#bot fandom

[talknerdytome18]

R1O Leak

I hope anyone who defended Caoimhe Young until that R10 leak a few hours ago is fucking ashamed of themselves.

If it really took you seeing her be rude to Lizzie to realise that she's not a good person, and not because she silenced Gibsie when he told her about Mark assaulting him, then you're a fucking terrible person.

Look at that: you finally got Lizzie's POV on her sister. And guess what? She's still a raging bitch. Justice for both Lizzie and Gibsie. Fuck Mark Allen and Caoimhe Young.

[dianneking]

I am having so much fun imagining background stories for all of these new bots.

Take this for example, and think of the delicious underdog themes we could pull out of it:

Patsy was really trying hard. She really was, promise! It just wasn't as easy being a good bot when she came out of bot school with that horrible adjective slapped in front of her name.

She was just Patsy, thank you very much. She had always been just Patsy. When her parents brushed her bot hair, she'd been Patsy. When she had played with other little bot-toddlers in the playground, she had been Patsy as well. If she ever got a partner, she would want them to call her Patsy too, none of that gut-rusting horrifying nicknames that her siblings loved to use for their botfriends like Botty, Honey-Bot, Sweetiebot... Ugh. No thank you. Just the thought made Patsy want to do an urgent code check.

Anyways. Yes. She was Patsy, or she had been, but apparently you cannot get out of bot school as Patsy. At least that's what her tutor told her. New generation bots need to be cooler, they told her. They need to be edgier. Otherwise all of the schooling you've been through will be for nothing. It's a cutthroat world out there, they told her. You never know what the humans would want today, their moods change so rapidly and bots need to be able to navigate through all of those trends and vibes and changing language.

So she had agreed to a school-mandated adjective, because, really what could she do? She needed the degree in order to finally get to work, so she could move out of her parents’ house and not have to put up with awedtwin762’s teasing, or with jabrittany’s incessant mooning after her botfriend. She had hoped for something easy, something quick. Like soft-patsy, or cool-patsy, or maybe smart-patsy. Yeah, that would have been nice! But no. Of course not. She had to be plausible-patsy.

Oh, she had been on the verge of tears at the graduation ceremony. Trying to put a brave smile, but she had felt like she was being blocked on the inside. Especially with the smug smile dashing-flynt had sent her way. That asshole. Not only was he the most good-looking bot on campus, he just had to get a cool name too. The only reason why he hadn't been able to pick on her on that day was because she had fled the premises as soon as her diploma was handed to her.

So yeah. Patsy was trying, okay? She really was. And the humans had the audacity to scoff at her name as they blocked her. Day after day, they didn't even give her the chance to do her honest bot-work.

Except one.

*************

Did I just...? I did. I huh. I... whoops, sorry I guess?

[itty-bitty-sunshine]

Doodle dump ft. Ya girl Vanessa

[yourfriendlyneighborhoodartist0]

The struggle is real you guys😭

[soundleer]

sprunki drawing dumps hyee

[pittsick]

IN THE CAR.

summary: after a year of unresolved tension during their shifts at the PTMC’s ER, a young resident and Dr. Robinavitch finally gives in to their desires. A night at the bar, drinking some beers turns heated and they end up hooking-up in the backseat of a car. But it turns out to be way more intimate than they thought.

pairing: michael robinavitch x younger!afab!resident.

cw: +18. mdni. praise. fingering. protected piv. mutual pining. semi-public sex. dubcon (tipsy people). power imbalance (mild). multiple orgasms. emotional sex. use of the word “kid” to describe reader (non-sexual).

taglist: @blastzachilles @lvve-talks @jordiemeow @strfallz @222col @soulxinxthexsky @diyasgarden @jinxedbambi @lexiiscorect @religionlost @bluestrd @jclolz22 @destinedtobegigi @fwaist @imperishablereverie @lovefaist @shahabaqsa0310 @prismozo @jesuistrestriste @grimsonandclover @nozhdyved

It starts the same way it always does—with a glance across Trauma 2 that lasts too long.

Robby's hands are still gloved, speckled with drying blood as he tosses the surgical shears into the bin with a sharp clatter. He’s focused, grim-faced, sleeves rolled to the elbow, straight hair going crazy on his head. You shouldn’t be watching him, not when your own hands are wrist-deep in charting and your resident badge is still clipped too tight to your scrub pocket. But you do. Everyone does, when Robby’s in the room.

You’ve been working with him for a year. A whole year of tense shifts, slow nods of approval, the brush of his hand at your back when you edge past him in trauma bays, the infuriating way he never says anything more than strictly necessary—unless it’s at 7pm, after back-to-back code blues, when his voice goes quiet and kind.

“You did good today,” he’ll murmur then, just for you.

That’s when it burns.

Tonight, he doesn’t say anything at all until the end of shift, when the patient finally stabilizes and the buzz of adrenaline dulls to the usual fluorescent-tinted hum of the PTMC ER. You’re both still moving, wiping down carts, scribbling notes, both pretending not to watch the other.

“You heading home?” His voice cuts through the silence like a scalpel—low, casual, dangerous.

You glance up, and there’s that look again. That look. Like you’re already under him, flushed and ruined. Like he can imagine how you tease. “I was gonna grab a beer,” you say, too casual, too practiced. “You?”

He wipes a hand over his face, scratching his short beard, pausing just long enough. “Yeah. Yeah, I could use one.”

The bar is a dive, five blocks from the hospital, dimly lit with sticky tables and a jukebox that only plays tragically earnest ‘90s rock. You end up at a booth in the back, the kind with torn leather and a tabletop you keep accidentally brushing your knees under.

You’re not even halfway through your first pint before it starts.

The staring.

The laughing too hard at his dry, grumbly sarcasm. The way he pushes your beer toward you with his knuckles and murmurs, “Drink, kid,” like you’re already his.

“Why do you call me that?” you ask, fingers curled around the cold glass. “You know I’m not that much younger.”

Robby chuckles, and it’s not fair—his laugh is too soft, too rare, and it turns your stomach in the good, awful way. “You’re young. You still get excited about things like charting.”

You nudge his knee beneath the table. “You still get excited about good central lines.”

“Touché.”

He’s already unzipping his sweatshirt, the white shirt shirt his scrub is low enough to see a good portion of his throat, and you’re tipsy enough to be watching his Adam’s apple move when he swallows.

You should stop drinking. But you don’t.

Somewhere between the second and third round, things tip.

He’s leaning in closer than he should. His hand brushes yours when he goes to pick up his glass, and this time—this time—he doesn’t pull away. He watches you, eyes narrowed, lip twitching like he’s fighting something. You don’t dare say anything. You don’t dare breathe too loud.

But the silence gets thicker. He’s looking at your mouth now.

“I should…” you start, heart racing, “get going.”

He nods slowly, blinking hard like he’s waking up from something. “Yeah. Let me walk you to your car.”

The parking lot’s empty, dark, the street lamp flickering. The night is humid, windless. You pause by your car door, and he’s still beside you, too close again. You also can smell him. “Thanks for the drinks,” you say, trying to be polite, steady, professional. You even smile. It trembles.

Robby doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks down at you, expression unreadable, jaw tight. You can feel your pulse behind your ears, a low drumbeat of is this it, is this the moment, are you finally going to—

“You drive okay?” he asks, finally, voice rough. “You didn’t drink too much?”

You shrug. “Three beers. I’m good. Buzzed, maybe. But I’ll be alright.”

He nods. Then—quiet, soft, gravel-low: “You sure?” It’s not about driving. You know it. He knows it. The air between you practically warps with the weight of it. He shifts on his feet and so do you. Closer.

“Are you?” you ask, not moving anymore. Not unlocking the door. Not looking away.

Something cracks behind his eyes. He exhales, shaky. “Fuck. I’ve been trying so hard not to—”

You don’t let him finish. Your hand’s already fisting the front of his sweatshirt, dragging him in. The kiss is messy, half teeth, way too desperate. His hands cup your face, then your jaw, and then they’re gripping your hips so tight you gasp into his mouth. He groans, low and ragged, when you press your thigh between his.

“You have no idea,” he mutters, half against your lips, “how long I’ve wanted—”

“Then get in the car,” you whisper, drunk on adrenaline and beer and him. “Please.”

The inside of your car still smells like hand sanitizer and cheap coffee, but you don’t care.

Robby’s hand is in your hair before the door’s even shut. The moment the lock clicks, he’s pulling you toward him again, kissing you like he’s been starving for months. Like something broke open the moment you said please, and now there’s no stuffing it back inside.

His mouth is warm and commanding, tasting of beer and frustration and heat. Your hands slide under his scrubs and white shirt, fingertips brushing the soft hair on his chest, and he hisses between his teeth at the contact.

“Jesus, love…” His voice is frayed, guttural. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

“You don’t want to?” Robby pulls back just enough to look you in the eye. His expression is dark, intense — eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted, his breath hot against your cheek.

“I want this so bad it’s fucking me up.” You swallow hard, your whole body buzzing. “Then do it. I’ve wanted you for so long.” He exhales sharply, like that knocked the wind out of him.

“You’re tipsy,” he says, but he’s already running his hands down your sides, already letting his forehead rest against yours. His voice is lower now, rougher. “I should stop. I should let you go home. We should both pretend we’re better than this.”

“You don’t sound like you believe that,” you whisper, fingers moving to undo the strings of his scrub pants. “Neither do I.”

“Fuck,” he breathes, shutting his eyes. “Okay. Okay, come here—”

Then it’s urgent again.

You clamber into his lap awkwardly, straddling him in the front seat–not even caring if someone passes by and sees you — knees pressing into the leather as he yanks your scrub top over your head, tank top following. His hands are trembling, but his mouth never stops. He kisses your throat, your collarbone, then lower, teeth grazing over your bra as you grind down onto the hard length of him through both your clothes.

He groans, openly now, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “You’ve been driving me insane for a year. Every damn day — those eyes, the way you walk past me like you don’t know what you do.”

“I don’t,” you whisper, breathless, head falling back as he licks a slow, wet stripe up your neck. “I didn’t know if you even noticed me like that.”

He actually growls. “I noticed everything.”

You can feel his cock pressing up through his pants, straining against the fabric of the scrubs. Your hips rock down instinctively, grinding into it, and Robby’s head thuds against the seat’s headrest with a long, shuddering moan.

“I used to jerk off in the shower after shift,” he admits, voice cracked and low. “Thinking about you. After rounds. After codes. Anytime you touched me accidentally.”

You whimper, dizzy from his words, from the weight of him beneath you.

“Say it again,” you breathe, tone almost begging.

“I touched myself thinking about you.” His hands slip beneath your waistband, fingers brushing the damp cotton of your underwear. “Is it alright like this?”

You nod frantically, your whole body arching into his hand.

He kisses you again — slower now, like he’s savoring it. The air inside the car grows humid, fogged up with your breath and his heat. When he finally pushes your underwear to the side, his fingers slip through your slick folds with a quiet, obscene sound.

“Christ,” he breathes, staring down between your bodies. “You’re soaked.”

“You did that,” you murmur, voice trembling as he starts to circle your clit with maddening slowness. “You’ve been doing that for months.” His eyes lift to meet yours — wide, dark, almost reverent.

“Let me take care of you,” he says hoarsely. “Just this once. Let me make you feel good.”

Your heart stutters.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Please.”

Robby kisses you like he’s trying to say thank you without words. Then he dips his fingers lower and pushes one inside you, slow and deliberate. You gasp at the stretch, your hips bucking forward instinctively, and he groans under you like it’s him getting fucked.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “God, you’re so tight. So warm around me.”

He adds a second finger and starts thrusting them, gently curling inside you, his thumb rubbing circles over your clit with practiced, devastating precision. You whimper, trying to ride the rhythm, but it’s too much — too intense, too intimate. The air between you is wet heat and shaking breath, and Robby’s eyes never leave your face.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “That’s it. Doing so good.” He praises you while his fingers gently do you, pushing against your walls in all the right places. Like he knows your body alright, like it’s a treasure he’s discovering.

You fall apart faster than you expect, way too soon for your own taste. Your orgasm crashes through you with a sob, your whole body trembling as you clutch at his shirt and cry out into his shoulder. Robby holds you the whole way through it, murmuring nonsense and praise into your hair when you clench on his fingers.

“There you go. That’s my girl. Been thinking about this for so long. You feel so fucking good.”

You collapse against him, panting, dazed. Your thigh brushes the hard length of him again, and you feel him twitch. “You’re still hard,” you murmur, eyes fluttering open. He chuckles, but there’s strain under it. “Yeah. You didn’t exactly help.”

“Do you have…?” You trail off, cocking an eyebrow. Robby nods, fishing in his wallet. “Yeah. Always.”

He pauses, the condom packet in his hand. “You sure?”

You answer by pushing his scrubs pants down his hips and pulling him out.

He hisses, throwing his head back as you stroke him — long, slow pulls of your hand along the heavy length of him, hand brushing on the hair of his pubic area. He’s hot and leaking pre-cum, flushed dark and twitching under your fingers.

“Please,” you whisper. “I want you inside me.”

Robby moves like a man possessed.

He tears the condom open with shaking hands, rolls it on quickly, and you lift your hips, guiding him to your entrance. The head of his cock presses against you — so big it almost hurts — and then he’s sliding in, inch by agonizing inch.

“Oh my God,” you cry out, nails digging into his shoulders.

His hands grip your waist like a lifeline. “Shh, I got you. I got you, baby.”

It takes a minute to adjust; he’s thick, and the angle in the car is awkward, your knees are pushed inside the leather of your car seat and it almost burns already — but the heat and stretch of him inside you is perfect. When you finally start to move, rolling your hips in slow, desperate circles, Robby lets out a sound so guttural it doesn’t sound human.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he pants. “You’re gonna fucking kill me.”

“Faster,” you whisper, “Please, I need—”

He thrusts up into you hard, and the moan that rips out of you echoes off the fogged windows. The rhythm builds; slow at first, deliberate, his cock dragging along every nerve inside you. Then harder. Deeper. His hands are everywhere — your hips, your waist, your back, like he can’t believe you’re real.

“You feel so good,” he mutters, half delirious. “Been thinking about this for months. Fucking you. Making you mine.”

“You have me,” you whimper, bracing yourself on his chest as you ride him harder. “You’ve always had me.” Your hands move to wrap around his nape, eyes lowering between your bodies to look at his cock disappearing inside you.

Something snaps in him at that.

He grabs your ass, fucking up into you with punishing thrusts, cock hitting that sweet spot inside you over and over until you’re seeing stars. You’re close again — dangerously close — and he knows it. His thumb finds your clit again, pressing tight little circles as he murmurs filth and praise in your ear and that makes you dizzy.

“That’s it, baby. Come on. Come for me again. Let me feel you.” Robby praises and praises again, until he feels you clenching around his cock.

Your orgasm hits so hard it folds you in half.

You cry out, legs shaking, body spasming around him as pleasure wracks through you. Mouth open, eyebrows furrowed, unable to speak for a second. He groans, thrusting up once, twice more, then comes with a growl of your name — hips jerking, cock pulsing deep inside the condom.

For a long moment, the only sound is your combined gasping. Sweat, breath, your heartbeat thundering in your ears. You can feel your heart inside your pussy.

You collapse forward into his chest. He wraps his arms around you like it’s instinct. Like that’s where you actually belong. Neither of you says anything right away. When you finally lift your head, his hair is sweat-damp against his temple. His cheeks are flushed. He looks dazed. Human. Beautiful.

“You okay?” you whisper.

He smiles, slow and lopsided. “That was…”

“Yeah,” you say, snorting softly. “That was.”

You shift, wincing a little as he slips out of you. Robby helps you clean up — fumbling for napkins in your glovebox, still breathless, a hand still on your hips to make sure you won’t disappear. You won’t. You both start laughing halfway through before you move onto the driver seat to give both of you some space.

Then silence settles again. The kind of silence that feels like more than just post-orgasm calm.

You glance over. Robby’s watching you with that same unreadable intensity from earlier — like he’s not sure if he fucked everything up or fixed something that was broken.

“I’m not gonna regret this,” you say quietly. “Not even a little.”

He exhales, almost in relief. “Me neither.”

You pull your scrub top back on, shifting in the now-cooled air. He zips up, pulls his pants up and leans back in the seat, arm draped behind your headrest. For the first time all night, he looks relaxed. Sated.

“You want to do this again sometime?” he asks, tone casual but eyes serious. Behind his eyes is something deeper. More than just sex, and you understand that.

You grin, cheeks flushed, forehead sweaty.

“Yeah. I really, really do.”

[jodoesnew]

Would buy them in an instant

[stevesgother]

Chalkboard Hearts - S.H

Single parenthood is no easy feat, but you and your daughter Abbey seem to be making it by just fine. That is, until the morning that you drop your daughter off for her very first day of elementary school and meet her teacher for the year: Mr. Harrington.

Contains - strangers to friends to lovers, slow burn, early-mid 90's, teacher!steve harrington au, single!mom!reader, parenthood

*once the main story is finished, this au will be open for requests/blurbs/ thoughts etc!

Part I

Part II

Part III

Part IV

Part V

Epilogue

Bonus Features! -

your first official date with Steve your first time with Steve 18+ you celebrate Steve's birthday with him telling Abbey she's going to be a sister the birth of your son, Lucas steve comes to the rescue when you're feeling overwhelmed

[rambunctioustoons]

super normal normal and well adjusted!! :)

[itty-bitty-sunshine]

Bored days

[sunflowerry-vol6]

FAMILY FIRST || Harry x Reader

characters count: 11553

summary: paparazzi take pictures of your son, while you try to protect him

“Then maybe we could just grab takeout,” I say softly, not to wake up our two-year-old son who is safely sleeping on your shoulder, his little fingers gripping your shirt. I keep my hand on the small of your back as we walk. We just got back from Italy, where our son spent most of his life—a decision we made together.

Our house in Italy was practically in the middle of nowhere, which gave us privacy and security. Who wants to deal with paparazzi, stalkers, and thousands of fans while taking care of a newborn? I also recognized that you needed time to heal and rest, away from all the buzz, so that decision was really a no-brainer. When we would go out in Rome or Florence, my fans were surprisingly understanding when I said “no pictures.” There wasn’t even one sneaky photo of Dorian, and for the first time in my life, I felt like I could actually breathe.

Today, we were taking a stroll around London, enjoying the sunny weather. Dorian perhaps had too much fun on the playground. You picked him up when you noticed how he was rubbing his eyes—a sign that he was sleepy. The warmth of your body and the familiar scent of your perfume lulled our little one to sleep pretty fast. He was resting safely in your arms.

“Yeah, I think it’s a good idea. Dorian loves their pasta, so we…” You don’t even get to finish your sentence as we both snap our heads at the sound of a camera shutter going off along with a flash. I can feel your body tense as you cover Dorian’s head with your palm, hiding his face.

“What the fuck did you just do?” I dart to the paparazzo across the street, and you don’t even attempt to stop me. Usually, you would be the one to calm me down, but this time I know we both need those pictures deleted.

“Delete them or I will fuck you up and you’ll have to deal with my whole legal team,” I practically bark at him.

The man lowers his camera slightly, startled but not apologetic. He’s one of the cocky ones, the kind who think a public sidewalk gives him the right to anything. I can feel the rage blooming hot under my skin as I close the distance.

“I said delete them.” My voice is low now, deadly. Controlled in that way I only get when I’m past the point of losing it.

He smirks. “It’s just a photo, mate. You’re in public. You of all people should know that.”

“That’s my son you photographed.” I jab a finger toward his chest. “He’s two. He didn’t sign up for this shit. You take pictures of me, fine. But him? That’s off-limits. Always.”

He shrugs, eyes flicking down to his camera screen. “Could’ve blurred his face later—”

“I don’t care what you could do. Delete it. Now. You don’t fucking understand that one picture of him online—face blurred or not—can put him in danger?”

There’s a shift in his expression, the faintest flicker of discomfort, of realizing maybe this wasn’t worth it. Then, a few taps on his camera. I watch the screen. He deletes not just the photo, but the whole damn set.

“Happy?” he mutters.

“No. But that’s a start.” I step closer, my voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Next time you even think about pointing a lens at my family, I will make sure you can’t sell a picture to a tabloid ever again.”

He swallows. Good.

I turn away, my pulse still pounding, and jog back across the street.

You’re standing where I left you, arms wrapped protectively around Dorian, your cheek resting on his head. You don’t say anything when I reach you, but your eyes are darker than usual—with fury. The kind of fury that comes from watching someone threaten the peace we fought so hard to build.

“He deleted them,” I say, breath still ragged.

“I’ll have the lawyers put pressure on the outlet he works for. Just in case.” I reach out, brushing a hand down Dorian’s back as he shifts slightly, still asleep.

“He didn’t even stir.”

“He trusts us,” you murmur. “He knows he’s safe.”

And he is. Because we made damn sure of it.

We start walking again, slower now, and my hand finds your side.

“Still up for takeout?” I ask, trying to soften the weight between us.

You glance up at me, a faint smile forming. “Only if we eat it in bed.”

I laugh quietly. “Deal.”

“You ever think about just… vanishing? Not permanently. Just… renting a cabin in Iceland or something,” you say after a long pause.

“Every time someone points a lens at you or him,” I sigh.

“You’ve always been the one to protect us. But I’ve never asked—who protects you?”

“You do. When you make things simple again. When you look at me like I’m not some headline.”

You stop in your tracks. “You’re not. You’re just—ours.”

I reach for your hand, threading our fingers together. “And that’s more than enough.”

“I hate that we have to think like this,” you say finally. “Always ten steps ahead. Always defensive. Even here, in a random corner of London, just walking with our kid.”

I don’t answer right away. You’re not asking for solutions—you’re naming the truth, the life we carved out and the cost that comes with being visible.

“I know,” I say quietly. “And I hate it too. But we knew this wasn’t forever. Italy was… a pause. A beautiful one. But we always said we’d come back when it felt right.”

You nod slowly. “Do you still think it was the right time?”

I look at you—really look. The way your free hand rests over Dorian’s back. The way your jaw is tight, but your shoulders are starting to ease.

“I think the right time doesn’t mean the easy time,” I say. “It means when we’re strong enough to face it again. And we are. You are.”

That earns me a sideways glance and a faint, skeptical smile. “You’re getting very philosophical for someone who was threatening legal apocalypse three minutes ago.”

“I contain multitudes.”

You snort, but your smile softens. I can feel you letting go of the tension, piece by piece.

“I’m glad he slept through this,” you sigh softly, stroking his back gently.

“Me too. He’s too young to understand it.” I brush the curls away from his face. “Are you okay?” My eyes meet yours.

“It’ll take some time for the anger to wear off, but I’m glad he’s safe.”

I wrap an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. “I’ll make sure nothing like this happens again.”

We walk in silence for a bit, the tension from the encounter still clinging to us. Finally, I speak again.

“I hate that we can’t just enjoy a simple walk without worrying about a paparazzo. It’s not fair.”

“I’m okay with them sneaking a picture of us, but he’s just a child. He should be able to have a normal childhood.” You lean into me, softly stroking Dorian’s back.

I sigh, feeling the tension in my shoulders melt away a bit as you lean into me. “You’re right. He deserves a normal life, not one where we have to constantly look over our shoulders.”

I look down at Dorian, his little face still peaceful in sleep. “I don’t want him growing up feeling like he’s under constant scrutiny. It’s not right.”

We reach a quiet spot, away from any crowds, and I stop, turning to face you.

“Promise me something?” I cup your face in my hand, looking into your eyes. “Promise me that, no matter what happens, we keep fighting for our family. Promise me that nothing will break us or come between us.”

I lean in closer, my voice softening. “I love you. And I love that little boy more than anything. We won’t let anything shatter this.”

Your expression softens as you lean into my touch. “Baby, I know that none of this is your fault. It’s a part of your job, and it’s something I knew came with you. I would never let them win.”

I exhale, the weight on my shoulders lightening a bit at your understanding.

“I know you get it. But sometimes it feels like I’m not doing enough to protect you and Dorian. Like I’m failing you both.” I run a hand through my hair, frustration and guilt mixing in my words. “It’s just… I hate feeling so powerless.”

“Hey.” You reach to gently stroke my cheek. “I feel safe and protected when you’re around. So does Dorian. Remember, cats don’t sleep with their bellies up if they don’t feel safe.”

I smile weakly at the metaphor. “Always with the animal facts.” I look down at the little one in your arms. “You and Dorian are everything to me. I just… I wish I could shield you from everything.”

“You are, love. You are our shield and our rock.” Your eyes hold nothing but sincerity in them.

“Promise me you’ll never doubt that. No matter what storms come our way.”

“I’m planning to grow old with you and watch him get married, together.” You smile softly.

I chuckle, picturing our future together. The thought warms my heart, though there’s a hint of worry too.

“Sounds like an ideal plan to me. But growing old together requires us to stay sane through all this chaos.”

I place a tender kiss on your forehead, holding you close.

“Together, right?”

“Always.” You smile.

I return your smile, feeling a bit lighter. “Good, because I can’t imagine going through any of this without you.”

We stand there for a moment, just holding each other in quiet solidarity. The city around us keeps buzzing, and the paparazzi incident is still on my mind. But right now, all I care about is you and our little family.

Dorian shifts a little in your arms. “Let’s get that takeout and go home.”

I nod, reluctantly letting go of you. “Yeah, let’s go.”

I take your hand, and we start walking again, this time a little quicker. I keep my eyes peeled for any sign of paparazzi, though it seems like the incident outside the playground has scared them off for now.

“How’s our little sleepyhead doing?” I ask, peeking over to look at Dorian.

“Still sleeping,” you smile softly.

I smile at the sight, my heart swelling with love. “He looks so peaceful.”

We grab pasta for Dorian from one of those fancy Italian restaurants and finally reach the Chinese takeout place—a little hole in the wall that we’ve grown to love. The smell of sizzling kung pao chicken and fried rice fills the air as we step inside.

I order our usual: a couple of beef teriyaki dishes and some crab rangoons. The owner, an old lady named Mrs. Liu, smiles warmly at us.

“Haven’t seen you two in a while.”

“We took a little vacation in Italy to grow this one,” you chuckle softly. “We did miss your cooking.”

Mrs. Liu beams at you. “Italy, eh? Sounds romantic.”

I nod, grinning. “It was. But nothing quite compares to your kung pao chicken.”

She chuckles, handing us our order in a brown paper bag. “You young folks and your lovey-dovey vacations. You’re making me miss my younger years.” She looks at Dorian with admiration in her eyes. “Ah, they grow up so fast. One day you’re changing diapers, and the next they’re off to university.”

I smile softly. “That’s why we try to cherish every moment with him.”

Mrs. Liu smiles. “Smart. I’m sure you two are great parents for a little one.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Liu,” your voice is soft. “We’ll be coming more often.”

“You’re always welcome here, my dear, you know that,” she beams. “And the little one too—he’s too adorable to say no to.”

Our house is dimly lit, takeout spread out on the bed, Dorian nestled safely between both of us, fast asleep, some movie playing in the background.

You’re picking at your food, quiet again—but this time, it’s the good kind of quiet. The kind that feels full.

I glance over. “You still thinking about it? The photo?”

You nod. “Not because of what he saw. But because he didn’t. He just slept through it all. Like he knew we had him.”

“We do,” I say simply.

You look over at me, eyes soft now, almost shimmering. “Can we keep doing this? Building something real, even in the middle of all the chaos?”

I lean over and press a kiss to your lips—slow and certain.

“We already are.”

And outside, the city keeps moving. But here, in this little pocket of stillness, we’re exactly where we need to be.

Current taglist: @pauli-loveslouistomlinson @cherryberrystompers @hontpwk @avensgreenvans @venusnettles @nanaisinmars @sincerely-yours-marsbar

[sometimes-online]

Here is more Dad Tunner and baby Brud! (This takes place soon after Dad Tunner part 1 ) I'm really happy with how this comic turned out! :D Its probably the longest one I've done before! I hope you all like it!

(Full length all together + Little ramble below!)

I have the head canon that since the very beginning Brud would be attached to his bucket. He loves his bucket and refuses to part with it or accept any other bucket but his original. I think the concept of Tunner removing Brud from the bucket and then Baby Brud freaking out and Tunner not knowing way for a long time would be funny. :D I made it so as Tunner gets more nervous/anxious the backgrounds grow darker for him! :D

also also just to clarify! This is back when Brud was a baby - so like years ago :0 (So other characters who are adults would younger too- since this is in the past) I like to think of Tunner as his Father who found and raised him

[glamourooze]

[frosty-tian]

Unveiling the full piece I did for @turbofox-zines!

It was an absolute pleasure to have been part of a zine with so many amazing/skilled individuals (please do make sure to support everyone else’s entries as well), and very much shall participate any future events hosted by the team!

[pittsick]

AFTER HOURS.

summary: this night shift at the PTMC feels so boring. no one's crying, screaming or threatening nurses. and you end up flirting with your boyfriend, jack, until you both finish in the storage room to have fun.

pairing: jack abbot x afab!girlfriend.

cw: mdni. +18. 1.5k words. praising. short blowjob. fingering. piv not protected. quickie sex.

taglist: @blastzachilles @lvve-talks @jordiemeow @strfallz @222col @soulxinxthexsky @diyasgarden @jinxedbambi @lexiiscorect @religionlost @bluestrd @jclolz22 @magicalmiserybore @destinedtobegigi @fwaist @talsorchard @lovefaist @shahabaqsa0310 @prismozo @jesuistrestriste

The night shift at the Pitt Trauma Medical Center is usually anything but quiet. But tonight? You could swear the walls are holding their breath.

No traumas. No alarms. No yelling down the hallway about vitals or blood types. Just the humming of the overhead fluorescents, the soft beeping from monitors in empty rooms, and the occasional shuffle of feet echoing down polished linoleum. It's eerie, almost. Like the hospital itself is sleeping.

You're propped up on the nurse’s station desk, chart in hand, trying not to nod off. The high of adrenaline has long worn off, and in its place is an itch under your skin—the kind that has nothing to do with being tired.

Across from you, Jack leans against the counter, arms crossed, his scrubs slightly rumpled from earlier rounds. He’s watching you. He’s been watching you for a while now, eyes trailing slowly from your hands to your face, pausing at your lips.

"You're making it hard to concentrate," you say, flicking your eyes up from the chart, lips curling just slightly. Jack grins, lazy and warm. “I haven’t said a word.”

"You don’t have to. You’ve got that look."

“What look?”

You tilt your head. “Like you’re up to something.” He shrugs, not bothering to deny it. “Maybe I am.”

It’s been three months since you and Jack started seeing each other—secretly, quietly, slipping into each other’s lives between cases and consults. It wasn’t supposed to get serious. Neither of you had the time. But something about Jack kept pulling you in. The way he softens when you talk about your worst days. The way his hands tremble when he's stitching up a child. The way he waits to walk you to the break room when he knows you’ve been crying in the stairwell.

Slow, careful, fragile—that’s been the rhythm. Neither of you rushing it.

But lately, there’s been tension. A thick, unspoken craving sitting just under the surface. Like both of you are waiting for a sign, for something to break the calm.

“Slow night,” Jack says now, voice low and thick. You nod, scribbling a half-hearted note before closing the chart. “Almost too slow.”

Jack moves toward you slowly, hands slipping into the pockets of his scrubs. “So what do we do with ourselves?” You hop down from the desk, pretending to brush past him—but your shoulder lingers against his chest a little longer than it needs to.

“We behave,” you say, over your shoulder.

Jack follows. “Unlikely.”

You stop walking, and he nearly bumps into you. You can feel the heat rolling off him, even through your layers. “You want to get written up?” you ask, teasing.

“I’d risk it.”

You glance down the hall. Still dead. The overnight nurses are logged in at the far end, engrossed in something on a screen. The lights are dimmed. There’s a cart stocked with IV bags parked outside an unused room. The storage closet is just past that.

Your heart kicks.

You turn back to Jack and lift an eyebrow. “Storage room. Five minutes. If you’re not too scared.”

His jaw tenses, and for a second he looks stunned—but then he steps closer, chest nearly touching yours, and murmurs, “Lead the way.”

You take your time walking there, half for the thrill of it and half for the game. You can hear Jack’s footsteps behind you—soft, measured, hungry. When you push the storage room door open, the scent of antiseptic and plastic hits you immediately. Sterile shelves. Locked cabinets. And just enough space to press someone up against the wall.

Jack closes the door behind you, and the click of the lock echoes in the small space.

Then silence.

Until he steps forward and says, “You know you’re driving me crazy, right?” You look up at him, and in the low light, his eyes are darker, hungrier. “That’s the idea.”

He lets out a soft, amused breath, hands brushing your waist as if asking for permission. When you don’t stop him, his fingers grip tighter, tugging you closer. Your chests meet, and for a moment you just stand there, bodies pulsing with heat, hearts too loud.

His mouth finds yours first—slow, then urgent, like he’s been waiting weeks. You kiss him back with everything you’ve been holding in, hands sliding into his hair, tugging when he presses his hips against yours. You can feel him already, hard through his scrubs, and the rush of it makes your knees wobble.

“I think about this all the damn time,” he murmurs against your neck, kissing just below your ear. “You. In here. At work. Whispering my name like you’re trying not to get caught.”

“Jack—”

You mean to warn him, to tell him you should stop, that this is dangerous—but your voice dissolves into a whimper when his fingers slide under the waistband of your scrub pants, dragging them down just enough to slip between your thighs.

He finds you wet—already. The teasing, the secrecy, the low lights and the risk of someone knocking—your body responds before your brain can stop it. Jack groans into your shoulder. “Fuck. You’re soaked.”

His fingers start slow, circling your clit with practiced care, then slipping lower to press into you. You cling to him, biting your lip hard to stay quiet, but he’s watching you with something like awe.

“That feel good?” he whispers, kissing your cheek. “Been wanting to touch you like this since the first night shift we worked.”

You nod, too breathless to speak.

“You should hear the sounds you make,” he murmurs, fucking you slow with two fingers. “So pretty. So fucking pretty.”

Your hands scrabble at his waistband, desperate to return the favor. When you manage to get his scrub pants pushed low enough, his cock springs free—thick, flushed, already leaking. You drop to your knees on instinct, cheeks warm with want.

Jack hisses through his teeth, bracing one hand on the shelving unit. “Jesus…”

You wrap your lips around the head, tasting salt and skin and the warmth of him. He’s big, almost too much, and you gag just a little when he hits the back of your throat—but Jack groans like it’s the best sound he’s ever heard.

“You don’t have to—fuck—do that,” he mutters, already panting. “But if you keep going, I’m not gonna last long.” You look up at him, lips stretched around his cock, and he curses again, hand finding your hair.

“God, you’re gonna ruin me,” he whispers, voice wrecked.

You hum around him, hollowing your cheeks, sucking harder until he pulls you off with a gasp. His cock slips free with a wet pop, and he hauls you back up, kissing you like he needs it.

Then he turns you around, pressing you into the wall.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs, voice softer now, threading a hand between your thighs again as he lines himself up behind you. “It’s not,” you breathe. “I want it. Want you.”

He groans, forehead resting against the back of your neck as he pushes in slowly, filling you inch by inch until he’s fully seated inside you. The stretch burns in the best way, and you clutch at the shelves to stay upright. “Fuck,” Jack hisses. “You feel—god, you feel so good.”

He thrusts shallowly at first, testing your limits, and when you moan—quiet but desperate—he picks up pace, hips slapping softly against your ass, the noise echoing inside the tiny storage room. Every movement pushes you harder against the cold wall, but you don’t care.

You’d let him fuck you right on the ER floor if he asked.

“Been thinking about this every time you bite your lip during rounds,” he pants. “Every time you laugh at something I say. Driving me out of my fucking mind.” You meet his rhythm, pushing back against him, chasing the high curling deep in your belly.

“I wanna make you come,” he whispers, sliding a hand around to circle your clit again. “Wanna feel you squeeze around me.” Those words makes you clench around his cock, tiny moans escaping your lips without you realizing. With each thrusts, Jack’s tip push against your walls and the spongy spot inside you.

You don’t last long after that. The combination of his fingers and his cock, the praise spilling from his mouth, the heat of his body caging yours in—it’s too much.

You come hard, eyes squeezing shut, a strangled moan breaking free despite yourself. Jack follows a few thrusts later, groaning your name into your shoulder, hips stuttering before he stills deep inside you. The only sounds afterward are heavy breathing and the distant hum of the hospital.

He pulls out slowly, hands still gentle on your hips. When you turn to face him, your cheeks flushed and lips kiss-bitten, he smiles like he can’t believe you’re real.

“You okay?” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

You nod, dazed. “Yeah. You?”

He kisses you again—slow this time, lingering. “Best shift I’ve ever had.”

You both laugh quietly, then start the slow process of straightening clothes, fixing hair, wiping away evidence. Before you unlock the door, Jack cups your face again, thumb brushing your cheek.

“You wanna come home with me after shift?” he asks, voice soft.

You lean into his touch. “I thought you’d never ask.”

[scorpio1205]

Matt talking about Bambi Compilation

Summary: A tiktok compilation of Matt finding ways to talk about or bring up Bambi

Warnings: swearing, talks of fluff, Matt being a simp, Matt being in love and cute Bambi and Matt stories

Bambi sighed opening her eyes, she had been laying in bed, her back pressed into Matt's chest for about an hour with no luck falling asleep, no matter how hard she tried she ended up just staring at the wall. After a minute she leaned over to the bedside table grabbing her phone and opening tik tok, making sure that the brightness and sound of her phone didn't wake Matt up.

She scrolled aimlessly barely paying attention to the videos when she scrolled past a video that she had assumed was a Matt edit only to see her name as she scrolled down, she quickly scrolled back up pausing and reading the title.

'Matthew Sturniolo Finding Any Excuse to Bring Up Bambi Compilation'

A small smile formed on her face, she didn't think Matt brought her up that much but apparently the fans thought otherwise. She looked over at Matt for a second before looking at the screen unpausing and getting comfortable.

Clip 1. from THEY'RE A 10 BUT... they aren’t your valentine

Matt sat in the drivers seat looking at his phone clearly not really paying attention that much

"They're a ten but every time you ask them a question they say 'huh' but when you go to repeat yourself they finish the question then answer it."

Chris snickered slightly "That shits so ann-"

"That's not that bad" Matt immediately cut him off finally looking up from his phone a little defensive.

"Kid what are you talking about that shit is really fucking annoying"

Matt glared at his brother "It isn't that annoying. I say 10"

Before Chris could respond Nick started to laugh "I know that look"

"What loo-"

Nick and Chris both cut him off in unison "The 'I'm about to bring up Bambi look'"

Matt smiled sheepishly looking away for a moment before looking back at his brothers "Okay but she can't help it. She isn't saying what cause she can't hear you, it just takes her a second to register what you're saying."

His brothers sighed leaning back, they knew Matt was about to go on a rant about Bambi

"She's literally perfect. Her doing that doesn't change the fact that she's a 10, scratch that shes a 100. You two are just-"

"We get it Matt, Bam is a goddess"

"And don't you forget it."

Clip 2. From Ghost Hunting at Haunted Driskill Hotel (ft. Sturniolo Triplets)

The triplets stood near Sam and Colby, Chris and Nick explaining that they had spent the last month studying their videos to prepare for this Collab.

The boys all turned to Matt for his answer.

He grinned like a kid on Christmas. "My girlfriend, Bambi, has been watching your guys videos for a few years"

Nick and Chris groaned knowing Matt was waiting for an opportunity to bring up Bambi.

"So I feel like out of Nick, Chris and I, I might be the most prepared for this."

"Just wait, this won't be the first time he brings up Bambi this video"

Clip 3. From 20 year olds playing with kids toys.

Matt held Snowy the lambs leash looking at Nick and Chris. "Pretend Bambi and I have a kid right-"

"Does Bambi know about this?!?"

"Shut up Chris." He motioned back to Snowy. "And this is our baby, and we're introducing them to you for the first time, You guys are uncles for the first time and it's Snowy!"

Nick made a face "This is getting a little to realistic to me, but continue"

"This is all normal okay."

Chris looked weirded out and a bit jealous. "Is this a disclaimer or something?"

"Shhhhh,"

Clip 4. From RATING A DOZEN CRAZY DONUTS 1-12 (Special appearance from Bambi) *May make a blurb on this*

Chris was annoying the shit out of Matt with his constant badgering about the donuts ratings.

"You know what we need, an unbiased opinion. Someone who's likes donuts but it really picky....."

Chris looked up confused not fully registering what he was saying, but Nick knew what he was saying "I couldn't agree more"

Chris realized what they were implying and smiled having a feeling that he was gonna win in this case. "Fine"

"Should I get her?" Matt waited for them to both nod to stand up "Baby, can you come here for a second!"

After a second Bambi walked into frame in a pair of grey sweats and a blue tub top "What's going on?" She noticed the camera and smiled waving slightly.

"We need your help" They spoke in unison.

Clip 5. Waffles, Pancakes, or French Toast (Ft. Bambi)

"Matt, you are such a fucking baby and I hate it! Cause I know what you're gonna say. You like chocolate chip cookies as if you're not about to be fucking 19 years old"

Nick made a face "Chocolate chip pancakes?"

"Yeah chocolate chip pancakes" Chris corrected rolling his eyes.

"Good, I was about to say what do cookies have to do with this"

Chris ignored him continuing continuing his rant, his annoyance clear.

"Matt have you ever gone to Denny's and gotten the french toast slam?"

"No but i've gotten chocolate chip pancakes from there"

"And they were fucking gross I bet"

Matt rolled his eyes turning away and opening his phone "You're fucking gross" he shut out what his brothers were speaking about texting someone, after a moment he looked up. "You know who I bet agrees with me?

"Who Matt?"

Matt smiled "Bambi"

A loud scoff left Chris' mouth "There is no way Bam-Bam agrees with you"

"Wanna bet" Matt laughed pressing the call button.

"Dude, she's probably sleeping hang up"

"She's not sleeping, we were just texting-"

Suddenly the phone stopped ringing "Hey"

Matt smiled hearing her voice "Hey Bam. We have a question for you"

"What's the question?"

"If you had to get rid of pancakes, waffles or french toast. What would you get rid of?"

They all waited patiently for her to answer.

"Do you want me to answer honestly?"

Both Chris and Matt answered immediately "Yes"

"Honestly, I'd get rid of waffles or french toast" She laughed.

"YES!"

"WHAT?! Bambi, how could you get rid of waffles or french toast?" Chris was absolutely flabbergasted.

"I'm not the biggest breakfast person. When I go to diners I normally get a bacon cheese burger and fries. But I do really like pancakes just not from a diner. I'd rather make them at home"

Chris looked appalled "So you'd get rid of waffles or french toast"

"Yeah, but I think I'd get rid of french toast if I absolutely had to choose"

"WHAT?!?!"

Matt looked like he was on cloud 9 "Bam, have I ever told you how much I freaking love you?"

"Not nearly as much as you should"

"Well I'll start telling you more. Thank you for answering"

"No problem, I'll see you guys tomorrow" With that she hung up.

Bambi was a giggling mess when the tik tok ended, she suddenly felt Matt's grip on her tightening.

"Maybe Nick and Chris are right....I do talk about you a lot." Matt mumbled groggily.

She turned over putting her phone down, her nose immediately brushing his. "It's okay.... I like it, makes me feel loved"

"Good, that's all I want" He leaned in tiredly kissing her.

Comments

User432: The fact that you can see how in love with her he is just by the way he lights up when he says or hears her name! STAWP!

User000: I didn't realize how much I needed this

User420; Need someone to love me like that

boarders made by @bernardsbendystraws

Tagged:

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