable. You're momentarily gripped with something akin to cuteness aggression, but you keep it under wraps. “I…I like you. A lot. I'd love to go to your place.”

“Yeah?” He nods. “Okay. Cool. Um…” You feel your insides jumbling all over each other. “Sorry, now I'm getting all flustered.”

“It's okay.” His smile blossoms further, turning into something radiant. “I like it. You're cute.” You make a small noise at that.

“Smooth talker.” You stand up from your seat, and he looks up at you momentarily before following suit. “I'm just down the block. Up for a walk?”

You don't bother telling your friend you're leaving. The two of you chat and laugh all the way to your place, your voices echoing down the quiet road. Turns out your friend was right after all—the party turned out to be very, very fun.