#rather than a ficlet

[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.

[fearandhatred]

the rapture

it's a holy thing, in theory, a glorious celebration, where those who believe rise to meet the lord in the air. it's a day of joy, in theory, and maybe even of vindication for those who have always believed.

but no one thinks about how it's like to see the dead rise again—bodies clawing their way out of bolted wood and six feet of packed earth, bodies decomposed and maggot-feasted, nails stained with rot and dirt. no one thinks about the violent lurch of their bodies being jolted into the air by the stomach, gravity flinging their heads back down to earth as they struggle in vain to find footing on molecules and gas. no one thinks about those who don't make it.

no one thinks about the screams.

crowley hadn't thought about any of these things. he certainly hadn't thought about the angels that would be called back to heaven along with the believers.

here they stand dead in the middle of absolute ruin, the promise of heaven the only thing left to look forward to on the wasteland of this earth. the sky has opened up like the eye of god, watching over her people for the very first time, and crowley's black wings against the beams of light only remind him that he doesn't belong up there with the rest of them. crowley wraps his arms tight around aziraphale, squeezes his torso like he can maybe keep aziraphale with him through sheer will or, laughably, demonic intervention. like love could ever be enough. like love could stay.

around them, the cacophony of wails and mockingly exaltant trumpets scorch the earth in their intensity, clashing and agonising even—especially—for them, and words make no sound. but they hold on to each other, even as they shrink into themselves against the noise of the undying. i don't want to leave you either, aziraphale doesn't say, but his hands dig into the cotton of crowley's sleeve, and crowley hears the words through his fingertips.

he feels a stronger upward resistance against his embrace now, and he clings tighter, steadfast, even as aziraphale's grip falters. but he knows he can't hold on forever. he knows that nothing ever lasts.

trembling with something unspeakable, he lifts his arms from aziraphale's torso and covers the angel's ears with his hands. he feels more than hearing aziraphale's resulting sob, and he spreads out his wings to wrap them around their bodies. a shield, a comfort, a goodbye.

it's okay, the gesture says in silence. i'll see you in another lifetime.

[sophistired18]

Kryk ficlet about something something nail clippings, romance, dragons, and estranged family. Pt. 1/2(?)

Let me cut your nails.

"I wanna meet your sister one day." Yaku says offhandedly as he clips Kuroo's nails on their sofa.

"What??" Kuroo jolts, moving his hand suddenly.

"Hey stop moving!" Yaku grumbles as he yanks Kuroo's hand back.

"Why did you ask that??" Kuroo asks with a mix of confusion and shock.

Yaku pauses from Kuroo's nails and lets out a sigh like it's so obvious. It's always so obvious to Yaku.

"Well, isn't it kinda like a formal standard to get to know your partner's entire family before marriage or something?" Yaku says. Like it was obvious. As if it was obvious that he was reflecting on marriage and a future with Kuroo while doing something as mundane as clipping his boyfriend's fingernails. It was obviously, obvious.

Kuroo inhales. "Yakkun. Morisuke. What the actual fuck."

"What??!" Yaku lets out defensively. Because for some reason Kuroo is the unobvious one here. "Am I wrong though?" Yaku says like he's right. He is right.

Kuroo exhales. "No, you're not wrong." Kuroo grins in a stupidly sappy way. "You're just, so unromantic."

"Excuse me? Is doing my boyfriend's manicure because he needs one, badly I might add, not the most romantic deed ever?" Yaku huffs, but his smile grows wider. "Did I need to slay a dragon to prove worthy of your love and ask for your hand, your majesty?"

"And you say I'm the drama queen." Kuroo rolls his eyes. "And honestly, you're probably one of the only people I know that could kill a dragon, so maybe yeah, that'd be very romantic of you. That'd be really hot to see now that I think about it."

"Oh so I guess I'll just find a dragon then." Yaku remarks sarcastically. "But besides that, you're avoiding my question."

"Which one? The hot dragon slaying one or the manly manicure one?" Kuroo replies with a stupid question with an equally stupid grin.

"Neither, you dumbass." Yaku gripes, before jabbing Kuroo in the side of his torso. "I'm serious. I wanna get to know your family."

"You have met my-" Kuroo starts.

"ALL of your family! Besides Kenma doesn't count." Kuroo just gives him a look. "Okay, you're right, Kenma counts, but still! You know what I mean!" Yaku finishes.

"I know.. it's just, well, it's my sister, Mori." Kuroo groans.

"Look, I know you guys aren't close, but that doesn't mean I can't meet her! I want to know this part of your life." Yaku explains. "You've met all of my family, and they love you. Don't I deserve to get to meet yours too? I'm not asking for her approval or to love me, but.. I just think it'd be nice, you know?"

"Yes, you're right." Kuroo admits. "It's just that, she wasn't really a part of my life, Yakkun. I barely know a thing about her besides the Christmas photos my mom used to send. I mean you already know how I feel about my mom, and she is well, my mom. On the otherhand, my sister?? We're like practically strangers." Kuroo huffs.

"You guys don't have to stay that way." Yaku adds.

"Mori, I can literally count on my two hands how many family dinners I've had. I can count on one hand how many family dinners I've had with her attending them." Kuroo spits.

"And I still mean what I said." Yaku spits back. "You're a grown ass man now, and she's a grown ass woman! I'm pretty sure it's not impossible for the two of you to talk to each other! Besides! For someone who's managed to connect with volleyball maniacs from all over the world that you've barely met before, I'm sure connecting with your sister is absolutely doable."

This sucks. This sucks because Kuroo knows Yaku has a point. And Kuroo knows he should stop fighting on this because it's true. He does want Yaku to meet his family. He just never really felt like he ever received any kind of approval from his sister. And for some reason, he's afraid that Yaku won't get that approval because of him. And that's not fair to Yaku. But he's also not being fair to Yaku either.

Kuroo huffs. "I'll give her a call and see when she's available."

Yaku's lips form a wide smile. "Thank you, Tetsu." Yaku sets down the nail clipper and crawls onto Kuroo's lap. "Y'know, if you weren't being such an ass about this, I might be tempted to kiss you."

"But I'm an ass about everything and you still kiss me regardless." Kuroo smirks.

"Only to shut you up, jerk."

"Then shut me up. Or I could keep goi-"

Yaku shuts him up, and Kuroo can't help but think that it's the most romantic thing.

[frankenjoly]

The artist and the muse

artist fyodor & model nikolai based on @nocturnalcm's au

Maybe, just maybe, undressing should take the shortest possible time. But Nikolai liked to slow things down a little, spending some extra seconds to turn it into a bit of a show. Because what was life without flair, and because Fyodor was watching.

Sure, it was the same Fyodor who was going to be staring at him for a big chunk of time (literal hours) while drawing, but that was the key: drawing. While, before he was ready and doing the required pose, he could have all his attention on Nikolai himself. Something he intended to put up to a good use.

“Can I take a look at the masterpiece once it’s done?” The question left his lips with ease, and a giggle followed shortly after. “Or are you embarrassed, Fedya?”

“Not at all.” Was Fyodor’s response, in a soft voice and teasing demeanor which perfectly matched Nikolai’s.

“I can’t see it, you’re not embarrassed, or both?”

“Would you like to know.” Such an answer made Nikolai laugh.

“Course I do, or I wouldn’t be asking.” Seemingly, it was going to take more than that to convince Fyodor, and he was more than up for the challenge. “So, I’m willing to go pretty far to reach my goal.” As he spoke, Nikolai had already finished taking off his gloves, then swiftly started unbuttoning his shirt.

“Hm? And how far is that, Kolya?”

As far as finding a way to take a peek if he didn’t manage to convince Fyodor with any other… argument. But he intended to wait, at least a bit more. After all, maybe keeping being the perfect little model would be the key to success.

(Also on ao3.)

[mamawasatesttube]

“When you laugh like that, it just — you’re so beautiful, you know that?” for the ficlet prompt pls !! love your writing so so much ❤️

Tim is a very serious guy, busy doing very serious work.

"—still don't know why anyone would write this! Actually, who the fuck paid them to write this?! Is this the state of journalism in today's world?" Bart flails a hand at his laptop screen, laughing so hard he's turning red. "Someone—someone got paid to write—to write this?! This is a self-help article?!"

"I just don't—why would you—" Kon stares at the screen, too, fingers steepled and pressed to his lips in deep consternation. "I can't even finish my dramatic reading! Why would—why would—who even wants to phone a friend in the middle of doing an enema?"

Tim is a very serious guy, busy doing very serious work, by which he means playing Minesweeper while listening to his very un-serious friends read a how-to guide on, for some reason, coffee enemas. It happens. He really did mean to get work done, but sitting in the common room was a mistake; he's just been listening and swallowing laughter for the past ten minutes.

"I can promise you this. If any of you ever phone me with anything up your ass, we are not friends anymore," Cassie says, sounding disturbed.

That does it. Tim's finger slips and clicks a bomb instead of a safe tile as he wheezes with sudden, explosive laughter.

All three of them whip around to look at him; Bart is the first to crack into giggles, too, then Kon smothers a chuckle into his hands, and finally Cassie slumps back onto the cushions behind her, cackling. Tim really, truly does try to get ahold of himself, but it's a losing battle at this point.

"Where did you even find this article, Bart?" he manages, grinning breathlessly. "Send me the link." It sounds like a great way to harass Dick, and Tim needs to do that yesterday.

"Why?" Bart shoots back immediately. "Feeling inspired?"

"You better not call me when you try it out," Cassie wheezes.

Kon, meanwhile...

Oh. Wait. What's up with Kon? He's still grinning, but it's a softer look than before; his eyes sparkle with warmth as he looks at Tim, perching in the bay window. That's a very, ah... fond? Yes, fond. A very fond look for someone whose companions are currently losing their shit about a self-help article about coffee enemas.

Tim meets his gaze and quirks an eyebrow. Kon blinks at him, seeming surprised; did he think Tim wouldn't notice him gazing over like that?

"Sorry, sorry," Kon says, though he certainly doesn't sound particularly sorry. “When you laugh like that, it just—man, you’re so beautiful, you know that?”

Tim's face immediately flames. That's rich, coming from the most beautiful guy in not just the room, but the entire city. Country. World? Yeah, world. "Uh."

"Oh my god, shut the fuck up, you're so sappy!" Bart groans, smacking Kon on the shoulder. Kon, because he's Kon, just preens at his complaints. "Stop being a cheese before I kick your ass!"

"Be careful that it doesn't have coffee in it!" Cassie snickers into her hands.

Normally, Tim would join in on the ribbing. Right now, though, he's still a little stuck on Kon just casually calling him beautiful for laughing. What the fuck. They've been officially dating for two weeks! He can't just spring that kind of thing on Tim! And the worst (best) part is, because he's Kon, Tim knows he's being completely genuine about it!

Why did this have to happen during this, of all conversations?

"Now, Bart," Kon says, and aggressively ruffles Bart's hair. "You know Tim is the only one here with the rights to touch my ass, kicking or not."

Bart blows an obnoxiously loud raspberry. Tim drops his face into his hands.

Yeah, he's a serious guy, alright. Real serious about... starting a new game of Minesweeper and listening to his friends continue to be a bunch of comedians.

♥ soft sentence starters ♥

[faux-mance]

thinking about geno's impostor syndrome

his own world replaced him. it tore apart his code to make another version of him that lived his life, and he was forced to watch that sans fill his

and maybe he was glad after was taking care of papyrus, but that doesn't make it hurt, any less. geno was supposed to be the one doing that. it wasn't supposed to come to this. it wasn't fucking fair that he'd suffered so much, only to see another version of him be with geno's brother.

but maybe it was fair. maybe it was what he deserved. he couldn't save his friends. he couldn't save his brother. he couldn't even save himself. it was why he gave up the name sans, wasn't it? he didn't deserve that name. he didn't deserve that life.

— the surface doesn't change how geno feels. sure, the sun on his face and his feet in the grass feel nice. but geno can't help thinking it wasn't supposed to be for him. like the very code in the world is calling him a fraud. this ending wasn't for him. it was for frisk and sans and papyrus. it was for toriel and undyne and alphys and asgore and all the other monsters. why should geno intrude on any of that? what right did he have, to claim this world as his own? he couldn't even save himself. it'd been frisk's idea to use the pie to get him out of the save screen. he didn't deserve to be here. maybe that was what led him to go back into the mountain. to walk through soft, undisturbed snow. not many would step foot here again. not many would want to. that was fine with geno. he found it under a house all too similar to the one now on the surface. that one felt foreign to him, just like the sunlight and the grass and the smiles of his family. this one, he knew well. the click of a lock opened a back door into a dark room, one that hadn't seen the light of day for quite a while. he slid the syringe out of the drawer, the viscous determination inside swirling slowly, the light emanating from it casting a soft red glow on geno's hand. at the same moment, his gaze fell on a familiar silhouette under a purple curtain. the corners of his mouth quirked up into a smile.

[paigemathews]

The ask prompts ask number who knows what I’ve already lost count:

victor and henry sr bonding as mortals in a magical family

Pairing: Victor Bennett & Henry Mitchell

Background Pairing: Paige Matthews/Henry Mitchell, Victor Bennett & Paige Matthews

Walking into the living room, Victor immediately realized what the problem was. Henry had his face buried in his hands and was perfectly still, a posture that Victor more than recognized from his early years.

Settling into the armchair opposite of his son-in-law, Victor waited. Henry finally looked up, something wild in his eyes.

"I traveled to the future."

Okay, so that one wasn't exactly in Victor's expertise. He'd seen the effects of time travel a few times: a time loop tormenting his daughter, his grandson making a desperate bid to save his family and world, and even his dead ex-wife visiting him. He'd never once gotten caught in any of that himself, however, which was probably preferable. While his daughters and grandchildren had (would?) knew the dangers of meddling in time, Victor had a list of regrets that he knew he'd never be able to resist fixing if given the opportunity. Being there for his daughters. Sparing them the trauma of demons preying on their trust and betraying them. Finding Paige two decades earlier. Saving Patty and Prue from dying so young.

Unaware of Victor's thoughts, Henry continued, "Paige and I were talking about raising kids with magic, and Wyatt-"

"Sent you to the future to see what it'd be like," Victor finished. Piper had warned him about being careful what he said in front of his oldest grandson until Wyatt was old enough to better understand his powers. He hadn't gotten the full details of the problems that'd caused, but he knew it'd happened more than once.

Henry nodded and rasped out, "We had twins. Charlotte and Penny. One of them moved all of our living furniture with her mind. The other one accidentally cheated on her science test by seeing the answers in a vision."

Henry buried his face in his hands again and mumbled, "I don't know how to do this."

Victor shuffled over and patted Henry on the back. "Magic is... not easy to deal with. You'll never fully understand it and never fully be a part of this world. Some people can handle that. Some people can't."

If he'd known before he'd married Patty, he doesn't know if he'd had gone through with it. Magic was... terrifying. He had no way of protecting his family, could only watch and hope that they'd be able to save themselves. But life without his girls, even with magic, was one that he didn't want to imagine.

"I love Paige," Henry argued, lifting his head. "It's not just the magic. I'm not- I grew up in the system, I don't-"

That was something that he had more experience with. Well. More of a "what not to do" type of experience. "Parenting is hard. Parenting witches is even harder, especially as a mortal. Now, I didn't do that great of a job of it, but you're not the person I was. More than anything, the thing is being there. You'll make mistakes. There's no getting around it, but being there and trying to fix them are the most important part of being a parent. And from what my girls have told me, including Paige, you're not the type to run when it gets hard, Henry."

Henry had a faint smile as he met Victor's gaze. "Not when it comes to Paige. I love her."

"Is that so?" Paige leaned against the doorway as both men turned to look at her. She smiled, eyes soft. "Good thing I love you, too."

She held her hand out to her husband. "Wyatt wanted to apologize for the magical journey, and I think Phoebe wanted to pry some future information out of you."

Henry rose and took her head with a wry shake of his head. "I don't know if that's how it works."

"I'll distract her for you two," Victor promised. He needed to go find his third daughter anyways, find out about this Coop fellow.

[kiwibirdlafayette]

you heard of the kites and nightingales, kestrels and herons... but little do you know, another faction hides in the caves and unseen crevices of the faction isles...

I've been brainrotting about a Krimson Krakens (+ mianite pirates and Tom because I do what I want) cameo in Pirates SMP, so have some worldbuilding and lore ideas! Of course, all for fun, moreso an AU/Headcanon than anything, not meant to be taken seriously at all :] If it turns into anything more, cool beans, but for now! I'm just vibing

(Made in collaboration with @kaye-memer-kurrentvertz who helped with the Dave, Krinios and Krakens dynamic stuffs :D)

Little prologue and ficlet below the cut; Enjoy!

Meet the Krimson Krakens.

Comprised of mystical and mysterious individuals- some of more human in appearance than others- no one is sure when this faction formed. Unlike the others, it holds no precedence over the many generations of pirates in these Isles, nor is their presence heard of other then in whispers between pirates across the land.

Carrying with them an infamous reputation of a crew like a Kraken; in search of breaking curses, solving the mysteries of the Isles. Who would find their target and take it over like tentacles wrapping around a ship reaching into its deepest corners until they've found what they're looking for, no stone left unturned in their wake.

The crew is headed by the elusive Captain Kara Corvus, adorned by many snakes upon her shoulders, and Captain Jordan Sparklez of draconic origins; the latter said to have begun life in the End, given humanity by a deity and brought into the Overworld as a curse. While they bicker a lot sometimes, they are a powerhouse of a duo who know each other very well, being a force to reckoned with especially while wielding their respective weapons- Kara's ruby-adorned Leviathan Blade and Jordan's unbreakable enchanted prismarine trident with a name in Enderian spoken only once ever by the deity that crafted it

But they by no means hold any sort of superiority over the others, for like Nightingales, they value friendship and comradery over power over one another. By their side is the former Kestrel cyclops Krinios- a man with a keen eye for treasure and an ability to loot a ship in the heat of battle which has been considered unmatched, only having been caught a few times. - and Dave Krtzy, a fighter from a bloodline stretching generations in the Kites who broke it to join the Krakens. A master with any melee weapon he can get his hands on, he's usually the first to jump into battle, and if someone's in danger, his waterman abilities come into play.

However, while these four make up the core of the Krakens they are not alone in their adventures, and have picked up other friends along the way

Joining them are the Dulahann siblings, Katherine "Capsize" and Redbeard (his birth name has been all but forgotten by the others) and family friend Rupert, a skeleton reborn from an island of purple goo who gained sentience thanks to Capsize's mother. The Dine-at-Night is their family's tavern-BnB that was expanded into a base of operations after the trio met Jordan, who one day washed up on the beach with little memory of where he came from- and sort of became his family. While not a Captain in this universe, she still takes up a leadership role of her own right in being rather good with a sword, solving mysteries, collecting evidence and giving the realest advice to both friends and passing bar patrons. Red's a little more loose headed but alongside Rupert is a skilled ship engineer, and the guy to go to if the boat's got a leak or a steering system has gone awry. Not much is known about Rupert besides him being known to be a jack of all trades, a powerful asset to have onboard. He has said to have had said he has a claim to fame in his past life before dying on the taint-covered island, but has yet to share it with anyone..

The most recent member to join them is the undead Tom Syndicate, a blue-haired zombie with an explosive personality and fighting style, who had been known to frequent taverns across the Isle. Having once belonged to a rival independent crew of the Krakens, rumor has it that he betrayed them after years of mistreatment, turning instead to choose to join Cpt. Sparklez out of admiration and perhaps a kind of affection that turned romantic over the years (to the point of claiming to be married to the captain, no one knows for sure how true this is). Despite coming from a very different background than the others, including a lost memory of who he was before he had been zombified he fits in quite well, his willingness to jump into battle like a cannonball flying through the air and explode on enemies without second thought brings a certain chaos to the Krakens that they have accepted wholeheartedly.

While their ship is stored away in a sea cliff hidden behind a waterfall somewhere on the island, the tunnel system leading there from beneath the Dine-at-Night, the Krakens enjoy a relaxing life on land, chilling at their tavern base of operations, or being a living legend amongst the other inhabitants, familiar but unfamiliar faces in the crowd. Some have started to believe that their swashbuckling days are few far between in the lack of comings and goings since the new recruits have arrived, but contrary to that they still have been traversing under cover of night to seek out what darkness could be brewing just around the corner. From the growing amount of purple in Rupert's hair to a sudden glow of the rusted coin around Dave's neck the Krakens have had their suspicions for a while....

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

"Oi! Ye heard what happened?"

Jordan jolts awake off the bar when the bottom of a mug hits against his shoulder. He glares at the Scottish accented, freckled face that passes him, an eyebrow raised.

"No... Heard what Kat?" He grovels, and sits up a little straighter, turning to check the time. 1am. He rests his hand under his chin, hoping that propping it up would keep him awake for the time being. "It better be important, I was having a nice dream for once in my life."

Capsize rolls her eyes. "I don't think that's all gonna matter all that much one ye hear about what I heard today."

He eyes her cautiously as sets the mug she was drying down on the bar. There were a number of things that she could be alluding to, from their own personal affairs, to Tom causing trouble at the Heron's base to something as drastic as their ship had been stolen, or worse burnt to the ground. He hoped it wasn't the last one, but even if it was, he and Kara had a contingency plan.

He murmurs. "I mean maybe... what'd you hear?"

She sits down on a stool across from him, folding her hands together. "The Factioning was a few days ago, right?" She waits for him to nod in response, ensuring that she had the dragon's full attention. "Turns out, that's not the only thing that happened that day. Something calls them out to the Isle to the north, spoken through the recruitment officer."

"The fox man? He told them to go?"

"From the looks of it, yeah." She fiddled with her bracelet, the clacking of the beads breaking through the ambient sound of distant ocean waves and the crackle of torchlight. "I mean, I wasn't there so what would I know. for sure, but they listened."

Jordan shrugs. "I mean PK's a trustworthy guy, I'd probably go if he told me to."

"Yeah, well you'd trust Tom if he told you to walk the plank, I'm not surprised." Despite her little quip, Capsize's face becomes more serious solemn in expression and her voice lowers. "I don't think they were meant to because turns out, twenty-four of them went over there, two of them didn't come back. Kestrels and Kites apparently both lost a member of their faction."

"... Like they stayed? Why would anyone wanna hang out at the wasteland, there's nothing there but-"

"Jordan. They died."

A gust of wind howls outside through the barely cracked windows, the flame within the lantern beside her flickering briefly twice.

The wings on the captain's back droop slowly downward as he lowers his hand onto the bar crouching over ever so slightly. "Died? From what, the island?"

"I don't know, but from what it sounds like. Yeah." She gulps. "One get taken away on a boat.. of sorts? The other follows and lands onto the island probably to chase after their friend, and never comes back."

Jordan feels his heart drop further down into his chest. He finds himself fidgeting with the rings on his fingers, already a million possibilities running through his head "Did they get a look at who took the first one away, at least? So there's somewhere to start?"

"All that I was told is that they were dressed in robes. Could've been a cult, bandits in disguise, ghosts for all I know- Not much to go off of." She solemnly runs her hand through her hair, reaching to untie her bandana allowing her bangs to fall into her face. "It's a feckin' shame really... after all these years. I didn't think anything of that damn accursed land would ever come back. Because here I thought they'd be able to recover properly this time, not let whatever still lingers take back over."

A glaze falls over Jordan's expression. Memories of dried violet entrails wrapping around buildings, skeletons not unlike in appearance to Rupert buried in the masses of warped wood and sunken docks. Wind howled over the tops of the valleys and mountains carved out, through temples that had been thought to be abandoned for centuries. The time he, Kara, Red and Dave travelled there in search of another medallion there was a certain eerie silence, the sign of a land that no longer had any visible, breathing life to it, but remained haunted by all that came before, and all that was yet to come.

Jordan furrowed his eyebrows together. "That means… the island's alive again?"

Capsize nodded. "Aye. The island is alive again."

[t4t4tclethian]

hmm. thinking about the parallels between the Roomies and the Scottage

[lenievi]

sometimes I feel like my older fics have more life in them, and idk where I went wrong lol

[corneille-moisie]

.... might or might not be working a little on that poison astride and orlège thingie

🤔

🤓

[motthe]

hiii !! just read like ,, a BUNCH of ur lumen au stuff ,,,, truly i am brainrotted now because i'm just thinking of so many different scenarios involving the lumens and i am just . EXCITED !!! its SUCHHHH a good concept im a big big sucker for soulmate stuff ,,,,

i was just wondering how you feel about jayvik x reader ,,,, TWO lumens ,,,,,,,, idk if you write for anything poly or not, but id love to hear your thoughts on it !!! either through headcanons or a ficlet, whichever you feel like :]

my first viktor x reader x jayce piece i’ve ever written… wait is this my first poly drabble?? it might be actually! i hope it’s fun to read ♥️

warnings: fem!reader, slight negative feelings of not being good enough, but overall fluff!!!

The scientific jargon that came with having not one but both of your fated being inventors was overwhelming. The words they tossed around became an entire other language since you’d all gotten closer. It left you feeling unbearably empty-headed, wondering why the universe would bond you to such intelligent men.

They were already changing an entire city with their ideas, and you would bet the world would soon bear their mark as well. In comparison, you were a meager artist making ends meet at festivals and street corners. Sure, maybe your work could be seen on a few shop signs or covering a wall or two in a cafe, but that was as famous as you’d ever be—a stranger to the passing eye.

“We need to widen the cylindrical chamber, maybe add an exhaust pipe to help with the cooldown.”

Jayce’s voice slipped through your head, smooth and confident and making no sense. You’d gotten rather good and tuning out the meat of the conversations, only recognizing the tones and emotions.

The heavy, warm accent of Viktor’s replied, swirling in the back of your mind as your pencil swiped over the heavy parchment against your thighs.

Recently, they’d begun inviting you to their lab to spend your free time in their company. There were two desks to choose from, though they were usually piled high with blueprints or notes. Jayce had moved a couch into the space for your comfort, placed in the corner and under a window, well away from any dangerous work they had their hands on, though they usually took anything too precarious into another portion of the building.

Their assistant, Sky, was in and out, always double-checking if you needed anything. She was a kind young woman, curly hair and glasses and a smile that made anyone feel at home. She brought you your own coffee and snacks, promising it was no trouble since she was already bringing them to Viktor and Jayce, anyway.

“You actually eat them,” she chuckled. “Jayce will if he notices they’re there, but it’s a long shot most days.”

You understood what she meant, seeing how focused the men became on their gadgets and studies. You’re sure if you got up and left they wouldn’t notice for a good, long while.

Today was one of those days, though there was peace in your private little corner as you sketched away. You squinted over the top of your sketchbook, skimming the outline of Viktor’s goggles pressed into his thick, winding hair and quickly adding the little licks of tresses to the paper before he was moving again.

You switched targets, taking in Jayce’s side profile and adding a bit more depth to his eyebrow and under eye.

Taking a moment to look between both drawings, you were hit with their beauty once more.

Jayce was deemed the academy’s “pretty boy,” with his strong jaw and perfect smile. He was a clean cut handsome, peak health and built with broad shoulders. He knew how to use those looks to his advantage.

On the other end was Viktor. He was a haunting beauty, sleek and angular. If he had the same charisma with speaking to the masses as Jayce did, that accent would gain him more than a fair share of admirers, but his confidence and skills lied elsewhere. He had a sharp eye and wore his emotions rather loudly on his face.

Where Jayce had faint lines from how much he smiled, Viktor had a feather soft crease between his brows from how often he furrowed them. Where the golden boy’s hands were always warm, his partner’s was cold. They made such gorgeous opposites, yet they held so many comparisons in mannerisms when it came to their shared hobbies and passions.

It was safe to say you adored them and their intricacies.

Taking a slow, deep breath you checked both shoulders before moving the tuft of black in your periphery into your hand. Gold shimmered between the dark mass that made up Jayce’s lumen, settling deeper into your palm as you raised your arms and stretched.

When you moved your drawing pad to the side, you spotted Viktor’s wedged between the apex of your thighs. Swallowing your gasp, you scooped it up, praying it hadn’t been smushed the entire time.

“When did you get there?” you whispered, rubbing your pointer finger into the tawny fuzz of his light. His lumen had always had a bit more give to it, leaving it to wedge itself under your leg or your shirt collar. Viktor’s preferred to be as close as possible to you, even if it left his lumen squished.

Jayce’s lumen was firmer, still soft but in a velveteen sort of sensation. It was bigger, taking up a good portion of your palm. Now your second month with it, you’d learned if it wasn’t on one of your shoulders, it was likely circling your head. His never went far either.

You wondered if you’d received Jayce’s lumen first, if it would have more of an attachment to you. As it stood, you’d had Viktor’s since you were young while he’d held Jayce’s and Jayce yours. The three of you being tied together had become quite the story as there went many outward poly fateds in Piltover, but luckily the gawking had passed after the first handful of weeks.

It was only a few days ago that Viktor confessed he’d been rather confused when he’d met Jayce and the lumens had flashed against one another.

“There were no similarities,” he’d explained, holding up one long, thin finger for your lumen to rest on as it hovered in front of him. The three of you were cozied up in your lackluster apartment—a studio more than a bedroom but it had a nice pullout couch and plenty of blankets to rest on in front of your heater. “Jayce was ecstatic, of course, but I was ruminating over your lumen when we first met.”

“I thought he hated me,” Jayce had murmured, breath warm against your ear as you laughed.

“I did not hate you,” huffed Viktor on your other side, rolling his eyes as he dropped his hand, your lumen resting within. “I wasn’t aware we had a third, yet—it was puzzling.”

“I had to explain it to him,” Jayce chuckled. “One of my old friends was in a poly.”

“And, then, he was even more ecstatic,” Viktor sighed but there was affection in it. “I thought you’d follow him home some nights.”

“And leave you all by yourself?” You laid your head on his shoulder, grinning as his eyes fled. It was still so early into the relationship, and he grew flustered with physical affection whereas Jayce sought it every chance. “I’d never.”

“It’s better now, we’re all together,” Jayce hummed, lowering to lay his head in your lap. You brushed your hand through his hair, smiling as his lumen lit up in Viktor’s lap.

“Yes,” Viktor had agreed, careful as he laid his head against yours. “It all feels…complete.”

Your chest warmed at the memory as you held both of their lumens in your hands, giving a fleeting kiss to each. Viktor’s snuggled happily into your palm while Jayce’s pulsed a happy gold before flying off, likely to check in with Viktor.

As your eyes lifted to follow its journey, you jumped when you found Jayce smiling from a few feet away by his desk. He seemed to be shuffling through some papers. Your lumen floated just nice his head, twinkling in the sunlight that shone through the windows behind you.

“Didn’t see you there,” you said, stretching your legs out before standing. Viktor’s lumen left your hand, keeping close to your neck.

“I hope you’re not bored.” He opened an arm up and you approached. You still grew giddy with any chance to be wrapped in his embrace, quick to accept the invitation.

“I like spending time here with you both,” you assured, giggling as he bent down to kiss your forehead. “Gives me plenty of practice.”

His eyes lit up, one of those dark eyebrows lifting. “Oh?”

“I know what you’re about to ask—”

“Please?” His arm wrapped tighter around your waist. “I wanna see.”

“They’re just rough sketches!” you laughed, pushing against his chest.

“C’mon, I bet they’re great! I’m sure Viktor wants to see them, too.”

You shook your head, a mess of giggles as he wrapped both arms around you and slowly edged his way towards the couch.

“Did someone call my name?” asked Viktor, turning from the machine he was working on. A torch was in his hand but luckily still off for the time being. Jayce’s lumen was sitting on his knee.

“Viktor tell her you want to see her art!” Jayce goaded.

“Tell him he needs to wait for a real piece,” you threw back, wrinkling your nose at him as he stuck his tongue out.

“You’ve been drawing us?” Viktor’s voice seeped with awe and innocent curiosity. “May we see?”

Jayce bounced his eyebrows at you, all too smug. “Told you.”

“Fine—fine!” you sighed, throwing your hands up and wiggling out of his hold as you went to grab your canvas notebook. “Don’t gripe when you see your half-finished faces.”

The tap of Viktor’s crutch intermingled with Jayce’s footsteps as they met you by the couch. As you handed over your work, Viktor was the one to accept it as Jace stood over him. Both their eyes went wide at the current page and your hand went straight to your arm as you shuffled in place.

“Those are just warmups, so…”

“Warmups?” Jayce breathed, looking up from the notebook. “These are amazing!”

“I have to agree, the detail is astounding,” Viktor hummed, looking to turn back a page. He caught your eyes before he did. “Is this all right? Tell us if we’re overstepping.”

“No, it’s okay! I’m used to people watching me draw on the street, it’s just… I don’t know.” You shrugged, bringing a hand up as Viktor’s lumen rubbed against your neck. Jayce’s was just settling on your shoulder again. “I care about what you guys think. It’s not anything big like you do, but…”

“Big?” Jayce echoed, both of their sights set on you.

“Well, it’s not as important as what you both do is what I mean.”

“Of course it’s important,” Viktor argued, expression stern.

“But it’s art!” you laughed, waving off the sudden seriousness growing from them. “It’s helping a bunch of people like your creations do. That’s much more important.”

“Art is just as, if not more, important,” he continued, passing the notebook to Jayce. “We are helping people in different ways, but do not do yourself the disservice and think what you create is anything less than what we do.”

“He’s right,” Jayce agreed, holding up your work. “This? This speaks to people. Your work can bring life to a room and lets people save a special moment in time.”

“Okay, don’t butter me up so much or I’ll melt!” you squeaked, too embarrassed to look at them as they chuckled and continued flipping through your sketches. It wasn’t long before the three of you were on the couch, both of them pointing out their favorites.

“Is my hair truly that messy?” Viktor grumbled, raising a hand to it. “Perhaps I should cut it.”

“No, I like it,” you said, grabbing his wrist. “You twirl it when you’re thinking! It’s so sweet.”

He blinked at you. “I do?”

Jayce whistled and you turned and gasped, completely forgetting the drawing you’d done of him in the forge. It was more from memory so your imagination had left it a bit more detailed than the rest.

“Okay, that’s enough!”

You swiped for the book, shutting it as Jayce laughed. Viktor rolled his eyes, smirking as he nudged your shoulder.

“Should I be worried of any scandalous pieces of me in there?”

You pouted, holding the notebook tighter to your chest.

“Oh?” Jayce breathed. “She didn’t say no!”

“You two are the worst!” you groaned, unable to help yourself from smiling as they both laughed in tandem.

[bambiiboop]

Curls - Joel Miller x AFAB!Reader

Note: Oh, shocking, a Joel ficlet inspired by this image. It’s smut. There’s no plot beyond: Joel grows out his hair. You like to pull it.

Warnings: smut | unprotected PIV sex | one singular spank | unspecified age gap | reader has no physical description except being less broad than Joel and AFAB | Joel has a dirty mouth | Hair pulling | Fluff(ish) at the end

“Joel…”

You drag your fingers through curls that you’ve seen turn steadily greyer recently; you’ve watched him grow them out, shove them back off his face.

Before you can help yourself, you tug on his hair gently, barely at all, shifting beneath him. He has you pinned down, caged beneath his bigger, broader frame. It’s about the only action you can take, beyond running your hands up his back, fingertips ghosting across scarred muscle.

Your fingers always come back to his hair; you tug again as he shifts against you, grinds his pelvis into yours, making sure you feel every single thick inch of his cock buried inside you.

“Ah, fuck, Joel!” You gasp, yanking on his curls as he hits your sweet spot.

Joel bites his lip, trying to muffle the moan that threatens to escape him when you pull on his hair, far harder than you ever have before. Maybe it doesn’t come out the way it would if he had let it, but this tiny, muffled, needy little moan comes out nonetheless.

A devious idea crosses your mind, spurred on by his unexpected reaction. You wait until he’s nuzzled his face back into your shoulder, focusing too much on how wet and tight you are around his cock to notice what you’re scheming.

Once you’re certain he’s distracted, you run your fingers through those long, soft, grown out curls once more, giving yourself a moment just to touch, before you pull. Hard. Or at least, hard by your standards.

Joel tries, tries so damn hard, not to let any sound escape him, but the moan that tears from his throat is downright filthy; it turns to a sinful growl when he sees how pleased with yourself you look.

“Oh, think that’s funny, do ya? Real cute.” He grumbles, frustrated with himself, because damn if he isn’t the scariest man in Jackson, and yet you can bring him to his knees, turn him into a whimpering, pleading mess without much effort and with zero hesitation on his behalf.

Joel grips your thighs in his big, scarred hands, practically folding you in half as he growls again, roughly fucking into you.

You gasp and moan, tugging him by his curls into a greedy, sloppy kiss as he spears his cock deep into you, grinding his hips against yours so that the coarse curls at the base of him tease your oversensitive clit.

“Ohhh, fuck, fuckfuckfuckfuck Joel!” You’re completely gone, lost, clinging onto him, writhing beneath him as best you can when he has you folded up beneath him.

Looking up at him through heavy lidded eyes, you whimper as he draws back, changing angle so he can look down at you with his deep, caramel gaze, plush lips slightly parted as he watches you come apart beneath him.

“That’s it, darlin’, c’mon now-“

His rough, low voice is soft, almost sweet, a stark contrast to his rough, relentless, heavy thrusts, letting gravity take over. Joel knows he has you, can feel how close you are by the way your cunt flutters around him, tightening around the fat girth of him, making him groan again.

“Fuck, darlin’, so good for me, you’re so fuckin’ good for me…”

Joel knows he’s rambling, or rather, he’s dimly aware of it, knows he sounds like an idiot, like a pussy drunk fool, but he’s so lost in you, in the way your fingers tug insistently at his curls, at the way you whimper.

“C’mon sweetheart,” he moans the last word as your fingers card through his hair once more, pulling him down close to you; leaning so close like this, you can hear every muffled moan, every grunt and exhale and growl as his hips slap lewdly against yours.

“Joel, I -“

You can’t get the words out, trailing off into a desperate, pathetic whimper as your hips meet; the added stimulation to your clit finally sending you over the edge.

Your vision blurs, unsure if your eyes are closed or if you simply can’t see, your entire body shaking and writhing beneath him as your nails drag down his back, pulling his much broader frame as close to you as possible.

Joel groans again, an almost pathetic sound as he fucks you through it, taking his time to draw out your climax, chasing his own with relentless abandon.

Sixty years old, he thinks, and he can still fuck like a man half his age. If he wasn’t so focused on how wet and tight you are, on your hands in his hair, on the way it feels when you pull on his curls, he’d feel so smug about this.

Maybe that says more about the effect you have on him than anything else.

Fuck, he’s close, he realises, so caught up in watching you come apart beneath him that he hadn’t been keeping himself on edge well enough.

“Joel… please…” you look up at him with big doe eyes, breathing heavily as you try to regulate yourself, watching the way those greying curls fall into his dark eyes as he lets out a low moan again.

Half a dozen sharp snaps of his hips and he’s there, growling, panting, moaning, sounding filthier and more desperate with each one before he reluctantly pulls out of you at the last minute, wrapping one big hand around his soaked cock and stroking, grunting as he spills onto your soft skin, cock twitching in his hand at the way his spend coats you.

You look so pretty like that, Joel thinks, somewhere in the depths of his brain that isn’t completely occupied by feeling as though every nerve in his body is reconfiguring.

“Hey, Joel?” You lean up, press a kiss to his jaw, running your fingers almost lovingly through his curls again.

“Hm?” He reaches to the nightstand for a soft cloth to clean you up with, finding his glasses, too, unfolding the large frames and sliding them up the curve of his nose.

“You should have told me you like having your hair pulled.”

He scoffs, lays the lightest of swats to your ass.

“Careful, darlin’, don’t start what you can’t finish.”

It’s your turn to scoff as you take the cloth from him, finish cleaning yourself up and toss it to the hamper at the end of the bed.

“You and I both know I can finish you just fine.” You giggle as Joel pulls you back into his arms, against his broad chest, where you feel safest.

Running your fingers through his curls, you hum contentedly as he holds you; this is exactly where you belong, you think.

“You just watch yourself,” Joel shakes his head, but there’s no heat in his tone. “Guess it wasn’t so bad that I grew this out after all, huh?”

“Definitely not.” You press another kiss to his jaw, eager to just hold onto this moment together, to be held by him and, admittedly, look forward to the next time.

[faejilly]

You can filter AO3 by word count! You can put just a minimum, or just a maximum, or both! Or neither! AO3 has the best filters! You can exclude and include different things on the same search! It's GREAT! That means anyone can post anything as long as they label what it is! (And word count is automatic, so they don't even have to do anything!)

If you do a mini-fic or three-sentence meme (that used to be a thing) which may be even less than 100 words depending on how you write, you should post them on AO3 HOWEVER YOU WANT because IT'S YOUR ARCHIVE. 🎉

poll time!

*for context: usually I disagree with this practice and think things like [prompt] month fills should be standalone works in a collection/series. but I have a hunch people might feel differently about drabbles since they're so short.

I’m genuinely curious about this, but also I’ve been writing a lot of drabbles here on tumblr and I’m on the fence about sharing them anywhere else. thanks for voting and reblogging!

[luveline]

𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 | 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐨’𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚

miguel can’t control himself when you get hurt in the field —a ficlet featuring an irritated (lovesick) miguel and a flirty, distracted spider-girl. pre across the spider-verse but contains spoilers. requested he re, fem!reader, 2.5k

tw. fighting, injury, blood

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Miguel watches the screen in front of him unhappily. 

"Spider-Girl," he says. Two people answer him. He sighs. "Y/N," he amends, "you're being reckless." 

The little droid camera that follows you around circles your head as you swing from one place to another. "I'm being good," you deny. 

Miguel would never tell you this, but he loves how you speak. Sure, almost every word you say annoys him, but the cadence of your voice is melodic and addictive at once. And Miguel knows you're nice to everyone, but it's him alone that has you speaking so softly. 

You do it to torture him, he's sure. 

"You're doing well, but you'd be better if you didn't free fall for so long. Mechanical failure can happen at any minute," Miguel says. 

"Then one of the others will catch me." 

"And if there's no team member close by? I'm supposed to come and scrape you off of the sidewalk?" 

"Miguel," you say gently. He can tell what mood you're in today. "They have people for that." 

"Could you just do as I asked you to?" 

"Ah, but you haven't asked me anything." 

"Please," he says, "focus on the task at hand, and use your webs cautiously." 

You make a chirping sound that feels more laughter than affirmation, but you do as he requests, reducing the length of time between each web shot. You're in New York, Earth-1844, attempting to send home an unhappy Doc Ock variant whose mechanical arms are immensely technologically advanced, even when compared to Nueva York's futurism.

Miguel had sent you along with a rather large team, one. because a big team was necessary for the task, two. because you'd asked and he has trouble saying no to you, and three. because if you'd spent another hour in his office today he actually might have given into temptation, which wouldn't be good for anybody.

Miguel is used to doing what needs to be done rather than what he'd like, these days. So while he wants to indulge you and your fanciful suggestions —I'm not heavy, handsome, please, you won't even notice I'm in your lap, your thighs are so wide— he can't. He has things to do. Things that cannot endure distraction. 

"Woo!" you cheer through laughter, letting your shoes skim the floor in an especially dangerous manoeuvre. The adrenaline turns you giddy. "Holy crap." 

Oh, right, that's why he resists temptation —he hates you. (He doesn't hate you.) He hates you and your disregard for your own safety, he hates your rejection of his authority, and he hates the stupid sweet sound you make when you're excited. 

"Do you listen to me and then forget what I've said, or do you not understand the English language?" he asks. 

You land on a rooftop overlooking the centre of Future Doc Ock's destruction. "Well, I've been learning Spanish. We could always try that," you suggest. 

"Why have you been learning Spanish?" he asks. 

"Coquetear contigo," you say, your pronunciation all over the place. To flirt with you. 

"Qué maravilla," he mutters. 

"I don't know that one, handsome, so I'm going to assume it was a love confession or something similar." You sound so overly fond he has to tense his jaw. "Gwen, where are you?" 

"I'm over here?" 

Gwen is wrapped up tightly in a metal tentacle. It shakes her around fanatically. Miguel swears and zooms in on her location, watching in apprehension as she attempts to free herself while the arm creaks, tightening, tightening. 

"Woah," you say, taking a running jump off of the rooftop. "Can you believe it? I'm not the first one who needs rescuing." 

Hobie Brown reaches Gwen before you can, and he makes an impressive rescue. You divert your path, shooting a web at the glass dome covering Future Doc Ock's head. Miguel crosses his arms across his chest. Wannabe Mysterio loser, he thinks, and then, when you've smashed a hole into the dome with a generously momentous kick, Nice. 

He doesn't suppose Doc Ock was expecting a kick to the jaw today. 

You hiss as you propel yourself away from him, another web shot at a nearby lamppost. It does something funny to his chest when he hears you whine in pain, but he's too distracted to ask what's wrong —he scours your droid's view for an answer, finds it red and saturating the fabric of your suit. 

"Why are you bleeding, Spider-Girl?" he asks, gaze drawn to the main screen where Dock Ock shouts belligerent threats at an approaching Spider-Man. 

"No biggie," you say, hissing again, "I think I cut my leg on the glass. I need a better suit." 

"Can you walk?" 

"I'm fine," you say with a sniffle. From the amount of blood, the cut is deep. "Is it me, or is it dusty in here?" 

It definitely hurts if it's making you cry, though maybe you're unprepared. This was a bad idea, you aren't as seasoned as the others, and he knows you don't know what you're doing yet. You need more time, more practice. You've hurt yourself in the field on your very first mission, and you don't have the pain threshold or the super-healing necessary to cope.

It's his fault for letting you go. 

"Prepare for extraction," he says.

"No! No way, are you kidding? I'm fine, I– I can do this."

"Y/N," he warns. 

You fling yourself from the lamppost with impressive grace considering your injury and join the fight once again. Miguel can't keep an eye on you like he wants to, as the alarm that indicates an anomaly begins to sound. He's forced to rush together a second team while the elite strike force are preoccupied, yanking members of Spider-Society from their goings abouts, Lyla in his ear recommending effective combinations and fighting styles. From that point on, he has to supervise two different missions, his head pounding with effort. 

His hands itch. He should be out there. Miguel is the cream of the crop and he isn't shy to admit that. He's a good fighter, but he can't be everywhere at once, and most of the anomalies they face require multiple sets of hands to fix. So he forces himself to stay put and guide the teams through each fight, sick to his stomach with every bloody footprint you leave behind. 

He's following Hobie Brown and offering rejected instruction when he sees you go down. He toggles your voice channel and catches the end of a high-pitched, "Oof," the air-knocked from your lungs forcibly as you hit the ground. The tentacle that propelled you veers up for a finishing blow, and three different webs catch it and pull it backward. 

It's a blur. One minute Miguel's in the control room at Spider-Society headquarters, the next he's breathing in the smoggy air of New York, Earth-1844, concrete and asphalt torn up under his hands. Lyla speaks in his ear and he's deaf to her, his focus pointed with only one thing in mind. 

The restraint it takes not to wipe Doc Ock from the face of the dimension is incalculable. Miguel can't quite believe his own moderation as he orchestrates the return of the anomaly, your body on the ground in the corner of his eye. 

The second the situation is under control, he runs to you. His gloves hit the ground with a thud by your hip, as do his knees. Spider-Man, a Peter Parker from Earth-751263, has already set nanobots over your prone figure, tiny spider-like creatures that leave webbing bandages in their wake, closing the sluggish wound on your calf. But nanotech won't fix a broken spine, not in the field. Miguel needs a stretcher. He needs to get you home. 

"Miguel," you say, drawing his gaze from your slow-rising chest, "I can't breathe.

He slides his thumb as gently as he can into the seam of your mask and eases it off. "You're winded." 

You cough. The sound is disturbingly wet, but your lips remain unsullied. Miguel can't look at you in this much pain, and he won't: he stands, and he takes control. 

—

You're not in nearly as much pain as you should be, because Doctor Spider-Man gave you the good stuff. "Your healing isn't nearly as expedited as most of us," he'd said. 

"Is this medical discrimination?" you'd asked, faking a serious concern. "Do I need to talk to Spider-Lawyer?" 

You found it funny. He maybe didn't, but he gave you an extra dose and told you to rest up before leaving. Resting at the Society medbay isn't easy because Spider People are constantly filtering in and out of the ward for check-ups, medication, and corrections. 

It's also not easy because most Spider People are incredibly lonely in their home dimensions, and incredibly friendly here. When Miguel finally comes to visit you, you have a Spider-Girl from a few dimensions over who has the same biological mother as you but a different father sitting to your left —she's trippy and adorable, if you do say so yourself— two Peter Parkers to your right, and a melting pot of currency lost in the white linen sheets over your legs.  

They get one good look at Miguel and put down their playing cards. 

The Peter Parkers slink off together promising to come and see you again sometime, and your variant stops just shy of Miguel's position to look him up and down affectionately. 

"Go away," he says. 

She beams at him. "Okay." 

"You can't help it, can you?" he asks after she's gone, picking a rogue playing card up from the end of your bed. He twiddles it between his index and middle finger, the card shushing with each turn.

You sit up in bed and try to straighten out the sheets, hoping to entice him. You don't bother answering his question. It barely sounded like one. 

"I'm hurt, you know?" you ask. 

"I know. I told you to retreat." 

"No, I'm hurt it took you so long to visit me," you say. You're putting on airs. Truthfully, you genuinely are a little hurt, but your voice is soft and dreamy as always. "I thought we were friends." 

"Ah, because you need more of those." 

You sink down into your pillows, your knees hiked. "I really can't help it if people like me. And you'd know." 

Miguel surprises you by sitting down. He faces away from you, his thigh just shy of your feet below the sheets, and it's only then you realise he's tense. He's in civvies for a change, a t-shirt stretched tight across his broad shoulders and chest and regular black sweatpants. He's wearing converse. 

You look at him through a squint. "Did you hit your head, too?" 

"I'm off-duty."

"I just never pictured you in sneakers." 

"How do you picture me?" he asks, neck craned to look at you, his chin touching his shoulder. He has dark circles under his eyes and his brows are ruffled on one side. 

You let your knees fall to one side and pull your legs to your chest, hoping to entice him closer. "You're not sleeping well?" 

Miguel doesn't answer your inquiry. In fact, he falls silent. His eyes are on your hands where they're bunched at your chest, his dark flush of lashes twitching as his gaze tracks along the column of your throat, your jaw, and finally, your face. 

"If you were anyone else," he says eventually, "you'd be benched." 

"I'm not benched?" you ask. 

"You disobeyed a direct order," he says, "and your actions affected the people around you. Someone else could've been hurt protecting you. You have to listen to what I'm telling you to do, or this is never going to work." 

You look at the hospital bed railing rather than face his disappointment. 

"But it's my fault." 

"What?" you ask, startled. 

"It's my fault you got hurt. I knew you couldn't handle it, and I let you go anyway. I'm… I'm weak." 

"What are you talking about?" you ask. "Weak? You're the strongest person here, with or without Rapture." 

He flinches at the drug's name.

You lay there, paralysed by your own mistake, your big mouth ruining everything for the thousandth time. If there's one thing you know about Miguel, it's that you never mention his weaknesses. His drug. His last attempt at a full life. You might be light-hearted, a free spirit, but you're far from stupid usually. Your emotional intelligence must've got lost somewhere on Earth-1844. 

"Sorry," you murmur, looking at him from under your lashes. "I didn't mean…" 

Slowly, so slowly, he puts his hand on your leg. It doesn't hurt, you've been medicated and stitched and his touch is far from cruel, but you're so startled that your breath gets caught in your throat. Miguel doesn't touch you unless he's giving you a vague reprimand, moving your hand from a button you shouldn't touch or a door you're not allowed to open. 

"I let you go on that mission, knowing you weren't ready, because you asked me to let you. I put selfish motivations over your safety. It won't happen again." 

You're not as brave as you think you are. You try to hold his hand but it looks so big, and you've never had him this close to you of his own accord. You're a moment away from nervous goosebumps. 

He looks up at your touch, your pinky finger wrapped over his, smaller and shorter but with the same pattern of calluses, skin abraded by tight gloves and rough surfaces. 

"Selfish motivations," you repeat in a murmur. 

"I don't– like saying no. To you." He couldn't sound more unhappy to admit it. 

"You say no to me all the time," you say. You don't mean to, but suddenly you're folding your fingers over his, forcing him to hold your hand. He doesn't stop you. He doesn't let go. "Like, ten times a day." 

"It's difficult." Your complaint is a blessing for him —the atmosphere around you shifts to something less vulnerable, and his permanently chagrined personality rears its head once again. He raises his eyebrows. "You make my life extremely difficult," he says flatly. 

"You make my life difficult, too," you say. 

You can't help but give him your fondest smile, your lashes kissing in the corners of your eyes.  

He visibly softens. His thumb rubs the back of your hand, just once. 

"Fantastic," he says, looking firmly away from you. "Great." 

"Isn't it?" you ask happily. 

He squeezes your fingers gently. It's almost imperceptible. "Yeah, it is," he says. 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed! also, im sorry if you already speak spanish i realised after that that detail was subjective to the reader, sorry!

[milla-frenchy]

Sexting

600 words | Joel Miller x fem reader Summary: you’re sexting at night with Joel

Warnings: 18+ mdni. age gap (reader in her early 20s, Joel in his late 40s), infidelity, daddy kink, masturbation (f/m), possessiveness, mention of anal play/anal

a/n: same “couple”: Owned collection. Can be read alone, but I recommend to read the “Owned” ficlet first Thank you @aurorawritestoescape for beta-ing 💕 and @saradika-graphics for the dividers 🙏

Masterlist | ao3

Are you awake, baby girl?

Yes daddy. Miss u

I miss you too, baby

Was watching the video of my cock buried in your ass

Mmm... you fucked my ass so good yesterday

You like my ass daddy?

You love how my little hole tightens around your fat cock?

Christ

Your sweet cunt and you little ass are just made for me

They are, daddy

And what about my mouth? 😏

Oh I love your mouth. Love when it’s full of my cock

Love to fuck your throat

And I love when you come in my mouth, daddy

Fuck

Yeah, me too baby, damn

You'd like to be in my bed right now?

Rather than in his?

Yes 🫠🥵🥵🥵🥵

Were you thinking about my cock baby before I texted you?

Thinking how I would spread that little cunt?

I was, miss your cock so much

Oh baby

I already filled you this afternoon, but you can’t get enough uh? 

I can’t

You’re always fucking me so good

Such a good girl for me

Is he sleeping, baby? Next to you?

Yes, daddy

I want you to think about my cock, and I want you to touch your pretty cunt for me 

Now, daddy? In his bed?

Yes, baby girl

Ok, I’m rubbing my clit, daddy

What position are you in?

On my stomach. Phone in my left hand, at the edge of the bed

Right hand in my panties

That’s perfect baby

Be careful not to wake him

I want you to be quiet

Won’t wake him up don’t worry

I often cum at night thinking about u, u know

Next to him, when he’s asleep

I bury one finger in my pussy and rub my clit

Think about you and your cock until I clench on my finger

Oh baby… I’m fucking hard reading this

Keep touching her. Think how my shaft would rub against your pussy, baby

Tell me how wet you’d be

I’d be dripping daddy. Want your 🍆 so bad

Tell me how you’d want me to fuck you, baby girl

Rough. Always rough

Want u to ruin me

Fuck

I’m jacking off baby. 

Wish you could hear me fisting my cock, thinking about your cunt

I wish I could daddy

That’s so hot

I’m so wet

Fuck

Want her so bad. You know she’s mine, right?

Yours daddy, always

Wanna fill your pretty, soft little hole with my cock

Want to fuck your ass with my thumb

And maybe fuck it with my cock too

Your head in my pillow, like yesterday

Yes daddy, please

You know how much I love it

How are you rubbing your clit now, baby?

Fast

I’m so sensitive rn

Gonna come soon

Are you dripping, baby girl? 

Are you soaking his sheets for me

Yes. Fuck

You’re always squeezing me so good, baby

Always dripping on my cock and on my balls

[You bit your lip to stop yourself from moaning and waking his son up]

I came daddy

My fingers are so wet

Fuck. I came too. Fist’s full of my cum

Wish I could eat your cunt rn. Lick all your wetness

Bury my tongue in you

Feel your little pussy pulsating on it

Having my throat full of you

Me too daddy 😍😍

Now, are you gonna be a good girl for me?

Yes, daddy. Always.

I want you to wake him up, and to fuck him

Knowing that you’re wet because of me

That you'll only think of my cock, when he’s buried in you.

Are you gonna listen to us, daddy?

I always do

Same "couple": Owned collection

Thank you for reading 🙏

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated ❤️

Follow @millafics and turn notifications on for fics updates

@pascalsanctuary @littlemisspascal @survivingandenduring

Tagging those who asked for more of these two 😘:

@mermaidgirl30 @mountainsandmayhem @bbyanarchist