An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
CHAPTER TWO OF THE PETERICK 5 + 1!!
the long awaited confession (and some smut…because come on. let me indulge.)
excerpt:
The only thing Patrick is sure of right now is that he wants to feel Pete under his hands. He wants to wrap Pete up in a giant fucking hug and go back to the time when he was just Patrick, the kid who happened to be in a band with all these other big names, the kid who wore the hat and tried really hard to not make eye contact with people. Pete’s Patrick.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
It’s not that the snail didn’t like the bunny. They get along just fine. The snail would even go so far as to say that they were coworkers. Work buddies. They have, on more than one occasion, ended up frighteningly close to each other on stage. Although, the snail doesn’t really move, so it must be that the bunny loses track of its stage markers and wanders close, close enough for the snail to see the sweat rivulets on its skin, the pattern of its fur, the gleam in its eyes.
It’s just that…the Blessed Snail was, for lack of better words, jealous.
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the long awaited snunny fic, people. no further comment.
raccooninnit………………. if i’m not mistaken in understanding what that’s talking about……. dsmp 👀? maybe? (if not, deepest apologies, i’ve only ever seen that word in dsmp circles)
cough. so you know how you have that kid you kinda just wanna stuff into the basement forever. yeah JSNDHSH KIDDING (…maybe) anyways raccooninnit is the largest most convoluted shit i have ever attempted to write and it’s also up on my ao3 but i don’t suggest reading it because it’s gonna be forever abandoned and also it’s really bad. the plot holes are Gaping. the premise started like this: raccooninnit bumps into birdza, who takes him in to live with him, technopig, and wilbur stoat. super fluffy, hybrid au, maaaaybe some whump/hurt comfort
the premise is currently like this: philza is secretly a retired super spy agent soldier along with like. the rest of the dsmp. and tommy has been kidnapped by an evil science hybrid research facility that philza’s team has been working to take down since forever and tommy is just emotional manipulation and bait. there’s copper automatons and i tried my hand at being sciency and shit and also there’s a giant doctor spider. i also gave wilbur knives which was fated to go wrong from the very start.
anyways that’s my poor, multiarmed baby who im leaving in the basement for . um. many reasons, but mostly i just realized i created a deus ex machina for myself and doomed it all
how do you even 3rd wheel this bad sounds very funny
anon. let me tell you. this story starts with a summer class and the back row of the desks. i was sitting behind these two guys who ISTG KEPT FLIRTINF W EACH OTHER IN A TENSION FILLED WILL THEY WONT THEY SITUATION. so i wrote a poly ffxiv gladios ignis prompto noctis fic to vent my frustrations elsewhere (also doesn’t help that i found both of them pretty cute)
here’s a liddol snippet ⬇️
[Prompto] had spent most of the first class trying not to breathe too loudly, just in case he attracted their attention in any way. But then he started noticing things. Things like the grazes between the two, their elbows and knees barely touching in a way that Prompto was sure they could both feel. The warmth in Ignis’ hands and eyes when Noctis leans over and whispers to him, the glances Noct steals when Ignis is busy copying down notes in class. It’s mind numbingly frustrating just to be near them, not to mention aggravatingly intoxicating. He’s hooked like it’s bad reality TV.
It’s painfully obvious that they’re, at the very least, lusting for—if not in love with—each other. So, Prompto takes every single thought that's tinged with anything but friendly intentions and buries it where the sun won’t shine.
You wish something else was buried where the sun don’t shine—
And there goes another. Prompto inhales deeply, trying his best to ignore the way his body heats up as images start flashing through his brain. Stop, he thinks. Jesus. It’s been months of this bullshit, and if it continues, he might have to consider switching to Psych I for the rest of the year.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
He retches slightly. Patrick has no idea if it was from the pain, the hangover, or from the realization that that was his foot. That fucking disgusting thing is attached to him.
“Oh, my god,” he whimpers. “That’s my foot,” he tells the person beside him.
“Yeah, that’s—that’s something, alright,” Gabe says. “I’m so sorry, bro. I didn’t know—”
“Stop talking,” Patrick commands as another wave of pain washes over him.
(chapter 3 is up! cw for graphic injury and hospital scenes)
