I Finished The Shirt Cut Art Meme With Vincent :)c Also Decided To Upload Them Separately!

I like the B team so much

🍩 🩷 ✨

Imagine Katakuri sitting still while his daughters cover him in glitter, nail polish, and hair clips 🎀 Just imagine him having a sweet little bonding moment with his girls

⛥ﾟ・。 fairytale

SECRET BONUS/prequel to pocus -- katakuri is busy playing tea party with his daughters when his two sons attempt to party crash—with a twist. luckily, sir dad is here to save the day.

cw: fluff, comfort, dad katakuri, katakuri is katakuri, the girls are adorable, he is thirty-five, you are thirty-four, soda is eleven, cocoa is eight, the twins are four, chai is two,

"So, tell me, Sir Dad, how goes your work in the Lollipop Court?" Cocoa asked in a British accent, tipping her nose in the air. "I heard you're working on a tough case."

Your large, floppy sun hat—which was entirely too big—sat slightly crooked on her head, shading her face as she took a sip out of her empty, plastic tea cup.

Unsure of what to say, Katakuri hesitated a moment, quickly wracking his brain for something.

He had no idea he worked in the Lollipop Court, much less was currently on a case.

Hell, he didn't even know how Cocoa knew what a court case was.

"It goes... well..." he answered, unsure, as he raised a brow, his two, large fingers completely dwarfing the tiny teacup in their grasp.

"Daddy!" Latte loudly whispered, stealing his attention as she leaned over from her seat next to him, shielding her mouth from her older sister. "You gotta stick your pinky out! S'the tea party rules!"

Glancing down at his hand, he quickly corrected himself, before turning back to her.

"My mistake."

Promptly, Cocoa nodded, before turning to her younger sister.

"Lady Latte, how goes your fashion business?" she asked, fake eating a toy scone. "I must say, I loved your fashion show."

"It goes soooo good!" Latte grinned, her accent coming off more Valley Girl than British. "I just got finished making a new skirt! Look!"

She motioned toward her father, who was sitting in a chair entirely too small for him, his leather-clad knees pressed firmly against his bare chest.

Around his large waist sat an equally large, sparkly, pink tutu, which the young girl had actually managed to sew herself—with your assistance, of course.

"His hair! I did Sir Dad's hair!" Frappe chimed in, excitedly, pointing toward his spiky, pink hair, which was now haphazardly filled with all sorts of flowery clips and blows.

Proudly, Cocoa nodded, taking another "sip" of her tea.

"And, of course, I did a splendid job on his makeup."

Together, the girls' gazes shifted toward his face, where his cheeks were adorned with large, circular blotches of blush and matching pink eye shadow.

His usual neutral expression made him look like he'd rather be anywhere but there, but the girls knew their father and knew that wasn't what he meant by it at all.

"Fantastic jobs, everybody! Let's toast!" Cocoa cheered.

"Yeah!" Frappe and Latte agreed, raising their cups in the air.

But, for a moment, the girls paused, quickly realizing that none of them knew how to actually toast.

"Uhhh... nice work?" Cocoa suggested, unsure.

"Yeah, nice work!" the twins played along.

The four of them happily clinked their glasses together—Katakuri included—promptly taking a large sip.

Expectantly, Latte watched as her father downed his tea, waiting for his commentary.

"Whaddya think, Daddy? Do ya like it?" she whispered, excited. "I made it myself!"

Nodding, he leaned over, giving her soft head pats.

"It's delicious, munchkin," he complimented, heart warming when her eyes turned starry. "You did a very good job."

Cocoa and Frappe hummed in agreement, each pretending to take a bite out of a toy cucumber sandwich.

"I—"

Instantly, Katakuri's haki kicked in, showing him a rather tumultuous future.

'Oh, no.'

"RAH!" Soda exclaimed, bursting into the girls' room with a flourish, beginning the assault on his sisters with his two water guns. "TIME TO CRASH!"

"EEEEEEK!" the girls squealed, putting up their hands in defense as their older brother began to soak them.

Glancing around the room, the boy's eyes went wide when they set sights on his father, all princess-ified.

"Jeez! What the hell did you guys do to Dad?!" he grimaced, genuinely concerned.

"Hey! Sir Dad looks great!" Latte defended with a pout.

"Soda! Cut it out! You're ruining our tea party!" Cocoa whined, brows furrowed as she glared at him.

"And my hair!" Frappe chimed.

"And my dresses!" Latte added.

"Pssh! You call this a party?" he scoffed, a devilish grin curling on his lips. "What kinda crummy party has you sit down the whole time?"

"A tea party!" they all shouted together. "And we're not gonna let you ruin ours!"

With a knowing smirk, Cocoa turned to her younger sisters.

"Girls! Code Tea Cake!" she called out.

Confused, Katakuri raised a brow, crossing his arms over his chest.

'Code... Tea Cake?'

"Yeah!" the twins exclaimed, promptly flipping over the table as a shield and snatching up their own personalized BB guns from the underside.

"Let's go! Return fire!"

Without hesitation, each of the them began shooting back at their brother, raining a hail of BB pellets in an attempt to ward him off.

"ACK! HEY, NO FAIR!" he exclaimed, ducking behind a huge stuffed bear. "I'M USING WATER! YOU GUYS ARE USING BULLETS!"

"This is what you get for wetting my dress, ya big jerk!" Frappe called, not letting up.

"Get from behind, Mr. Fuzzykins, you coward!" Cocoa barked. "Don't take him down with you!"

Katakuri watched with a certain pang of pride—and a bit of amusement—as his girls defended themselves quite well, having each other's backs without question, and not running off crying like most girls their age would.

They were prepared for an assault—with both formation and weapons—and fearless in their resolve.

It made him hopeful for the strong, independent women they would grow up to be, all thanks to yours and his tutelage.

"ABORT! ABORT! PHASE ONE IS A FAILURE! TIME FOR PHASE TWO!" Soda shouted into his toy walkie-talkie. "CHAI, YOU'RE UP! BRING IN THE SECRET WEAPON!"

Confused, the girls turned to each other, raising a brow.

"Secret weapon?"

Together, they all watched with anticipation as small footsteps began to pad toward the door, before their youngest brother popped out from behind it.

"Weapon!" Chai giggled, toddling into the room as he held the handle of a jump rope, the other end of it seeming to be attached to something.

Katakuri's eyes narrowed with suspicion.

'What the—?'

"Someone help me!" you cried—for pretend, of course—as your youngest son "dragged" you into the room. "I've been captured!"

You were tied up by the rest of the rope, clad in a regal play-gown and toy crown.

"Oh, no! They got Queen Mommy!" the girls exclaimed, their smiles and giggles quite the contrast from their tone.

Play time was getting good.

At the sight, Katakuri let out a small chuckle, brow raising with intrigue.

Sure, he was nothing but a lowly worker in the Lollipop Court, but he had to say... the queen was quite the looker.

"Hold your fire!" Cocoa ordered, pushing down her sister's guns. "We gotta break her free!"

"But Soda's gonna spray us again!" Frappe glared, blowing raspberry at her brother as he peeked from behind the bear, dragging down his eyelid and sticking out his tongue.

"Sir Daddy! You have to save Queen Mommy!" Latte ran up to her father, frantically tugging at his tutu as she giggled. "Hurry!"

Raising a brow, he fought off a smirk, carefully placing his teacup on the ground.

"I thought I was a lawyer in the Lollipop Court?" he asked, feigning confusion.

"Yeah, well, you're a knight, too! Sir Daddy, remember?" she clarified.

"Ohhh, I see," he nodded, slowly standing from his seat. "Then let me get to work."

Quickly, he pulled off his tutu, wiping off the makeup on the back of his arm before shaking out the clips in his hair, returning to his usual, imposing self.

"Hey, no fair! You guys have Dad on your side!" Soda complained, brows furrowed.

"Sucks to suck, ya big jerk!" Cocoa taunted, amused.

"Quick! Chai! Knock her out and retreat!" Soda ordered, getting ready to run away.

Slowly, the toddler turned to his mother, balling up his tiny fist before softly tapping it against her leg.

"Out!" he babbled with a grin.

At his touch, you pretended to flinch, slowly falling backwards.

"Oh, no! I'm hit!"

"Save her, Daddy!" the girls squealed, happily, as they hugged each other.

"RUN, CHAI!"

In an instant, Katakuri was already there, capturing Soda and Chai before swooping in to catch you, bridal-style.

"Yay! He did it!" the girls cheered, jumping up and down.

"Dang it! That's is cheating!" Soda exclaimed, struggling against the jump rope he and Chai were tied up in.

"Yay! Dada!" the smaller boy cheered along.

"No, Chai... no yay."

"Wait! It looks like she's asleep!" Cocoa called out, realizing you had yet to "wake up".

"Oh, no! She's in a deep sleep!" Frappe snickered, turning to her twin. "You know what that means..."

"True love's kiss!" Latte squealed, clasping her hands together. "Sir Daddy! You have to break the spell!"

Disgusted, Soda's eyes bulged out his sockets, as if the idea was utterly absurd.

"No way! Gross!" he scoffed. "Don't do that here!"

Carefully, Katakuri cradled your neck, slightly lifting your head as he examined your face.

You were his queen, his personal princess just waiting to be saved.

Did he dare live out the cliche?

Thinking back on the fairy tales he read as a boy, he'd be a liar if he said he didn't think about being the handsome prince at least once.

But now, he truly was; and you were his fair maiden.

So, yes, he did dare.

Leaning down, he carefully pressed his lips against yours, wary of his sharp teeth at the odd angle as his grip on you shifted to one that held you like a dip.

You were warm and soft, and a sensation he'd missed in the past few hours of playtime.

"Awww!" the girls sighed, dreamily. "How romantic!"

"Barf!" Soda gagged, severely grossed out. "Cut it out! I don't need to see that!"

"Barf!" Chai mimicked, honestly unaware of what was going on.

"Hey, don't be a jerk, you two!" Cocoa scolded, brows furrowed as she rested her hands on her hips.

Slowly, your eyes fluttered open, greeted by the sight of your handsome husband.

You had been saved, and—as per usual—it was by the man you cherished so dearly.

"My, my, Sir Dad... what handsome teeth you have," you teased, arms wrapping around his neck

He let out a faint chuckle, amused, before deciding to play along.

Discreetly, his hand trailed upward to hold your thigh, his other sliding over to grasp the small of your back as he leaned down to whisper in your ear, making sure he was out of earshot of the kids.

"All the better to eat you with, my dear."

Kiss, Marry, Kill: Part 1/2 (LA!Buggy the Clown x F!Reader)

Summary: In which Buggy overhears a private conversation and uses that knowledge against you. Pairing: LA!Buggy the Clown x F!Reader Rating: Semi-explicit. Word Count: ~3k (of 5.3k) Warnings: Clown abuse, strong language, incorrect use of a straight razor.

Never had you on my mind Now you're there all the time Never knew what I missed until I kissed ya

---

By all accounts, Buggy should be having a great time. There's food, alcohol, gambling... hell, there's even a swimming pool. Not that he can partake, but he can live vicariously.

Instead, he's got a whole school of shark eyes trained on him as he sits on a stool next to Arlong's throne. This water park sucks.

He's not chained up or anything. The threat of a couple dozen sets of teeth ripping into him is reason enough to sit perfectly still, keep his mouth shut, and try to look as small as possible. No sudden movements, no change in expression, no—

"Kiss the clown, marry the waiter, kill Pink Hair."

Buggy sits bolt upright and looks around. Who the hell said that?

Arlong doesn't even deign to look at him. "Hear something?"

Clear. Crisp. With a little bit of an accent, maybe. He's heard it somewhere recently, but where?

Certainly not here. It was a woman's voice, and Arlong Park is a bit of a sausage party at the moment. Not that he can tell on sight with fishpeople.

"Answer me, clown," Arlong rumbles.

He forgets who he's talking to for a moment. "Eavesdropping's an art," he snaps. "You can't rush art."

Big mistake. Arlong responds with a low, wet growl. "It's been three days. My patience is running thin."

Quiet chatter. The clinking of silverware. Someone chewing with their mouth open. The little pirates are at a restaurant, it seems.

He relays this to Arlong. He's less than pleased. He enunciates every word to show his teeth. "Care to be more specific?"

A shudder crawls up the back of Buggy's neck. He takes a swig of his drink to cover it. He places his fingers over his remaining ear, straining.

"You're shitting me." That voice he recognizes. The redhead. The one who ruined his show. The one Arlong's so interested in. Nadi? Nani? Noni?

The other woman speaks. "Nami, you rejected him," she says. "Girl Code only applies if you were dating."

Nami. That's her, the conniving little bitch. "No, not the waiter. I mean you'd seriously kiss the clown? He nearly killed us."

He'd recognize Rubber Boy's voice anywhere, the little shitheel. "And his nose would get in the way."

The mystery woman speaks up again. "That's nothing new. I’ve smacked noses with plenty of guys."

Okay, that narrows it down. It’s not the redhead, it can't be Rubber Boy or the bounty hunter, so that leaves...

...you. Of course it's you. How could he forget you? You're the only one who laughed at Axe-Hand Moron. Granted, it was more like a snnrrrk and you immediately clapped your hand over your mouth, eyes wide with horror, but it was a laugh all the same.

And in that moment, he knew he liked you. Bad sense of humor. Cute smile. A little bashful. He appreciates that. Sure, you helped humiliate him not an hour after the fact, but all's fair in love and piracy.

"Look, I'm not saying it’s a good idea," you continue, "but sometimes you gotta live dangerously."

The bounty hunter speaks, dry and droll. "Storms are dangerous. Bar fights are dangerous. You're just insane."

"Oh, c'mon, you're not seriously gonna hold Fu..." You pause. "Kiss Marry Kill answers against me."

So that's what's going on. "They're just chattering like they always are," he says to Arlong.

Arlong does not like that answer. He snatches Buggy up by the neck, lifting him clear off the ground with only one hand.

"Wait! Wait wait wait! They're still talking! I might have something!" He kicks and struggles, but it's no use.

You speak. "You think everything pops off? ‘Cause a gal could really— hyurk.”

Laughter all around as you’re cut off by something. Sounds like you choked.

“Thank you, Usopp,” Nami says. “I am not having that conversation.”

Arlong saunters over to the pool, carrying Buggy like a ragdoll. He has precious few seconds now. C'mon, he wills them, say something useful!

A slap, a spit, then a couple of hard coughs. “Nice shot,” you wheeze. “Use the unspicy peanut next time. I think I burned my windpipe.”

The new guy — Usopp — scoffs. “Spicy? Please. This isn’t spicy. Baratie spicy is barely a zip. Now, you want spicy, you gotta hit up the Great Pepper Isles. Their chilis are so hot, I had an out-of-body experience.”

And boom, there it is. Right as he's about to be dropped into the water, his ticket to life.

“Baratie! They're at Baratie," he chokes out. "That floating restaurant. That really nice one I got thrown out of, the pricks."

It was Cabaji's fault. Turns out whipping a unicycle out at the bar is frowned upon. Who'd've thunk.

Arlong 'smiles.' All teeth and gums and no mirth at all. "Consult our charts," he says to the nearest fishman. "I'll prepare our compass."

He grabs Buggy by the hair and yanks. In the interest of not getting his neck broken, he separates his head from his body. Unfortunately, gravity takes over and his body plunges into the pool.

Weakness swamps him like a rogue wave. He can't say a word as he's stuffed into a cloth sack and everything goes dark.

In both ears, all he can hear are the sounds of laughter.

---

Someday, Buggy will learn not to run his fat mouth. That day is not today.

Usopp barges into the galley and lobs his head through the air, a low slow toss. He only has a moment to appreciate not being overhand pitched before landing on the floor. Not on his nose, fortunately, but it still hurts.

He points at the blonde guy — Sanji? Sanji. "I can't take it anymore. He's your problem now. I'm going to bed. Goodnight."

He tramps off as Buggy flips himself upright. “What’s his problem?” he asks no one in particular. “Sheesh, you make one ‘your mom’ joke and—“

A decidedly unmanly yelp escapes him as he's popped up into the air. The world spins and turns and he braces himself to hit the ground again, only to be caught in soft hands. He's spun around...

...and comes face to face with you, regarding him with curious, contemptuous eyes.

Oh, you're even prettier up close. The redhead's a looker, but she's still a kid. Soft. Pale. Set like a mousetrap, ready to spring and break some poor chump's neck at the slightest provocation.

But you? You're a grown-ass woman. Comfortable in your sun-kissed skin. A twinkle of experience in your eye and the ease of someone who's been sailing her ship for years.

He can't help but smile. "Well, well, well. Fancy meeting you here, gorgeous," he says with a wink.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Sanji shoot him a glare. Your expression remains cool and uninterested. Shifting his head to your side, you hold him against your hip like a laundry basket. Even through your trousers, the soft swell of flesh warms his cheek.

“Weren't you just on buggysitting duty?” you ask Sanji.

Buggysitting? Really? "I'm right here, y'know," he grumbles.

He's ignored, as per usual. Sanji straightens up and huffs. “New guy always gets the shit jobs.”

“Let’s trade,” you say. “You take my watch and I’ll mind our chatty compass.”

Rude. “I’m still right here.”

Sanji shakes his head. “Go get your beauty sleep. Not that you need it, of course."

Wow, that was a bad line. Buggy makes his displeasure known with a retch.

“Sleep is for people who don’t have coffee.” You flap your hand toward the door. "Shoo.”

Sanji glances between you and Buggy, but heads for the door. "Any trouble at all, love, and I’m a shout away."

A little smile colors your voice. "If he starts gnawing my ankles, you’ll be the first to know."

Sanji returns the smile, sickeningly sweet. As he leaves, you sit at the table, placing Buggy across from you.

He wants nothing more than to plant his leg on a stool, lean in on his knee, and give you a toothy grin. But alas, he must settle for the grin. "Alone at last. Come here often?"

You don't even bother to look at him, too preoccupied with picking up a very shiny straight razor and a strip of leather. Muscle ripples under your skin as you slide the blade back and forth.

"So you're the barber," he says. You don't respond. "Can't imagine you're too busy on a ship with a bunch of babyfaces." Still nothing. "Don't suppose I could get a shave, then? Last time I used a straight razor, I ended up like this!"

"Barber surgeon," you say as you inspect the blade. Dissatisfied with some invisible blemish, you continue stropping.

He shrugs, only to remember he can’t. "Say, doc, I can't feel anything below my neck. Could you take a look?”

Irritation tints your voice. “Not a doctor,” you say. You’ve clearly had to explain this countless times before. “Doctors treat the inside. I fix up the outside.”

“Splitting hairs, Miss Sawbones.”

Shiff shiff shiff goes the razor. "If you don't stop talking, we’re gonna see if cutting off the nose really does spite the face. Might be an improvement for you.”

That’s just low. “Keep talking shit and this bark is gonna turn into bite.”

You finally look up. You level the razor at him, glaring down the blade. “You’re the only one talking, clown.”

Damn. Your eyes are pretty. Warm as the first sunbeam of a summer morning, but dark as the blotches he gets in his eyes when he looks into a spotlight by accident. Hot like one, too. Heat lurks below the dark surface, like warm charcoal about to catch fire.

Nerves ball up in his absent chest. He swallows them and summons his bravado. “Can ya blame me? I’ve got shit else to do. I’ve met parrots with more to say than you.”

"Count the cracks in the ceiling."

"One, two, three—“ He gives an exaggerated groan. “Didn't you say you were gonna make coffee? Can I get in on that?"

You scoff, but you do stand. "Last thing you need is caffeine.”

“The last thing I need is to be held hostage by a bunch of greenhorn nobodies,” he says, "and yet here I am."

“Sucks to suck,” you say. You pull a pot out of a cupboard and fill it with water. “How do you take it? Sugar? Cream?”

“Black. Like my heart.”

You let out that snnnrrrrk of a suppressed laugh again. What a nice sound. “Something we got in common.”

“Black heart or black coffee?”

“Yes.”

Such a simple, easy response. Not even particularly clever. But the delivery with no hesitation, no intonation, no second guessing the punchline. He laughs. “I knew I liked you!”

You glance over your shoulder at him. “You try to kill everyone you like? No wonder you have no friends.”

He hops to the edge of the table. Not an easy feat with only a stump. “C’mon, babe. All’s fair in love and piracy.”

Calling you babe was a blindfolded over-the-shoulder shot in the dark, but it lands. You add a smile to your glance. “I’ll give you that and nothing more.”

Somewhere, miles away, his heart flutters. He lets it. “Will you still give me coffee?”

“Only if you shut up ‘til this water boils.”

In this state, he’ll take any scrap of stimulus he can get. He bites his tongue and bites it hard, willing himself not to speak.

Silence creeps in. Silence leads to stewing, and stewing leads to bad thoughts. Bad feelings. Lonely feelings. Like how long it’s been since he’s had a friendly cuppa joe with someone. Or had someone honestly laugh at his stupid jokes.

Especially not someone as quick as you. Or as pretty. Or with such a nice ass. Or who maybe-sorta-kinda-might-possibly be interested in him. Potentially. Hypothetically.

There’s no damn way, he tells himself. You’re humoring him. You’re definitely shacking up with that cook — young, charming, handsome. Or the bounty hunter, maybe — tall, dark, broody.

You wouldn’t give him a second glance. Him, a pathetic, painted, big-nosed weirdo. Who is currently a severed head. A temporary state, but still not a good first impression. Even though his actual first impression was trying to kill you and your buddies. This second first impression is just as bad.

A sharp groan escapes him before he can stop it. He eyes you, expecting you to snap at him or worse.

But you don’t. You pause in your pouring to peer over your shoulder at him, gaze soft. “Y’alright?”

There goes his heart again. Ugh. “Peachy. That coffee done yet?”

You curl your lip. “What’s got your panties in a knot?”

“Just realized I’m gonna need a straw or some shit.”

Still sneering, you set a shallow mug in front of him. “I’ll see what I can find.”

See? You definitely don’t like him. Stupid fucking jackass, letting his hopes get up. This is what he gets.

…A nice, warm cup of coffee. If you really hated him, you wouldn’t have given him coffee, right? Or be looking for a straw?

You’re just humoring him. You just want to save your friend. Catch more flies with honey and all that. He’ll be more agreeable if you’re friendly.

Across the room, you open a drawer. “Hey, bendy straws. Perfect.”

You’re breaking out bendy straws for him? There’s gotta be something there! At least a little something!

No. No way. Coincidence.

You place an oddly long straw into the mug. He realizes it’s three normal ones jammed end-to-end, creating a pipe ending just about level with his mouth.

You just pulled some engineering shit so he can drink coffee with you. There’s definitely something.

An ice cube plops into the mug and you slide back into the booth with your own cup. “Might dilute it a bit, but can’t have you burning your mouth.”

His distant heart flips again. He has to say something. Before he can convince himself otherwise. He says the first thing that comes to mind.

“So,” he says, “‘kiss the clown,’ eh?”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. That’s the first thing he thought of? Seriously? He braces himself for boiling coffee thrown in his face.

You freeze mid-sip, brows raised. “Excuse me?”

Okay, you don’t look mad. “Don’t deny it, babe. I heard everything. Kiss Marry Kill? Nice job keeping it kid-friendly, wink wink."

You stare at him with those dark eyes. "No idea what you're on about."

"I know you know. And I know you know I know." He waggles his eyebrows, hoping for a laugh, but he gets nothing.

You watch the steam swirling up from your mug. "What do you want me to say, exactly? That I chose you to kiss?"

"I just wanna know what possesses a woman to make her want to shack up with the guy who tried to kill her and her friends." He lips the straw into his mouth and takes a test sip. Still quite hot.

"Circumstance. Process of elimination. Being put on the spot." You pick up the razor. Your fiddling with it belies your agitation.

"Don't lie to me, babe," he croons. "I can see right through you."

You stare at him. "And what is it that you see?"

What does he see? "A woman on a knife's edge of self-satisfaction and self-destruction. Once bitten, twice shy, but when he comes around the third time, you just can't help yourself."

Your fiddling becomes more insistent. You break eye contact to look at the razor. He's hitting on something. Time to push some buttons.

"You bet on the wrong horse every time. You think it'll be different this time. But it never is." He smiles bitterly. "Something else we got in common. Birds of one ugly feather."

Your gaze softens as you return your gaze to him. "So you found the problem, Doctor Headshrink. What’s the prescription?"

Shoot your shot, Buggy. "Kiss the clown and maybe we'll find out."

You're still for a few moments. Then slowly, carefully, you slide your hand across the table. You pull him closer as you lean lower in your seat to eye level with him.

He can't help the way his breath quickens. It's been so, so long since he had any kind of intimacy. Your reedy fingers trace his jaw down to his chin. Your thumb comes up to pull at his bottom lip, and he lets out a satin-soft whimper as he opens his mouth to you.

You strike like a snake, yanking his tongue out with one hand and readying your razor with the other. His choke turns into a scream as you bring it down, severing his tongue clean at the root.

It's one thing to disconnect body parts. Pop a leg off, drop an ear — he’s used to it. But it's a different story when said part is supposed to be inside of him. His tongue waggles like a fish as he tries to return it to his mouth, but you keep a firm grip.

"You can have this back in the morning," you say.

He wants to cuss you out, but what comes out is ew bihck, whadda fuhck iss won wif ew, gif ih bahck.

You laugh. And lord, what a laugh you've got. Loud, like a party gone late into the hours of the night. Clattery, like a dozen plates shattering on the floor. Full of mirth, like a drunk on payday.

And, for the briefest of moments, his rage is forgotten. He wants to make you laugh like that.

But it returns with a vengeance, replaced with a desire to see you squirm.

---

<<< | mastahpost | >>>

Donnie w/out glasses: *death glaring reader*

Reader: *internally panicking* what’d I do wrong?! 🥺

Donnie w/out glasses: *squinting at the blurb that is reader* I can’t see shit

fuck 4chan

fuck twitter

fuck reddit

fuck tumblr

and fuck you

The grip this man has on me is insane.

4 slasher bastards

Noo donnie

HOLy SHIT DONATELLO

He’s Johnny Bravo