#sorry for the weather patrick

[andoutofharm]

a Message from patrick

[grimsonandclover]

Write write write

filthier the better

Sending all the love 🫶🍑

What He's Made For

Sub!Patrick Zweig x Dom!Fem!Reader

Eeuuuhhhhhh I'm sorry, just been thinking a LOT about just having enough of Patrick's shit and taking it out on him. Turns out, it's exactly what he was aiming for.

I'm writing this in a horny, ovulation-fueled daze so it's not going to be great or even good but its what I need. not proofread at alllll

consider this a foreplay part one since it ends abruptly because i need to post this before i pass out (im so tired). i need the horny freaks of this fandom to let me know if a part two is desired because I WILL write it

MDNI

1.1k words

This is entirely self serving and I'm opening up to you guys. This is me sharing. No more 600 word angst and fluff it's time for PERSONAL FANTASIES. kind of a 180 after i JUST posted that little la chimera fic lmao

You're fighting, you don't even know what for. Patrick's been pushing your buttons, getting on your nerves, and testing your limits all night. God, fuck, he won't stop. Every little word from him, all day and now night, is spoken with the pure intention of pissing you off.

"Did you really ask him about the weather?" He'd scoff on the drive home from a party. "You're miserable at small talk. Really, it's embarrassing."

The walk to the apartment elevator: "And those shoes. You've been whining all night like a fucking baby. I told you not to wear them, but you'd rather be a prissy little princess than listen to me." You're silent, breaths quickening as your fist clench around your apartment keys in the elevator, watching the floor numbers tick up. "They're ugly, anyway. I don't really get why you insist on wearing them."

Unlocking the front door, fumbling and struggling because it's hard to see through the boiling water behind your eyes. "Do you need help with that? You had, like, what- one shot of tequila the entire party? Didn't think you were such a lightweight, can't even open a door. God, you're a mess."

Once the door is open, and a sickly smug smirk is plastered on that stupid face of his, you shove him in. The action is abrupt and unexpected, Patrick stumbling back and catching himself on the entryway wall. You almost miss the smirk returning to his lips. Who cares, it's time to speak your peace.

His back is on the wall and he stays where you threw him as you rip off your coat. "What the fuck is your problem, huh?" The coat is thrown to the floor and he blinks as you fist the collar of his stupid button up. Since when does he wear these, anyway? "All fucking night, you're in my ear like a bitch. Do you need a leash?"

He's been playing with fire so far. "Woof." Patrick grins.

The taunt makes your eyes narrow and glare harden. "You think it's funny? I've got a migrain because of it. I'd be in the middle of talking to someone and you'd start your shit again. That's what's embarrassing, not my small talk."

"You're like a child, how you beg for my attention. A dog. Is that what you are, Patrick?" You tug his collar and his breath catches. Drool pools in his mouth and he swallows, eyes zeroed in on his mouth while he still smirks. "Are you a misbehaving dog?"

He doesn't answer you, just giggles. In a sudden move, your hands are on his shoulders and you're pushing him forcefully to his knees. It's only because he doesn't anticipate it that it works. In a flash, your hand is gripping a fistful of curls at the back of Patrick's head, yanking it to make him look up at you. His mouth falls open, a soft gasp escaping from it. Yes. Finally.

"Are you," The words are spoken through your teeth, and this time he really is on the brink of drooling. "A fucking dog? Or are you going to start behaving like a man?"

His grin spreads again from ear to ear as Patrick slowly shakes his head. "Uh-uh."

Oh, that does it.

Your fingers tug his head further back and he gasps again at the slight sting of his scalp. Your other hand comes up, and before he can blink, a crack is heard through the entryway.

Patrick's cheek is red and stings so badly he can't feel the pain on his scalp anymore. It's so delicious he moans. He never knew until this exact moment that he liked to be slapped, lucky you.

"Wrong answer." He shivers at your tone, the blood in his body rushing to his cheek and to his dick. "Are you going to behave?"

"No." He whispers, eyes fluttering as he anticipates the next stri-

Oh, fuck. Patrick can feel a wet patch form in his boxers when you do it again-- he hasn't cum in five days, and Patrick's hyper aware of it now. The sound that comes from his mouth is almost pornographic and anyone else listening would swear that he must be at least getting his dick sucked and not just slapped around. The hand that slaps him moves to his mouth, index and middle finger shoved forcefully until you hit the back of his tongue. He wants to suck them, so he does, but then you shove them even further back until he gags a little. This isn't for him to enjoy (though he is anyway).

"Shut the fuck up." You sneer, fingers in his throat and hair, taking back the power he's had over you all night. They way he looks on his knees, peering up at you like you're his god with tears in his waterline and-- shit, that smile is still there. "I'll make you behave, then."

The hand in his hair lets go, pushing him back by the forehead till he hits the wall with a thunk. "Look at me."

He already was, but Patrick angles his head again, this time on his own, to better suit your needs-- especially when you tell him to open his mouth and you have a grip on his cheeks. You lean down the tiniest bit for better aim before collecting spit in your mouth, then spitting it into his. "My fucking mouth. Don't ruin it with all that cheap talk, acting like you don't know who owns it.

"Who owns it."

Patrick's got stars in his eyes as he swallows, so lost in you he forgets to answer-

A smack across his cheek again, another filthy moan. "You- you own it."

"Own what?"

"Me-- my mouth, my body, fucking all of it. It's yours."

"It's mine." You nod, gripping his cheeks again until his lips pucker. Patrick's drooling. "Mine. Don't use it against me, or I won't be so nice."

If this is you being nice, Patrick doesn't know what he'd be willing to do for mean. Every word you say, every tug, your spit in his mouth-- it all sends shivers of pleasure down his spine and through to his dick, aching and tenting in the shorts he wore to practice and then to a party. He truly is as filthy as you make him out to be.

You grab his hair again just to shove him in between your thighs, the material of your jeans rubbing harshly against his face and the irritated skin of his cheek. Patrick can smell you through it. He feels punch-drunk. This is what he was made for. This is his true purpose, not tennis.

His large palms slide up and down your thighs, hungry fingers begging at the button of your jeans. Off. He needs them off.

You let him peel them off you, not for him but for yourself. You need him to show you what he's actually good for. Why you keep him around.

[theoldsports]

SOUR.

Art Donaldson x Reader (Patrick Zweig x Reader) | SORRY series | 4.2k words

it’s finally here by popular demand. Patrick has entered the plot. this is set before all of the prior chapters, two days before the Donaldson wedding. can be read as part of the SORRY SERIES (read more episodes of their lives here) or on its own. lemme know if you’d like to be on the taglist.

warnings: 18+. angst. it’s brutal angst. more than allusions to Patrick’s canonical use of hard drugs. rehab, allusion to an OD, mention of Art’s disordered eating patterns. they’re bad for each other in a good way. the Donaldsons have a friendly dog. coveting another man’s wife. discussion of niche sexual fantasies. making out. biting. tornados/extreme weather. running away from your problems.

“Art?”

“Nngh.”

“Artie, wake up.”

“‘M up. Fhhh… ‘m up. What’s the matter?” Art grumbled with half shut eyes. “Somethin’ wrong?” He whispered even though they were alone. It was nighttime which meant whispering to Art.

“I don’t like this storm.”

What a sign that storm should have been.

Art smirked. “We’re getting married in, like, three days and you’re worried about the weather?”

“There’s a tornado warning. Or watch. Whichever the worse one is. I saw it on the news.”

Art frowned. “You ever been through a tornado?”

“No.”

Art rolled over from his position in [Y/N]’s arms to face her nose to nose. “I have. A lot. Close your eyes,” he commanded softly. His arm slotted into the dip of her waist and pulled her closer. “Close ‘em for me. That’s it, that’s it.” He coaxed as she followed his directions.

“I don’t see what this has to do with—“

“Shh, listen,” they both got quiet. Rain pelted against the windows. Wind whistled. Branches cracked and crunched. Thunder boomed. [Y/N] could see the gleam of lightning even behind her eyelids. “Hear it?”

“Which part?”

“All of it.”

“Yeah.”

“Great. Congrats. Your ears are workin’ best as they can,” Art teased to try and get his fiancé to crack a smile. “Now, which one’s the loudest? Which of the sounds?”

“You breathing.”

“I’m flattered. Which one outside?”

[Y/N] listened. “Right now? The rain, I think.”

“We’re in the clear for now. Let me know when the wind’s louder. Like that real, real crazy whooshing, whistling sound. When it starts whipping like that, we’ll go in the bathroom and lock the doors, yeah? Hell, we can head in now if it would make you feel better?”

“What if I fall asleep before the weather gets worse?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll stay awake,” Art yawned. “How about I get you up if I notice a disturbance. I gotta take care of my wife, right?”

“I’m not your wife.”

Art sighed. “…I know. I’m just practicing.”

Fortunately, no tornado ever touched down. And Art was still there when [Y/N] woke up.

It always amazed her that Art was still there everyday. For every nasty thing she said to him that she didn’t mean, every argument where she told him Patrick was right, every tennis match won or lost, every natural disaster, every tear shed. Art was there for all of it. He liked the bad moments as much as the good ones because it meant simply more time spent by [Y/N]’s side. He wasn’t going anywhere. Ever.

It was too much power, [Y/N] frequently thought, that she had over Art.

[Y/N] faced Art and brushed his strawberry blonde hair away from his forehead. Art often looked exhausted. He wore his tiredness on his face and shoulders. The exhaustion of constantly chasing, people-pleasing and being a professional athlete could destroy a kid. Art wore it like a Boy Scout badge. [Y/N] could watch him look relaxed forever. It was so rare he looked like that.

“Good morning, guard dog,” [Y/N] whispered. Art stirred. She could tell he was awake even though his eyes were shut due to that crease the reappeared between his eyebrows. It was never not there in his waking moments. Slowly, Art’s hand crept up and gently clutched [Y/N]’s wrist. Art used his grip to slide [Y/N]’s hand down his own drowsy face. He planted a kiss on her palm before tiredly looking at her. “Good morning.” She repeated to him.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” [Y/N] replied. Gray sunlight filtered through the window. “You ready for today?” She smirked.

“What’s today?”

“Patrick’s in town.”

Art dramatically threw his arm over his face and groaned. “I thought he was in tomorrow… Everything was so peaceful… And quiet,” Art mumbled into his elbow. He couldn’t keep a straight face for long and resolved into a soft laugh. “Whose babysitting?” He asked, peering his blue and brown eyes over his arm.

“I’m picking up the cake today, so I figured I could use his strength.”

Art sat up a bit. “You’re getting it today?”

“In the later afternoon, yeah. Why?”

“It’s gonna be, like, stale.”

[Y/N] glanced over at Art. “If we had gotten cupcakes like I wanted, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“You’re such a little jerk.” Art teased.

“Me!” [Y/N] gasped. “It doesn’t even matter because it’s not like you’re gonna eat it anyway because you don’t eat anything.”

“Little jerk!” Art said with his crooked smile widening. He leaned in, slotting an arm over her. “You heard me. You’re a little… troublemaking jerk.” Art’s nose almost pressed against hers.

“Oh yeah? Why are you marrying me then, hm?”

“…You’re pretty,” Art grinned almost timidly, bowing his head. His flat vocal timber sounded like the verbal equivalent of a blush. “Like, really, really pretty. Even if you suck.” Tenderly, Art leaned the rest of the way in to kiss [Y/N]. Once and then twice and then seven times. Maybe fourteen.

And they would have stayed like that all day.

They would have.

BANG BANG BANG.

Like gunshots.

Their lips parted and they held long eye contact. They paused. They sighed.

“Patrick.” They both said.

With a bend of his arms, the full weight of Art’s toned body collapsed on top of [Y/N]’s.

“Pretty baby!”

“No. ‘M pretending he’s not out there,” He laid flat on her, head on her chest. “Can’t go anywhere now.”

BANG BANG BANG on the front door again. Cheese, the couple’s Labrador mix barked at the sound from downstairs.

“Art!”

“Mhm-mm. Nope. Too bad. Sucks for Patrick.”

[Y/N] huffed. “You’re upsetting the dog.”

“He’s upsetting the dog,” Art started to laugh. “He showed up early. I’m just laying here. Hey, hey!” Art jeered as [Y/N] wiggled out from underneath him from backwards. She tried to inch away off the side of the bed. Her shoulders slumped against the carpet, while Art held her legs in place on the bed. [Y/N] dangled in a half on-half off sort of way. Her oversized Stanford t-shirt rolled up during the drama, exposing her breasts to Art. Unashamed, he stared.

[Y/N] twisted her foot into the side of Art’s face, causing a small cry of disgust from him. Just enough chaos for her to slip away. Without hesitation, she tossed the lightweight door open and skittered down the stairs with Art’s long gate keeping pace behind her. His arms reached out in an attempt to grab her. “He’s early! He can wait! He’s never been early in his whole fucking life!” Art laughed. Cheese jumped and barked at the hysteria.

The chase continued until [Y/N]’s hand hit the doorknob and chain. She unlocked it immediately. As [Y/N] ripped the door open, Art’s arm encircled her waist yanking her to the side with the force of his momentum, causing her to laugh with glee.

And on the other side of the door was Patrick Zweig.

Smiling impishly, Patrick took in the disheveled appearances of his two favorite people. He bit the inside of his cheek. “Nice boner.” Patrick smirked at Art, while he pulled [Y/N] into a side hug.

Art didn’t have a boner, or at least a proper one. But the comment was enough to get Art to look. He rolled his eyes and pulled Patrick in for a hug. Cheese ran over to the door for attention, when Art greeted Patrick.

Art closed the door. Patrick ducked down to greet the Labrador too. He liked Cheese, but wouldn’t necessarily choose to be around a dog in his free time the way that Art and [Y/N] did. Cheese really liked Patrick, much to his chagrin, so he pretended to be nice. While Patrick sat on the floor with the animal, he looked up at his best friends. “What’s with the clothes? You just get up?” Art with no shirt in just tube socks and boxers, and [Y/N] in Art’s old college shirt and underwear. They had all seen each other like this so many times growing up that no one particularly cared that the future Donaldsons looked so post coital. It was pretty normal. Patrick’s smirk sliced further across his unwashed face with the ghost of a laugh. “Were you guys fucking?” He said like a horny teenager.

[Y/N] laughed hard and kissed her lifelong best friend on top of the head on her way to make a pot of coffee in the kitchen. “No.” Art sighed in disappointment, flopping onto one of the barstools in the kitchen. This disappointment was either disappointment in Patrick for asking, or disappointment in the lack of sex due to Patrick’s arrival. It was Patrick’s fault either way.

When the dog got bored, Cheese wandered into the kitchen for nonexistent scraps. Patrick pulled up a chair next to Art and dropped his backpack on the floor. “How’s it going, man? You look good. Feeling ready?” He asked, leaning forward to tap Art across his bare knee.

Art nodded as if it say it’s a sure thing. “Thanks. We miss you. We appreciate you being here. It means a lot.”

“I appreciate you being here,” [Y/N] cut in. “Because you’re in my half of the wedding party.” She and Art were always in constant competition over who loved Patrick more. Art wanted him to be his best man. [Y/N] won out, though, having known him since the age of seven and Art only since age twelve.

“Ladies please. Not all at once.” Patrick said. He stood from his chair and wrapped his long arms around [Y/N] in a proper hug finally. Briefly, his chin rested on her head. He stopped before it went on too long.

“Good to see you, kid. How’s it going?” At two months older, [Y/N] had been calling Patrick ‘kid’ diminutively for almost two decades. It was cuter before he got so tall.

“I called you yesterday.” He replied dryly, stepping back to look at her. [Y/N] noted Patrick’s intimately familiar eyes. Too wide, pupils too dilated. Hm. He wore a long sleeved sweater and jeans. And dirty tennis shoes.

“You bring something nicer than this for Saturday?” She teased, pulling on one of his holey sleeves.

Art snorted at Patrick’s expense and cracked a smile. His freckled elbows leaned onto the counter. “Yeah, yeah. I’m here for two seconds, ‘n you’re already giving me tsuris?” Patrick quipped to [Y/N].

“Tsuris… Never thought I’d say it, but you sound like your mom, Patrick.” [Y/N] scoffed. Art snorted a laugh too.

Patrick frowned. “Guess I have to kill myself then.” He joked harshly to more laughter from the other two. M

“Yep. Have some coffee. Both of you. I’m going to put pants on.” [Y/N] turned away and moved to the stairs.

“Aw, do you have to?” Patrick called after her. [Y/N] tossed a middle finger up over her shoulder as she walked away. Art hissed at Patrick’s comment.

“Do you have to flirt with my wife?” Art sneered without malice.

Patrick smiled that boyish small, wicked, unassuming smile. “She’s not your wife yet.” He snapped back. Art smiled at him in return. The two held each other’s gaze adorned with sick grins for a moment before both of them dissolved into laughter. Everything was a competition, but it was only real if they brought it up.

Fast forward a few hours and Patrick and [Y/N] were in the car. Art had taken off for a haircut because his mom thought he looked like a messy little punk and wedding pictures were forever. [Y/N] drove because Patrick drove too fast and without mercy. He had a sports car once when he was in school and still spoke to his parents daily and had notably wrapped it around a telephone pole and walked out without nary a scratch. How’s that for nine lives?

[Y/N] had a sedan.

She and Patrick both held a cigarette out each of their respective windows as she drove.

“You should really quit, y’know.” She told Patrick.

He leaned over and blew smoke in her face. “Yeah, I’ll quit when you do.”

Patrick’s rude gesture didn’t bear acknowledging. “It’s different. You’re an athlete. I watch movies and review them for a living. It’s expected of me. You… you’re making your performance actively worse. You’re kneecapping yourself by choice.” [Y/N] explained.

“I’m good enough to take the hit.”

[Y/N] laughed and took a drag of her cigarette, asking it out the window. “And you’re arrogant enough to make that comment. Sometimes I look at you and you’re still thirteen. I swear to God. It’s fuckin’ funny,” she said. It was quiet for a moment. “Art, though. He doesn’t smoke anymore.”

“I don’t believe you,” Patrick replied immediately with a wild look in his eye. That was apparently a big surprise. “He’s totally lying to you. There’s no way—“

“Nope! Quit on his own too. He just decided he was done with it one day and got all pro-athlete about it.”

“Y-you’re wrong! You’re so wrong. He’s a liar. Last time I was in town, we—���

“No. No fucking way,” [Y/N] shook her head in manic disbelief. “When you came by to—“

“Mhm. Yep. On the patio. You didn’t notice?”

[Y/N] shook her head. “No sense of smell because of… I’m a smoker. I just… He’s such a shit.”

“A shit and a hypocrite!” They both laughed. When the glee dampened naturally and the cigarette butts were pitched out the window, Patrick looked over at [Y/N]. One good, long look. “You ready for Saturday?” Patrick asked because he was a masochist.

[Y/N] found herself often thinking back on this moment. Was this when it had gone wrong beyond repair?

[Y/N] sighed. She would only ever tell Patrick and maybe Art this. “Yes and no.”

“Oh?”

“Don’t say it like that. I have been ready to marry Art since I was, like, seventeen years old. It is unfathomable to me how much love I am capable of giving him, y’know? If he wanted the Mona Lisa, I’d be robbing the Louvre tomorrow. He’s it for me,” she said. Patrick faked a smile very convincingly and nodded for her to go on. “What I’m not looking forward to is everyone I know being in the same room at the same time. I don’t like other people except you and Art. And my editor. That’s about it.”

“You’re not at all worried about spending all that time married to someone?” Patrick tried to jab at her with his words while he scratched his right forearm.

“Not with Art.”

“Wow. That’s awfully grownup of you.”

“Yeah, well. I’m a grownup. With a smokin’ hot fiancé. And he actually cares if I live or die. Isn’t that crazy? My parents weren’t like that with each other. It’s… Am I allowed to say how grateful I am to you for bringing him home for break that one time, or is that stupid?”

“It’s kinda stupid,” he agreed teasingly. In reality, he wanted more than anything to put himself out of his misery. My fault, my fault, my fault. The words looped in Patrick’s head on constant repeat. He wanted to rip his skin off for so many different reasons. He couldn’t take it and he was trapped. Fuck.

Patrick scratched his right forearm again.

“Truth or dare?” Patrick slurred. He was twenty-one and drunk for [Y/N]’s birthday. She, Art and Patrick sat on the disgusting archaic carpet in Art’s dorm room.

“Uh, truth.” [Y/N] said too soberly to sober.

“Boring!” Art said, putting his hand on [Y/N]’s thigh.

Patrick took a long swing of his beer while he thought. “Okay, okay. What’s your weirdest sexual fantasy?” He asked.

“Ew.” [Y/N] wrinkled her nose.

Art thought the question was epic, but wasn’t going to facilitate his girl’s discomfort. “Hey, it’s her birthday, she doesn’t have to—“

“Um, no. I’ll do it. This is an actual dream I had. I think about it kinda all the time. Oh my god, I can’t believe I’m saying this out loud. It so dumb. So, it’s Art and I’m sitting at the kitchen table with coffee or something. And Art… sings me Happy Birthday like Marilyn Monroe did for JFK. And he’s dressed like Marilyn, but like a boy. No dress, but like the boy version of that look. Then we fuck. That’s weirder than you wanted. That was weird, right?” [Y/N] rambled.

Art leaned in closer to her. They were all drunk as skunks and he couldn’t help bite his lip. His arm pulled her closer to him. Art was handsy when drunk, they were all learning.

“Whose Jackie O?” Patrick asked.

“No Jackie O. And I’m not JFK. He’s just Marilyn. Gentlewomen prefer blondes.” [Y/N] had laughed so hard at that while she tangled her fingers in Art’s sandy hair.

The car ride to get cake and the drive back was the last proper conversation [Y/N] and Patrick had. The pair got home. Nothing seemed unusual to [Y/N] at all. They talked the whole time without any dry spells. The cake, in pieces to be assembled, was carefully toted in and placed way out of the way from disaster. Patrick took his bag to the bathroom, claiming he was going to shower.

[Y/N] shouted after him. “You know where the towels are!”

Patrick looked back over his shoulder at her with a smirk and closed the bathroom door behind him.

And he went out through the bathroom window.

[Y/N] had no idea he had gone until she heard his car start. For a minute, she thought it was the neighbors. She walked halfway down her hallway and saw the bathroom door open. No running shower water, no half nude Patrick shaving or something. She ran back down the hall and glanced out the kitchen window and watched his new white SUV whip out of the driveway.

[Y/N] stood there for several minutes. Staring and staring and staring after him. Not a single effort to move. The first thing she did was pick up her blue slidephone from beside the sink. She called Art, not Patrick. Patrick made his choice.

[Y/N] hadn’t realized she was crying when Art picked up on the other line.

“Honey? Honey, you there? You buttdial me?” Art said. [Y/N] thinks he said shit like that for several moments before she spoke. She just faced the window and stared for what felt like ages.

“Patrick’s gone.”

“Hm?”

“Patrick’s gone.”

“What do you mean he’s gone.”

“He climbed through the bathroom window and drove off. We-we didn’t have a fight. Or-or… He just left. Like it was nothing.”

“I’m on my way. Stay where you are.”

Art rushed back in his blue-black jeep wrangler. It ripped into the smooth driveway causing the tires to damn near squeal. When he got out of his car and bounded to the door, it was clear that about half of his hair had been cut instead of all of it. [Y/N] would have laughed in an ideal situation.

“Baby, hey, what happened?” Art said breathlessly as he unlocked the door. [Y/N] sat at the seldom used dining room table the two of them used to hold their junk mail, sitting straight up and looking through Art. Art was alarmed. She never sat at the table and rarely was her face so expressionless. She was always feeling, expressing, something. He couldn’t tell if she was crying or not, but her eyes were red.

“Patrick seems to have decided not to join us this weekend.” [Y/N] said clearly.

Art closed up the door behind him and walked over to [Y/N]. His scraggly hair and bewildered expression lessened into some devastated softness. He knelt, as he often did, in front of her and took her softer hands in his. “Can you tell me what happened?” Art asked quietly. He felt angry tears sting at the corner of his own traitorous eyes.

“We went out, got the cake, got smoothies, and came back. We… He didn’t say anything weird. Nothing happened.”

“Okay. And then?”

“No, I mean, nothing happened. Like, he was on his best behavior. Like, he was doing so well. He seemed okay. Really okay, y’know?” [Y/N]’s voice broke and finally betrayed her. She choked on her last words and the tears followed. Art’s right hand traveled up the side of [Y/N] face to rest there in comfort. “We talked about everything, like always. He was totally fine. I swear. Then we got home and he says I’m gonna take a shower, or something. And then I heard his car pull away. That’s it.”

“I’m gonna fucking murder him.” Art said, shaking his head and gritting his teeth. He stood from the floor and pulled his own phone out of his pocket. Art leaned against the table [Y/N] sat at. He called Patrick. Then he called him again. And another time. Up to what felt like twelve times or so. He left voicemail after voicemail.

“Hey, call me.”

“Hey, it’s Art. Call me.”

“Art again. Call me back. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I’m sorry about the last one. Patrick, call me. Are you coming home?”

“Hey, man. Fuck you. Fuck off.”

“I’m sorry about the last one too. I’m… Understandably, I’m kinda… Fucking pissed at you. I don’t need to talk to you like that, though. Are you okay? Are you safe? What happened? You can talk to me.”

“You’re an asshole. I wish you could see the look on [Y/N]’s face right now.”

“Don’t come back.”

Eventually, the voicemail box was full.

[Y/N] reached wordlessly for Art’s hand. She could feel his rare anger climbing. He got this ridiculous blush across his cheeks when he got angry and she could see it against the sunset’s glow. “Art?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry this happened,” He said, turning his eyes to her. “I’m so sorry, hon.”

“It’s not your fault. You don’t have to apologize, pretty baby.”

“Yeah, but he’s my best friend. He’s your best friend,” He ranted. “That was a dick move to leave like that. I’m sorry that happened to you. He’s a piece of shit.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“No! I do. I do mean that. For the last year, he’s treated us, especially you like trash. Do you not see how much more you deserve, [Y/N]? I don’t know what’s going on with him… Do you?”

“He’s…” [Y/N] looked down. “You think he’s using again?”

Art didn’t say anything, he just looked down. That was answer enough. [Y/N] buried her face in her hands with a shuddering sob. Art pulled her to her feet and into his chest. He buried his face in her hair, unable to hold his own tears back. Eventually, the pair landed on the sagging green couch. Art’s legs wrapped around [Y/N]’s middle. They kept the news on all night. In case he matched an accident description. They called hospitals and hunted for John Does that were over six feet with dark hair and stubble.

“What are we gonna do? He’s… He’s not coming back, is he?” [Y/N] whispered. Cheese rested his heavy beige head on her thigh. He obviously didn’t understand why Patrick had gone either.

“No, I don’t think he is,” Art replied, lips against her forehead. “I’m sorry.

Pathetically, [Y/N] raised her head to Art. “I’m sorry too. I don’t know what I did.”

“You didn’t do anything.” He said. [Y/N] forced Art to lean back against the couch and she laid her head on his chest. Cheese circled for a new position where he could be touching them both at the same time.

[Y/N] knew it was a little bit her fault. She leaned up and kissed Art on the corner of his lips. “It’s my fault.”

“Then it’s both of our faults. You can’t talk about yourself like that. You’re the only you I’ve got, babe.” Art huffed tiredly.

[Y/N] dug her hands into Art’s hair the way he liked. “Can I fix your haircut? Haircut’s a generous way to describe it.”

“Damn, I was actually trying out this new thing. You don’t think it’s cool?”

“Yeah, it’s big for guys who blindly answer their wife’s phone calls, I hear.” [Y/N] said weakly.

Wife was all Art heard and he melted.

“I have never known someone I love as much as you,” Art said. “I’m all in with you. You know that, right?”

“‘Course I do.” [Y/N] did know. She sunk her teeth into the freckled skin on Art’s right shoulder gently and he moaned. Over top of the spot, [Y/N] left a trail of kisses down Art’s bicep.

“I’m gonna call his mom.” He said once [Y/N]’s pace had slowed. Art’s stomach growled. When he got upset, he didn’t eat. [Y/N] told herself it was because he had forgotten to in stressful moments, but wondered if it was a punishment instead. She pretending she hadn’t heard the sound.

“They don’t talk.”

“I know. Just in case he turns up.”

Patrick did turn up. About ten hours later, wet and unconscious in the emergency room. Following a psych eval, Patrick went to a short stint in rehab. He had gone once prior at the age of twenty. Needless to say Patrick missed the wedding. It was too much money to up and cancel, according to Art’s piece of shit stepfather, Douglas. Patrick made no efforts to contact the Donaldsons since leaving, as he left or following rehab. Despite all of Art and [Y/N]’s tireless efforts to find him, all they had to show for it was his disconnected phone number and a crippling feeling of shame and loss. Patrick had vanished from their lives without giving either one of them a say.

Patrick was gone.

But Art was there for all of it.

TAGLIST:

@toxiclovergirl @basicallynotbreathing @miniemonie2001 @valentine333 @tremendoushorsepeachbanana-blog @athxnss @babyspice6 @diorrfairy @donaldsonsdarling @muthafuckingstargirl @avylanchce @shysstuff @soberbabes @ysuftmikey @pussy-f41ry

[luludeluluramblings]

Hi so I was having some brainrot regarding your small-town-neglected-meta reader and I wanted to share them with you!

One thing I've been thinking about alot is the way readers powers work and what kinds of weather they're likely to create, etc. One thing I specifically thought about is that readers powers definitely have to come from her mom's side. Bruce and no else in Bruce's biological line have powers so readers mom has to have the meta gene. I was thinking that maybe readers mom also controlled the weather a bit, maybe not as strong as reader can but still had some powers.

Like creating little drizzles, maybe some dustdevils, and little snow storms. Because her powers were so weak she never really used them for much, maybe to help out her own parents on the farm but that's about it(using her rain powers to easily water the crops)

In that same line of thinking I also wondered if readers little brother also has superpowers. Maybe the way his powers work or appear are bit different than readers because of they have different dads(I imagine Bruce has really strong genetics. If Damian is any proof of that lol)

One little crank in this little headcanon though is that Nana and Gramps would also have to have superpowers. But then I reread the first chapter and thought about One of the phrases you used to describe how reader got in Bruce's hands.

"but blood is thicker than water in the eyes of the court."

That specifically makes me think that Nana and Gramps are actually readers little brother biological grandparents and not theirs.(what happened to their bio grandparents 🤔)

But anyway, one last thing I wanted mention is how badly I want to see reader using their powers more freely when they're back in small town. Like they aren't afraid to use their powers to make it super windy and have fun with their little brother up on the sky. Or causing a blizzard just so they can have a snowball fight and make snow-men with their little brother. Or even accidently cause a power outage because someone pissed them off! No more suppressed emotions just freedom. (Also reader crying in the middle of the rain they made in front of their parents graves(they wanted to be buried in their hometown) would be so tragically fantasic.)

Anyway I know this is a lot to read and I'm sorry if I seem a bit scrambled but I wanted to send this to you just cause I had so many ideas floating up in my brain I couldn't stop thinking about it all. Thank you for listening to me ramble, I hope your doing amazing🩷

Your call this bain-rot, Imma call it fertilizer. This is long as mess, but I think I addressed everything. Lots of Smalltown!Reader lore and I made a Family Tree to help explain if needed.

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

Smalltown!Reader's Family Tree:

Complicated little bugger, ain't it? I didn't add Stephanie or Barbara because Bruce technically never adopted them or fostered them. This isn't an official thing, I made this and it was composed of little bits of information I found online. So some of this stuff might not be lore accurate.

Also, while I was researching I found out that Bruce's middle name was apparently Patrick, after his grandfather at one point.

Now, time for the pseudo science.

I consider the meta gene to be a genetic trait carried down by a parent. That would be Momma/Adeline, in this case. She carries the gene. Now, the meta gene does not always activate even if one has it. So, no, Momma was not making mini storms for us. She was, however, very encouraging of Reader using their abilities. It takes an event, usually a traumatic one, to activate the gene. (Little Brother could be getting power's in the next chapter, though.)

As for Nana and Grand Daddy we have this:

They don't have the gene, so they don't have abilities. (Which doesn't me their harmless.) They are Reader's Step-Grandparents, but they've grown to love them all the same. Now, in court, it is preferred for a child to go to the nearest blood relative after their parents die. Or, at least, that's what I roughly know from what the court in my state is like. I'm not from Louisiana or New Jersey, where Gotham's located, so maybe it's different. But, this is fiction. This is why Nana and Grand Daddy didn't get custody of Reader, though. Plus Bruce is rich with a bunch of adopted kids, on paper he looks like the best option.

☁︎☁︎☁︎☁︎☁︎☁︎☁︎☁︎☁︎☁︎☁︎

I really love the thought of Reader using their abilities for silly little things while back in Smalltown, at least before things absolutely go to hell in a hand basket. So I'll probably include a bit. (They used to do things like that before moving to Gotham, definitely.) Something I want to mention is that Reader likes to make it rain when their happy. It's their favorite weather, they love it. So a grave scene might be a bit different. (I have to include that now. Thank you for that idea! Frick, Part Eight about to be long af.)

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

If your curious about Reader's other grandparents, they just died from old age and health problems. I like to think that Reader had a close relationship with them. Calling them MawMaw and Gab for their nicknames and having spent a lot of time with Reader and their Little Brother before they died. (I'm sorely tempted to just commit to rewriting this with the OC I based Reader off of so I can include all this backstory to highlight how different their life in Gotham is compared to what it used to be, but I best finish what I started first.)

(Side Note: It's very common in the American south for people to give their grandparents nicknames. I have some for my southern grandparents, while I call my northern grandparents just plain Grandma and Grandpa. The nickname can vary and is usually what ever the first grandchild comes up with.)

Thank you for sending me this ask! Stuff like this actually inspires me so this was wonderful. Hopefully this helps. (Now to get back to work on my writing, I've been draggin' my feet again.)

[yuzuvrse]

Can we have some of ur mouthwashing headcanons for the tulpar crew? (Can be about anything btw) The brain worms are getting hungry again I fear… 😞

-ig ill be 🪷 anon if it’s not taken yet?

HELLOOO BABYYYY sorry this took so long i was dying bc of my finals </3 but anyways welcome 🪷 anon to the family!!!!!! these hcs ended up so unserious LOL

the crew got banned from playing uno after anya nearly flipped the table when daisuke put down like five +4 cards in a row now they just stick to sorry!

swansea hums to himself when he's working, it's usually like old songs but recently daisuke's pop songs have been getting stuck in his head. (i think it would be unbelievably funny if swansea starts singing like the brainrot versions of songs js bc daisuke keeps playing them. yk like the 'oh the weather outside is rizzy, and the fire is so skibidi' LMAOSKJDSK

daisuke doesn't really have a specific music taste, he listens to a mix of everything. doesn't know how to answer when people ask him what his fave genre is so he tries to act cool and says he only listens to rap music.

anya had a wattpad phase. i can't explain further i can just FEEL it.

curly is actually a decent dancer. his mom sent him for dance classes as a kid and he has a good sense of rhythm. jimmy makes fun of him for this though so he doesn't ever mention it.

jimmy has rewatched american psycho probably more than 117 times. he watches it and he's like:

(i am currently watching + reading it for the first time and patrick bateman is literally jimmy to me.) more content utc!

anya is terrible in the kitchen. like seriously do Not let her in there or the house will burn down just from her boiling water or smth. it's okay tho i will be her housewife <3 (i can't cook either) she is also very good at tetris for some reason. she's a little forgetful so she usually writes things that she needs to remember on the back of her hands but by the end of the day they're all smudged smh. but also she always has perfect nails!

curly is one of those guys who's just naturally good at things. yk when people are like 'oh yeah i never practice' and it pisses you off? he's one of those guys. ik ppl say he's british but he's so american to me??? he was definitely the jock in highschool that every girl crushed on but he never even realised.

swansea is a dog person. he's chill w cats but he definitely prefers dogs. he likes how loyal they are, and i can see him having a massive dog like a st bernard at home waiting for him. but if his kids ever brought back a kitten or smth he'd be the one to be all 'you guys better take care of it bc i won't' but then you see him becoming besties with the cat LOL.

daisuke LOVES the beach. literally a water baby. he's very good at surfing, and always ends up with a tan that makes him look even more handsome bc it compliments his dyed hair so nicely. i think that he grew up in a big family w lots of cousins around where he would be one of the older kids, so he's very good w children as well. he somehow knows the best way to entertain them and keep them out of trouble. (primary school art teacher daisuke are you guys seeing my vision?!?!?!)

jimmy gets nightmares and thus has difficulty sleeping. he lies whenever curly asks him about it but those dark circles say otherwise. this might be random but i also think he's good at singing. in another world he could have been a sleazy rockstar but instead he went to space. are u guys seeing the visual of jimmy laying back in bed strumming his banged-up electric guitar... i hate this mf.

anyways that's all for now! i had a lot of fun w these hehe <3 hope you liked them!

[amymbona]

Can you write something about Patrick with a girl who talks a lot?

You could talk his ears off and still be listening, fucking reading your lips if he has to. Headphones go off when you speak. And you speak a lot. You're aware, right, you have a little rambling problem. But you just have a lot to say about every single topic!

In class, you always talk the most, constantly raising your hand and contributing when the professors allows you. You choose different topics and make the longest presentations just so you could tell everyone all that you've managed to remember. And, what's best you keep Patrick interested. He's genuinely been putting a lot more effort into learning and preparing for classes, especially when he's in your presence. Even when you're talking about a difficult topic, about something you don't understand, you keep brainstorming out loud. Every single math equation you solve, you keep mumbling under your breath.

"Alright, both sides are divisible by two so we can do that, mhm, then five-x goes onto the other side. No, no, no, the other way. Three-y goes there. Yup. Now five x minus two x. Oh! We can divide that by three, mhm."

And Patrick is listening. He's fucking sitting there on your bed, eyes glued to the glasses that keep sliding down youe nose, watching as you lick your lips and nod, encouraging yourself that you're doing it the right way. And, fuck, you look fucking stunning sitting there in your little shorts and working on your stupid math problems.

There's never a silent moment with you. You're a bubbly extrovert, making sure that no meeting leaves the two of you in awkward silence. You always find a topic to talk about, even if it's just the weather, and sometimes Patrick gets annoyed that you're paying so much attention to everything around you, always finding topics to talk about that you kinda forget he's here, next to you.

"Do you ever shut up?"

He doesn't mean it in a bad way, not even considering talking rudely to you. But the sentence slips past his lips before he could stop it.

"What?" your head snaps towards Patrick, lips parting in confusion. Did you hear him right?

But apparently, there's no going back for Patrick. Not now. "You talk a lot."

Oh. Your mouth closes slowly and eventually, after a few seconds of processing his words, you nod, gazing down at your lap. "Yeah, um, I guess, yeah. I guess I do. Sorry."

Fuck. You look like you're about to cry right now. Like you're about to shatter into pieces because now, at this moment, you realise how much you've really been talking. Not just around Patrick, but around everyone else too. You always talk, pulling all the attention to yourself and the things you see, that you don't give anyone else a chance to speak their mind.

Patrick shifts closer, his thigh pressing into yours. He absolutely didn't mean that. He never wanted to see you cry.

"No, no, no, listen," he begins, panicking at the glossy sight of your eyes. Fuck, he's really messed up this time. "I meant it like... You talk about everything. Everything around you. But never about me."

About him? And why would you possibly have to talk about Patrick?

"About you?" you mutter, gaze nervously raising to settle on his freckled face. "You... You want me to talk about you?"

"Yes," he nods.

"But why? I mean... We talk about you, don't we? About tennis, about Art... There's a lot of stuff we mention, isn't it?" you keep murmuring bashfully, once again prolonging your speech despite trying to hold back.

Patrick shakes his head and takes one of your hands in his. "That's not me, that's different topics."

"Then what is you, Patrick?" you wonder.

"I'm me, Y/N. I don't want to talk about the weather or some random shit. I want to talk about me, about you. About us."

"Us?" you gulp, eyes flicking between his own. Apparently, his words are still not settling in your brain in the right way.

"You're so stupid sometimes," Patrick sighs, balling both of your hands into little fists and resting his shoulder on your knuckles. For how much you talk, your mind seems so empty all of a sudden.

"What do you mean, Patrick? I'm sorry, I just don't really understand you, like, we've never talked about this before. I thought we like talking together? We're on the same wavelength and we-"

You're roughly shut up by Patrick grasping your face in his hands and pressing his lips against yours, effectively interrupting your speech. He's desperate, really, and don't know what else to do to just shut your mouth for a while.

And after a moment, his lips begin moving slowly, parting and ghosting over yours in a gentle kiss. His hold on your head loosens and fingers slide over your cheeks which have surely heated up at the sudden gesture. That's definitely not what you expected to happen.

It takes a while for Patrick to pull away, a thin trail of saliva hanging from your lips as he does so, leaving you completely flabbergasted. He chuckles at your flustered expression, running over your lips with his thumb.

"Sorry. I just had to shut you up somehow."

[snippybaby]

OK, enough people were interested in the Trent Reznor/Richard Patrick fanfic for me to post it, behold, below the cut.

Content note: explicit sex, hypothetical mention of SA, homophobic slurs

Up Above It / Down In It

“And in all honesty, me and Trent had a sexual tension all the time. He won’t admit it, but we used to make out for fun at clubs and stuff. But it got to the point where we were at the Sharon Tate house, and he was making out with me and I got a boner and he got a boner, and he didn’t know what to do, and he ran away.” – Richard Patrick

It’s one thing when they’re out at a club, and drunk, and showing off. Because that’s all it is, right? Showing off. A way to say fuck you, so what if we are faggots, why do you care? It’s for attention, it’s for shock value. When they’re out. But right now, they’re at the Tate house, the closest thing Trent has to a home, and they’re not drunk – they’ve had a few beers, but they’re not drunk – and no one’s around to see it and be shocked or grossed out or whatever. Someone’s in the studio – Richard isn’t even sure who, some guys Trent met a few days ago who he said could record here, even Trent doesn’t seem certain who they are – but they’re busy. Besides, if anyone else comes in, any of their friends or Trent’s hangers-on who drift in and out of this place, they’re not going to freak out. They’re used to it. They’d probably just roll their eyes. The idea that it’s just a joke, it doesn’t mean anything, is a polite fiction at this point, if anyone ever believed it in the first place. Rich isn’t sure whether he ever believed it himself. He’s not gay. He’s sure of that. The thought of fucking another man, in the abstract, is not appealing to him, and yeah he’s thought about it, who hasn’t? But he’s discovered there’s a difference between the abstract, and the reality of a lean body pressed against his, stubble scraping against his face, a tongue in his mouth. Trent kisses with a lot of tongue. It’s sloppy, it’s messy, not like most of the girls Rich has been with who are more tentative, reserved even when things are getting heavy. There was this one girl who wasn’t like that, she was more aggressive, it was fun, but she turned out to be a dyke. That’s who Trent reminds him of the most, which probably means something that Rich can’t really work out. 

It’s hot. A summer afternoon in LA. Both of them are sweating and never changed out of yesterday’s clothes, and they absolutely stink, but Rich likes it. It’s primal. It bypasses his brain, which is how this happened anyway, he’s not even entirely sure how it happened, one moment they were sitting on the couch, talking about some godawful movie that was on TV last night, then suddenly Trent’s on top of him. That’s always how it seems. That it’s just something that happens, like the weather. No point trying to stop it. Trent is growing his hair out, and it’s long enough to grab now so Rich does that, makes a fist and pulls on it slightly, and Trent seems to like it, he puts his hand underneath Rich’s t-shirt and scratches a little by his spine, which feels real good, and they’re so close it’s no wonder Rich is getting hard, that’s just a natural physical reaction. Then Trent’s getting hard too, their boners are touching, rubbing against each other through shorts and underwear, and it feels weird, kinda funny, really. Not bad. Definitely not bad. But Trent pulls away.

“Sorry, man,” he says, “I’m not – I’m not gay.” His hands are folded in his lap, covering his erection like a schoolboy caught out in class.

“I know,” says Rich, “neither am I.”

“Yeah.” Trent gets up. “I should… I’m gonna…” Gonna go, gonna leave, gonna hide in the bathroom and freak out probably. Rich surprises himself by reaching out and grabbing Trent’s wrist. Because fuck, why does Trent always get to start this and then not follow through? He stands up. He’s taller than Trent, and jerks him closer to make that even more apparent, looking down at him. Trent squirms.

“Let me go.” But he’s not really trying to break free. He could, if he wanted to. Rich tightens his grip.

“You’re such a fucking cocktease. I’m sick of it.” It’s true. It’s probably the first time he’s been honest with himself or anyone else about the situation.

“What are you gonna do?” He spits it out like a challenge, but that bravado, never very convincing, is wavering. Rich doesn’t answer. He doesn’t actually know. But he pulls and pushes Trent, who is still making a show of objecting, if someone came across them it really would look like Rich is about to rape him or something, into one of the bedrooms and shuts the door. He lets him go. Trent doesn’t try to run. So Rich kisses him again, then pushes him onto the bed.

“I’m going to fuck you.” It’s only as he says it that he knows this for certain.

“What if I want to fuck you?”

“I don’t care.”

Trent nods and stretches out with his arms above his head, arching his back like a cat. He’s wearing a baggy tank top and Rich can see his ribs as he flexes.

“There’s condoms…” he gestures towards the bedside table. 

“I know.” Rich unbuttons Trent’s shorts and pulls them down roughly, along with his underwear, throwing them to one side. Trent’s still hard, and Rich puts a hand around his cock, not jerking him off, just feeling the weirdness of having someone else’s dick in his hand, same but different to his own. Trent makes a sound, a kind of stutter. It’s fucking sexy. There’s something so vulnerable about him, there always is, and Rich gets now what’s really going on when Trent is throwing himself around on stage, breaking instruments, telling the crowd to fuck off. He’s daring someone to put him in his place. Rich gets rid of his own shorts and boxers – maybe it’s not gay if neither of them are fully naked – and fumbles around in the drawer for a condom. He tells Trent to turn over as he puts it on, and Trent does so, hugging the pillow and turning his head to one side, eyes closed like he’s waiting for a massage. Rich doesn’t like how passive he’s being all of a sudden. He slaps Trent’s ass hard, and Trent looks over his shoulder.

“Ow,” he hisses, “What was that for?”

“Shut up.” He pulls Trent’s hips back and there he is, Trent Reznor, fast becoming one of the world’s most notorious rock stars, face down, ass up. Rich hesitates. You’re supposed to use lube for anal, he learned that the hard way with a freaky ex-girlfriend, but there isn’t any except what’s on the condom. Without really thinking, he spits on Trent’s asshole. He realises it won’t do much to help, but it’s kind of satisfying in its own way. He decides not to worry about it too much. Trent says stuff all the time implying that he’s into S&M, bragging about it almost, so if it hurts he’s either going to be into it or too proud to let on that he isn’t. Rich enters him then, and Trent groans.

“Fuck.” There’s pain there for sure, he’s tight, but he’s pushing back for more too, and Rich starts to thrust, slowly at first, but it doesn’t take long before they’re both warmed up. It’s not too different to fucking a girl, except he doesn’t feel like he needs to be gentle at all, or nice, and there’s something freeing about that.

“Fucking faggot.” Rich doesn’t know where that came from, he’s ashamed of it as soon as it comes out of his mouth, but it gets a reaction — Trent makes a noise like he’s about to come.

“Say that again.” His voice is muffled by the pillow he’s pressed his face into. Such a cliche, so obvious for someone who prides himself on going against the grain, getting turned on by what the bullies called him in high school. But Rich can’t claim any superiority there, he gets off on the thought, now being proven, that he’s secretly a faggot too.

“Faggot. You like that faggot? You like getting fucked by a real man?” It’s stupid porn talk, and he’s glad Trent is facing away so he can’t see that Rich’s cheeks are bright red, not from the heat, but it’s working.

“Yeah, I like it. Oh God. Fuck.” He starts to move his hand underneath himself to jerk off, but Rich grabs him and pins his arm beside his head again. Trent fights back, more seriously this time. “Fuck you, man, come on.” Rich leans forward and puts his arm across the back of Trent’s neck, putting all his weight into it.

“I’m the one fucking you, so be a good fucking faggot boy and take it.” He’s getting into this now, he could get used to it, it’s fun being an asshole. Trent goes pliant, acquiescing, though he still looks furious, clutching a fistful of the sheets so hard his knuckles are white. Rich starts fucking him again, and he’s close. Instinctively he starts to think about how to calm down and draw this out, but there’s no reason to, so he lets himself go instead, coming hard and then collapsing on top of Trent, trapping him underneath him. He bites Trent’s shoulder and he’s not even sure what he’s doing, but it feels good. He can feel Trent moving his hips, fucking the mattress, and Rich rolls over and pushes him onto his back. He takes Trent’s cock in his hand and jerks him off, staring at the ceiling. It doesn’t take long, Trent moaning and whimpering, sounding totally pathetic, to be honest. There’s come on Rich’s hand and he wants to lick it, but wipes it on the sheet instead. They lie next to each other for a while without speaking, as if it will all only become real if they talk about it.

Trent gets up. He sniffs at the come on his shirt and makes a face.

“That was fun. I enjoyed it. I don’t think it should happen again, though, makes things too complicated.”

Rich props himself up on his elbows. “What if I want it to happen again?”

“I’m telling you it won’t.” He’s cold, now, using the same tone as he does in rehearsals when someone fucks up, fucking up being when they do something that isn’t precisely what he wants. He likes to remind the rest of the band, sometimes, that he is their boss, that they’re not a real band. Nine Inch Nails, after all, is Trent Reznor. Rich and the others are just there to make the live shows more interesting. A jolt of disgust goes through Rich. Self-loathing. He thought he was doing what he wanted, but it was only what Trent wanted all along. Now Trent’s done with it, done with him. Curiosity satisfied. Game over. He should have expected this. Trent writes all the music and the rest of them just play what they’re told to play. Why would this be any different? “I’m going to take a shower.” He pulls his shorts on without underwear. “Can you go check if those guys are done in the studio? I want to get in there later.”

“Sure.”

“Thanks.”

It never happens again and they don’t speak about it. Years later, Trent says in an interview that he’s never gone all the way with a man, even though he used to make out with “the guitarist” in his band, unnamed, and all Rich can think is that he’s glad he got out of the orbit of that huge fucking hypocrite.

[stereopticons]

On this Day in Schitt's Creek - February 21

2019

Ex marks the (sore) spot [david/patrick, E, 15,362] by fanfic_or_bust

Someone from David's past stops by the store unexpectedly, and Patrick is forced to confront the strong feelings this arrival brings out in him. OR David's ex shows up out the blue and Patrick turns into a bit of a green-eyed-monster.

Without a plan [david/patrick, E, 8,344] by JessX2231

Patrick doesn't have a plan after leaving Rachel, so he just packs his stuff and drives. Along the way, he decides to stop in a random town and takes a trip to the bar, where he meets David. When Patrick finds out the guy David matched with on a dating app never showed, he gladly welcomes the distraction. Even if it's just for one night.

2020

give me shelter through every bit of weather [david/patrick, G, 1,864] by thegrayness

There is a storm in the forecast and, historically, David’s tentacles don’t love storms. Patrick makes sure everyone feels safe. For #rosebuddwrites February prompts #15: thunderstorm.

hit me with your best shot [david/patrick, T, 6,034] by ignisgayentia

“Ow!” David yelps, for no reason at all. He’s not even hurt, not really. He’d be surprised if he even had a bruise. Still, he was attacked. By a flying baseball. “Do people often come here to be attacked?!” “Hey, are you okay? I am so sorry, I shouldn’t have hit it so late,” a soft voice says from in front of him. David looks over just in time to find Puppy-Faced baseball player leaning over into the crowd with a look of none other than puppy-like concern.

make your real dreams [david/patrick, T, 386] by oh_la_fraise

“So how’d you break the last coffee table?”

new forevers. [david/patrick, M, 17,756, CW: violence] by falconeggs

“Patrick wakes. He has no idea how long he was out, or where, exactly, he is, but he knows he’s awake.” Or, the second life of a young vampire.

Perfectly [david/patrick, T, 2,607] by metalshootingstar

An ex of Patrick comes to Rose Apothecary, and things don't go so well.

Red White and Blue Jays [david/patrick, M, 67,331] by @grapehyasynth

Red White and Royal Blue AU. David Rose, First Son of the United States, hates Patrick Brewer, First Son of Canada. That gets him into some trouble - and then a lot of trouble.

WTF Ghosts? [david/patrick, T, 12,023] by Zigster

Basically, everything is the same . . . except for the addition of three ghosts who not only haunt the motel but are bound to it by a mysterious, unseen force. No one is quite sure how this came to be but they have a sneaking suspicion it has something to do with Maureen Budd's death, the cinnamon buns in the lobby, and the Batman Forever soundtrack.

2021

15-3919 [david/patrick, E, 7,205] by @ratchet

The rest of the house was a manageable project for the two of them once Patrick had reassured David that the distinct aura of the seventies could be easily remedied with a lick of paint and a few replaced carpets. At the time, Patrick had assumed that the lick of paint would be applied mostly by him, having seen first hand David’s disinclination around what he deemed messy or dirty projects. What he didn’t account for was David’s self-professed superior knowledge of the correct aesthetic for their home. After two years and change, he reasons, he should probably have known better. or: David and Patrick repaint the cottage. David, it turns out, contains multitudes.

a sense of expectation hanging in the air [stevie/ruth, M, 6,548] by @hullomoon

Stevie starts to realize she has feelings for Ruth. How long though, will it take for her to tell Ruth that?

Bedtime David [david/patrick, G, 3,488] by SoonerOrLater

The evening after 'The Incident' David and Patrick remake the bed. Patrick tells David why he'd never need a divorce for that.

Better Be Good to Me [david/patrick, T, 11,271] by TheBasilRathbone

David was not Patrick's first. Patrick really, really wishes he had been.

Business/Casual [stevie/ruth, M, 8,968] by @treepyful

“I’m afraid we only have the one room left, Ms. Budd, and it’s a single queen.”

Comoros [david/sebastien, T, 300] by Rosey_Peach

David Does Believe in SoulMates [david/patrick, M, 23,476] by BeneficialAddiction

The thing is, David actually does believe in soul mates. People always seem surprised by this – which, rude. How could he not with the way his parents fit together so perfectly, so utterly devoted to each other, even after all these years, with all their ridiculous flaws? How could he not, when Alexis meets a handsome veterinarian on holiday in the Galapagos islands and grows up, seemingly overnight? No, David Rose believes in soul mates. He just... isn’t sure there’s one out there for him anymore.

money, money, money (it's a rich man's world) [stevie & johnny, G, 2,518] by @hullomoon

When Stevie mentions hiring someone for the financials during a meeting, Johnny worries it'll be another Eli situation

Rosebud Motel Group PR & Merch [gen, G, art] by @hullosweetpea

PR and Merch designs for the Rosebud Motel Group [Art]

Show Me Your Wounds and I'll Wrap Your Bandages [david/patrick, NR, 3,001] by TuttleAsHimself

The Hike Coda David and Patrick finally see all of their missed texts and calls about Johnny's heart attack scare. Buoyed by their engagement and the promise of a lifetime of highs and lows, Patrick helps to navigate David through his rollercoaster reaction to the news.

The Hatchet in my Hands [david/patrick, M, 2,469] by imtelevisionsmoirarose

A couple years post-canon, David is contacted by Sebastien Raine with an opportunity for the apothecary. Patrick's urge to protect him grapples with his desire to let David heal.________________ Writing referenced in this installation of the Commonplace Book is a quote from fabulous poet and performer Brenna Twohy. Content warning: mention of domestic violence

The Weekend Getaway [david/patrick, T, 1,187] by xslytherclawx

David and Patrick go away for the weekend for their very first Valentine's Day as a married couple.

This is My Greatest Adventure [david/patrick, G, 3,987] by @agoodpersonrose

On two different occasions, Patrick and David each have a conversation with their respective in-laws about the state of their marriage which come to vastly different conclusions. Although, they do come up with one thing in common.

We just need a body [david & johnny, T, 1,687] by @lastchancecafe13

Johnny can't push away the image of a much smaller David. Red-eyed and pleading after a little league game that ended with a run-in with a wild ball. Johnny had brushed his concern aside, assuring David it was all part of the game. His son was sensitive to the actions of others and shared his mother’s flair for dramatics. He hadn’t listened close enough to hear the truth of his words. _____ David is injured during the baseball game. Johnny and Parick struggle with their guilt.

2022

[Podfic] Infinity Mirrors [david/patrick, G, podfic] by HowOldAreWe

For 8jodaiko's prompt: David takes Patrick to a museum/gallery. Podfic of Infinity Mirrors by barelypink

everything in transit [david/patrick, T, 3,748] by @ratchet

The romcoms didn’t teach him how to do this, how to just exist in someone’s space. That’s something David has had to learn for himself, one unremarkable drive home at a time. or: in the passenger seat of Patrick's car, David falls in love.

Getting to Know You Activities [david/patrick, G, 2,428] by obsessedwithdavrick

David is 100% positively sure that Patrick in accounts hates him, all because of a tiny mistake he made in his first week on the job. However, when he's costing events, they need to interact and this leads to inappropriate workplace behaviour. This is not an euphemism... until it is. lolz.

like a memory you'll never know [david/patrick, T, 4,945] by orphan_account

"This is a dream. It has to be.Either this is fake or the time he spent in Schitt’s Creek, with Patrick and Stevie and his family, is fake and he absolutely refuses to accept that." - After years of living in Schitt's Creek with Patrick, David wakes up stuck in the past, on the day his family arrived in town.

Lullabye [david/patrick, T, 1,500] by @filet-o-feelings

Songfic for Lullaby by the Spill Canvas Just a bit of hotel conference/air travel husband fluff.

This Bed Wasn't Built for Our Love [david/patrick, E, 16,836] by @delilah-mcmuffin

Ohmygod. A voice that sounds a lot like his husband’s echoes in Patrick’s brain. His parents heard them. Heard them having sex. Heard them having sex so rambunctious that they broke the goddam bed.

Winning the Game [david/patrick, E, 8,377] by @ladyflowdi

This is what David had not known about Patrick’s family, before Patrick’s Year: the Brewer clan was hiding a dark underbelly of illicit gambling, questionable leveraging of homemade treats, and a frankly terrifying love of The Godfather.

2024

It's not good for our relationship. [david/patrick, M, 22,558] by @characterassassination-at-9am

David thinks it's fun to take what he sees on TikTok/Instagram/etc. and apply it to his own relationship. Patrick....doesn't. Title obviously from: "David, you have to stop watching Notting Hill."

Stats:

No fanworks for 2017, 2018, or 2023! 2019: 2 fics/23,706 words 2020: 7 fics/108,001 words 2021: 14 fanworks (13 fics, 1 fanart)/76,261 words 2022: 7 fanworks (6 fics, 1 podfic)/37,834 words 2024: 1 fic/22,558 words Total: 31 fanworks (29 fics, 1 fanart, 1 podfic)/268,360

[mostlyinthemorning]

Around Schitt's Creek in 80 Days 2.12

2.12 Lawn Signs

Some of Moira's lawn signs disappear; David and Alexis work to get David's boss out of trouble.

IMDB Rating: 7.9

Playlist: It's Raining Men - The Weather Girls

Best line: You were my mistake, which I take full credit for.

Celebrity name drop: Prince Harry

Alexis's scary adventures: “Um, I’m sorry, were you picked up by the South Korean police on New Years? I had to sweet talk the consulate’s lawyer to get me a passport by midnight.”

David's clothes: Zara (l) and Acne Studios (r)

Moira's wig (just a jaunty little something):

Props (interesting that the bases are different than in the show):

Video:

Bonus content:

Fic rec: holy sick divine by earlylight

He looks up to catch David watching him a soft smile on his face golden-cast in the warm light that’s suddenly filling the office dust motes wheeling a scintillating symphony around him and Patrick can’t help but let slip a kind of hushed reverent what are you? In the space of a second the room is back to normal. Almost as if he’d dreamed it. David cocks his head puzzled evidently considering the question. “Hungry” he decides. AU. One fateful night Patrick meets a boy who’s literally out of this world. Unfortunately winning David Rose’s heart involves entirely too much paperwork – but the pen is mightier than the sword and by god does Patrick know how to use it.

See you tomorrow!

[whataperfectwasteoftime]

The District Sleeps Alone Tonight - A Songfic

Pairing: None 

Rating: General, although my blog is, as always, 18+ only 

Word Count: 1.6k

Warnings: angst, breakups, mentions of Teresa x Patrick Jane

Summary: I am a visitor here. I am not permanent. 

A/N: @whatsnewalycat said that The District Sleeps Alone Tonight by the Postal Service was a Marcus Pike song and then I listened to it during a thunderstorm and imagined a whole scene based on it. I’m not sure whether or not to call this a songfic, but there are several direct quotations from the lyrics and the “plot” of this follows the song pretty closely.  For best results, listen to this song while you read. The lyrics are posted at the end of the fic <3

Masterlist

A lone figure cuts through the wet fog, his collar turned up and shoulders hunched forward in a futile attempt to ward off the elements. The faded leather jacket may have been sufficient enough for even the coldest winter days in Austin, but against the drizzle and wind in this new climate, it only succeeds at keeping him dry. Mostly. The notion that he may not be as well-prepared as he had originally thought himself to be grates on him, shame niggling at the back of his spine at the realization that he doesn’t even know where to go to purchase a winter coat.

A gust of wind sends thousands of miniscule, stinging droplets of water into his face, making him grimace, and Marcus wonders to himself how it could possibly still be raining with temperatures so close to freezing.

It seems as though he’s stopped at every street crossing, because of course he is, and he squints against the endless line of headlights and brake lights extending in either direction, blurring and distorting in the soggy weather, as he waits for the traffic lights to turn.

It gets dark so early here.

His phone buzzes against fingers shoved in his pockets, and he fishes it out to read the text message that flashes on the screen.

Sorry, I think you might still have my spare key? If so can you mail it back? Thx.

The cavity of his chest feels empty and raw as his vision seems to darken around the words, twisting and warping them much like the rain and the headlights. Marcus pockets the phone again without responding and stares blankly at the ground. He thinks about the endless, pitch-black tunnels stretching out in every direction beneath him, wondering how many feet of asphalt and concrete there are between the bottoms of his feet and the top of the cavernous expanse of the DC underground. He imagines the sidewalk crumbling, sending him down into the unknown depths.

In reality, he takes the escalator across the street.

The station is buzzing with life–as it always seems to be, no matter the hour–and Marcus watches vibrant humanity swirl around him. Two teenagers sharing the same pair of headphones. A tired-looking mother with two young children. A woman in a business suit, eyes glued to her phone. A disheveled old man, smelling of booze, that everyone subconsciously steps around without even a look in his direction. 

Marcus fishes in his pocket for his metro card, his fingers bumping against the badge he had immediately unclipped from his lapel upon leaving work–the one that spells out a single word with big block letters, just another indignity upon all of the other indignities he’s suffered this week.

When he had asked why his regular badge–the one he’s clipped on his lapel every morning for over a decade–wasn’t sufficient, the bored door attendant tried to explain about building access being tied to his network credentials, which were tied to something called “Active Directory,” and it couldn’t be done right now because they were experiencing downtime after a backup server failed, and Marcus didn’t really understand what any of this meant or why this hadn’t all been set up beforehand, but there was hardly a point in trying to get answers to his questions because none of it would speed up the activation of his new credentials, nor the delivery of his new laptop, which wasn’t arriving until Monday.

None of this was done with malicious intent, of course; nor is he the only new employee affected, going by the line of badged Agents standing in line every morning this week to get the day’s temporary access, but Marcus still feels like a marked man. Separate. Apart. Singled-out. 

I am a visitor here. I am not permanent. 

It only compounds upon that same feeling inside of him: that feeling that he’s on some sort of strange vacation, and that soon he’ll be able to return home. Home. To his little duplex in Austin, where he shared one wall with Mrs. Ruth Galloway, the eighty-five year-old widow he had a cup of tea with every Sunday at two pm. To the city he knows, the field office where he’d spent most of his career, with familiar rooms and familiar faces… where she walks through the familiar halls. With him. 

Marcus swallows thickly, shoving the painful lump down into his stomach. 

No, he can’t go home.

The spacious condo certainly doesn’t feel like home when he opens the door to find the large living room dark and cold and foreboding, although that’s probably mostly his fault–the walls are still lined with moving boxes, most of them still half-full with his belongings, messy and unkempt after rummaging through them to find the essentials and leaving the rest.

When he had toured the building, two weeks before the move, the large residence felt full of dreams, of possibilities, rather than empty and sterile. Marcus remembers going from room to room, his head filled with images of an idealistic future: a king-sized bed, his and hers towels in the pristine bathroom, a bookshelf large enough to fit all of their books in the first spare room, and, in the second spare room… a crib. 

Now, they’re just two empty rooms. 

The fridge is empty too, Marcus suddenly remembers, having not had a chance to find a grocery store yet. He’s been living out of takeaway containers, not even bothering to open the box of dishes and silverware. He takes out two styrofoam boxes–one half-filled with leftover Pad Thai, the other with chicken Tikka Masala, and dumps them side-by-side into the same container with a half-grimace.

Beats going back out into the weather.

There are two beers left in a six-pack bought three days ago, so he opens one and takes a long sip while the microwave heats his food. He thumbs through the mail he left on the kitchen counter absentmindedly, finding mostly junk advertisements and coupons, but a takeout menu for a Sushi restaurant catches his eye. As he sets it on top of several other menus he’d accumulated over the last couple of days, the microwave beeps, alerting him to the fact that his dinner is ready. 

Marcus sits at the kitchen table and flicks on the TV in the living room, setting the channel to some random rerun of a syndicated sitcom that he doesn’t recognize, mostly for background noise. He pulls a somewhat-soggy copy of the Washington Post he snagged from the breakroom from his messenger bag and flips through the pages without really reading any of the headlines until he finds the crossword. He halfheartedly fills out the clues as he eats, the canned laugh track from the show filtering in and out of his awareness. The clue ‘strips in geography class (6 letters)’ finally causes him to rub at his temples, setting down the pen as he rises to his feet to toss the empty container and bottle in the trash. 

The other beer is popped open, and Marcus settles down on the couch, flipping through channels. He pauses briefly on a black and white film–Roman Holiday, he recognizes after a minute or two of watching–but when Ann and Joe kiss on the riverbank, he quickly switches to a basketball game instead. Keeping the volume low, he lets his mind wander as he blankly watches the teams run back and forth on the court, not all that interested in the score. 

He needs to buy food. He needs to find somewhere he can get a winter coat. He needs to find a post office, he suddenly remembers, thinking of the text message from earlier. He checks the time–late, probably too late. Wait, no–it’s two hours earlier in Austin. Two beers is hardly enough to even feel the alcohol, but apparently it’s enough to dull his sense of judgment, because he finds himself pulling out his phone. The call goes straight to voicemail, and he tries not to think about the possibility that she’s screening her calls because of him.

“Hi, uh… Hi. I’m sure you’re busy, but I got your message earlier about the key, and… I think I do have one, yeah, but I’m not sure… where, exactly. I’m still in the process of unpacking, got a couple more boxes to go through,” Marcus says, looking at the large pile of boxes in front of him and knowing he’s got many more throughout the house. “I’ll make it a priority to find it and send it off this weekend.

“It’s really nice here,” he continues, seemingly not able to stop the flow of words once they’ve started. “There’s a Thai place down the street that you’d like, but the spring rolls are so-so. Not like that one place we found in Ridgetop, remember that one?” Marcus chuckles softly to himself, hardly recognizing the sound of his own laughter, and it sends a pang down into his chest. “I–” he stutters, blinking rapidly. “I know things weren’t perfect between us. The–the timing wasn’t right, and there were a lot of… of uh, obstacles in our way, but I’ve been doing–” he huffs humorlessly, “–a lot of thinking over the past couple of days, and I think I understand now. I saw a life that I wanted, and… I pushed for it. I pushed too hard, without–without thinking about how you felt about it, about whether you were ready, whether you even wanted a life with me. You were… you were trying to tell me, that whole time… and I didn’t listen. But I… I think I finally see it–why I was the one worth leaving. It was never going to be me, it couldn’t have been. I ignored all the signs that I was pushing too hard, not listening, pressuring you…” He takes a shaky breath, and lets it out slowly. “I’m sorry. You were right to leave. I–I wish you the best, Teresa.”

*

The District Sleeps Alone Tonight

The Postal Service

Smeared black ink

Your palms are sweaty

And I'm barely listening

To last demands

I'm staring at the asphalt wondering

What's buried underneath

I'll wear my badge

A vinyl sticker with big block letters

Adhering to my chest

That tells your new friends

I am a visitor here, I am not permanent

And the only thing

Keeping me dry is

You seem so out of context

In this gaudy apartment complex

(Where I am) A stranger with your door key

Explaining that I'm just visiting

(Where I am) And I am finally seeing

Why I was the one worth leaving

Why I was the one worth leaving

D.C. sleeps alone tonight

You seem so out of context

In this gaudy apartment complex

(Where I am) A stranger with your door key

Explaining that I'm just visiting

(Where I am) And I am finally seeing

Why I was the one worth leaving

Why I was the one worth leaving

The district sleeps alone tonight

After the bars turn out their lights

(Where I am) And send the autos swerving

Into the loneliest evening

(Where I am) And I am finally seeing

Why I was the one worth leaving

Why I was the one worth leaving

Why I was the one worth leaving

Why I was the one worth leaving

[kiwi-luminaryofthestars]

02/18/2025 "Fiction and Feast" Progress Update:

God dammit. I wrote like a whole four paragraphs for a progress update and tumblr crashed and completely deleted it. So you're going to get the bits and pieces I remember lol.

I edited one whole page today, look at me go. Yeah, my brain was too mushy for anything more, but I think it's because I'm getting sick. Haven't been able to focus at all (I compared it to Artrax drowning in the Swamp of Sadness in the Neverending Story in my original draft, but I'm too annoyed that it got deleted to try again so just imagine I had a really funny metaphor about a depressed horse.)

I'm admittedly a little stuck on the mudslide scene. Why is there anything having to do with a mudslide in a vampire fic? Your guess is as good as mine, friend.

I've never written anything about natural disasters or even inclement weather at all, so this is interesting new territory for me. Action in general I have a hard time with, which frustrates me because I really, really like writing action. It's some of the funnest stuff to experiment with.

(This is nerdy so sorry in advance) One of my favorite books of all time, "The Knife of Never Letting Go" by Patrick Ness, was a huge inspiration to me growing up for action scenes. If you've never read it, highly recommend, but the way he writes action (or at least suspenseful scenes) is he ignores pretty much all rules of writing. It turns into pages of frantic chaos-- experimenting with where the words are positioned on the page; forgoing punctuation; bolding, italicizing, and even changing the fonts of some words-- and I take MASSIVE inspiration from him when I write (though dammit I couldn't ever do it justice.) I don't really go as crazy as he does (mostly because I'm sure that would turn some people off lol), but I do still very much toy with where paragraphs end and begin, which is something he places a lot of importance on in that book. And I thought it might be interesting, considering one of this fic's subjects is books (hence the "fiction"), to step outside of my comfort zone with this scene and style it differently. But, clearly I'm having some troubles with it. Surely that's to be expected, though, if I'm trying something new out.

You still here? Great, here's more rambling about other shit. Void journal, like I said.

Since I didn't have any energy/brain power to write, I did a lot of reading during my breaks at work (only self-indulgent reading, we're greedy here). I read through a lot of my komahina fic I have four chapters of posted. Uh, don't read that one, 'cause I'm probably going to delete it and either just never let it see the light of day or redo it at some point in the late future. I have a whole fucking 72K words I've not released but it's because I've realized how much I hate it (or at least parts of it, I still really like a lot of the dialogue I've written, which I guess just makes it more tragic.) Sad it took me SO MANY WORDS to realize that, but I digress. And I've learned from a small stint on ao3 years ago with another fandom that I will not and should not continue to release something that I hate or I'm going to stop writing for two years and leave a bunch of people hanging on a huge fic with only 4 chapters left with no intention of finishing it. So now it's just a for-me thing that I can make fun of.

I fucking love komahina btw; that was THE ship for me when I first played Danganronpa.

Anyway, incoherent rambling finished. If you've made it this far, I hope you have a good night. I'm falling asleep listening to this. So pretty, so very sleepy.

[andoutofharm]

i can’t believe they had to take a detour so pete could be a lil fruity with an nba player. band of all time

pete heard patrick was delayed and said hey jimmy we can go for round two my other boyfriend isnt even in texas yet

[autistpride]

Autism Acceptance

Dancer AU from April's prompts by @wolfstarmicrofic

Wordcount: 1000

Remus was both excited and nervous about the Riverdance show he was attending that afternoon with Mary. He had been interested in Irish dance since Mary, Lily, and he had seen some small students perform for St. Patricks day earlier that month. 

So when Remus got tickets to see an actual performance at the theatre in London from Mary for his birthday, he was first confused and unsure what that meant, looking at the two small papers with the theatre name and date. Until Mary explained what they were and let him process. When he finally processed what would be happening he squealed and jumped around the room, hugging Mary many times. 

The days moved quickly leading up to the trip. Mary checked with him multiple times to make sure he had everything in his shoulder bag and then once more when she picked him up. 

“Gloves, hat, keys, phone, book, notebook, pencil, pen, tissues, rescue meds, handkerchief, rescue meds, fidgets?” 

“Yes I got everything! I even have an extra battery so I can take pictures.I have my umbrella and I have a waterbottle and a snack too.” Remus said proud of himself for remembering the extras because of the potential weather and the length of time they would be out. 

Mary laughed, “Sorry love, I just wanted to make sure we were prepared so you wouldn’t feel upset when you realised you left something.”

Remus had stared out the door when Mary stopped him. “Remus, are you forgetting anything?”

Remus looked through his bag and ticked off the items on his fingers and then looked at Mary confused.

Mary mimed headphones and he gasped, running back inside to grab them before coming out with a nod. “Got everything!”

Mary smiled and nodded and to the train they went.

The ride was uneventful and arrived with only a minor delay. They waited for fifteen minutes for their next train and debated walking or taking the bus on the last leg. They decided on walking so Remus could release the nervous energy he was slowly building up and wouldn’t be able to pace around the theatre once they took their seats. 

It wasn’t far, near a half mile, but it gave Remus just enough time to relax. 

They showed their tickets at the ticket counter and got their stubs back. Mary had paid for them to get early entrance. They were able to enter early before the crowd, find their seats, and settle in before the mass of people. She also paid for them to meet the dancers after the show, if Remus had wanted, but either way it allowed them to stay in their seats until after the general admission had left and could leave once it was no longer busy. She had told Remus there was no pressure to meet anyone, they would do what he wanted.

So they settled into their seats, Remus put his headphones on, and opened up his book to read while they waited.

When the lights dimmed, Remus startled, but Mary’s smile reassured him that the show would be starting soon and it was time to get ready. So he put his book away and pulled out his small coin bag of fidgets so he could work through them as needed during the performance. 

Then the music began and Remus was wide eyed and in awe, hardly moving and trying not to blink for fear of missing anything. He had never sat so still in his entire life and during the intermission Mary pointed that out teasingly while Remus wiggled around near her. 

When it ended and the curtain closed, Remus stood with the rest of the crowd and screamed and clapped and jumped up and down. He loved every moment. He whispered to Mary that he absolutely wanted to meet some of the dancers if they still could and Mary held his hand as they made their way behind the stage to the meet and greet area. 

Remus gasped and froze up when one of the male dancers made their way over to them. He had beautiful black hair, tied back, and his shirt was open revealing his chest. 

“Hiya! I'm Sirius, one of the lead male dancers. Did you like the show?”

Remus stared.

Mary nudged him and Remus blushed deeply and nodded his head, unsure what to say. What does one say to someone built like a Greek god, danced like a nymph, and whose voice was like Remus’ own personal siren?

Mary, always one to champion for him, stepped in thinking he was overwhelmed and explained that Remus was autistic and likely nonspeaking right then because he was overstimulated but had been so excited to come back after the show. That he had loved the show, so had she. 

Sirius was so nice, smiling and motioning them to follow him to a quieter room that had a sofa and lowering his voice. He even offered to just write back and forth with Remus’ if he preferred that. Remus shook his head no because he had no idea what to even say in the first place, let alone what to write. 

Remus held out his notepad that had some of the questions and comments he had made during the performance. Sirius read them one at a time, taking the time to respond to each and every one, even if it was a simple thank you.

A shrill sound echoed in the room and Remus was quick to cover his ears. Mary apologised and stepped from the room, answering quickly.

Sirius pulled out his own headphones and popped them over Remus' ears and signed sorry to him. Remus blushed and gently patted over his ears before noticing Sirius' bracelet, a cord with the beautiful turquoise to green followed by white and blue to purple flag on it.

Remus looked up at Sirius and quickly pulled the sleeve of his jumper up, revealing the same one on his own wrist. 

Sirius blushed. 

[pumpkinfreak]

Heroes In The City: PT 7

It had been such a nice evening. It was so odd to see Eel in civilian clothes, but he looked nice in dark wash jeans and a red corduroy jacket, and he was doing a fine job as a fake boyfriend. He walked with her arm in arm, and insisted on paying for her food at the baseball game, and watching him gush about his son was quite enduring.

Then without much warning she found herself marching off with Linnya who was beginning to cry. Before Diana could do any consoling Luke appeared and just as quickly disappeared with his girlfriend. She had been around long enough to know that arguing with upset teenagers was a bad strategy. Patrick caught up with them as Luke and Linnya made their escape. Diana grabbed his arm, linking hers around it, to keep him from going after them.

“ Let them cool off a bit.” She said gently. Eel let out an exasperated sigh. “ I’m sorry. I know this isn’t a real date but you shouldn’t have to deal with my drama.” Diana shrugged. “ I have been on worse dates, but why don’t you buy me a drink to make it up to me.”

He blinked hard at her then smiled weakly. “ You get whatever you want…don’t you?” She leaned down towards him. “ Only most of the time.”

***

Eel took her back to the jazz club, The Keys, it was quieter tonight and they sequestered themselves to a corner booth. “ How did you meet Angel?” Diana asked as their drinks arrived. A dark hoppy beer for him and a Brandy Alexander for her.

“Juvie, well technically it was a group home for troubled teens, but tomato tamoto.” He took a long dreg. “We got married the second we were both eighteen like a couple of idiots, and spent fifteen years in wedded agony.” He chuckled darkly. “Best thing we ever did for our relationship was get divorced, at least that’s what I thought.”

Eel slumped a bit in his seat.

“ The last serious relationship I had was in World War Two.” Diana said it like she was talking about the weather. “ His name was Steve Trevor and I loved him.” She paused for a moment, gaze far away lost in another time. “ He died a few years ago, he was ninety eight.”

Taking a tentative sip the rich liquor tasted bland as it slid against her tongue. “ He taught me how to swing dance, and took me to my first drag show.” Eel thought she might start crying. “Being an immortal has its drawbacks.” She finished drawing into herself.

Eel gently placed his hand over hers. “I know what you mean.” Their eyes met and after a moment she brightened slightly.

“Patrick…how old are you?” Eel dramatically crossed his arms. “Well I certainly don’t get carded anymore.”

Diana laced her fingers to rest her chin against them, and gazed at him pensively. His normal body, for lack of a better term, had deep set crows feet, flecks of grey in his black curly hair, prominent smile lines.

“A mature thirty five?” She guessed.

Eel pursed his lips and squinted at her. “You’re good, you’re very good,” he leaned forward. “But technically I'm fifty eight, at least I’ve lived fifty eight years, If only the fountain of youth wasn’t an acid bath.” He leaned a little further and whispered conspiratorially. “ Do you want to know a secret about this old man you may, or may not be dating?”

Diana whispered back. “ What ever could you be hiding from me?” Eel nodded his head towards the dance floor. “ I love swing dancing.” He confessed.

***

Diana hummed quietly to herself as she stepped into the dress shop. Canary’s wedding party was deep inside the store, already with piles of gowns in their arms. “Oh my god, there she is!” Vixen exclaimed. Diana froze as everyone looked at her.

Canary shuffled over to her, her legs trapped in a tight mermaid style skirt.

“ Okay, definitely not this one.” She spoke over her shoulder at Power Girl, who pouted. “ Diana! we need to know everything.” She demanded when she finally reached her. “ About what?

Vixen rolled her eyes, dropping dresses on a nearby chair. She retrieved her phone and showed Diana the article from a sleazy gossip blog. She had to admit it was a great picture of them.

The photographer had captured them mid dip. Their cheeks were rosy and their smiles bright. She was barefoot, her heels discarded to make the height difference more manageable. He had offered to make himself taller but she insisted.

His arms were tight around her waist, and she had one hand tangled in the curls at the back of his neck.

“ -and there’s videos all over the place. I don’t know what’s more shocking, you two going out again, or Plas being a good dancer.” Vixen added with genuine surprise.

Diana shrugged nonchalantly. “ He’s a great dancer, we’re going out again next weekend to do just that.” Power Girl helped Canary back to the dressing room. “ Aren't you worried about leading him on?” She asked and Vixen nodded.

Diana casually began looking through dresses. “ Who says I’m leading him on? We enjoy each other’s company.”

Canary called out from behind the curtain. “So you are dating!” Diana shrugged again.

“ She shrugged, Canary.” Power Girl told her as she handed her another dress. “ A shrug is not an answer!” Canary said, poking her head out. Vixen pursed her lips, looking down at her phone. “ You know he’s not bad looking.” She admitted. Power Girl gasped and Canary frowned, her nose scrunched. “ He’s got a gold tooth.” She whispered like it was a horrible secr

“…it’s kind of hot in an old, divorced dad, who’s a washed up gangster, kind of way.” She said tentatively.

Power Girl put her hands on her hips. “ Did you just call Plastic Man…a DILF?” Vixen nearly dropped her phone. “ I did not say that.” Canary pulled the curtain aside sharply. “You strongly implied it.” She chided with a giggle.

“ He is fifty eight, has a son, and you called him hot. Are those not the prerequisites for a DILF.” Diana teased. They all gawked at her. “ He’s fifty eight, that’s nearly a grandpa. He’s a GILF, Vixen you called him a GILF.” Power Girl pointed at Vixen who waved them off with a huff. “ Diana I did not call your man a GILF, and this conversation did not happen.”

Canary shook with laughter and she struggled to compose herself. “ Diana, are you bringing him to the wedding? I need to know the seating chart.” She said, taking a deep breath. “ We’ll be there.” Diana promised.

💕Them💕

[biggerbetterbat]

WITH YOU [43] HOUSE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FOREST

Daryl Dixon x OC!Charlie Reed

Summary: Charlie starts to accept that now she has a new group. Carol finds a house in the middle of the forest, and the group decides to stay they for some time. Charlie, Tyreese, and Carol are worried about Lizzie.

Warnings: angst, death, killing Walkers

Song: Bruises Lewis Capaldi

Words: 4,816

Mom, dad, Finn, Luke, Will, Pete, Amy, Jim, Jacquie, Sophia, Shane, Patricia, Jimmy, Lori, T-Dog, Oscar, Axel, Merle, Andrea, Zach, Patrick, Hershel, Rick, Carl, Michonne, Glenn, Maggie, Bob, Sasha, Daryl, Beth.

"Do you think there'll be kids there?" Charlie heard Lizzie's voice in the silence of the night. "At Terminus?"

"If their parents kept them safe like Tyreese and Charlie kept all of you safe.”

"I saved Tyreese. And then Charlie," she said. "I shoot people that tried to hurt them," Lizzie explained."I didn't mean to shoot in the head."

"You had to," Carol said. "You saved Tyreese and Charlie."

"Maybe there still will be kids," said the girl. "Did you have kids?"

A chilling shiver crawled down Charlie’s spine as the haunting memory resurfaced. The weight of sorrow pressed heavily on her chest, and a sense of helplessness gripped her soul. The vivid memory of Sophia leaving the barn as a beast played over and over, leaving a profound ache and a lingering fear that echoed in the depths of her consciousness. Charlie started whispering her countdown again to muffle Carol's voice. "Mom, dad, Finn, Luke, Will, Pete, Amy, Jim, Jacquie, Sophia..."

She tried to convince herself that everything that had happened so far was nothing more than a bad dream. She repeated reassuring words, attempting to dismiss the vivid images as figments of imagination. And with that thought she closed her eyes tightly and fell asleep.

The weather was hot from the early hours. Even though, they were lucky to walk in the shadows of the trees, it was impossible to walk without a break, so now the group was resting. It wasn't the safest place to sit around as something could easily go down on them from the high hill, but Tyreese was not only suffering from heat but also from the pain that he felt in his arm.

"Would you like to hold her?" Carol asked her. "I have to help Tyreese with his arm."

Charlie looked down at the baby and grimaced. A surge of discomfort coursed through Charlie at the thought that she would hold Judith. Confusion and guilt mingled with an aversion, creating a mixed feeling within. The internal conflict added a layer of pain, casting a shadow over what should have been a moment of tenderness. Charlie looked up at Carol. "No."

"Why you never want to hold her?" asked Mika, sitting on front of Charlie with a baby in her arms, as she took it from Carol.

"I'm not good with kids," she answered.

"You're good with Carl," the girl said but immediately regretted it. After recalling the memory of Carl, Charlie's emotions swirled in a mix of sorrow, nostalgia, and perhaps even guilt or regret. Waves of grief washed over her as she realized the absence of a boy who became her friend. The memory served as a poignant reminder of the big impact Carl had on her life, leaving Charlie with an even bigger hole in her heart."Sorry. Shouldn't have said that."

"Yeah, you shouldn't."

"I miss my dad," the girl confessed. "Do you miss someone?"

"I do," Charlie nodded. In fact, she was missing more than just one person. She lost so many people on the way that fingers of one hand was not enough to count them all.

"But we should be happy," Mika said and gave Charlie a small smile. "We still have Carol. And Tyreese. And we have each other, right?"

She nodded her head, feeling the light of sympathy light in her for the girl. Besides she was right, they still had some friends left after the loss of those who have passed away, and Charlie experienced a mixture of gratitude, relief, and a renewed sense of connection. She might feel grief; however, she should appreciate the relationships she still had, recognizing the importance of cherishing and nurturing these connections. Despite the pain of loss, the realization that she still had friends by her side brought a glimmer of hope and warmth to her heart.

"How's your arm?" Charlie asked the man, while they were sitting on the tracks, waiting for Carol and Mika.

"Better," he nodded. "And how are you?"

"Better."

"I spy trees and weeds," suddenly said Lizzie to Tyreese as they were playing some odd game.

Suddenly, not so far away they heard snarling. It was filled with hunger and determination, shoulders squared and gaze fixed ahead, to get to the meal. The rhythmic sound of its footsteps echoed against the cold metal rails, a solitary rhythm in the silence of the empty landscape. He was alone, but his voice could easily lure others.

"Stay here," Charlie said as she got up and grabbed her bow.

It got stuck in the hole in the trucks, so Charlie could get as close as possible. She methodically drew back the string with a fluid motion, her movements practiced and precise. With focused concentration, she anchored her grip, ensuring stability and control. Her gaze fixates on the target, unwavering despite any distractions around. With each breath, she tried to steady the aim, aligning the arrow, so it would go straight through the Walker's head. Time seemed to slow as she reached the pinnacle of tension, her muscles coiled just like Daryl taught her.

Daryl.

A painful thought. It caused Charlie's fingers to tremble against the taut bowstring, her mind swirled with the unbearable weight of the thought that Daryl might be dead. The Walker blurred through her tears as she struggled to steady her aim, her chest constricting with every heartbeat. Charlie's hand went slack, the bow slipping from her grasp as the realization crashed over her like a wave. Daryl, her closest companion, was gone. A hollow ache settled in Charlie's chest, suffocating her with its weight. Daryl was gone, leaving Charlie to grapple with the harsh reality of a future without him.

She reached over to her belt, where her axe was replacing the knife that was left in the boiler room near Lori. Charlie sighed and was ready to finally kill the Walker.

"Charlie!" Lizzie's scream cut through the air. "Sometimes we have to kill them. I know that, but sometimes we don't."

Charlie's brow furrowed. In her eyes, Lizzie’s plea seemed like a dangerous liability, a weakness that could jeopardize their survival in the unforgiving world they now inhabited. Charlie really tried to understand, making excuses that back in the day she also had troubles to kill one of them. However, Lizzie saw what the Walkers can do, so Charlie couldn't understand how she could be so naive, so blind to the harsh realities they faced every day. To Charlie, killing the walker became a necessary act of self-preservation, a means of protecting themselves and ensuring their continued existence in a world overrun by the undead.

As she looked at Lizzie, she couldn't help but feel a twinge of resentment towards her perceived weakness. In her mind, her reluctance to take action was a sign of her inability to adapt to their new reality, a flaw that could ultimately put them all in danger.

"There's no sometimes," Charlie answered but didn't pursue the want to kill the Walker. He was trapped anyway.

The house that Carol and Mika stumbled upon in the woods appeared like a perfect opportunity to rest after days of voyage. Its weathered exterior bore the scars of time, with peeling paint and warped wood hinting at months or even years of neglect. Vines and ivy snaked their way up the walls, reclaiming the structure as their own in nature's relentless march. Despite its wild appearance, the house exuded an eerie sense of tranquility, nestled among the trees like a hidden sanctuary. It seemed peaceful in a world that became chaotic. The front porch sagged under the weight of years, yet still beckoned with the promise of shelter and respite. It was surrounded by the trees, and beside the house being neglected, in front of the porch grew yellow flowers.

"Girls, you sit tight," Carol said. "Charlie make sure that no one is coming in until we come out no matter what you hear."

"They're gonna be okay," Mika said to Charlie and she nodded. Then the little girl looked at her sister and sat down next to her and Judith.

As Charlie stood guard outside the house, her boredom became weighing heavily on her shoulders like a cloak. The minutes dragged on, each one stretching into an eternity as she watched over Lizzie and Mika with growing impatience. The forest seemed to close in around them, suffocating them with its oppressive stillness. She longed for some distraction, anything to break the monotony of her task.

Charlie shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her gaze wandering aimlessly over the surrounding. Every rustle of leaves or distant caw of a crow seemed to warn her, reminding her to focus as they were surrounded by the unknown. However, she wasn't scared. She was ready to use her weapon in case of any emergency.

"It's not that," Lizzie answered to whatever Mika said, but her eyes were stuck on the grave. Charlie's attention was back on them. "They're gonna find one in there and they're going..."

"Stop it! They aren't people!"

"But you're wrong," Lizzie shrugged her arms looking at her sister finally. Then her eyes rested on Charlie. "All of you."

The way she regarded walkers as people filled Charlie with a deep sense of unease, a primal instinct warning her of the danger lurking beneath Lizzie's innocent facade. Charlie knew all too well the true nature of these creatures, the insatiable hunger that lurked behind their lifeless eyes. She couldn't shake the feeling that her behavior would lead to something bad.

With furrowed brow and clenched jaw, Charlie struggled to contain her emotions, her eyes darting nervously between Lizzie and the surrounding woods - not being sure what was more dangerous. As the shadows lengthened around them, Charlie couldn't shake the feeling that the house was either a sanctuary or a tomb.

Her thoughts immersed her so much that she woke up from them the moment the Walker that came out of nowhere, was crawling in the direction of Lizzie and Judith. Mika tried to shoot it immediately, but she missed the head as it was moving so much, and she was too scared.

Charlie lunged forward, her grip tightening around the handle of the axe as she swung with all her might. The blade bit deep into the walker's flesh, cleaving through skin and bone with a sickening thud. Time seemed to slow as the walker stumbled backward, its lifeless eyes fixed on its prey even as its body crumpled to the ground. Charlie stood panting amidst the chaos, her chest heaving with exertion as she surveyed the scene before her. Adrenaline surged through her veins as she fought to protect Lizzie, Mika, and little Judith, her every instinct focused on driving back the relentless tide of danger.

But amidst the fear, there was a flicker of relief in Charlie's eyes, a sense of triumph born from the knowledge that she had saved them from harm. As she turned to face Lizzie, Mika, and Judith, their wide-eyed stares met her own, filled with a mixture of fear and gratitude. In that moment, Charlie knew that she had done what was necessary to protect her new friends.

Charlie knelt next the older girl. "There's no sometimes," she repeated what she said couple of hours before, signaling that Walkers should be killed always. Lizzie pushed her hand away with a furry in her eyes.

"Are you okay?" asked Carol while Tyreese was picking up Judith. They both stormed out of the house, alarmed by the noise. "Why are you upset? Are you scared?"

"No."

"Just look at the flowers like you're supposed to," Mika tried to calm her sister down.

Charlie was watching it all with furrowed eyebrows.

"Look," Charlie said and stretched out an arm to the girl. Her eyes lit up at the sight. "You like her?"

"She's perfect!" Mika took the doll. "I'm gonna name her Griselda Gunderson!"

Charlie snorted. "That's an exceptional name."

"You don't like it?"

"I do," she smiled lightly. "But we should tame her hair."

"We should," Mika chuckled. "I like your braid. Could you braid my hair like that?"

Charlie smiled at the girl and nodded her head. Then she moved her eyes to Tyreese who sat down in an armchair with an uneasy stare. Charlie furrowed her brows. "What's wrong?"

"I'm not used to this," he said. "We're living in a room in a house."

"Yeah, so relax," Charlie smiled.

"We should stay here," Mika interrupted.

"What about the Terminus?" Carol asked from her place. "You don't want to go there?"

"Maybe we can stay here for some time."

Lizzie smiled and nodded her head, so Charlie exchanged stares with the other adults. Feeling of family warmth overcame her body, and small smile stayed on her lips. As the feeling grew, she started to hum a lullaby she knew. In a moment she felt Mika's body, curling up to her, becoming heavy as the sleep took over it.

"Mom, dad, Finn, Luke, Will, Pete, Amy, Jim, Jacquie, Sophia, Shane, Patricia, Jimmy, Lori, T-Dog, Oscar, Axel, Merle, Andrea, Zach, Patrick, Hershel, Rick, Carl, Michonne, Glenn, Maggie, Bob, Sasha, Daryl, Beth..." Charlie was muttering under her nose as she thought everyone was sleeping. They all decided that it would be better to spend first couple nights together.

"Charlie?" she heard a whisper. "What are you doing? You aren't sleeping?"

"Did I wake you?" she whispered.

"It's okay," she shook her head in the dark and sat up slowly not to wake Lizzie or Mika up. Judith was peacefully sleeping on Tyreese chest, unbothered by the whispering. "What were you doing?"

"It's my thing," Charlie answered. "I'm trying to tire my brain so I could sleep."

"I don't think it's healthy," Carol said.

"It's working."

For a moment it became silence all over again, before Carol opened her mouth again. "Do you think they're all dead?"

"You saw what happened."

"Do you think Daryl didn't make it?" she asked.

Charlie gulped big and thick lump that formed in her throat. "He was trying to save everyone. Probably stayed to the end when there was no bus, car, and the place became overrun."

"But he's...Daryl," Carol tried to fill Charlie with hope. She didn't know that the whole conversation was just breaking her heart. "Do you miss him?"

"Yes," she whispered and felt the tears. "I don't know what I should do with myself when he's not around. It's as if I forgot everything he had been teaching me. I no longer know what is wrong or right."

"It will get better."

"When?"

"Sooner or later," Carol said with nostalgic tone.

"Hmm."

"Let's sleep, Sweet Thing."

As the group settled into the house they had discovered, Carol slipped into the role of both mother and lady of the house. With a quiet strength and unwavering determination, she took on the responsibility of caring for the needs of those around her, ensuring that they felt safe and supported in their new surroundings. Her warm smile and gentle words became a source of solace for the group, a reminder that even in the darkest of times, there was still room for compassion and kindness.

Carol's nurturing presence extended to every corner of the house, from tending to the wounds of Tyreese to providing a listening ear for Charlie burdened by the weight of her grief. She became a pillar of strength for the group, her unwavering resolve serving as a source of hope for the girls in a world consumed by despair.

But perhaps most importantly, Carol took on the role of surrogate mother to the children, offering them love, guidance, and protection in the absence of their own parents. With a tender touch and a watchful eye, she helped to shield Judith from the horrors of the outside world, creating a sense of normalcy amidst the chaos. She also took as the point of honor to take care of Charlie and was making sure she's okay.

In Carol, the group found not only a leader and a provider but also a source of love and comfort in a world filled with darkness. And as they gathered around the hearth of their newfound home, they knew that as long as Carol was by their side, they would weather whatever challenges the future might bring.

"What are you doing?" Charlie asked as she entered the kitchen.

"Cookies," Carol smiled. "Girls said they would like to eat ones, and I found chocolate in the cupboard,"Charlie nodded with a smile and leaned on the counter. "Is something wrong?"

Carol developed a skill of reading her just by looking at her face. She couldn't precisely say if it was good or bad for now, but nothing could hide from Carol. So, Charlie decided to voice her concerns related to Lizzie.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on with the girl?"

"What do you mean?" Carol tried to brush her off with a smile.

"I mean, what's wrong with Lizzie?"

The woman placed everything down with a sigh and looked at Charlie. Carol was well aware of complexity of the problem with Lizzie. It was making her heart sink every time she was thinking about it, that's why she wasn't doing this much. "She's just lost," she said. "She can't understand how the world has changed."

"We can't leave it like that."

"Then what should we do?" Carol asked, but the silence answered her. "Exactly."

"She is dangerous to everyone. Even herself," Charlie voiced her worries.

"She's a good child," Carol said and looked over the window, watching as Lizzie was running around laughing. Charlie knew that the girls were replacing the emptiness Sophia left in Carol's heart, so it was probably harder to let the negative thoughts to her.

Which only made things harder.

Suddenly, Carol dropped everything and left the room that she was talking with Charlie. The second, furrowed her eyebrows and stepped closer to the window, and her heart sank.

As Charlie watched from a distance, a knot tightened in his stomach as she witnessed the horrifying scene unfolding before her. Lizzie, seemingly oblivious to the danger, gleefully played with the walker, her innocent laughter ringing through the air. Carol sprang into action with a speed and determination. With a primal instinct, she lunged forward, pulling Lizzie away from the walker's grasp just in the nick of time. The air seemed to crackle with tension as Carol wrestled with the undead creature, her every movement fueled by a mother's fierce protectiveness.

In the very moment, she felt another presence behind her. The man switched off the fire, so the whistle of the boiling water went quiet. Before he asked what was going on he looked out of the window. As it was quiet around, they both could hear a loud scream coming from Lizzie's mouth."She didn't want to hurt anybody! She was my friend and you killed her! You killed her!"

Tyreese's realization dawned slowly, like a dark cloud creeping across the sky. At first, he dismissed Lizzie's unsettling behavior as the product of trauma and fear, a child struggling to cope with the horrors of the world around her. But as he observed her reaction now, a gnawing sense of unease began to take root in his mind. He looked at Charlie and their eyes met.

The pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place, each one a chilling revelation of the truth that lurked beneath the surface. The way Lizzie spoke about the walkers with an unsettling sense of familiarity, the disturbing drawings she created depicting violence and death – it all pointed to a deeply disturbed mind, a darkness that threatened to consume them all. However, nothing could be done.

The group needed to hunt down the deer they saw near the house. Charlie volunteered for that, and she decided to take Mika with her as she knew the importance of teaching her the skills necessary for survival, but he also felt the weight of responsibility resting heavily on her shoulders.

With a steady hand and a reassuring smile, Charlie guided Mika through the dense undergrowth, her senses on high alert for any sign of danger. She imparted her knowledge of tracking and hunting with patience and care, teaching her to move silently and stealthily through the forest like a ghost in the night. Remembering how Daryl used to teach her.

"The fire's still burning," the girl said, looking at the smoke that was raising in the distance for couple days now.

"It could have gone out," Charlie shrugged.

"Nope. The smoke is black," Mika argued. "If it was white, the fire wouldn't have be burning anymore," she said and smiled after seeing dumbfounded face of Charlie. "I miss science class. Except for when we had to do stuff like cut up planaria worms."

"There are worse things you've got to do."

"No, I don't."

"Yes you do," Charlie said with a firm voice and stopped walking. "Lizzie's bigger than you and in some ways she's stronger. But you're smarter and you understand these...things," she explained. Suddenly from behind the bushes appeared a big and shiny deer. He stopped a couple feet away, and proudly straightened his back. Charlie nudged the girl. "Do it. I showed you."

Charlie furrowed her brows as the girl turned to her. "I can't. We have peaches."

Charlie sighed in a defense, but smiled and nodded her head.

Carol and Tyreese were talking near the well as they were getting water for whatever reason. Their conversation seemed rather serious judging by Carol's face. But it break into a huge, bright smile as she saw Charlie approaching. "You're back already? Where's Mika?"

"She wanted to find Lizzie, so she could tell her about the hunt."

"And the deer?"

Charlie sighed. "Mika couldn't bring herself to shoot that deer and it was gone before I had a chance to shoot."

"Yeah, she's always been sensitive," Carol nodded.

"I'm not sure if she'll ever be able to pull the trigger."

"And you're so calm?" Tyreese narrowed his eyes in surprise.

Charlie looked up from the water source as she was washing her hands. "What am I supposed to do? Yell at her?" she asked annoyed. "She's a little girl, and I'm not a monster."

Carol exchanged glances with each other. "You weren't so soft with Carl."

"Sorry?"

"You didn't have any resistance to yell at him or put him at the edge of tears," she remembered.

Charlie's frustration simmered at Carol. She felt a pang of hurt at the accusation, her emotions torn between defending herself and understanding Carol's perspective. Deep down, Charlie knew she wasn't heartless, but the accusation still stung, leaving her feeling misunderstood and defensive. Maybe at first she wasn't the nicest to the boy, but he grew on her and became a close person to her heart. She never said anything to purposely hurt him...or did she? Carol's disapproving gaze only fueled Charlie's irritation, leaving her to wonder if maybe she was being too hard on the boy.

"Carl was a boy," Charlie straightened her back. Her annoyance increased at the mention of his name. "He needed to toughen up. Also, he was older than her..." she said, but as she voiced that she wasn't so sure. Carl didn't have any problems with guns; however, he was a sensitive child. Maybe she just had problem with identifying that and later it was too late to treat him gently. "Carl was different. I'll keep teaching her, but it's hard."

"She's got a good heart, Charlie," Carol said. "We'll find a way to keep her safe, even if it means stepping in ourselves."

"That's only the next reason why we should stay here," Tyreese changed the subject.

"What?"

"You liked the idea the other night."

"Yeah, I wanted to stay for couple of days not forever," Charlie said. "What if someone is alive and is in the Terminus?"

"We don't know that, sweet thing," Carol shook her head. "We don't know what waits us there."

"We can't stay here forever. We will run out of supplies eventually," she argued.

"Charlie, we can't risk heading to Terminus right now," Tyreese said. "It's too uncertain."

She didn't answer.

"We found this house for a reason — to stay hidden and regroup," Carol said.

"Regroup?" she scoffed. "Who do you want to regroup?"

"What would Daryl do?" the other woman asked. "You think he would want to risk Judith's life?"

"I think he would like to go to the Terminus if that meant reconnecting with the rest."

"Listen, we need a plan," the man said as the voice of reason. "Terminus might be a trap, and we can't gamble with our safety. Let's fortify here, gather resources, and figure out our next move together."

"Charlie! Carol! Help!

Carol, Charlie, and Tyreese sprinted through the trees, their hearts pounding as they heard the distant screams of the girls. Fear clenched at their chests, driving them forward with urgency. With each step, branches whipped past them, and the forest blurred into a chaotic mosaic of greens and browns. Adrenaline surged through their veins as they pushed themselves to move faster, desperate to reach the girls before it was too late.

As they burst into the clearing, they found Mika trapped, terror etched on her face as she struggled against the relentless advance of the walker. Without a thought, Carol shoot the Walker in the head which gave the girl a time to run from the five or six more.

Charlie didn't have a gun, so she was just watching what was happening in front of her, how the dead were dropping to the ground like flies. Her eyes widened in surprise as she watched Lizzie take aim and fire at the approaching walkers. She never expected the young girl to have the courage, let alone the skill, to defend herself in such a manner - especially in the light of past events. Her expression determined as she continued to take down the undead with steady shots.

Charlie couldn't help but feel a mix of shock and admiration for the girl's resilience in the face of danger. Maybe today's situation showed her the true nature of Walkers and their problem solved itself.

As the evening settled in after the harrowing ordeal of having to kill walkers, a somber atmosphere hung heavy over the group. They gathered around a flickering fire, the crackling flames casting long shadows that danced against the walls of their makeshift shelter. Charlie was sitting down on the floor, brushing the leaves out of Mika's hair as the girl was playing with a doll. Charlie once again began humming a lullaby and in a second Judith fell asleep in Tyreese's arms - along with Tyreese.

Despite the heaviness in the air, there was a sense of solidarity among them, a silent understanding that they were in this together, bound by a shared determination to survive. And as the night wore on, they found solace in each other's presence, drawing strength from the bonds that held them tight in the face of the uncertain future.

"I had to help stop them," said Lizzie in a low ton. She was still tense from what she had to do, and the emotions still fresh in her.

"Do you understand what they're now?" Carol asked.

"I know..." Lizzie nodded. "I know what I have to do now."

Carol's eyes met Charlie's and she nodded, so the other woman could continue her conversation with Lizzie. It was the right moment to convince her what was good and what was bad.

"It's ugly and it's scary," Carol said. "That's how we got to be here. That's growing up now."

"I don't want to hurt anyone," said Mikka suddenly, showing that she wasn't mindlessly playing with a toy.

"You have to be sometimes," Lizzie answered and then looked up at Charlie. "But just sometimes."

She smiled at her lightly and nodded her head, caressing Mika's hair. "Sometimes."

Sitting around the fire, Charlie couldn't help but smile as she listened to the girls' laughter as they were making cookies with Carol, their youthful energy a welcome respite from the harsh realities of their world.

And as they sat together surrounded by the warmth of the fire that was lighting up the room, Charlie couldn't help but feel grateful for the makeshift family she had found in the midst of the chaos, knowing that as long as they had each other, they could face whatever challenges lay ahead with strength and resilience.

Or so they thought...

previous masterlist next

[rivetgoth]

Got tagged by @skinnedcorpse to share 10 songs I’ve been listening to recently! So uhh here are some of mine. :)

Geneva Jacuzzi — Cannibal Babies. Omfg I saw Geneva Jacuzzi perform last night and she was INCREDIBLE. Genuinely like absolutely mindblowing, one of my favorite live shows I’ve seen in a bit. This song in particular has been really sticking out for me.

HEALTH — L.A. Looks. Been on a little bit of a HEALTH kick and this song in particular just fucks so hard. It’s so euphoric and bright. Also I love living in LA.

ACTORS — In Real Life. One of my favorite darkwave bands put out a new single!! I’ve been really hype for new music from them and this track is really good. Been listening to it a bunch.

Clan of Xymox — Louise. I’m about to throw some real classic obvious stuff at y’all cuz I’ve been spending some time with some old faves recently. Been having a Xymox moment. They’re so good.

Siouxsie and the Banshees — Monitor. Man the other day I just threw on Juju for the first time in a bit and was like damn. I can’t believe she did all that. 1981 dropping like legendary iconic classic after classic back to back like that. It’s a cold take I know but god I love this song.

New Order — Age of Consent. This song came on at the club for the first time in ages recently and it went offffffff it was so nice to hear it.

Virgin Prunes — Bau-Dachöng. Sorry for being goth. Was reminded of this album awhile back so I’ve been revisiting it a bunch. I swear it was before St Patrick’s Day I’m not one of those guys I promise.

Male Tears — Creep Distance. This album just screams summertime for me, especially summer 2022 for me. As the weather clears up a little here and the sun is finally coming out I’ve been super nostalgic. Sounds like rum and cherry cola with lime.

Choir Boy — Two Lips. Polar opposite of Male Tears, Choir Boy just screams the nostalgia of cold winter nights, especially their first album.

Beborn Beton — Another World. Goth club staple from the past couple of decades, I’ve heard it in clubs for YEARS but never actually went out of my way to look it up and listen to it recreationally and damn. It goes off actually. 

Idk who to tag!! @lysistra @ourladyofomega @omegaversereloaded @testure-1988 @theonlycure? If y’all want ofc!!