#send prompts pls

[jesncin]

Two FAce Attorney for DC Gotcha for Gaza! (prompts closed!) Okay the prompt was just to draw Two Face but I've had this joke in my mind for so long that I had to draw it heheh

[petricorah]

*pretending like i haven't been biting at the bars of my enclosure all week* so neat show, huh? [id in alt]

[panevanbuckley]

soulmate au where your soulmate's thoughts appear on your skin except your soulmate has adhd and your body becomes a living canvas of nonsensical, never-ending, constantly entertaining trails of thought

[rawbin-hsr]

Aventurine x Reader

You treat Aventurine with more respect than he deserves.

Read part 2 here !

Only barely proof-read, guaranteed to have lots of grammatical errors, English is not my first language and I am experimenting with my writing style <3

CW: smut, handjob (Aventurine receiving), dehumanisation (internal, thoughts Aventurine has of himself, referring to himself as a “monster”), feelings of inadequacy, hurt/very little comfort, crying, mentions of death, at some points this seems like dubcon because Aventurine speaks of feeling “dread”, but it’s NEVER intended to be read as him not wanting to receive touch from reader, it is meant to convey how little he thinks he deserves this. The smut is soft and gentle, but Aventurine’s internal thoughts definitely are not <3

Lmk if there’s anything else I should warn about !!

18+, minors will be blocked <3

Your touch is so kind. Soft and gentle, as if he is made of the finest porcelain, as if he is a fragile flower, as if he is delicate. It is cruel, he thinks, that he has made you think he is any less than a monster. It is cruel that he hasn’t pushed you away, when he knows he will devour you. It has become part of his nature.

But how can he push you away when you are so persistent? How can he push you away when you roll with his punches, when you go along with each and every one of his pushes and pulls? It is hard to keep you out when you insistently pry your way into what’s left of his soul, when you gaze upon the rotten corpse that he is and still claim him to be beautiful. He thinks you must be blind at best and naive at worst.

“You’re so pretty,” you whisper reverently, and though Aventurine knows his body is, he also knows that is not the part of him you’re referring to. Not when your hand rests on his chest, above the empty cavern where his heart is meant to be.

You kiss his neck and he shivers. There’s a pit in his stomach, knotting his insides with dread.

He should tell you to stop, should warn you that he’s deceiving you, that he’s not the person you think he is. Should show you that he is a wolf in sheep’s clothing, that he is a bad omen. But he can’t bring himself to. Not when being with you feels so good, not when he’s self-indulgent to a fault, and he can’t help himself with you. He is the worst mistake you could ever make, in part because he can’t even stop from letting you continue to make it.

His hands rest on the back of your neck, fingers tangled in your hair. It is unfair how good your touch feels, his back arching just from mere caresses upon his skin. You play him like he’s an instrument you’ve practiced for years, despite never having fucked him before. He digs his heels into your back as your hand wraps around his dick, and he whines into your shoulder when you lovingly stroke it.

“I love you,” you murmur as he pulls on your hair, as his nails dig into your skin, and he wants to cry. He will destroy you from the inside out, he knows, or maybe he will kill you before he gets the chance to. He can never keep the things he loves alive.

Your lips kiss his skin, and he moans brokenly as your thumb glides over the head of his cock, pushing down on the tip. His hips rock up to meet your hand, and he feels ashamed of how blatantly he allows himself to enjoy you, how blatantly he allows himself to use you. You deserve so much better, but you are the best thing that he has ever managed to get his bloodstained hands on, and so he can’t help himself. He wants you to remain unaware of how much better you could do. He wants you to stubbornly remain by his side even when he makes it hard for you to do so. He wants to bare every part of his being to you so you can see how little worth he is to you. He wants you to run from him before it’s too late.

But part of him knows he already has shown you himself, that you’ve seen who he is and you still love him. You must be stupid.

“Use me,” he begs you, wishing you’d do something with him to alleviate the guilt he feels, so it would at least be mutual. His hands cling to you, and he whimpers pathetically when you lean back to look down at him. “Use me, please. Please…”

And your eyes are so kind. Your eyes are so sweet and soft and human, and everything he is not.

“Shh,” you hush him, tenderly pressing a kiss to his lips. He sobs, feeling embarrassing tears fill his eyes as you press closer to him, the touch so caring and innocent yet so lewd as your hand tugs at him. “Just let me make you feel good, okay?”

And you do. You always keep true to your words, unlike him. It’s barely a minute later that his breath hitches and he keens, nearly wailing into your neck as he comes undone under your too loving hands. It’s obscene, and he feels filthy as his semen paints your hand and splatters on his lower stomach. He has soiled your perfect skin, has dirtied your perfect body. He hopes you will let go of him and wash yourself up, then leave him here, broken on the bed in the mess he’s created. That you will leave him to pick up the pieces of himself he has left. He is undeserving of you.

And yet he only feels your love swaddle him when his body relaxes, adoring praises and sweet words tumbling from your perfect lips as your perfect hands gently stroke his body, soothing him as if he is deserving. Your perfect body presses closer to him, no doubt getting his mess on your perfect abdomen as you almost lay yourself flat on him. You pepper perfect kisses all over his face, and he realises belatedly he’s crying. For the first time in ten years. Fat tears rolling down his cheeks, and he doesn’t know for what reason.

But you seem like you do know. You look so understanding, wiping his tears with an achingly kind, perhaps slightly sad smile, and you don’t ask him why.

“I’ve got you now, it’s okay,” you say instead. And you do, because you always keep true to your word.

And he is selfish, because he doesn’t stop you. He lets you clean him up, lets you kiss his tears away, lets you take care of him. Lets you climb into bed with him afterwards, unaware that you have brought the monster under your bed up into your loving arms. He hasn’t felt so much love since he was nine.

And he is selfish, because even though he can already feel his claws dig into your flesh as he holds you in return, he cannot bring himself to pull away. He can only hope he won’t dig in his heels when you eventually see reason and try to leave. He can only hope you will have the time to get away before he kills you.

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

My inbox is open, feel free to send in asks or requests, I'd love to ramble about things <3

[transformativeworks]

AO3 Anniversary Trivia Game and Prompt Challenge

Day 1 (14 Nov 2024)

Trivia Question: How many members does AO3 have (as of 14 Nov 2024)?

SUBMIT YOUR RESPONSE HERE

Prompt Challenge: Learning a Language together

Add your challenge fic to the Anniversary Collection Here

Have Fun!!

<3 Mod Remi

[mangionebabymama]

lulu attending your mexican family get together and everyone immediately fucking loves him, the aunties are all touching his hair and pinching his cheeks, your abuelita is making him plate after plate because she LOVES him (ironic bc usually you’d make him a plate wtf) and your uncles are all chatting with him (italian is basically mexican, right luigi? we’re gonna start calling you Luis) and offering him alcohol (which he’d take amazingly, thanku frat boy lulu). i FUCKING CANT. IMAGINE. JUST IMAGINE HOW WELL IT WOULD ALL GO.

THIS. THIS!!!!!!!!!

I’m not Latina myself, but I’m so for all of this and can see clearly and true-to-life. I’m well enriched with the culture as a lot of people in my close circle are Latino/Hispanic, even one of my best friends who’s half-Black/Mexican tells me that I’m honorary?? 😭 I just love these ideas of integrating Luigi into the cultural spaces of his romantic parter who isn’t the same race/ethnicity as him

All of them getting a kick out of the pronunciation of his name, to which he reveals his childhood nickname, Pep, short for Pepperoni, and how it rhymes with his last name. That shared sense of humor he’d share with others if they’d joke about calling him and mistaking his name as Mario instead.

When the aunties/tías would just snatch him from you to introduce him to other family members, proudly showing him off and describing, “Se llama Luigi, es su novio de _____ y es italiano” / “Que guapo, que alto, que fuerte” And pinching his cheeks? Oh, they’d be smitten by him. Don’t forget them pointing out his cute little dimples. Admiring how deep and brown his eyes are, noticing his little beauty marks all over his face, and matching his wits when, in return, he’s enjoying all the attention on him and making them giggle and beam with his humor.

Your uncles/tíos would right away think the world of him, as from the start, they could confirm how much of a genuine, good-natured person he is and how much he loves you and treats you well.

Abuelita would make sure that Muchachito (her nickname for him, of endearment) would be getting fed, and that he wouldn’t have to worry about a thing, since she’ll make sure that he’s being taken care of while in her home. He’s not Luigi, but he’s Muchachito to her, and she’s Abuelita to him, too—it would be established from the very beginning.

He’d seamlessly fit in so well into the family dynamic of all parts. When you’d go over to your family’s house alone to see everyone, by yourself, they’d be also looking forward and hoping to see him tag along, too.

[popfizzles]

[types of kisses] ♡ 9) secret kisses

Val wound up staying the night at Cuphead and Mugman's place due to a horrible flash flood (thanks, Hilda). Val had some difficulties sleeping, even after Mugman was so kind to lend her one of his shirts...

[alaskan-wallflower]

Sickfic Prompts (I’m in the mood)

Dialogue

Caretaker

“You’re burning up…”

”Are you okay? You don’t look too well.”

”That didn’t sound good.”

”Are you going to be sick?”

”You’re all sweaty, do you feel sick?”

”Shit, shit, shit, you’re okay, it’s okay…”

”Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well?”

”Dont lie to me, [name], I can tell when you’re not feeling well.”

”Do you think you can eat/drink something?”

”Its okay, let it out…”

”We need to call an ambulance.”

”I’m taking you to the doctor.”

”If you try to leave this bed I won’t speak to you for a week.”

”[insert food{ isn’t agreeing with you?”

”Do we need to move to the bathroom?”

”Do you need a bucket/trash can?”

”Your stomach doesn’t sound too happy.”

”I told you not to play outside without a jacket!”

”You probably regret eating so much/that, huh?”

”How long has [jnsert body part] been bothering you?”

Sickie

“Please don’t touch there…”

“Bucket—bucket, please—“

”My throat feels like I’ve gargled glass…”

”I feel like I’m going to pass out…”

”You don’t have to waste your time on me.”

“Don’t get too close, we don’t need you getting sick too.”

”I’ve gotta go to school/work! I can’t waste my time in bed!”

“Oh god, I shouldn’t have eaten that…”

”Can you please turn out the light? My head’s killing me.”

”Please don’t leave me…”

“Please don’t tell [insert name]…”

”God damnit, when will this end?!”

“Please don’t take me to the doctor!”

”Its probably just a cold, I’ll be fine…”

”I don’t know if I can stomach anything…”

”Leave me alone! Please!”

”I knew I was going to regret that later…”

”I get it, I’m an idiot. I don’t need you berating me…”

”You’re going to regret cuddling me when you catch this too…”

”Ambulance. Call an ambulance.”

Actions

Caretaker

Feeling a sickie’s swollen lymph nodes

Rubbing a sickie’s stomach to ease the pain

Holding back sickie’s hair while they vomit

Kissing sickie’s forehead after they vomit

Making sickie’s favorite sick food

Tucking sickie into bed

Rubbing sickie’s back as they fall asleep

Helping sickie walk around

Holding sickie’s hand at the doctor’s

Carrying sickie to their room

Bringing sickie homemade get better gifts

Driving sickie to the hospital

Spoon feeding sickie

Catching sickie as they pass out

Helping sickie clean up after throwing up

Rubbing sickie’s stomach/back as they throw up

Feeling sickie’s heart

Snuggling sickie despite the risk

Massaging sickie’s aches and sores

Visiting/leaving sickie in the hospital

Sickie

Sipping on ginger ale/soda to help them burp

Crying from the pain

Swallowing down nausea and vomit

Sickly hiccups/burps

Pushing caretaker away so they don’t get sick too

Whining is the only form of communication

Delirious talking/asking for things

Burrowing themselves in blankets

Passing out

Working too hard despite the sickness

Crying for caretaker

Fever dreams/nightmares

Rubbing their own aching body parts

Not being able to make it to a trash can

Shaking/shivering

Falling/tripping from delirium

Having to sit down because of dizziness

Asking for their favorite sick food

Begging caretaker to stay/to snuggle them

Forcing themselves to eat/drink so they look fine

[thebest-medicine]

TheBest-Medicine’s Spectacular Summer

Sentence Starter TickleFic Prompts:

Please feel free to send in ideas / fandoms / pairings / prompts including these or use them yourself as some inspiration for some writing or art! honestly I wanted an excuse and some guidance to write out some more tickle fic ideas I’ve been having lately. So anyway here’s 105 fic starters / prompts (somebody stop me).

“Was that a giggle just now?”

“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?

“Come any closer and I will end you.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have done that..” / “Oh, you shouldn’t have said that..”

“No, I’m just- uh- sensitive.”

“You think you’re real tough, huh?”

“No way, you’re ticklish here too?”

“I’ll have you know, I was the reigning tickle fight champion in my house growing up.”

“Did you just… laugh?”

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Why are you so nervous all of the sudden?”

“So, what’s this I hear about you being deathly ticklish?”

“I don’t / can’t believe it.”

“Well, well, well… Look what we have here.”

“Don’t even think about it.”

“Come on, stop it - I’m serious, that really tickles!”

“What’s there to be embarrassed about?”

“I swear on my life, I will kill you.”

“Wait, are you stuck?”

“I will never forgive you for this, you bastard / jerk / dick / asshole / expletive.”

“Big talk for someone so ticklish.”

“Don’t make me make you.”

“Wait a minute, you’re not ticklish, are you?”

“Sounds like someone needs a visit from the tickle monster.”

“Well now you’re just asking for it.”

“Wow. You’re bold.”

“I hope you know that this means war.”

“You wouldn’t happen to be ticklish, would you?”

“Be careful, I’m ticklish (there).”

“Uh oh, someone’s in trouble.”

“Come on, it’s not that bad, is it?”

“Who would have thought a few tickles would be your doom?”

“You wouldn’t.”

“You’re in for it as soon as we’re alone.”

“What? Me? Ticklish? As if!”

“A little birdie told me someone has ticklish feet / sides / knees / etc.”

“Wait - no, not that, anything but that!”

“You can’t be serious…”

“What did you just say?”

“I’ve never heard you laugh like that before, it’s nice.”

“I never thought I’d see the day…”

“No way, are you crying / begging?”

“Lighten up, have a laugh!”

“You wouldn’t take advantage (of that knowledge) when I’m stuck like this, right? …Right?!”

“Heh. That all you’ve got?”

���I’m not letting you off that easy.”

“Make me.”

“You would think you’d get less ticklish as you got older, but you’re the opposite!”

“It’s not your fault you’re so ticklish.”

“Please, I can’t take it anymore!”

“Oh you’d like / love that, wouldn’t you?”

“What about (name), (are they) ticklish?” “Huh? What - me?!”

“Hmm, looks like the tables have turned…”

“Oh man, is this a bad spot?”

“Please! I’ll do whatever you want!”

“I never would’ve pegged you as the ticklish type.”

“You better not tell anyone about this.”

“I can think of a few ways to make you talk.”

“Why so nervous?”

“Don’t- don’t you dare! Don’t even t-think about it!”

“You’d better keep quiet.”

“I haven’t seen you smile all day / week!”

“Too bad there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“Relax, I’m not gonna kill ya. But I am gonna make you wish you were dead.”

“I just wanna be close to you.”

“Don’t tell me you’re ticklish?!”

“Well now, that seems like wishful thinking.”

“What’s that? Stop saying tickle, tickle, tickle, tickle, tickle?”

“You have five seconds to run.”

“Wait, not there - anywhere but there!”

“This isn’t cuddling! This is an attack!”

“As soon as I get out of this I hope you know I’m going to murder you.”

“I hope you’re not too ticklish.”

“Oh man, that looks bad.”

“Uh, oh. Someone’s ticklish.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve been hiding this all this time?!”

“There’s nowhere to hide.”

“Aww, are you blushing? That’s adorable.”

“You’re not going anywhere.”

“You should know better than to try to keep secrets from me.”

“What did I just say!?”

“You’re not really gonna tickle me, are you?”

“I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“You’d better give up now or this is about to get a lot worse.”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

“Crap. Wait. I didn’t mean that.”

“…That was brutal.”

“We don’t have time for such childish— hey! Stop it!”

“Wait no- Not here- Not now!”

“Just wait until I get you back.”

“Have mercy!”

“Hey are you guys okay? I heard yelling (from the hall / outside) and— oh.”

“Oh? And what if I did?”

“Revenge is so, so sweet.”

“You can’t be serious!?”

“What are you so scared of? It’s just a feather / brush / etc.”

“Oh, sorry, did that tickle?”

“There it is! That laugh is music to my ears.”

“Don’t make me get your (worst spot).”

“Would you just shut up and tickle me already?”

“You’re in for it now!”

“You are so going to regret that.”

“Let’s make it interesting.”

“What, did you think you were just going to get away with that?”

“Hey, a bet’s a bet.”

[discolizardx]

daryl dixon headcanons

darylxreader specifically :)

hello! i always enjoy seeing hc posts so i thought i'd make my own! p.s. send in fic/hc requests if you have any! i'm currently writing for daryl dixon, ted lasso, javier peña, and joel miller. k, thx byeee!!!

he doesn't really show affection early on in your relationship. it takes time for him to let his guard down but once he does, good lord.

if you're walking around together, he is usually making some sort of physical contact. (holding hands, hand on your shoulder/back, just straight up walking so close that your shoulders touch, etc.)

he holds doors open for you. you've told him time and time again that you can open your own damn door but he still power walks ahead of you to get to the door before you can.

he enjoys feeling like your protector. he knows you can hold your own in any fight but he has a need to protect you. he likes knowing that he can keep you safe.

he can get possessive at times. once, he overheard a new resident trying to flirt with you. as you were talking to him, you noticed the his gaze move above your head and the color drain from his face. you turned around to see daryl standing about two inches behind you and death-glaring at the poor man.

one time, late at night after you were nearly bit by a walker, he told you how scared he is to lose you. how he has lost so many people over the years that losing you would break him. he had never been vulnerable in front of anyone like that before. he felt relieved to get it off his chest.

[mingwrites]

i have an idea of something fun we could do while i work on requests! send me a member (or members) + a one-word prompt and ill write a smut blurb about it :D

example: jongho + apple

jongho always called you his apple, and he told others it was because you were sweet like an apple, but you knew there was a different meaning to his nickname. the truth was that he wanted to eat you like an apple, to bite greedily into your supple and sweaty flesh and cover his mouth in your sweet juices until they dripped down his chin. he wanted to split you like an apple, forcing your thighs apart until they were buried in the mattress beneath you, leaving your center wide open for his feasting (or fucking). in all the dirtiest ways, you were jongho's sweet apple.

[jesncin]

I'm officially a part of DC Gotcha for Gaza fan initiative!

Us and a ton of other DC fan artists and writers will be creating art of your choosing if you donate to a verified Palestinian GoFundMe or purchase an Esim! Fill out this form once you've donated with proof to request some sick DC art~ This'll be going until August 18th!

Might I recommend Bilal's family fundraiser? He and I have chatted back and forth in the DMs and his fundraiser has been vetted. He's got a time limit to reach his goal by the 15th, let's help him get there!

[an-au-blog]

I am disgusted by how little shuggy content there is out there... so here's my drop in the ocean:

King/Emperor Shanks who is far too attached to his jester. Everyone sees it and it's so confusing because one second Shanks will be discussing war plans and looks like he's about to kill someone. And the next he's smiling like a kid in a candy store because the clown stumbled into the room because he was at the door, trying to eavesdrop. What's even odder - the king doesn't kill him for it, no jail, not even shooing him away. He makes him sit next to him (only because Buggy refused to sit in his lap) so he can hear them better. What's even more worrying is that he considers the jester's opinions on such matters.

The king had two addictions and only they could make him truly laugh and smile (other than his nephews). Alcohol, which he would be found consuming nearly all the time. And Buggy the jester. He didn't even have to be funny, he was just angrily shouting at the king most of the time and yet the king seemed to enjoy his company the most.

nsfw implantations under separation line:

Behind closed doors, when he isn't keeping his jester under him, the king is almost always on his knees. Buggy may be a jester in the court but in his king's sheets, he's no less than a queen.

Shanks has asked for his hand more than once but Buggy could never accept. Being the king's lover out in the open meant a life of fear. And how could he take the hand of a man who he can reduce to a dog, who do willingly proposed they run away together.

So Buggy felt like a hostage. Not because of power imbalance between a king and a jester. But one of a man ready to throw away his kingdom without hesitation for a jester who promised himself to never let that happen. Therefore Buggy kept him on his knees like a common whore. Wailing and hauling for him.

The anger at the king who made his duties Buggy's responsibilities kept on boiling.

[falsestardust]

angst + hurt/comfort prompts (dialogue, scenarios, vague single words…)

1. “I thought I was getting better.”

2. Sick

3. Delirium

4. Thermometer

5. “They don’t care about you.”

6. Exhaustion

7. Journal

8. Fears

9. “Make it stop.”

10. Nightmare

11. Insecurity

12. Hiding an Injury

13. “Get some sleep.”

14. Shock

15. Insomnia

16. Safety Net

17. “It’s broken.”

18. Overstimulation

19. Isolation

20. Mirror

21. “I quit.”

22. Recording

23. Radio Silence

24. Polaroid/Photographs

25. “It should have been me.”

26. Lying

27. Pinned

28. Confrontation

29. "We are not having this conversation."

30. Blanket Fort

31. Collapse

32. Trapped

33. “You matter to me.”

34. Scars

35. Betrayal

36. Begging

37. “I’m fine.”

38. Kidnapping

39. Hiding

40. Overworked

41. “You can’t be here.”

42. Restrained

43. Dissociation

44. Cold Compress

45. “Don’t go where I can’t follow.”

46. Self-Harm

47. Memories

48. Discovery

49. “None of this is your fault.”

50. Touch Aversion

51. History

52. Gaslighting

53. “Something isn’t right.”

54. Flashbacks

55. Shadows

56. Headaches

57. “Leave me alone.”

58. Drugging

59. Touch-Starved

60. Storm

61. “I never had a choice.”

62. Future

63. Hair-Pulling

64. Blanket

65. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

66. Borrowed Clothing

67. Aftermath

68. Goodbye Note

69. “It's just—“

70. Haunt

71. Pillow

72. Matches

73. “Last night never happened.”

74. Long-Distance

75. Setbacks

76. Emotional Support Animal

77. “I can’t breathe.”

78. Warm Soup

79. Parents

80. Scar Reveal

81. “You’re too late.”

82. Panic Attacks

83. Emptiness

84. Breaking Point

85. “It’s not enough anymore.”

86. Bridal Carry

87. Stalking

88. Suppressed Suffering

89. “You need to stay awake.”

90. Crying

91. Comfort Item

92. Blindfold

93. “Where would I even go?”

94. Afraid to Sleep

95. Found Family

96. Bloody Knife

97. “Forget everything else.”

98. Cozy

99. Non-Consensual/Dubious Consent

100. Adrenaline

101. “Why do you even care?”

102. Suicide Attempt

103. Disaster Date

104. Protective

105. “Let me see.”

106. Game Night

107. Neglect

108. Makeshift Bandages

109. “Close your eyes and lean on me.”

110. “I don’t need you to help me, I can handle things myself.”

[kittyscabin]

shows up to give you the coffinchain challenge

Please be more careful when you cross the road You’re a perfect arrangement of rickety bones

Stray cats.

Peter had always likened the apprentices to a group of stray cats, in his mind.

At first it was out of distaste. They were a nuisance; a band of drifters slinking around the alleyways, catching their quarries unaware. The quick, sharp jab of a hypodermic needle might as well have been the efficient killing bite that a cat might deliver to the throat of its prey. They worked in the shadows, occupying all of those lonely abandoned buildings and reworking them for a new, twisted purpose. 

Then, begrudgingly, he’d found himself wrapped up in Mark Hoffman. Chasing him, hunting him, hellbent on bringing him to justice, then on killing him, then on understanding him, then…

Well, Peter didn’t know what he was doing now. 

All he knew was that sitting in his apartment, in varying states of composure, were three of Jigsaw’s disciples. 

Dr. Gordon sat on his couch, eyes trained down as his hands worked on bandaging a fresh wound on the arm of his younger accomplice. Stanheight sat quietly and allowed for the medical attention with little fight. Hoffman himself sat on the floor, back leaned against the couch close to the other two. 

Peter remained standing, trying not to buckle at the absurdity of his situation. In true stray-animal nature, he had made the mistake of allowing Hoffman into his home once, twice, thrice, and now he’d come back with friends. 

‘Don’t feed the strays’, indeed. 

Accept that he did know the other two, at this point. The polite Dr. Gordon was well-spoken and direct; Peter had found him infuriating in the beginning. He was a hard man to interrogate and an even harder man to intimidate, as level and unflinching as he was. Unlike Peter, he never seemed to let his anger get the best of him, and he seemed to know that. Dr. Gordon was a man who always seemed very aware of how much more control he had in the conversation. It was enviable. 

Then there was Adam Faulkner-Stanheight. Mouthful of a name. It was strange enough for Peter to wrap his head around the fact that the kid was alive, let alone working with Jigsaw. He was angry- had more rage in his scrawny little body than what felt possible. Stupid and impulsive, Peter had found him annoying. Just a petulant adolescent who had gotten himself into bigger trouble than he yet realized. 

They’ve come a long way since then. Both apprentices had grown on him, maybe because they reminded him of himself in their amalgamate qualities. The cold, callous bluntness of the doctor. The white-hot temper of the kid. The way he had never seen the former so gentle nor the latter so complacent until now, as they patched themselves together on his bloodied furniture. 

Peter had been reluctant to welcome them all inside. It was bad enough to shelter one serial killer, but now three? It reminded him that everything he’s been doing as of late is against what he once stood for. Fuck, it would solve a hell of a lot of his own problems if he didn't care. If he’d let them all rot, make them regret thinking that Peter would risk his own hide just because he's been friendly with them. Dr. Gordon and Stanheight had seemed to understand this too. Their expressions had been apprehensive, looking ready to flee like the animals they were. Peter wonders how long ago he would have given chase. 

Hoffman had spoken, then. 

“I didn’t-” His voice was shot and exhausted. “I didn’t know where else to go, Strahm.” 

And just like that, Peter took them in. Those words were all it took. Hoffman limped inside on a bad leg and described some sort of police-raid, premature. John Kramer and Amanda Young hadn’t even been there, so it had just been the trio, and they were forced to flee. Unable to go far on foot in their current state, Hoffman had brought his injured companions here. To Peter. 

Why did that make something strange stir within him? 

The three of them were soaked to the bone from the rain. Peter watched Hoffman sluggishly attempt to remain alert, but every so often his head would lull and come to rest against the soft thigh of Dr. Gordon. If the doctor noticed it, he didn't say a word as he continued to diligently work. He looked tired. Stanheight was putting on the best brave face he could manage, but Peter’s keen eyes caught his shoulders trembling, only eased when Gordon’s hand came to rest on one and rubbed gently. They all looked so tired. 

Unable to watch any longer, Peter finally broke the silence. 

“So why are you still doing this?” It took everything in him to not fidget idly as he spoke, brows furrowed at the three men. 

All eyes were on him quite suddenly, sharp as they regarded him. Three clever pairs of observant eyes that all screamed out ‘I know more than I’m letting on' to Peter. He held their gazes, muscled arms crossed over his chest. 

“You know what I’m talking about.” He scoffed, lip curling. “What’s the point of doing the old man's dirty work when he just lets things like this happen to you?” 

Silence.

Hoffman broke first. He laughed, eyes closing as he rested more fully against the couch. It was good-natured but ultimately dismissive. 

Dr. Gordon frowned at Peter, one brow quirked as if he had asked them something incredibly naive. Like he expected Peter to know already. 

Stanheight didn't react. Not outwardly, anyways. He only stared, something new and strange glittering in his eyes that Peter couldn't place.

“What,” Peter grit his teeth, an edge to his voice. Less of a question and more of a prompt. 

“Nothing, nothing. Apologies, Mr. Strahm.” Gordon sighed, turning his attention back to his handiwork. He appeared to nearly be done with the worst of Stanheight’s injuries now. “It’s just… not that simple.”

“Not exactly the kinda job you can put your two weeks in for.” Hoffman corroborated, a smirk tugging at his full lips. 

Peter felt his face burn hot, and he huffed in frustration. “You fucking- Don’t play dumb. Don’t act like it’s a stupid question. I’ll throw you back out onto the fucking curb.” He jabbed a finger at Hoffman in particular, who for his part did indeed shut his mouth. “You listening? Good. What I’m saying is that John Kramer is one demented old man. What is actually stopping you?” 

This time, the quiet was punctuated by Hoffman and Gordon exchanging an uncomfortable glance. After a moment, Hoffman shrugged and ran one hand through his damp, messy hair. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept of, uh, checks ‘n balances.” 

Peter raised an eyebrow skeptically. Hoffman continued. 

“Information is power, etcetera. Kramer keeps basically everything on a need-to-know basis. Including, I dunno, who you’re workin’ with half the time. Hell,” He rolled his eyes, and lazily raised a hand behind his head to pat Gordon’s arm. The doctor made an annoyed noise in response, shifting away from him. “He only told me about these lovebirds when he needed help lookin’ after ‘em.” 

“I’m still mad about missing out on a trip to Mexico.” Stanheight quipped. His voice was softer than normal, but Peter supposed it was a good sign that he was speaking at all. He wasn’t used to the younger man being so quiet. 

Gordon straightened up a moment later, gently patting down the new bandages and brushing some of the hair from Stanheight’s face. “There you go.” He sighed. The warmth in his tone was so palpable that Peter had the distinct feeling it wasn’t meant for his ears. Despite being in his own apartment, he somehow felt he was intruding. “Get comfortable, alright?” 

Peter watched as Stanheight pulled himself to his feet, stopping short just a little ways away from him with an awkward shuffle. Gordon patted his thigh and spoke his next words like they took all of his energy to say. 

“Your turn.” He didn’t even bother to look at Hoffman. The detective grinned anyways, wasting no time in clamoring up into Gordon’s personal space and slinging his leg across the man’s lap. Gordon shook his head disdainfully, but carefully began rolling back Hoffman’s torn pant leg anyways. 

Peter guessed he wasn’t the only one that Hoffman lived to irritate.

“Christ, Mark.” Gordon sucked in a sharp breath, and Peter’s shoulders stiffened as he took a step forward to look. His stomach sank despite himself; from where he was standing Hoffman’s calf looked like a bloody mess. Peter’s a man who’s seen more gore in his line of work than anyone should hope to see in their lifetime, and yet here he is, staring in alarm. It was unlike him, and woefully he could only attribute his own uneasiness to the owner of the calf. 

As if he could read his mind, Hoffman looked up towards Peter. “Hey, it’s just-” He winced, hissing in pain as Gordon began to clean the wound. “It’s no big deal- no bullet inside. Just grazed me.” 

“You were shot?” Peter balked.

“Grazed,” Hoffman corrected. 

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose in a quick-rising frustration. Hoffman was impossible. 

“Don’t be an idiot.” Gordon’s voice was little more than a growl as he spoke through gritted teeth. “You took an unnecessary risk. Do you think I enjoy patching you back together? Honestly, if I didn't know any better I’d assume you were trying to get your sorry self killed.” 

Dr. Gordon’s tone left the detective bristling. “Don’t tell me how to do my job.” He scoffed. “Hell, I don’t bother you when you’re workin’ in the sickbay. Why don't you just- fuck!” 

Hoffman yelped at the unceremonious splash of disinfectant. Gordon gave him the sort of well-practiced fake smile that only a doctor could.

“My bad,” he murmured, unapologetic. 

Peter decided he’d seen enough. He turned on his heel and walked into the kitchen, telling himself that he was just stepping aside to get ice in case the doctor needed some. He knew it wasn't the truth, though; he scolded himself quietly as he leaned against the wall and ran a hand through his graying hair. 

The truth was that he couldn't keep standing there, staring at Hoffman’s leg injury. 

It’s ironic, because it feels like not too long ago that Peter would have done anything to put a bullet in Hoffman. Now the thought makes him feel… queasy. And a bit confused. 

Peter found himself comparing the apprentices to strays again.

He couldn’t get the image of roadkill splattered on the side of the highway out of his head. 

From what he knew of John Kramer and his cult, the apprentices were expendable parts. It doesn't even sound like they can trust each other half the time. One wrong move or fatal mistake would be all it took. Peter wasn't even sure how long it would take him to know something had happened. 

His thoughts were interrupted by footsteps so quiet that he knew exactly who they belonged to before turning around. Stanheight stood at the entryway of his bare-bones kitchen, watching him. He’s probably spent the least amount of time alone with him. 

“What is it?” Peter’s frown deepened.

The kid didn't answer immediately, instead coming to lean against the wall beside him. He was quiet for a moment, and then shrugged. 

“Wanted to check on you, I guess.” He answered simply. 

“Check on me? In what way do I need checking on?” Raising a brow, Peter gestured towards the living room. “Look at you three, for fuck’s sake.” 

Stanheight held his hands up defensively. “Hey, hey, I just- I get it, alright?”

Peter didn't know what that meant. He stared down at the shorter man, scowl ever-present, silently prodding him to elaborate. Stanheight’s expression was… almost sympathetic, but his eyes had that same strange look from before: the one that Peter couldn't place. 

The kid was easy to underestimate, Peter knew it from his file and from his current involvement. He wasn't about to make that mistake with him. 

“Sucks, doesn't it?” Stanheight finally said. He was muttering now, glancing once over his shoulder to ensure they were still alone. “One thing to know what they're doing and another to see them come back with blood and bits of their skin hanging off.”

Peter felt his stomach turn. “No,” he lied. “If Hoffman’s gonna be reckless and get himself killed then so be it.” 

“No matter what you or anyone else thinks, I’m not stupid.” Stanheight laughed dryly. “You don't gotta lie to me, okay? I’m on team Peter here.” 

“Are we forgetting that you’re one of ‘them’ too?” Peter steeled his gaze, unamused. 

Stanheight grimaced. “I mean- kind of. Not really.”

“‘Not really?’ What’s that mean?” 

“I- like- like I’m with them but I’m not one of them. Old Johnny-boy has never and will never give a shit about me. Not exactly in the running to be his heir or whatever the others think will happen.” Stanheight huffed, rolling his eyes as he explained. “Pretty sure he wouldn't even notice if I went missing if it weren't for the pictures ‘n schedules I go and get for him.”

Peter is quiet for a moment. 

“Why stick around?” He asked softly, already knowing the answer. 

The kid just snorted in lieu of answering, and the two fell into silence once more for a couple of seconds. 

“Glad that Mark has you.” Stanheight suddenly murmured, thoughtful. 

“He does not ‘have me’.” 

“Maybe you can knock some sense into him.” 

Peter scoffed, looking elsewhere. “You’re frustrating, you know that?”

“I’ve been told.” Stanheight laughed, “I’m not kidding, though. It always freaks me out how Mark gets when he’s like…” 

Raising a brow, Peter waited for him to sort out his thoughts. 

“Like, when he gets hurt, right? He just- just runs off. Or he’ll go and get hammered on the other side of town and when we find him he’s a mess.” 

At that, Peter’s shoulders went rigid. He was aware of Mark’s habits, his unhealthy coping mechanism. He hadn't thought about who else might know, how deeply it might run. He hadn't thought about how often Mark must be alone. 

When he looked back at Stanheight, he realized the kid was staring at him intently. There was concern in his expression, but also something fierce. 

“John’s really messed him up. Worse than he was before all of this.” His voice was low, almost cautious. “All of them. Lawrence, Mark, Mandy, none of them deserve this. You know that, right?”

Peter’s mouth felt dry. “I…” 

Straightening up again, Stanheight stepped closer to Peter. Before he could see it coming, a smaller hand took his own and held it, inspecting it. “I think Mark needs you.” He said, “maybe all of us do. So you gotta take care of yourself too.” 

Something confused seemed to bloom in his chest then, an uncertain warmth that he could feel rise up to his face. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again when he couldn't decide on anything to say. 

“Just think about it, ‘kay?” Stanheight let go of his hand again and started to leave the kitchen, pausing for just a moment to look back at him. “Oh, one more thing.” 

“What is it?” Peter’s voice was hoarse. 

Stanheight gave him a grin that didn't meet his eyes. “Welcome to the family.” 

Then he was gone, Peter’s protest to that statement dying on his lips, and Peter was left to think on everything he said. 

Hoffman needing him. Hoffman hiding himself away in dark corners to nurse his wounds. Improperly set bones and too much bandage. 

Stray cats.

Peter’s family used to have cats. His sister’s cat had been an old, white, raggedy thing that she named Alfredo. When Alfredo passed away, he had hidden under the bed and refused to come out. Peter thinks he remembers reading somewhere that pets do that on purpose, so their humans don't have to see them die, but it's been years and his animal knowledge is limited. 

Peter wondered how hard it is to socialize a stray cat. To reintroduce it to domesticity. 

He stepped out of the kitchen, lingering at the entryway, and watched the apprentices from where he stood. Gordon seemed to have finished with Hoffman’s leg, speaking to him in a quieter tone than before. To his surprise, Hoffman looked like he was listening. Stanheight was on the couch with them now, leaning his head onto Gordon’s shoulder. 

Peter found that he wished he could freeze this moment with the three of them in it. The bubble of safety that was his living room felt far away from everything Jigsaw. Maybe they were always meant to be here, on soft furniture, and not crouching amongst rusted pipes and jagged metal. 

Tamed. Domesticated. 

He sighed through his nose and walked around the couch, three sets of clever eyes on him again as he caught their attention. Now that he was there, he could see that Dr. Gordon had just begun to wrap up Hoffman’s leg and he silently motioned to ask for the gauze, kneeling down between them.

Understanding the gesture, Gordon handed it over, smiling at Peter warmly enough to raise his body temperature by a degree. 

“Strahm-” Hoffman started, bewildered, but Peter simply began wrapping his leg neatly. 

“Shut up.” He grunted. “Let me help you, stupid.”

[transformativeworks]

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