#and their writing is good ugh

[squeeblub]

my family not having enough sustenance to survive the harsh winter:

the humble firealder2005:

[galaghiel]

Both Jack and Maddie stared at him, speechless. Silence blanketed the lab, everything but Danny’s strangled crying, his hand pressed over the muzzle as if to hide it. No- to hold it still, to still the dozen wicked barbs that were digging into his tongue, probably ripping it with each sob.

a little sketch of @liketolaugh-writes amazing one-shot fanfic that you can read here

[xxplastic-cubexx]

personal happiness or what the fuck ever

bonus:

[tackykachowch]

Silco SO should've haunted the narrative in s2 I can't stress this enough. Like, we knew Vander, Mylo and Claggor only for 3 episodes, but their presence was felt aaaall throughout s1. And now you're telling me that a PRIMARY ANTAGONIST of s1, a leader of Zaun, Jinx's dad and The person who started the negotiations with Piltover for Zaun's independence only got a couple of mentions?? Which aren't even relevant to the plot or character motivations??? Are you LEGIT FOR REAL kidding me???? I still can't believe this happened chat.

He's literally a part of the main cast. He literally was present in every single episode of s1. And again, given just How Much was tied directly to him his death should've had just. Massive consequences. For almost every single character. And yet.

My honest reaction to this information:

[whumpsoda]

I. I love vampire hunters turned thralls. Brainwashed into adoring little pets to creatures of which they once chased down with the goal of killing… UGH just someone who used to hate the thing they now address as master… bonus points if they get their memories erased and have no memory of their hunter past :3

[maypearlss]

kinda obsessed with the idea of quiet enemies-to-lovers, actually. i feel like so many enemies-to-lovers ships are so loud, there's so much banter and snark and backtalk, and there's nothing wrong with that; but i love enemies-to-lovers where the loathing is in dark glares and the tense silence enveloping the two, where "i despise you" is conveyed with one look. where, lurking in the quiet, there lies an understanding of hatred—and, eventually, an understanding of something else, entirely.

[multidimensionimagines]

Alright, first part is officially finished! A request sent to me by a wonderful user that will be tagged. In the meantime, here is part 1 of

Sweater Weather (part 1)

part 2

Summary: you borrow Ford’s sweater when it gets cold

content warnings: fluff, smut, reader is fem/afab and uses she/her pronouns, minors do not interact!

Gravity Falls wasn’t a sunny paradise. Despite what the brochures and fake marketing wanted you to believe. Sure the summers there were nice. After all, living in Oregon meant getting a perfect balance of each of the seasons as they came. So, that meant hot, sunny summers and cold, bitter winters.

You did not take this into account when you first moved to Gravity Falls two years ago. Sure, you had some sweaters and pants good enough for the colder months, and you would think that living in the same place for two years would warrant you enough time to go shopping to acquire a proper wardrobe. But you, special as you were, had an extraordinary knack for forgetting things- giving your needs the old ‘eh, I’ll do it tomorrow’ and the next thing you know, winter had passed with you surviving on the tattered blankets and fireplace in your home.

Now was the end of fall, the day after Halloween- not to be confused with the iconic Gravity Falls tradition of Summerween- and while it had been chillier out it was now getting dangerously into nipping cold territory. And your boyfriend, as practical as he was, has not stopped having to remind you.

“Dear, don’t you think you’ll be cold going out in.. that?”

You paused, looking over your shoulder at him. He quickly stiffened.

“N-not that, I’m trying to tell you what to wear. I-I would never-! You’re free to dress how you wish I’m just..” he awkwardly cleared his throat. “worried.”

You chuckled, pulling on your lightweight cardigan over your top. “I know you wouldn’t. I’ll go shopping tomorrow, okay?”

You reassured him softly, walking up to give him a kiss on the cheek. He smiled shyly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You’ve been saying that everyday since October 5th.”

You rolled your eyes and grinned, shoving your hands in your pockets. “Psh, oh come on, there’s no way I’ve been saying it every day-“

Ford reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a little booklet, one of those pocket colanders and flipped to the page with the current month, or well, month that just passed yesterday on it.

“Actually you have, I’ve been keeping track to see when you would actually follow through on your word.”

He explained somewhat smugly before tucking it back into his pocket, revealing your annoyed but.. slightly impressed face. Of course, only the Stanford Pines would keep track of something like that.

You gave him a look but he wouldn’t put away that stupid (cute) grin on his face and brushed past him towards the front door of the Mystery Shack. You and Soos were all going out to get some food shopping done since the kitchen was ransacked by vengeful gnomes yesterday when Stan refused to give any of them candy.

“Bein’ freakishly short and wearing dumb hats all year round doesn’t make you eligible now scram!”

Soos came out from the staff room having finished putting away the rest of the cheap Halloween decorations that were more than halfway from falling apart, but of course, your boss refused to buy any new ones till they were ‘as old as he and his brother’ which you found humorous.

Dusting his hands off each other with a proud smile, Soos closed the door behind him and sighed. “Huh, there, that ought to do it! Oh hey other Mr Pines!” He beamed and waved at Ford, seeming surprised but pleased to see him out in the open. Ford awkwardly shuffled his feet and returned his wave with a small smile.

“Ah.. Greetings, Soos. And, please, you can call me Ford, it’s a lot less formal don’t you think?”

“Oh no way dude. I respect you and Mr Pines wayyyy too much to do that.” Soos stated in a somewhat more serious tone, crossing a hand in front of him.

Ford chuckled, both amused and flattered that he thought that highly of him and his brother. “Very well then.” He shrugged, watching as Soos joined you, who had their hand on the knob as you waited semi-paitently at the front door.

“You ready to rock and roll dude?” He asked, twirling his keys around his finger.

You nodded. “Uh huh!” You turned your head back to Ford “see ya in a bit, sweetie!”

Ford smiled and returned your wave as you closed the door behind you and Soos. Even though you and Ford had been together for a good few months now, he still got a bit giddy at the feeling of you calling him sweet pet names like that. He wasn’t all that used to having someone consistently dote on him in that way, plus, you just made him weak in the knees. No matter what you did. He found you absolutely irresistible. He sighed, shaking off his wandering thoughts and opened the vending machine door, as he had important business to attend to down in his lab today. And he didn’t want any distractions whatsoever.

A little while after, Ford was tinkering away in his lab, experimenting with a new device he had been drafting blueprints for, and keeping notes on what seemed to work.

“Hm… fascinating..” he hummed to himself, a pleased smirk spread across his face as he ran another successful test. He was pulled quickly from his thoughts when there was a knock at the door, but didn’t cease writing.

“Yes, come in!” He called, eyes not tearing away from the his journal pages.

From the other side of the door, you smiled of relief. Happy to hear your boyfriend’s voice after a long day, even though it was mostly shopping, it wasn’t like it was any fun shopping. You gently and carefully opened the door to his workshop, always making sure to be cautious in your step when doing so since you never could really predict what kind of strange anomaly or new device that would be coming your way. Thankfully today however, it was just a few pieces of forest crystals that sat at his desk beside his furiously writing hand. You cleared your throat and approached behind him, standing with your hands clasped in front of your lap.

Ford hummed curiously, looking back over his shoulder and instantly brightening when he saw it was you. “Ah! Greetings, my dear! How was your excursion with Jésus?”

You giggled. “It’s just Soos. And it was great! We got everything on our list and then some… I also got you something~” you rocked back on your heels as a playful tone rang in your voice to which he perked up. Ford turned his body now towards you, resting one hand on his knee and tilting his head to one side inquiringly.

“Really?”

You nodded, reaching into your pocket to reveal a small white cloth bag which had a label in black cursive on them that read ‘Old Timey Style Jelly Beans’.

Ford chuckled and took the bag from you, prying it open with his two index fingers and peering inside. “Thank you, my dear. Although, you really didn’t have to get me anything.” He said, glancing back up at you through his glasses.

You shook your head. “I always have to get you something! I like doing it, it’s nice to see your face when I come home with something for you! Besides, you hardly ever leave here as it is, I might as well do all your shopping at this point.” You insisted, resting a hand on Ford’s shoulder to steady yourself as you took a seat on his lap, taking advantage of the openness of his current leg position. He grew shy, smiling and looking away from you with a soft blush in his cheeks.

“Ah… yes, well.. um..” he cleared his throat “thank you.” He snuck a hand around your waist to keep you upright on him, bringing his head back up to face you so that you could properly see him. You peered over his shoulder to look at his desk, eyeing the new paragraphs of cursive that filled journal number four.

“What’cha working on?” You chirped. Ford beamed.

“Ah! I’m glad you asked!” He swiveled around in his chair, keeping hold of you in his lap and setting the jellybeans aside. “I’m testing a new invention of mine that I’ve had in the works for a while. I just didn’t have the pieces to do it until now…”

as he rambled on, explaining his newest discovery, you couldn’t help but accidentally tune out his words, sure you were listening, you could hear him talking, but your processing gears were occupied by the gleam in his eyes and the added crinkles that formed around them when he smiled in the excitement of explaining something to you. You let out an internal, dreamy sigh as you focused on the way his one hand was gesturing to all the different things on his desk and how the other gripped your waist so comfortingly. His rough, gorgeous hands…

“Dear, are you alright?”

Your breath hitched, you blinked and looked at him as a slow blush began to creep onto your face. “O-oh! Yeah um.. sorry you just… look really cute when you’re explaining your.. science-y.. stuff..” you admitted sheepishly, feeling kinda bad that you didn’t catch most of what he said.

Ford felt a little taken aback by the sudden onset of adoration, not that he minded it one bit. He just wasn’t used to it, a few months of being with someone so intimately wasn’t nearly enough time to get used to 60 ish years of barely experiencing it at all. He chuckled slightly, bringing his other hand to wrap in front of your torso, now encircling you in a cocoon of his arms.

“I-it’s quite alright, I wouldn’t have expected you to understand even if you were listening.”

He said with the utmost affection and sincerity. The words alone coming out of his mouth didn’t always sound too flattering, but they were hardly ever out of malice, especially not when it came to you. You had been learning to both deal with, and let him know when to not say anything. But right now you giggled and brushed it off, knowing exactly what he meant.

You two had a brief moment of looking into each others eyes, taking in each others soft gaze on the other. Ford had such deep, beautiful brown eyes that reminded you of the very forests that he explored so much. And you, oh, Ford could fill more than 10 journals dedicated to the sheer remarkable beauty of yours. He still couldn’t believe that in all the dimensions, all the universes, all the galaxies and all the stars in the sky that you chose to be his. And he was forever grateful for it. You both seemed to have the same idea as you leaned in closer, inching forward to gradually meet each others lips. Ford hummed and closed his eyes, the stiffness in his shoulders he didn’t even know he was holding dropped. He gripped your waist tighter and subconsciously pulled you in closer to him and you brought your hands up to his face, cupping and caressing each cheek and running your fingers along his faint stubble. Ford was still a bit of an awkward and clumsy kisser, but you were more than happy to give him as many practice opportunities as he needed. You felt a shiver run up your spine as his thumbs began to rub into the divets of your flesh, as well as the cool air of the lab hitting your skin through your thin cardigan.

“Mmm… dear..?” Ford mumbled against your lips, gently pulling you away. Your face was revealed to him in a slight pout, which he thought was adorable. But this was no time for him to swoon, he had a pressing question he almost forgot to ask you. “Did you remember to pick up something suitable for the cold?”

Your eyes widened. Oh, shoot. That’s what you forgot.

“Uhhhh…” you squinted, looking to the side to avoid his now disappointed stare. Ford grumbled. “Okay, I forgot! Ugh..” you groaned, throwing your head back.

Ford sighed and pulled your sweater sleeve up, revealing the goosebumps that littered your arm. “Darling, look at you, you’re freezing. You should get into something warmer.” He pressed, now sounding more like a worried mother than anything. You got up off his lap. “Yeah, I didn’t wanna say anything because I was hoping you wouldn’t notice but, your lab is fucking freezing.” You shivered, bringing your hands up to your forearms in a pathetic attempt to shield them. Ford chuckled and shook his head, waving you off.

“Go on, take your time, I’ll be here all evening.”

[deoidesign]

Thinking about vampires, death, life, and the space they occupy in between

[ego-meliorem-esse]

July 13th, 1917

Be it from a sense of paternal concern or simply patriotic duty, Arthur made sure to leave his soldiers in the charge of an older Corporal and made his way to the quite pathetic excuse of a medical section where his son was left to rot.

Arthur had heard about the attack. He had been informed the day prior.

He had seen war and famine and sickness, but never like this. Arthur wasn't young, in any sense, and what wonders and strong political oppinions young men had, had left him a long time ago like a ship leaving the harbour in a hury to claim new land. This though, had left shock echoing within his tired, millenia old frame. He wasn't used to this.

Arthur made his way through the trenches with soldiers from every corner of the globe instantly stopping whatever they were doing prior and saluting him as if etiquette and rank mattered in hell. As if it was more importaint to greet the Higher ups than to survive long enough to even write a letter back to family. Arthur did understand that though. Routine and rules were the only thing keeping these poor and wretched souls from being consumed by thoughts of an imminent death.

The path to the section where Matthew was held was quite straightforward and quite familiar. He had marched to and from it hundreds of times and had a sort of automatic rithm in his step. Arthur made his way to the small and damp room with a fast pace indicative of familiarity, only to stop in his tracks in the shabbily built doorframe at the sight that awaited him in the corner.

Matthew sat in the corner of the sad makeshift medical section of the trenches, his back firm against the cold, damp wall.

His once-piercing blue-grey eyes were now clouded over with milky white cataracts, rendering him completely blind. The newly used gas had stolen his sight. His skin, once tanned and healthy, now bore the sickly pallor of a much older man who had endured unimaginable suffering.

Matthew's uniform, discarded in favour of his worn down undershirt, was now a tattered and stained relic of his time in the trenches. The not-white-anymore shirt clung to his emaciated frame as if decency still mattered in hell. The physical toll of the war was clear on his body. Not that Matthew would have to worry about seeing that any time soon. His hands, which had once held a rifle with resolve, now trembled even while resting on his thighs.

Despite his physical and emotional anguish, Matthew remained seated upright, his back pressed against the unforgiving, stained wall. A testament to his resilience if there was any left, a silent protest against the horrors that had taken his sight and left him broken in body and spirit.

As he sat there, his spirit reduced to a hollow shell, Matthew's face bore a mixed expression of utter defeat and complete indifference. His lips were drawn into a thin, lifeless line, and his cheeks were gaunt from the weight of his suffering. His blank, unseeing eyes stared into the abyss, as if waiting for answers and also hoping they'd never arrive.

In that moment, Matthew was not a representation of Canada; he was a young man who had been scarred and broken by the senseless brutality of war. The trenches around him buzzed with activity, but he remained isolated in his silent world of darkness and despair. The young medics job was done. He had patched Matthew up and left him to his own misery. Matthew was grateful.

Arthur stood there silently under the doorframe for what seemed like hours, but was probably only a few seconds. A strange and unfamiliar twinge of emotion plucked and pulled on his conscience. He hadn't felt guilt in quite some time. This feeling was reserved for drunken nights spent in solitude with the doors to the room he resided in firmly locked so that his sliver of self-deprecating emotion wasn't witnessed by any but himself, while he drunk himself to unconsciousness.

He preferred the emotional solitude to this.

Arthur had believed himself to be capable of most things. Especially conversation and confrontation. He was quite good at those as centuries of existence had proved. He believed himself quite skilful with words. Most of the time he knew what to say and when to say it without it resulting in unwanted and unforeseen consequences, while still making sure his opinion was heard.

Arthur had no words forming as he stood in that doorframe. If Arthur was a good man, his reasoning would be that he felt such strong empathy and sadness that words wouldn't be enough to express the sorrow he felt at that moment. If Arthur was a good man he'd run to his son, assure him that this wouldn't happen ever again and that he was safe. If Arthur was a good man he would fall on his knees in front of his oldest son and beg for forgiveness.

Arthur wasn't a good man.

He could admit to his shortcomings, but to act on them was not in his nature.

So he stood there for another 5 or 6 minutes watching his son shallowly breathe in and out, hearing the boys lungs struggle to keep up with his muscles contraction and need for air.

He must have made a noise, as Matthew's head tilted slightly to the left, almost looking at Arthur but definitely not seeing him. Arthur looked back at him.

The room was quiet, save for the desperate plea of Matthews lungs to be put out of their misery.

Sensing nothing after a few moments, Matthew turned his head back towards the blank wall ahead.

Arthur silently turned his frame around and slowly started walking the path he had taken to get here. As he took a few steps, he released the breath he didn't know he was holding.

How he longed for that whiskey bottle and that dark room where he could lock himself in and slowly drift out of consciousness instead of facing his own mistakes.

Arthur definitely was not a good man.

[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.

[actual-changeling]

"It would have been you."

It's raining.

Of course, it's raining.

A soft, constant drizzle leaving his hair a damp, curly mess that falls into his face and clings to his skin. Even though the cold is slowly seeping into his clothes, Crowley stops and turns around. Condensation is collecting on the inside of his shades where his breath drifts up, warm and too fast, and even if it hadn't been late at night, if the street hadn't been empty, he would have still taken them off.

Aziraphale is licking rain drops from his lips and blinking with dark, heavy lashes.

"What?"

His voice is rough, almost drowned out by the noise of rain hitting the pavement, collecting in small puddles around his feet.

"If it had been a choice, a real one, it would have been you."

The world did not end, questions were answered, apologies spoken, but their last conversation before everything went to shit is still a sharp splinter lodged in his chest, cutting him open more and more with every heartbeat. All of the fears he had left unsaid, the viscous doubt pooling in his lungs and weighing down his breaths—the truth might tip the scales and finally destroy him, and yet he cannot bring himself to stop Aziraphale from talking.

"It has always been you, Crowley. You must know that."

"I don't."

Bitterness laces his voice despite his best intentions, a drop of oil tainting an entire river, six thousand years of history, and it hurts because it's the truth, because they both wish it wasn't.

He doesn't know, couldn't know, because Aziraphale always needed him to stop them, to step back when they got too close. Every single time he had tried to push, gone too bloody fast, the angel had recoiled, scared for him, scared for the both of them. Crowley knows, and at the same time, he doesn't, because he still has hope and there is nothing more dangerous than allowing it to bloom; it's small, withered, brittle, on the verge of death and has been for centuries.

(It's still there, though. It keeps fighting, keeps trying. Keeps hoping.)

They're drenched to the bone, wet and pathetic, and there is nothing romantic about any of it when Aziraphale retraces his steps and closes the distance between them; there is, however, love.

There has always been love, whether they could admit it or not.

"I'm sorry. For- for everything, for making you think that I don't care about you."

"Angel, don't lie-"

"I'm not lying."

Crowley stares, frozen to the spot when Aziraphale presses cold, wet palms to his cheeks, his breath a ghost of warmth on his skin. This is too much, too close to 'our side', and if he didn't know better (does he know better? does he really?) he would think that he is about to—

"I'm not lying," he whispers, broken, truthful, "I love you. I won't leave you."

The rain stings in his eyes, masking the tears—hot and wistful—meeting Aziraphale's skin where it is touching his.

"Don't make promises you can't keep, angel."

His voice cracks and so does his heart, and he can feel the walls they have built together crumbling to dust under their feet. It's not real, it can't be real, and yet the truth is shimmering in storm-blue eyes he has been carrying with him since the moment he first put stars into the sky.

"It's you, always has been, always will be. If you let me."

Crowley kisses him as he falls apart, barely healed fractures reopening as his essence spills over and out, drowning him in please, please be real, please let us have this, please, God.

Just this once.

Aziraphale holds his face so incredibly gently, as if it's something worth keeping, something to protect, something he is afraid to lose. When the ground doesn't open up and swallow them whole, when the sky doesn't reach for them with greedy hands, he allows himself to seize Aziraphale's face in turn, cupping his jaw and kissing the rain drops off his lips, his cheeks, the tip of his nose, tasting his tears when they begin to fall.

"It's always been you. God, of course I will let you."

Sapphire blue eyes blink up at him, a smile pressed against his lips, a smile he can feel, a smile that is for him, them.

"Perhaps you could let me somewhere less, ah, sopping wet?"

"I was right, though. It's the rain that did it."

Aziraphale laughs, bright and happy, and infectious enough to make Crowley laugh too, and grabs his hand to pull him back towards the bookshop - back home.

[ofoceansandtombsanew]

okay now that i am done with the premiere/live of one piece fan letter, i NEED for there to be a reboot/rebroadcast of marineford because the shit we saw with even just the snippet of little oars and the perspective of the battlefield from the older brother marine?????

like PLEAAAAAASUH

[macdenlover]

we don’t acknowledge enough how dee used to be a pageant winner when she was a kid and how much damage it did to her. she worked her ass off and got recognition for being pretty and talented at a young age and it was the only source of self esteem she could garner in a family that constantly berated and talked down to her. she sought after that external approval because it was the only way she could prove everyone around her wrong. her dream of being a performer didn’t come from a self-aggrandizing delusion— she genuinely showed a lot of potential when she was younger. but she went through an unflattering puberty and her spinal condition got worse and that natural talent she had as a kid plateaued way too early. the “former gifted kid” dilemma. she slowly lost the thing that promised her that she was good, but she was so desperate to keep holding onto it that she tried anyway. again and again and again no matter how much people made fun of her because it was always about proving them wrong. but after a while she couldn’t jump anymore without anticipating the way it feels when she hits the ground face first. self-sabotage became her way out, choosing to rather live in the fantasy of her own unrealized potential and blaming those around her for her lack of success, than having tried and crashed again. she’d rather buy lottery tickets over and over and never scratch off the numbers than to see that she lost. that self-sabotaging behavior bled into other aspects of her life too, from friendships to relationships to therapy. her own short lived success is what made her grow into embodying the cycle of failure.

[front-facing-pokemon]

[kindofatheatrekid]

Soft Yandere! Veteran HCs (and a special something at the end!)

So I basically fell in love with this nameless man I wrote on a whim- And now I’m giving the dude a name now- My precious moot helped me to cement his identity as a jaded, Russian veteran and I obviously leaped at the chance of making an old dilf. I fucking love this man- 😀

This is definitely NSFW so…

MINORS DNI. MINORS DNI. MINORS DNI.

That’s better! ❤️

Soft Yandere! Veteran who’s at least twenty-five years your senior— and makes sure that you remember that. He’ll make sure that any bratty attitude coming from you will be promptly shut down. Whether it’ll be through a spanking session or giving your mouth something better to do… Well. It depends on how much you’ve pissed him off already. ^^

(Don’t worry, though. He’s too much of a softie to not ensure that you’ll enjoy every second of your “punishment~” 😮‍💨)

“In my days, cadets used to have their teeth smashed in if they mouthed off to their superiors. Shouldn’t you thank me for my leniency, love?”

Soft Yandere! Veteran who makes sure that you’re always well fed. He may have some food insecurity problems, and would never want his beloved to ever experience that gnawing hunger he felt in his earlier years. So say au revoir to any diets you want to do!

He’s a good cook too, so you bet he’s going to feed you every time you see each other. You’re always going to be greeted with food as aftercare— there’s no arguing on that. He will force-feed you. 😓

“A diet? Tch. You don’t need that. Just eat, dear. You need the nutrients for later.”

Speaking of aftercare! Soft Yandere! Veteran who knows exactly what to do after years of fucking women. …And maybe some men but we don’t talk about his soldier years- The man will wipe you down and massage every part of your body that aches after his rough treatment. Believe in the old man who has chronic pain every day because of what he did in his youth- He definitely knows how to relieve any muscle aches. 😌

Soft Yandere! Veteran who is a huge cuddler. He’s taller than you and is just a brickhouse— you’re not going anywhere if he wants to cuddle with you. He probably has a size kink, loves seeing you try to fit him in your mouth. He’ll be so condescending about it too, goading you on while he’s reading the newspaper like the senile man he is. 😩

“Come on, love~ Is that really the best you can do? You can take a bit more, right? For me~?”

Soft Yandere! Veteran who is Russian! The man never speaks crass words, though— always a gentleman through and through. His mama taught him right! He has to make sure that you remember your manners with him too! Say please and then he might give you what you want. It depends, though. Have you been a polite lover to him today? 🤔

“Mmm… I don’t know, Солнце… You’ve been so naughty today. I think you should beg some more for my cock~”

Soft Yandere! Veteran who has episodes of depression whenever he remembers the young men he killed in the battlefield. You can find him on the floor while staring at his countless medals— bottles of everclear on the floor with a few cigar buds in the ashtray nearby. A hug from you will help him a lot…

(Please replace the bitter cigar in his mouth with your sweet lips. Give him something else to think about. Better yet, why don’t you spread those thighs of yours? That will always get the old man going! 😊)

“...Thank you, лапочка. I needed this.”

Soft Yandere! Veteran who will never let you go. You’re just too pure for the world… He’s directly seen how dirty humans can be. You’re like a spring breeze to him, allowing him to relax his mind for the first time since he was drafted. Just listen to everything he says. Don’t you believe in him? 🥺

“...People… They can be cruel. Especially to wounded rabbits like you.”

You didn’t think that I’d just make headcanons after painting a scene in your head, right? Dear gods no! I want to be a nice author to you all! (At least until my mind decides to switch up and make angst- But you’re all safe! For now.) 😈

Anyways! I’m going to show y’all a blowjob scene with this old man now! Have fun! ^^

(It’s gender neutral this time because you’re sucking his dick-)

You thought he was being too cruel right now. Here you were: on your knees, serving the man while he was enjoying his morning cup of coffee. If you could talk, you would’ve whined at him for his attention; to get that dumb paper out of the way so he could fuck your mouth like you knew he could. He was undoubtedly affected by the way your lips were wrapped around not even half of his cock, though. There was a reason why his hand had a firm grip on your hair— not allowing you to pull away nor go deeper.

The old man had way too much patience compared to you, not even budging when you start to paw at his clothed thighs. He’s spent years on the battlefield, dear. The man can neglect his own needs as long as you learn your lesson. Your parents must have not taught you very well, but that’s fine! He can show you exactly how to stay in the lines.

Your desperate whimpers send shivers down his spine, the vibrations making his warm cock grow hotter— a familiar warmth pooling underneath his stomach. His hand tightens around your locks, a deep sigh escaping from his lips before he even knew it. You got what you wanted, his attention. And oh… You have his full attention.

A low growl was your only warning before he forced his cock down your throat— his hands now occupied with pulling your hair like it were a horse’s reins. You couldn’t breathe; he was big, and he knew that. You could barely see his sly grin through your tears, but you could feel it. By the way his hand was kept on the back of your head to keep your spit-covered lips on his cock. By the way his other hand was patting the top of your head so affectionately. By the way he cooed at you like he wasn’t choking you on his dick right now.

“Aww~ Is there something you want to say, Солнце? Come on~ Use your words for me, hm?”

The bastard was taking pleasure in your helplessness; he knew that your throat was far too occupied to do anything but let out a few muffled whimpers. Whimpers that went straight down to his weeping cock, his balls tightening even more when he sees how prettily you were silently begging for his mercy. The old man was just getting his rocks off at this point.

He kept on using you, bobbing your head over and over again— he was an old soldier, he knew precisely how long he could keep you gagging before you’d pass out. It was like a game to him in a way, seeing how far he could physically push you before you were on the brink of passing out. You were seeing both stars in your eyes and black spots; your adrenaline peaking from this deadly game. One where all you could do was trust the man in front of you that he knew what he was doing.

His endurance was no joke even after over a decade, you didn’t know how long it was before you could finally taste something bitter on your tongue— his head tilting up as he groaned. You were still gagging, your head pushed as far as possible when he came in your throat. The thick, slimy liquid going down your throat effortlessly as he slowly slides you off his limp dick. A round of coughs greeting you after your lungs were suddenly filled with oxygen after a while with barely any.

All he did was pat your head, grabbing a cloth from the table to clean up the mixture of his cum and your drool and tears off your face. His palms tenderly cupping your cheeks afterward— steadily lifting your face up before he presses a soft kiss on your now clean lips. A satisfied smile curving up his lips when he sees your blissed out, lost expression; your usual bratty self not seen at all.

“Hm… Better.”

Translation:

Солнце = sunshine

лапочка = sweetie pie / cutie

BRO. THIS. THIS DOES THINGS TO ME. Y'ALL LIKE THIS OLD MAN TOO, HUH??

"I know what you are."

[ohbo-ohno]

loneliness and fallen woman with price please! happy 1000 followers ❤️

1k game here - no more please!

alright anon. i gotta be real with you, i barely used the prompts you gave and for that i really am sorry. i wrote like 1k of this about three different times because they kept just not being quite right, and they got increasingly further and further from the prompts. sorry!

2.6k of reader x local crime kingpin price. no smut! (the background plot and "worldbuilding" here is really weak, but just ignore it lol)

You know you’re doing something stupid, but that seems to be all you’re capable of these days. The last few weeks have been nothing but stipid decision after stupid decision, your absolute stupidest decision leading you to this exact moment.

You should’ve never slept with John Price. You should’ve known, should’ve recognized his face, but you’d been a little tipsy and a little desperate, and hadn’t connected the very common name John with the very well known criminal John Price. 

No, that had come the next morning, when you’d woken up before him and been able to really take a look at him, completely sober. Him and the gun in its holster resting on his folded pile of clothes.

You should’ve recognized him long before then, and you should’ve turned tail and run. You shouldn’t have let him buy you a drink, you shouldn’t have let him coax you into dumping all your troubles onto him, and you certainly shouldn’t have slept with him. 

You’d left before he could wake up and say God knows what, fear pumping through your veins at the realization of who you’d slept with. You’d nearly knocked yourself out trying to get dressed, almost fallen on top of him before you managed to stumble out of the hotel room he’d bought for you.

Everyone knows John Price. No one ever really bothers to detail why he’s dangerous, but they all seem confident he is. You’re a recent transfer to the area, and you still haven’t been able to get anyone to really say why they always whisper when they say his name.

What you do know about him is that every few weeks, almost routinely, you hear that he’s been arrested. Then two or three days later, like clockwork, it’s announced that he’s escaped, always thought to be “armed and dangerous”. His mugshots are shown on TV enough that it’s truly surprising you hadn’t recognized him at the bar. 

You always figured you’d never run into him. You don’t exactly lead a life of crime, don’t exaclty put yourself in harm’s way. You work a boring nine to five job, have dinner with friends every couple weeks, occasionally meet up with someone from a dating app, and never really stray from that. Had he not happened to be in the same bar as you, you never would’ve met him, never would’ve slept with him, and never would’ve been hunting him down now, weeks later.

Hell, you might not have even slept with him had you not just been stood up by what was supposed to be a first date on the same day you’d lost out on a promotion. But a few shots, that loneliness that grows more and more familiar every day, a simmering frustration in your career, and a handsome man are not a good combination for your self control. 

But you had slept with him, had been especially stupid and not even worn protection - something you’d only really noticed the next morning, when you felt… him still leaking from you, saw that there was no condom wrapper.

And now here you are - stood in that same run down bar you’d first met him in, wearing an old hoodie and your favorite sweatpants, three positive pregnancy tests tucked in your front pocket.

You try to take a deep breath.

You really don’t know what you’re doing. You’ve been running on autopilot since you realized you might be pregnant, the time between buying tests and taking them a blur. Even now, you’re running on instinct alone. Instinct tells you to find John Price, and tell him about… this.

You can figure everything else out after. 

You scan the crowd, hoping to spot him quickly. You know he owns the bar - something you’d found out once you’d gotten home and fallen deep into a rabbit hole and read everything about the man you could find. You’re not sure how he still owns the bar considering he’s got multiple warrants out for his arrest, but you figure it’s probably the same reason he never actually ends up in jail.

But he’s not here now. At least, not anywhere you can see.

You step up to the bar, rest your elbows on the counter and rest your head in your hands, taking a few long, stablizing breaths.

“What can I get for ye?”

You glance up at the sudden voice, coming face to face with the bartender. It’s not the same man as last time - this man’s got a Scottish accent and a mohawk, a far cry from the darker skinned British man with pretty eyes who’d served you last time.

“Do you…” you glance around again, sigh, and decide you should try and find somewhere to compose yourself a bit. “Do you guys have a bathroom I could use?”

“Course,” he smiles at you, open and friendly, and you feel some of the tension ease from your shoulders. “Just ‘round that corner there, a few doors down. Can’t miss it.”

You give him a tight smile, mutter your thanks as you head in the direction he’d gestured. His directions are exactly right, the women’s bathroom door towards the end of the hallway but clearly marked.

Just past the bathroom doors is a stairwell. The door is half open, but you can clearly see the stairs even halfway down the hallway. You’re not sure why, but you walk right past the bathrooms, ducking into the stairwell instead after shooting a quick look over your shoulder to make sure no one saw you. 

It’s nearly silent, the music from the bar growing more and more muffled as you start to make your way to the next floor. It’s even quieter once you reach your destination, just a distant and faint rumbling in the floorboards.

You step out into a hallway with four doors - two of them with nameplates nailed to them. Stepping close, you see one is labeled Simon Riley and the other reads John Price.

Before you can consider whether or not you’re making another stupid decision you’re knocking on the door with Price’s name. 

You regret it the moment your knuckles rap against the wood, can’t believe you keep doing such stupid things without thinking.

Before you can even get a step away from the door, there’s a voice calling out from inside the room.

“Come in.”

Your breath hitches. 

You can’t leave now. There’s no way he wouldn’t come to the door, see who knocked. You’re not about to ding dong ditch John Price, but that doesn’t make it any easier to move forward. You only manage it because you feel oddly exposed in the hallway, and your nerves urge you forward enough to open the door.

You shut it quickly behind you, eager for privacy for some reason you can’t quite pin down. Listening to your instincts regardless, you keep your back pressed to the closed door and shove one hand in your pocket to wrap around the pregnancy tests.

John looks… mostly the same, which only makes you feel even more foolish for not recognizing him on the night that started this whole mess.

His beard’s a bit longer, but he’s got a button up and that silly hat on, the same thing he’d been wearing the first night you saw him. It’s almost like you’re yanked back to that night without warning, the only real difference being the fact that he’s sat behind a desk instead of beside you.

“Oh,” he says, looking oddly unsurprised as he leans back in his chair, hands lacing over his stomach. “It’s you. My little runaway.”

You scowl, your trepidation immediately replaced with anger. 

“First of all,” you hiss, scowling and moving towards his desk, the twitch at the corner of his lips only working you up further. “I’m not your anything. And I didn’t run away.”

His lips curve into a fuller smile, and he shifts his chair back enough for you to see his thighs, thick and bulging against his tight pants. He’s manspreading in his own office chair, and you have to swallow thickly when you realize just how attractive it is.

When you glance back to his face and see the distinctly smug expression he’s wearing, your ire only grows.

“Not sure what else you’d call it,” he rumbles. “Was hoping to spend a little more time with you, love, but you were gone before we could set up a date.”

You instinctively go to bite back, but stumble a bit when what he’d said settles. The idea that he’d been disappointed when he woke up alone, that he wanted more time with you…

You shake the thought off. It doesn’t matter, you have more important things to discuss.

You force yourself to straighten, fingers toying with the tests in your pocket. Your nerves return now that you’re really face to face with John again, now that you’ve got to actually figure out how to tell him. 

He seems to sense the shift in your mood, leaning forward so he’s not sprawled out so casually and resting his forearms on his desk.

“Why’re you here, love?”

This is it, you think to yourself, closing your eyes to take a deep, stablizing breath.

You tug the pregnancy tests out of your pocket, drop them wordlessly in front of him. It’s hard to keep your eyes open, to watch his expression as he slowly looks down at your offering, watch as realization washes over him.

John’s silent for a long moment. Your palms sweat, and you just barely resist the urge to wipe them off on your pants.

Finally, he looks back up at you, shifting in his chair. “You’re sure?”

You hesitate, nod a bit. “There are… I took more, at home. Didn’t want to bring them all.”

He nods, leaning back in his chair and crossing one leg over the other. “And it’s mine?”

You flush, face going hot. You know it’s a fair question, but you can’t help but bristle anyway. 

“Yes,” you hiss, shifting your weight from foot to foot. “I haven’t… I didn’t…” You cut yourself off, the words you were my first trapping themselves behind your teeth. You hadn’t meant to lose your virginity to John Price, and you see no need to tell him you even had. As far as you’re concerned, you can keep that knowledge to yourself. “It’s yours.”

He doesn’t look convinced, and that only makes your face go hotter. You fight the urge to tuck your hands beneath your armpits, determined not to shrink in front of this man.

“I haven’t been with anyone else,” you elaborate, eyes flicking away from his face.

He takes a deep breath, exhales in a loud sigh. You hear his fingers tap against the desk, just barely bite back your annoyance at the sound. You work your tongue between your teeth, nerves racing again.

“Well,” he eventually says, standing from his chair. You can’t help but jolt a bit, having forgotten just how big he is. He towers over you even from a few feet away, his broad shoulders and barrel chest only making him feel twice as large. It’s a conscious effort on your part not to take a step back. “I hope you weren’t too attached to your apartment, love.”

He stalks around the desk, walking towards the door, but you can’t move from your spot. Your eyebrows furrow, and you track him with your eyes.

“My apartment? What’re you talking about?”

He shoots you a look, one you have no idea how to interpret, as he tugs his door open. “Simon!”

“John,” you hiss, stepping closer to him again. “What’re you-?”

He holds a hand up to quiet you as the other door opens, and you can just barely spot another man stepping forward. “Yeah?”

“Need you to call some movers. Need to get my girl moved into my place.”

You gape like a fish as the new man leans to the side a bit to look where Price is gesturing to you, and he nods. “Got it. Timeline?”

“Done by tonight.”

The other man grunts, and leaves again. John closes the door, turning back to you and starting back to his desk.

“What- what the hell?” You splutter, mouth opening and closing in shock. “You can’t- you don’t even know where I live!”

John settles back into his chair and shoots you a look that you can clearly read - it’s nothing but unimpressed.

“Course I do, love. Did you think we wouldn’t be meeting again?”

You blink at him, dumbfounded, as he turns to his computer, lips twitching into a smile.

“Of course we wouldn’t,” you try, hand resting on one of the chairs in front of the desk to steady yourself. “We only… we only slept together once. I didn’t even know who you were.”

He hums an agreement, typing. “No, you didn’t. But that doesn’t matter, you know now. And considering the other… developments,” he shoots a look to your belly, and you rest your free hand over the small curve protectively. “It’s best we get to know each other in far closer quarters, hm?”

“No,” you argue, trying to inject some sterness into your tone. “I’m not moving in with you, that’s ridiculous. I just… I only told you about the baby so you could be involved. Maybe pay some child support. But there’s no reason for anything more.”

He sighs heavily through his nose, giving you another of those unimpressed looks. “You’re tellin’ me you’d rather keep living on your own? Take care of yourself and my baby all on your own?”

You brows furrow. “My baby.”

“Our baby.”

“Whatever,” you huff, moving to sit in one of the chairs, slumping back. “I can’t move in with you. Just because we… slept together, once, doesn’t mean you can just boss me around like a minon.”

 “Oh, it was more than once, love,” he corrects, voice pitching lower. You force down a shiver, cheeks heating again. “And is it really bossing you around if it’s for the best?”

You shoot him your own unimpressed look. “Yes, of course it is.”

He shrugs, turning back to his computer. “Then I guess I am bossing you around. Regardless, Simon will have your belongings in one of my properties by tonight.”

You scowl, leaning forward enough to plant a hand on his desk. “Listen, John, I have a life. A perfectly nice apartment, a job I like, friends - you can’t just take me away from all of that just because we made a mistake!”

The quick glance he shoots you verges on scolding. “That’s exactly what I can do, and it’s exactly what I will do.”

He stands before you can reply, fixing his cuffs as he strides back to the office door.

“You can call your boss tomorrow to turn in your resignation,” he says over his shoulder, tugging the door open and already walking away, winking at you just before he disappears from your sight. “You won’t be working while carrying our baby.”

You gape at the spot where he just was, palms still slick with sweat. It takes you a moment to fully grasp what he’s just said, how the entire conversation has gone, but when you do you’re enraged.

“John!” You shout, storming after him, leaving the pregnancy tests behind. “Get back here, you insane man! That’s absolutely not happening!”

The sound of his low laugh echoing through the stairwell only pisses you off more. Your scowl feels etched into your face, and as you storm after John you vow to keep him from completely steam rolling your life.

If he thinks he’s going to just pluck you from your life and drop you in his with no fight, he’s got another thing coming.