#here's to getting everything fixed though. I'm so much better than I was before!!! and now that the big fucking problems are handled

[genuine-wrestleboy]

touchstarved!springtrap/reader ((wip))

SNEAK PEAK TIME! if you've been kind on any of my stuff in the YEAR it's taken me to write even this much, this is for you

happy dead by daylight!!!

~~~

If anyone had asked you before, you'd have told them with perfect confidence that you were overqualified for the Fazbear’s gig. Standing here now with the animatronic carcass lying in state on your kitchen floor, you’re suddenly not so sure. 

You scrub a hand across your face, smearing ash over ash. Adrenaline still fizzles weakly through your blood, and your lungs—well, your lungs don't feel great. You'd inhaled more than your fair share of smoke back at the Fright, and you can still feel it clinging to you thickly inside and out. You tear off a piece of paper towel and blow your nose; it comes out black. The sound you hack up at that might be a laugh, but then again it might be a cough.

Exhaustion drags you down, your back skidding a grimy line down the cupboards as you collapse next to the still form of the animatronic.

“We made it, buddy,” you croak, looking over. “Don't tell anybody I stole you, okay?”

The curtains are closed in what could reasonably be called paranoia, but a thin finger of early sun sneaks through to touch the ragged face, dragging like a scar across one staring silver eye. The fire didn't do it any favors, but the poor thing was in rough shape even before then, rotten and reeking and all but forgotten in that weird, moldering room. 

Naturally, you’d fallen in love at first sight. 

Your fingers itch, soot in the whorls of your fingerprints and thick under your nails. The last of the adrenaline ebbs away, leaving a dull, burning ache in its wake. It took muscles you didn’t even know you had to drag the two of you out of that building, and you take a deep breath as the exertion catches up to you, let your head fall back against the cupboard. It's a good thing you’re already sitting down; everything feels heavy and sore, your bones roughly the consistency of a cooked noodle. Your breath feels gritty and thick in your lungs.

You should move, should get up—you’re not even particularly comfortable, your hips cramping and the knob of the cupboard jabbing into your spine—but on the other side of this moment is everything that has to come next, and you’re not quite prepared to face all of that, yet.

Then, from beside you, the pinched sound of metal on metal, a screech, a solid, floor-shaking thud. You open your eyes and look up and up and up. The animatronic shudders and pulls itself to full height, its long fingers twitching madly, broad chest heaving like it’s fighting for breath. One ear flops to the side as it tilts its head and fixes you with a keen, curious stare, and there’s something in it so like recognition that it catches in your chest.

“Oh thank god,” you say, relief flooding in. Part of you had given up hope that it would ever move again, much rather under its own power. “How're you feeling, buddy?”

The animatronic doesn't answer, because of course it doesn't. You heave yourself to your feet under its watchful eyes, dusting yourself off self-consciously. The animatronic goes somehow even stiller, and you hold out both hands, palms forward, like it's a skittish animal you're trying to soothe.

“Hey, hey, you're okay. It's Bonnie, right? I'm here to help, Bonnie.” The heyday of Freddy Fazbear’s was a little before your time, but you'd grown up watching reruns of Freddy and Friends. The color's wrong, but Bonnie's the only rabbit you remember, and something tells you the animatronic's original color isn't what you're seeing right now anyway.

The animatronic sort of rocks back on its heels, and a strange, concussive sound starts up in its chest, ah ah ah, low and scraping. If you didn't know any better, you'd say it was laughing.

Static; the voicebox crackles and spits. You make a mental note to check for moisture in the throat column, though you're sort of baffled by the possibility. Where could a leak be coming from? Had one of the hydraulic lines managed to stay sealed all this time? It seems unlikely, but if you jostled it loose getting the animatronic here, that would explain the sound. You scan hastily for visible signs of damage, but that’s a bit like looking for a needle in a needle stack.

The animatronic twitches, arms swinging as it takes a slow, labored step forward. You shuffle back on instinct, and though the face doesn't change its grin seems to sharpen, somehow.

“Not Bonnie,” comes the gurgling response. “Not anymore.”

“Anymore?” you echo. Had it been reprogrammed at some point? Does it remember? You've heard some wild rumors about the guys who owned Fazbear’s back in the day, but they clearly weren't fucking around when it came to their AI. “Who are you, then?”

Not-Bonnie pauses like it's considering the question. The eyes are built to be sleepy and soft; the way that they watch you is anything but. You've been told by plenty of coworkers that you're a sucker for anything under your care, but you swear it feels smart. Like an errant quirk of programming is seeing and sizing you up against some unknowable animatronic rubric.

You wonder if it's pleased with its findings.

The animatronic takes another step closer. Slowly, as if gauging your reaction, it leans in, craning curiously over you, though it stops just short of contact.

“Guess.”

“O-okay.” Why are your hands shaking? It’s meant to entertain children, and it wants to play a guessing game. Nothing weird about that. “Can you give me a hint?”

It raises a huge, mitted paw, and you flinch before you can stop yourself. Ah ah ah, goes the animatronic, that strange almost-laugh, and points a finger directly at the center of your sternum. You edge back another cautious step, your lungs suddenly shallow.

Then, from outside: a child's high, piercing laugh. It’s not an unusual sound around here, there are plenty of families in your neighborhood, but the animatronic’s reaction is immediate. You watch its bright eyes flare in and out of focus, and its whole body tenses and sways as if it’s fighting for balance. Its head snaps towards the source of the sound, and a low, staticky growl rumbles in its ruined chest as it heaves itself away from you and takes a lumbering step towards the door.

“Ohh no no no.” You dart out into its path, waving your arms to catch its attention. “Please don’t do that. If anyone sees you, I’m gonna get in a lot of trouble, and I would really like to not get in a lot of trouble.”

The animatronic rounds on you, palpable anger rolling off the corroded carapace in waves, which makes no sense, who would program a thing like this with anger? Bare metal fingers knot themselves together, shaking with it, and you try very hard not to imagine your very fragile throat in one of those unforgiving fists. Your back hits the edge of the kitchen counter, and a shiver of fear ices over your spine.

The linoleum of your countertop gives way as the animatronic slams a hand down against it, whipping away again to scrabble desperately at the back of its own head. It gouges long green lines in the black of its soiled fur, picking and picking like it's trying to claw something free.

“Whoa, whoa, what's wrong?” Seeing its panicked fervor puts a sympathy in you that overrides the fear.

“Out,” hisses the animatronic. For a moment you think it’s telling you to leave, but on second look it doesn’t seem to be paying any attention to you at all. Its scratching gets faster, like it’s getting frustrated, and it lets out a low, gravely wail that coils itself around your heart and yanks you painfully into motion.

You duck into its line of sight, hands raised. “Is something in there bothering you? If you let me take a look, I might be able to help.”

Considering how antsy you've been to get a peek at its inner workings for the past week, the offer feels almost selfish, but the animatronic pauses its frantic ministrations and turns to you, as if considering your words.

“They hired me to fix you,” you add, like that might sway its decision. “We met once. I don't know if you remember.”

The animatronic stares without speaking, and you get the impression of narrowed eyes, a thoughtful frown. A flock of late-migrating birds goes by outside, calling mournfully into the brisk morning air. The animatronic perks up at the sound, then shakes itself violently and jabs a finger at the back of its head.

“Get it out.” Its voice is stone on stone, grinding and guttering, and silly though the sentiment may be, you can't help but think that it sounds painful.

“Okay,” you say amiably. At this point you wouldn't be surprised if the animatronic had some way to troubleshoot its own systems, but it seems best practice to see what's going on for yourself before you start pulling things loose.

While you get your tools, the animatronic lowers itself stiffly to its knees. You feel its eyes follow you as you give your hands a hasty scrub, heavy as a human gaze, and something about it puts flushed heat up the back of your collar. There's that inchoate sense of appraisal again, like it knows something you don't and is waiting, amused, to see whether or not you figure it out.

“Alright, I'm going to touch you now.” You feel a little silly for the warning, but you figure it doesn't hurt to be polite.

Not-Bonnie's response comes slowly, as though it has to think about it. “Very well.”

Even still, when you start exploring, it freezes, so quickly that you worry that something in the long-neglected mechanics must've finally shorted out.

“Shit, everything alright?”

“Just do it,” says the animatronic tightly, and then lets out a staticky, startled sound when you touch it again that makes you very glad it can't see your expression. It's not a moan, because you wouldn't know what to physically do with yourself if you had to deal with the implications of that, but the sounds share a border so close that they could rub off on one another, like wet paint.

It feels like every nerve in your body has migrated to your hands as you search for a seam in the matted fur. Fine, ashy grit collects in the whorls of your fingerprints, staining them a waxy grey.

“We should really get you cleaned up after this,” you say, just to say it.

The comment is met by the pinched, metallic sound of old fans scraping into agonized motion. A new rush of urgency tenses your muscles. Care and deliberation are all well and good, but you don't exactly trust the efficacy of the cooling system after all this time, and none of it will do you any good if everything's too hot to touch by the time you find your way in. Adrenaline urges you along, and you feel a surge of triumph when your searching fingers close on the hidden pull of a zipper. Age and grime stick the teeth fast together; you worry at it while trying desperately not to break it. When the fur finally peels apart, it does so with the stiff, reluctant cling of an unripe orange.

Underneath, the metal is greasy black and tacky to the touch. Thick dark liquid coagulates in a shallow divot the size of your smallest fingernail, sucks at the pad of your thumb when you move to swipe it aside. 

“Let me know if this—” you begin, then falter. If this hurts, you were going to say. Over the animatronic's shoulder, you can see its fingers claw against its thighs. You clear your throat awkwardly, suddenly too aware of your own fingers, the metal heating steadily beneath them. “—if anything feels wrong,” you finish lamely.

The animatronic grunts noncommittally. As carefully as if it were made of porcelain, you press the tip of your screwdriver experimentally under the divot's hidden lip. Slow, careful pressure—a small hatch pries stickily upwards, and excitement flares in your chest. It's tempered only a little by the smell that follows, a burst of wet, cloying rot that thrusts through your sinuses and lays itself in your mouth like a sluggy second tongue. You don't gag, but it's a near thing. 

“There we go,” you say, a little nasal, “that's not so bad, right? Oh, look at you, you're gorgeous.”

Visible now under the hatch is a snakes’ nest of wires, blue and red and black, their insulating skins shedding to reveal gleams of greening copper so expertly soldered that you can still make out every path between the joints. The patterns are alien to you, though, unlike any of the machines you've worked on before, as though whoever was responsible for this one was making it up as they went along. It's fascinating in its novelty and exhilarating in its sheer blunt competence. 

How had the creator managed it, to make an animatronic that was still capable of such complex operation after, if what your now former boss was to be believed, thirty years of inactivity? There must be redundancies built into the design to preserve functionality in case of damage, but the fact that they're still effective is astonishing. It makes you want to do something embarrassing, like lean forward and kiss it. If it weren't for the awareness of your impatiently shifting audience, you probably would.

Instead, you focus on the captivating puzzle in front of you, sorting gingerly through the wires with reverent fingers. They part readily under your touch, slick with more of that dark, acrid liquid, though by now you’re starting to get used to the smell. A rigid tension seizes the animatronic's shoulders, as though it were stopping itself from moving away. The fans in its chest whir and screech.

“Hanging in there?” you ask.

“Don't coddle me,” it bites out, and you laugh before you can stop yourself.

“Who's coddling? I just wanna make sure I'm not touching anything I shouldn't.”

As you speak, you slide a fingernail between two wires, teasing them apart with a soft shlick. Sitting beneath them, top left like a postage stamp, is a battered chip of purple plastic. Corrosion bleeds from its edges in crystalline gobs and fans out in feathery white veins, caustic mechanical mold. Where it meets metal, rubbery ribbons of sealant curl away to bare the fragile circuitry below. You let out a short, appraising breath between your teeth. 

It looks—to use a technical term—bad, but you know better than to mess with anything when you still don't know what it does. You hover a fingertip over the chip, testing for heat. You expect it—a functional heat, at least, enough to confirm that it's still doing what it's meant to, whatever that is. What you don't expect is the chill. It's like the chip is carved from ice, radiating a cold well below the air around it. The unexpected sensation gets a gasp out of you, prickling up your arms in gooseflesh that feels like nails raked lightly along your skin. 

Heat rises into your face, and sinks into your belly. Humiliation nips at its heels.

“There's a chip here,” you blurt, your own silence taking on uncomfortable weight. “D'you know what it's for?”

It's a long shot, but your aim proves true.

“Yes,” says the animatronic, sounding pleased.

“I—really? That's incredible.” Being able to troubleshoot its own systems had been a hopeful, haphazard guess at best, the idea that it could recognize and understand the actual hardware—god, you are really about to be helpless for this thing.

Before you can ask any more, one of the animatronic's mitted paws appears in your line of sight. Swift, precise, it seizes the edges of the chip with two sharp-looking fingers and snaps its wrist to the side. A bright crack, and the chip tears free from its bed like a loose tooth and disappears as the animatronic brings it around to examine it.

“Oh,” you say dumbly. “Okay.”

The sound starts like the roll of distant thunder, ah ah ah, and your mind spins with it as the familiar, scraping cadence goes smooth and velvet-deep. The animatronic laughs, and you have to put down your screwdriver to brace yourself against the counter. Your knees feel like water. The only thing keeping you upright is curiosity, your eyes following the dull purple gleam of the chip.

“What is it?”

The animatronic tilts its head to one side. “Would you mind?”

“Would I—? Oh, oh right, my bad, lemme just—”

You cast a final, longing glance at the contents below the hatch before easing it shut with a sticky click. On impulse, you press your fingertips to your lips, then lay them against the metal, the ghost of your earlier urge.

The animatronic shifts, but you can't tell if it's discomfort or impatience. Zipping up the fur feels strangely final.

“All set,” you tell it, sounding strangled even to your own ears.

You stumble back as the animatronic hauls itself to its feet, a slow, stuttering unfolding that reminds you all over again just how tall it is. You've never considered yourself particularly short, but it must have a good foot of height on you, which is only made more obvious by the way it leans into your personal space and looms. A chill comes over you, like stepping into the shade of a tree on a hot day.

“Hold out your hand.” It's an obvious command, but there's a sly, playful tone to it that fizzles under your skin. Another game, you think, obeying with a thrill of curious anticipation.

Into your upturned palm, the animatronic deposits what looks like a small piece of crumpled paper with the letters AR pressed in a faded copperplate font in one corner. A second look reveals it to be the mangled remnants of the purple chip, split into jagged halves, the plastic splintered past repair. The fine, metallic entrails, suddenly exposed, glitter like gems.

“Did you do this on purpose?” You can't keep the disappointment out of the question.

The animatronic's eyes are sharp and silver as a blade. “Why the concern? You didn't make it.”

Neither did you, you want to snap, but you manage to bite it back.

“It just seems like a waste,” you say instead, then, for what feels like the hundredth time, “What was it for?”

The animatronic tilts its head to one side, its unbroken ear dangling loosely. In lieu of an answer, it steps closer; you step back, the answering move in an indecipherable dance.

“You don't know? I thought you were supposed to fix me.”

“You seem like you could fix yourself,” you laugh nervously, “maybe I was just hired to help.”

The animatronic hums at that, pleased by the flattery. One long finger lifts to tap at the mess in your hand, clicking like a claw against the plastic.

“This,” it says, and you're probably definitely just imagining things, but you'd swear you can hear the grin in its voice, “was the suit’s AI.”

You're so distracted by the cool smoke of its voice that it takes you a full minute to process the words.

“The—that doesn't make any sense.” Is the animatronic lying to you right now? “If that's true, how are you still up and talking? Is there a backup?”

“Hmm, I'm afraid not,” says the animatronic, almost gleefully. 

You squeeze your fist a little tighter around the chip in your palm. You think about the stories, though you don't want to, the rumors and gossip that your boss had cheerfully referred to as “the Fazlore.” Thirty years boarded up behind a wall. All the things people said about those old springlock suits.

“Without the AI, what's left?”

The animatronic's huge hands hit the countertop on either side of you with a bang, and you startle so violently that it twangs a nerve in your neck. Pain shoots down your spine. The small of your back hits the counter, and you freeze, something like fear kindling in the cradle of your chest. The animatronic is so close you could count the drooping lashes that still ring the ruined lids, but it doesn't touch you. It just ducks its head to catch your eye, that grinning certainty as palpable as the smell of smoke. 

“Me,” it hisses triumphantly.

The question is out before you can stop it, fear and fascination in equal measure. “Who are you?”

“Who am I,” says the animatronic. Its voice drops into a staticky growl as it draws a line in the air back to its ragged torso, tapping hollowly near the remnants of a scuffed black button. “I wonder if I should be offended. You're the one who named me, after all.”

Guilty understanding, like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

“I didn't mean it to be rude,” you stutter out, which is true, though if you're being totally honest with yourself you'd suspected even at the time that the nickname might be a little tactless. 

“Not at all,” says the animatronic. “I think it suits me.”

You pause, then laugh, a sudden, heady rush of relieved affection. “Was that a pun?”

“If you like,” it allows magnanimously.

You laugh again and look over it wonderingly, as delighted by the smug, wry humor as you are taken aback by it.

“Well, consider me honored then,” you say. “It's very nice to meet you properly, Springtrap.” You thrust out a hand as you offer your name in return. It seems like the thing to do.

Springtrap stares indulgently down at your outstretched hand, but leans back without taking it.

“I know your name,” it informs you, with no further elaboration.

“You—how?” you ask. You hadn't exactly worn a nametag at work. 

“That useless boy with the ponytail was always running around shouting for you,” says Springtrap, waving a hand vaguely.

It takes a moment for his meaning to click into place. “You mean Cody? My boss?”

Cody was a baffling, lanky, surfer-type with more enthusiasm than business acumen, but you wouldn't have described him as useless. Frustrating, maybe. The week you'd spent under his management at the Fright had been…singular, as work experiences went, which you probably should've expected from the fact that he'd swung into your interview fifteen minutes late, complimented your vibes, and hired you on the spot.

“We’re, like, still getting on our feet, set-up-wise,” Cody had told you blithely, “but we’re moving right along according to the schedule. You’re our first real hire, congrats, but we’re putting out feelers for a security guard, hit me up if you know anyone who’s looking.”

“I’ll keep an ear out,” you'd said amenably, and he'd nodded.

“Cool, cool. So I know that we technically hired you for animatronic maintenance—and there will be animatronics, cross my heart, but right now your role will be sorta more of a general handyman. The wiring and vents are cooked—vintage, right, real authentic—but they do not work, and I figured, hey, there's gotta be some overlap there with what you do, right?”

“Not really,” you’d replied, but he'd barely seemed to hear you.

Now, you scrub a hand across your face and let out a pinched sigh. 

“He's gonna think the fire was because of the wiring—oh god, what if it was?” You'd done your best, but you weren't an electrician, and that place had been ready to come down on a whim long before you got there. “What if someone got hurt?”

It hadn’t even occurred to you that one of your coworkers might still be in the building when you'd gone in for Springtrap. If something happened to one of them, if it was your fault—

“It wasn't the wiring,” says Springtrap flatly. It sounds irritated. 

“You sound very sure about that,” you tell him.

“Because I am.” The question on your tongue must reflect in your eyes when you look at it, because it adds, “It was the night guard.”

“Mike?” you ask disbelievingly. Your shifts didn’t overlap by much, so you didn’t know the guy all that well, but he’d seemed—well, tired, mostly, and a little cryptic, but friendly enough. “Why would he do that?”

“I can't even begin to know what he's thinking,” Springtrap sighs—a proper sigh, you hear the air as it moves through the canals of its chest cavity and try not to let yourself get distracted by the broader functional relevance of artificial breathing. “He's always been one for tedious dramatics.”

A surprised laugh bubbles out of you. “They let you talk to kids like that?”

Springtrap gives you a cool, steady look down the length of its muzzle. “Nobody let me do anything. Come now, this has been moderately entertaining, but you're cleverer than that.”

Your throat tightens in on itself. Springtrap inclines his head. The light from the curtains catches something between the jaws of the suit, the flash of a smile behind its teeth.

Understanding hangs over your head by a rapidly fraying thread, and you feel frozen in its shadow. All the little details of the morning that had seemed so unimportant at the time hiss and click like angry insects as they arrange themselves in a neat line at your feet.

“The suit’s not wearable right now,” you assert, the beginning of an argument that sits in your sternum like panic. “It's in animatronic mode. These old springlocks are sort of infamous for how bad an idea it is to wear one while it's in animatronic mode.”

“It wasn't my idea,” says Springtrap dryly.

Metal glints at the stringy parting of his throat, the joint of his shoulder, the mangled ruin of his waist. Places where a person should be—would be, if your life could just be so simple that you'd accidentally brought a stranger into your home.

“So what,” you hear yourself ask, “you're haunted?”

“Don't be obtuse, I'm not dead.”

“You would be,” you say immediately. “If you were in there when the animatronic mode kicked in, you would one thousand percent be dead.”

“And yet, here I am,’” he says, spreading his hands illustratively. “Demonstrably alive.”

“I don't know if that's as obvious as you think it is,” you tell him weakly. This cannot be a real discussion that you are having.

Springtrap doesn't respond for a moment, his unblinking gaze fixed on you keen and curious. You shift your weight from foot to foot, self-conscious, feeling like something small and damp newly discovered under an overturned rock.

“Perhaps,” he suggests thoughtfully, “your love brought me to life. Like the velveteen rabbit.”

A flush comes over you like the suck of riptide, heat you can feel straight through to the follicles of your hair. You bark out a laugh, too sudden, too harsh. It leaves a feeling like heartburn in your chest. 

“We’re blaming it on magic now?”

Springtrap gestures vaguely, cranes his neck to catch your eye. “All science seems like magic, before you understand it.” He holds out a hand, like he’s asking for yours, but curls his fingers back against his own palm before you can move to take it. “Whatever I am, I am here because of you. That debt does not escape me. However, the situation is…complicated. Is there any way I could convince you simply to trust me for now?”

You stare at his hand, still half outstretched, and your palms tingle. “What would that entail, exactly?”

“Fewer questions,” he says with good humor, and you feel a smile pull itself up to your mouth. “—for now. I swear to answer anything you like as soon as I am able. I owe you that at least.”

Indecision gnaws at the walls of your stomach. The not-knowing is a snake up your spine, the itchy twitching twist of each impossibility vying to make itself known. You feel like you’re dreaming, because it feels like a dream, feels exactly like the sort of thing your pining subconscious mind would wrangle up for you. You want to understand, but beneath it stir other wants—simpler, and louder.

“When will you be able to?”

“Sooner, with your assistance,” he says, then, “Why did you rescue me?”

“Why—?” It’s a good question. It was a miracle that you managed to get him out of there. It was insanity that you tried. “I don’t know. I had to.”

“Had to?” asks Springtrap thoughtfully. “You thought I was just a lifeless animatronic.”

“I think you would’ve done the same,” you tell him.

Springtrap laughs, the sound popping and hissing like a bad radio transmission. “You do, do you?”

“Am I wrong?”

“No,” he admits.

You wet your lips; they taste like ash. You swipe the back of your hand across your mouth and feel it smear, mudlike where it's mixed with your sweat, up onto your cheek.

“Eugh,” you say, without meaning to, and Springtrap huffs, amused. The glare you send him turns into something far softer, filtered through your eyelashes.

“You're one to laugh, as if you're any better. Can I ask a question?”

“I may not answer it.”

“Will you be damaged if you get wet?”

Springtrap is visibly taken aback, as if he'd expected you to say something else. 

“I can't imagine there's much more damage to be done,” he says evenly.

“Good,” you say,  “cos we both need a good scrub. Come on.”

You pat him twice on the chest in filthy camaraderie, and in the spirit of camaraderie you gamely do not mention that he needs it about ten times more than you do based on smell alone.

Springtrap freezes. It catches like fire up a wick through your limbs, that same tense, paralyzed stillness. You realize that you've messed up, but you don't know how, can't even begin to know how to fix it. Cold, panicky indecision blooms up from the pit of your stomach as your thoughts scramble over one another in a mad cacophony of unhelpful sounds.

The fur is thin and waxy where your fingertips still touch him, catching on the jagged-bitten edges of your nails. You just…stand there, feeling like an idiot, and think shit. It's the touching, isn't it, you can't just go around touching people, it's—

With a soft, shuddery sigh, Springtrap sags forward into your hand, loose as a snapped bowstring. Your palm goes flat against his chest, and beneath it you feel the subtle rumblings of his inner workings as they reverberate through the metal.

Warmth fills the space behind your heart, thick and slow as honey. Slowly, giving Springtrap plenty of time to protest, you spread your fingers, grit and ash flaking away in the wake of your touch. A sound punches out of him—a quick, ragged inhalation, and before you register the movement your wrist has been swallowed by one of those huge, mitted fists.

A flash of sudden, uncertain fear lights up every nerve in your body, the lightning-crack reminder of the crater in your counter not two feet away. You can all but hear the delicate bones of your wrist cracking under that unthinking strength.

“I’m sorry,” you say quickly, waiting for the anger, the pain. Enough of his joints are bare that they catch and pinch the fine hairs on your arm, but you don't pull away, don't even move to breathe.

“Can you feel that?” you ask softly, then, “Sorry, you said fewer questions.”

Springtrap watches you with a stillness that feels uncertain, somehow, unbroken ear dangling as he tits his head to one side. Against your palm, the vibrations hum and throb like an anxious heartbeat.

“Yes,” he says finally, his voice thick. “That is, no, I feel—”

His thumb draws a slow, careful line down the length of your throat, and you swallow hard.

“It’s an echo,” he explains, half to himself. “Not quite contact, but the…promise of it.”

“I don’t understand.” Is all you manage.

“No, I don’t expect you do.”His fingers find your free hand, a solid cage of steel, tight enough to bite. You wince, and the pressure eases, then shifts. Springtrap presses your hand against his chest, a mirror to the first, and the sigh that escapes him is deep, shuddery, and relieved.

[sparkarrestor]

Plinthed

Written By: SparkArrester

     Edward sat in the works, alone. Well, not alone, for it was the middle of the day and the workmen were busy with the usual goings on. Too busy to really pay him much notice. He didn’t really mind, as it left him able to rest comfortably without men poking and prodding at him. As comfortable as he could, at least, after his incident. He had brought a heavy train home during a thunderstorm, all while his left siderod was lodged in his running board. He had to run as a single, slipping and sliding all the way from the branchline to the big station. Now, he was waiting on repairs to go back in service. The new diesel, BoCo couldn’t do it on his own, and besides, he needed help to keep the twins in line, didn’t he?

As Edward was dozing, he heard the crunch of shoes on ballast coming towards him, and opened his eyes. It was the Fat Controller, and Edward watched as he shooed away the CME and walked up in front of him.

“Good Morning, Sir”, Smiled Edward, “Here for a visit?”

“Indeed.” Replied The Fat Controller, in a rather neutral tone, “Just check up on what is happening, and for you, of course.”

“Me?” Said Edward, “Well, I’m doing fine so far, but I’ll be even better once I’m back in steam! I’m sure the twins miss me, and I shan’t leave BoCo on his own.”

Edward noticed the slight change of expression on the Fat Controller’s face, but kept up his smile.

“Is everything alright, sir?”

“Well…” Replied The Fat Controller, before taking a breath and going back to his neutral tone, “I have something I’d like to tell you. Something important.”

“And what would that be?”

“Well, Edward, you… you’re one of the most experienced engines on this island, and what happened yesterday, well, it was very admirable, getting those people home in your condition. Your boiler ticket is about to run out as well, so I’ve been thinking…”

While the Fat Controller was taking, Edward smile slowly morphed into a frown, but he held off speaking until-

“How would you like to… retire?”

“...what?”

The Fat Controller braced himself, especially at Edward’s expression, but he steeled himself, and pressed onwards.

“We can fix you up cosmetically, and we can place you somewhere that you’ll always have others to talk to! Like the big station! The passengers and engines, especially the young engines, will all benefit with you around, like that old engine from Barrow!”

That just seemed to make the expression on Edward’s face worse.

“Erm, well, look Edward, I think that-”

“N-No.”

“... I’m sorry?”

Both engine and controller were startled, Edward the most. He couldn’t even remember the last time he denied his controller something, but he went through with it regardless.

“Sir, I… I don’t want to be taken out of service, I don’t want to be plinthed and be one big useless ornament taking up place in a station or on a siding. I want to be working, with my friends, pulling trains and being worth something, not just the useless thing someone has to clean whenever they need disciplining.”

The Fat Controller stared wide-eyed at Edward, but let him continue.

“And I know that trains are getting heavier, and I know that my age is very much catching up with me, but I can’t stop now. I won’t stop now. I’m not ready for retirement, and I don’t know if I ever will be. I’m… I'm sorry. If that, well, If that upsets any plans you have.”

They both sat in silence for only a few minutes, but it felt like forever. It took every ounce of nerve Edward had to keep going, and not simply apologize and go along with whatever The Fat Controller had planned for him. He was struck by the thought of what his friends would do if they had heard. The big engines had always said he was meant for retirement sooner rather than later (well Gordon mostly, and he wasn’t too sure on where they stood these days), but he was certain that the tank engines would cause a ruckus at least. Though, while they weren’t as old as him, they weren’t exactly the picture of modernity themselves, were they? However any more thoughts on that were cut off as The Fat Controller spoke.

“Alright.” He said, quite easily. Edward blinked.

“Really?” He said, mouth agape, “Just like that?”

“Well…” Said The Fat Controller, giving a proper smile, “If you’d like to keep serving your railway, who am I to stop you? Your knowledge would be more useful on the rails than on a plinth. I’ll see about moving you from cosmetic repairs to a full overhaul, at once.”

“I-I… Thank you, sir!”

“It’s no bother.”

And with that, The Fat Controller turned on his heel, and walked away.

[presidentdisastraofgallifrey]

Doctor Who is Better When it is Monster-of-the-Week

(I have evidence for my opinions, but obligatory disclaimer that these are my opinions, it's fine if you disagree but do not yell at me about it)

Doctors 1-3: didn't really have arcs of any sort, only Situations and character development. Even the unit thing was more a setting-situation than a story arc. There were excellent stories and really bad ones

This makes the Key to Time the first real plot arc, and while it could be worse it's largely agreed upon that it was unnecessary to tie these episodes together into a Mission. And as it was, they were barely even connected otherwise. So yes I enjoyed them, but they didn't need to be an arc

The rest of Four was generally very good with some obvious misses

Turlough was sort of a halfway attempt at an arc, but I'm not sure if I should even count it because we didn't really see the moment when he shifted from an assassin to a companion

This makes the next real, complete arc Trial of a Timelord, one of the most disliked eras of classic who, and it wasn't for Colin Baker's acting ability. Even so, they tried to have it both ways here, both an arc and a series of unconnected stories, and it didn't really work. The courtroom scenes were fun, though

No more arcs for the rest of classic who

The only arc-adjacent thing in Nine's season is the Bad Wolf foreshadowing, which might have been cool but ended up just being foreshadowing and then a conclusion that only kind of made sense

Ten's I think was both overrated and genuinely good, as both Moffat and RTD are better at singular stories than ongoing arcs and he didn't really have much in the way of season-long plot arcs. Again, just foreshadowing and then conclusions

Eleven #1: The Cracks in the Universe. There are Eleven episodes I like, and his characterization is fun. But I don't think any of his arcs worked because I don't think they were thought out as stories so much as a collection of things that sounded cool. Cracks in time eating history might have been cool, but then the answer was that Amy had to stay in stasis for 2000 years, Rory basically willed himself into being real instead of an automaton, and they wrote themselves into such a corner the only way to fix the universe was to have Amy be able to inexplicably remember a Doctor who no longer existed. I maintain that if they did this today as a way of resetting the history of alien invasions, instead of when the whole fandom was lusting after Matt Smith, it would be a wildly unpopular decision

Eleven #2: River. I love River as a character, even on the show. I hate absolutely everything about her backstory. She could have been a mystery in her own right, someone cool and unusual and with no ties to the Doctor before meeting him out of order and marrying him. I would have liked that. Instead, it was apparently necessary to make the Doctor's wife the child of the woman who's been clearly in love with him most of his life, and oh yeah she's only in love with him because she was brainwashed to be obsessed with him in a murderous way then spent years listening to her mother (!!) as a kid obsess about his mysterious perfection. And that's not meant to be creepy at all. I am bonus extra annoyed about this because they actually do have good chemistry and I like their dynamic, but this mess was unnecessary. And don't even get me started on how they'd had him meet so few friends and allies that when they tried to do a reunion like they did for Ten, they had to make a bunch up in the moment and pretend you should know them

Eleven #3: Clara. She's an intriguing mystery to the Doctor because he keeps seeing her throughout history. You're supposed to agree because she's cute. That's the whole arc.

Twelve #1: Clara and Danny. I actually enjoy a lot more of Clara's character and the stories here, but making her fall in love with someone the Doctor hates for no good reason, lie to both of them to balance her life, kill him off because they wrote themselves into a corner again and need her free to travel with the Doctor, and then never mention him or how that broke history again was not needed

Twelve #2: Missy's redemption. Ok, I actually liked this one. I do think they waited too long to do the reveal and didn't leave time to do it properly, but I enjoyed it anyway

Thirteen #1: Timeless Children. I don't feel like I should really count this as an arc in quite the same way, but someone will point it out if I don't mention it. It feels more like the earlier things, more individual stories that have some foreshadowing towards a big conclusion

Thirteen #2: The Flux. I like a lot of the storytelling here, but making it one big stakes-raising, universe-ending story was completely unnecessary

Fifteen #1: Ruby. One of the worst arcs, as so much of this season was dedicated to questions about Ruby's origins that are never answered in a way that makes any sense

Fifteen #2: Returning Belinda to Earth. This one is better purely because it leaves more room for monster-of-the-week stories between the arc plot. And yes, until the finale it remains one of my favorite seasons. But again, they built up a compelling mystery and then answered it in the worst way possible that didn't even address what was happening in a satisfying way

So basically, I think Doctor Who as a show functions better when it is made up of adventure stories that remember previous continuity but don't try to link together into a bigger, higher-stakes overarching plot because no one who writes for this show can keep track of more than two plot points at a time and usually even if the arc was good I would argue it wouldn't add that much to the story or character

[thenarrativefoil]

; u ; I got my FSA card activated and set up and switched my insurance over with my specialist's office!!!!!!!!

I love employment and paying for medical expenses pretax (⁠╥⁠﹏⁠╥⁠) yayyy it doesn't have to come out of my savings anymore

[tongue-like-a-razor]

Hotter Than Texas | Part IV

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x F!Reader

A/N: My friends, I'm finally posting an update. Y'all are extremely patient XD Hope you like it!

Summary: Bradley Bradshaw is tasked with transporting a not-so-delicate package in the form of Jake Seresin's baby sister, who turns out to be Bradley's dream girl worst nightmare.

Aka it's a road trip, strap in.

CW: swearing, age gap (10 years)

WC: 2200+

Part I | Masterlist

It takes Bradley a good long minute of staring before he can formulate a thought worth sharing, and the worthy part is highly debatable. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” he finally says.

You furrow your eyebrows at him in offence. “Excuse me?”

Bradley squeezes his eyes shut and rubs his face as though, with this action, he could effectively erase the last five minutes of the evening. If only he hadn’t asked. What had possessed him to ask? He slides his hands slowly down his face just as the server delivers a plate of tortilla chips and cheese dip to your table. The truth is, he just can’t picture you in a uniform, conforming. You are one of a kind – the antithesis of the military mold. “Why?” he asks, instead of voicing any particular opinion – of which he has many.

You shrug. “Because I can.”

Bradley grimaces. “You’ve got to have a better reason than that.”

“Why? Because you did?”

Bradley watches you wearily. “Because it’s not easy. Because it’s the fucking pits, actually.” He sighs heavily. “Because it’s all consuming –”

“You told me to follow my gut.”

Bradley takes a beat, flabbergasted. “Obviously, that was before I knew which direction your gut was pointing.”

You purse your lips and glance down at the untouched queso on the table. “I want to fly,” you say quietly.

Bradley stares at you. “Take a vacation,” he says. “Get a window seat.”

You fix him with a cold look. “You ass.”

“Come on,” he responds with a small smile. “You’re not going to tank half a decade of your life just to sit in a cockpit.”

You stare through his eyes right into his soul. “You don’t think I can do it, do you?”

Bradley groans uncomfortably. “That’s not it at all. On the contrary, I think you can do pretty much anything you want. I just don’t think you’d be happy doing this.”

“You can’t possibly know what would make me happy. You don’t even know me.”

Bradley nods despite being hurt by the comment. He’s only known you for a couple of days, sure, but somehow, it feels like a lifetime. “You’re right,” he says, suddenly losing his appetite. “I barely know you. You probably shouldn’t have even told me.”

You roll your eyes and gather about a pound of queso onto your chip. “Are you seriously going to sulk all through dinner?”

“I’m not sulking,” Bradley replies, irritated that you’ve noticed.

“I told you because you asked,” you say. “But nobody else knows. And I’d like to keep it that way until everything is finalized. I don’t want to be swayed.”

Bradley raises his eyebrows. “You want me to keep this from your brother?”

“Mmhmm,” you mumble around the chip in your mouth.

“Are you crazy?” Bradley hisses. His relationship with your brother is strained enough as it is. And crushing on his baby sister is bad enough without also lying to Jake on top of it all.

“Pretend you don’t know,” you suggest.

It’s Bradley’s turn to stare you down. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” he sighs wearily, “I want you to be swayed. You can’t just join the Navy on a whim –”

“This isn’t a whim –”

“Do you realize the implications here? You are signing your life away. That’s it. It’s not yours anymore. You want that?”

“There’s more to it than that.”

“Sure, but that’s the main part. You don’t get to decide anything anymore. Where you live, how you live, if you live. They decide for you.”

You shrug. “I can live with that.”

Bradley shakes his head. “Do you want that?”

You give him a meaningful look. “Do you regret your decision?”

Bradley releases a steady sigh. You got him there. “No,” he responds grudgingly.

“So, obviously, there’s more to it than just completely renouncing your freedom.”

There is, and he wouldn’t give it up for anything. But still, something tells him that it’s not for you. “You’ve made up your mind?”

You swirl another chip in the cheese, deliberating. “I think so.”

Bradley watches you soak your tortilla until it’s soggy, wondering how any of this is real. “Okay, I won’t say anything.”

…

The next few hours of the drive are mostly silent. Bradley concentrates on the route rather than his unfortunate exchange with you while you spend the time looking out the window. Not that there is much to see on the interstate, but that doesn’t seem to deter you.

He feels bad. He was kind of hard on you – and perhaps a tad overbearing considering he isn’t a close friend who might have any influence over your decisions. You didn’t tell him because you wanted his input. You told him because Bradley’s a nosy prick who wouldn’t let it go until you did. And now you’re mad at him and you have every right to be.

Truthfully, he considers that this may be the best-case scenario. The two of you were becoming far too friendly and Hangman would certainly have noticed. This way, he can drop off his passenger in ten hours’ time without a second thought and be on his way. No drawn-out goodbyes, no clumsy embraces, no guilt-ridden conversations with brother dearest. Yes, this is how it should have been from the start. Awkward silence, buzzing radio, peace and quiet.

Bradley eyes you inconspicuously as he checks his rearview mirror. Your expression is completely stoic as you stare straight ahead, ignoring Bradley’s presence completely.

Bradley looks over at you more obviously; he can’t help it. But you turn your head to look out your own window.

Bradley sighs. “Now who’s sulking?” he says.

You glance at him bitterly but say nothing at all.

“Look, I’m sorry, alright?” he says, sounding more impatient than apologetic. “You just took me by surprise.” Everything about this trip has taken him by surprise, if he’s being honest.

You fold your arms over your chest mutely.

“Don’t be mad,” Bradley says.

You look over at him sharply. “Trust me, darlin’, this ain’t mad.”

Bradley smiles at you despite himself. “Well, that’s worrisome.”

You roll your eyes but the corners of your mouth lift microscopically. “I’m just … irked.”

Bradley pulls his lips in to keep from grinning as this might irk you further. “I’m sorry for irking you.”

You draw in a deep breath, as though you’re trying to gather the strength to continue coexisting with an imbecile like Bradley. But then you release it and say, “I know that it was unexpected,” you say calmly. “And I know that you’re concerned.”

Bradley nods solemnly at the road ahead of him rather than at you.

“Which I appreciate, I suppose,” you continue, shrugging.

Bradley furrows his brows apprehensively. “I just want you to think it through,” he reasons. “And part of thinking it through is discussing it with someone who’s been in your shoes.”

“Maybe,” you respond. “I guess I’m just worried someone will talk me out of it.”

Bradley nods again. Somebody talking you out of it is exactly what he had in mind.

“Anyway,” you say, reaching over and placing your hand on Bradley’s thigh. “Friends?”

Bradley, whose leg is tingling so intensely under your palm that it nearly spasms, looks over at you feebly. “Friends,” he manages to say, although it comes out as a half-whispered croak.

…

“Should we call roadside assistance or something?” you say, skeptically eyeing the wrench in Bradley’s hand.

Bradley gives you an amused look and crouches down before the flat. “You think I’ve never changed a tire?” he calls back over the roar of traffic trying to beat rush hour on the I-10 as he starts to loosen the lug nuts.

“I think you might stain your shirt,” you respond, still sounding hesitant.

“I’ll be careful,” he says, positioning the jack under the Bronco. “Stay back from the road, will ya?” he adds when you walk around the car to observe the flow of traffic.

“I’m looking for a tow truck,” you say absently, craning your neck.

“We don’t need a tow truck,” Bradley replies emphatically. He rises from his squatted position and walks around the vehicle to where you’re standing. “Can you please step back?” he repeats patiently, placing a hand on your arm. “You’re making me nervous.”

You turn to face him, your back to the speeding cars on the freeway. He just missed the last exit when his tire blew, so he had to pull off onto the shoulder, which isn’t the safest place to stop.

“Maybe you should wait inside the car” – like he’d originally suggested – but Bradley doesn’t voice that part.

“I’d rather stretch my legs,” you say, twisting your hips to one side and then the other as though you’re loosening your joints.

Bradley watches you wryly. “Can you stretch them over here?” he asks, pulling you right up to the concrete barrier.

“How’s the tire coming along?” you ask, eyeing the raised back end of the Bronco.

“It’s coming,” Bradley retorts with a smirk. “It’ll come faster if you behave.” In all honesty, Bradley didn’t anticipate the amount of supervision you’d require. Not that he’s averse to keeping an eye on you. After all, you’re pretty easy on the eyes.

You raise your eyebrows at him. “Am I misbehaving?” you ask with a mischievous smile.

Bradley does a double take just as he’s about to go back to attend to the tire. He’s not surprised at the way you’ve interpreted his statement; he meant for it to be misconstrued. Although, now that you’ve responded in kind, he’s sort of speechless, especially since you were giving him the silent treatment not two hours ago.

You push off the barrier and approach him slowly, your eyes holding his gaze temptingly. You place a hand over his chest and Bradley experiences something he imagines is akin to being struck by lightning – but infinitely more enjoyable. You proceed to sweep your fingers over his pecs while Bradley proceeds to dissolve beneath your touch. “You got your shirt dirty,” you say matter-of-factly, as though you might as well be dusting a mantelpiece.

Bradley, very much shaken by this interaction which he’s clearly misread, gulps and takes a hold of your hand before you can continue to brush at him. “It’s an old shirt,” he responds, trying to keep his voice as calm and as steady as he can.

“What if it won’t come clean?” you ask sadly.

Bradley watches you for a moment, captivated and bewildered in equal measure. “I have other shirts,” he reassures you.

“I like this one,” you say, tugging slightly on the lapel.

“Alright, well, I can soak it overnight, I guess.”

“You guess?” you ask reproachfully.

Bradley stares at you in confusion. “Yeah, I guess – listen,” he pauses to emphasize his point. “It’s kind of a dangerous place to be discussing laundry.”

You glance up at him, your eyes searching his. “Are you gonna kiss me, Brad Bradshaw?”

Bradley blacks out for an entire three seconds, then says, “Here?” because he hasn’t even let himself rehearse this type of situation. And now, he’s evidently unprepared. He gulps again but his throat is so dry it feels like he’s been chewing on dust for the last half hour. “Do you want me to?” he stammers.

You shrug, as if you could take it or leave it. “If you want.”

Bradley, so immersed in the moment that he forgets entirely their precarious position on the shoulder of the interstate, blurts out, “I’ve wanted to since the moment you called me the dorkiest guy at the station.”

You giggle. “Is that all it takes?”

“Apparently.”

You take a step closer to him, your eyes drifting down to his chest where you tentatively place your hand right over his heart. “You were also the cutest,” you say, lifting your gaze to meet his again.

Bradley, who’s riding a fine line between delight and delirium, tries to hide his growing grin as he verifies, “You think?”

“With a great sense of style.”

Bradley snorts, picking up on your facetiousness. “Accessories sold separately,” he mutters as you tug on his open Hawaiian shirt. He takes a step toward you obediently.

You eye him mischievously, a staring contest for the ages. “Kinda had my heart set on the whole package.”

Bradley’s insides violently convulse, but he can’t fathom a more pleasant experience. He’d really like to tell you that it’s yours, whatever your heart desires. He’d really like to sink his hands into your hips and pull you in, press himself against you, watch as your lips part in anticipation. And he’d truly give just about anything for a taste of your mouth, of the skin on your neck, of…

He takes a step back, clearing his throat awkwardly. “I – uh – gotta finish this while there’s still light.”

You blink at him in surprise but quickly regain composure. “Sure, of course, sugar,” you respond nonchalantly. “I won’t get in your way.”

Bradley sighs mournfully. “You’re not getting in my way.”

You hold his gaze boldly. “Well, I was about to, wasn’t I?” you retort with a knowing smile.

Bradley briefly closes his eyes. “Yeah,” he admits, opening them back up to look at you. “Yeah, you were.”

You hold your hands up mildly, as if to indicate that you’re conceding. “Won’t happen again, Lieutenant.”

Bradley, who receives this statement with as much disappointment as would a toddler deprived of his Halloween candy, grimaces. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he replies, knowing full well he's bound to break before the two of you ever reach Dallas.

Tag List

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[tinylilacbun]

Hi!! Idk if you still taking request with dad!rafe but I just had an idea🤍

His young daughter caught the cold and rafe has to stay at home or smth to take care of her, and maybe somebody being confused at how soft he is with her(ФωФ)

-🪻

Unexpected Visit

Pairing: dad!rafe cameron x daughter!reader, auntie!sarah cameron + pogues x toddler!reader

Warnings: sickness, rafe being soft, fluff, set in s4, not proofread, word count: 1,3k

. ₊ ⊹ . ˖ . ༉‧₊˚.. ₊ ⊹ . ˖ . ༉‧₊˚.

Rafe is holding you on his hip as he fixes you some soup to get to eat a little and keep you hydrated since you caught a nasty cold a few days ago.

You're still in your pajamas, your cheeks still slightly flushed from being freshly bathed, resting your cheek against his shoulder with a tired pout.

He hates seeing you so weak and tired the whole time, getting the best and different kinds of medicine to get you back on your feet again, knowing you can't stand to only being able to lay in bed the whole day and not play around like you're used to.

You whine into his shoulder after another small coughing fit, your throat hurting, just as your head from sniffling the whole time.

"I know, It's almost ready, princess." He coos, turning his head to kiss your burning forehead. "We can cuddle on the couch after you eat something, yeah?"

You nod against him in response, letting him pop the pacifier in your mouth that's clipped to your shirt, grasping onto his shirt with your hand.

Whenever you're sick Rafe pushes everything aside, work, calls, anything that could take his focus from you.

He wouldn't even call your babysitter who's more than qualified to take care of you, even in this state.

The thing is, you only cling to him in those times, crying every time he leaves you alone for longer than 5 minutes.

Turning off the stove he grabs a bowl to pour some of the soup into it, carrying you towards the dining table and getting you settled in your high chair before starting to feed you small spoons of soup.

As he feeds you, the sound of the doorbell echoes through the condo, making him groan. "It better be important." He mutters under his breath, grabbing a piece of bread and ripping it into tiny edible pieces for you. "Daddy will be right back."

He watches as you take some of the bread and ruffles your hair before making his way to the front door, glancing towards the kitchen a few times to make sure you're okay.

After opening the front door he furrows his brows at seeing his sister and the pogues standing at his doorstep.

"What are you doing here?" He asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

Sarah sighs, scratching the side of her neck. "I, um, can we come in?"

Rafe looks over his shoulder, watching as you dip a piece of bread into the soup before eating it. "I'm kinda busy right now. Y/N is sick and needs a lot of attention at the moment."

"It's important, Rafe. I wouldn't have come here if it wasn't, you know that."

He sighs, of course he does, but he somehow feels uneasy letting all those people into his house who hate him just as much as he does them.

Sarah is still family though. Since you were born and his father's death he really knows that he should cherish the bits of family he has left and how important it is to keep it together as best as he can.

Reluctantly he uncrosses his arms and steps aside, gesturing for them to enter his house and closing the door behind them, walking towards the kitchen again as he warns them. "Don't touch anything. I mean it Maybank."

JJ places the expensive looking picture frame down on the shelf again after almost letting it slip from his hand, catching up with the others quickly. "Wouldn't think of it."

"You finished, sweetheart?" Rafe asks as he lifts you out of your high chair, making his way to the living room.

He sets you down on the couch, making sure you're comfortable with a fluffy blanket tucked around you and hands you your iPad before sitting down beside you.

The pogues spread around the room, Sarah, John B, and Kie sitting down on the free seats while the others stand around, taking in their surroundings.

Even with how well kept and professional Rafe presents himself outside of his home, everyone can tell that he has a kid based on the colored paper sheets that hang on the walls or the different toys scattered around.

You snuggle into Rafe's side as you tap away on your iPad, still sucking slowly on your pacifier, too exhausted to greet everyone.

"Well, what's so important?" Rafe asks, wrapping an arm around your small body to keep you close.

Sarah fidgets with her hands nervously, looking at John B for a moment before back at Rafe. "Listen, despite everything that's happened between us, I thought I should tell you this. You're still my brother, Rafe, and I can't even talk with Wheezie because Rose won't let me."

"Jesus, Sarah, just spit it out already." Rafe presses her, wanting them all to leave again so he can continue to take care of you.

"Daddy..." You whimper, holding your device to him expectantly. "Wan' Bluey."

"Hm? Yeah, of course." He says softly, his exterior changing the second you're talking to him, taking your iPad to put on your favorite show before handing it back to you.

It's a shock for the pogues, to say the least, seeing the psychopathic murderer who had made their life's hell the last years being this soft to a toddler.

"I'm pregnant." Sarah finally spits out and Rafe freezes for a second there, chuckling at that but the serious expression on his sister's face tells him she's not joking.

"Oh, damn, you're being for real." He huffs out a nervous laugh, not really knowing how to react or what she expects from him now. "Congrats, I guess. You're in for a wild ride, I can tell you that, especially with y'know...your financial status. Heard business isn't really cutting it for you."

"We manage just fine." Pope retorts from the side.

"Hey, just saying what I heard." Rafe responds, lifting his hand in surrender as his other rubs up and down your arm. "Seriously, I'm...happy for you, Sarah. It's a big step though."

"Thank you. I thought that you deserve to know since...I was the first one you told about Y/N." Sarah smiles a little, watching as Rafe pulls out a tissue and holds it to your nose.

"Um, if you need something you can come over or call me." He says, not looking away from you as you blow your nose and cleaning it right after. "That doesn't mean I want all of you here every time."

The others roll their eyes but it was expected, of course Rafe wasn't going to have them mingle around here just because Sarah is allowed to and he wasn't going to risk them being in your presence for too long when he can prevent it.

Sarah nods, getting up from her seat and grabbing John B's hand. "We should get going now."

Rafe nods back at her, pressing a kiss to your head before getting up as well to let them all out, leading them back to the front door.

As he is about to close the door again he stops in his track when Sarah suddenly turns to hug him, a silent show of gratitude for being there for her even though they aren't exactly on good terms yet.

He simply stands there, looking anywhere but the pogues when she releases him again and joins the others, quickly shutting the door and processes what just happened.

They all make their way to the Twinkie, the unmistakable tension there and only interrupted by JJ walking backwards in front of them. "Just to make sure I wasn't imagining things. Did we just witness Rafe fucking Cameron being a softie?"

"That's just because of his kid, don't let yourself get fooled by this." Pope reminds him, stifling a laugh when the blonde almost trips.

Back in the condo, Rafe got comfortable on the sofa with you, gently manoeuvring you to cradle you against him as he turns on the tv after you discard your iPad to nuzzle more into his body.

"Guess you'll get a cousin sooner than I expected, huh?" He chuckles at the slight confusion on your face but quickly ignore what he said when he puts on Tangled.

[hivemuthur]

Hii! Thank you for replying. I've read five things and loved it so much I wanted to send another ask, and somehow managed to forget to send it, but never mind here it is now.

I was thinking a viktor×reader who were eachother's first everything (early academy days?) but than the reader had to move away for schooling/work, whatever, but now they're back (sometime after the beginning of hextech) and have to work with jayce and viktor. How would that dynamic look like? They didn't breakup over an argument or because they fell out of love but because that's the way life took them. I'm imagining them knowing eachother so well inside and out to the point people just assume they're dating. (Reader making viktors coffee even better than he can himself, viktor making something to fix a problem reader has but never had a solution for, anything really). And I don't know, maybe, possibly, somehow the tension gets to be too much for both of them and they're both more skilled now and whatnot... (I could live without that part tho, is you feel like it doesn't fit)

Sorry if the ask is too complicated, I've just been thinking about it for so long.

I know it's gonna be a while before you can write it but I can't wait to read all of the other requests in the meantime.❤️

~🍒

Dear sweet 🍒 Janna, hello again! Here's your fic!

Same As It Ever Was

viktorxfemale!reader explicit! a bit of everything - fluff, angst (light), smut

word count: 5,6K

author’s note: this is very freeform, an experiment, kinda? A story told in vignettes, little scenes between Viktor and Reader since the moment she came back to the Academy interwoven with their past, sex included. For this to work, I've written current events in Present Tense and the flashbacks in Past Tense.

artist on X (obsessed at this point)

—

You brace yourself with a deep breath—just as you did all those years ago. With lungs full of air, you cross the threshold, and memories come crashing back. Heimerdinger’s lectures, suspicious cafeteria food, noise complaints from your neighbours when Jayce laughed too loud in your dorm. Your dorm itself—its lumpy bed, not enough cabinet space for your books, scattered notes, and long night study sessions with Viktor.

As promised, he and Jayce are there, waiting to pick you up in the entrance hall. Jayce is as giddy as ever—stretching, chattering, busying himself with the announcement board, occasionally pointing at something to get Viktor’s attention. He looks almost the same.

Viktor, on the other hand—nearly still. He leans on a… crutch? It’s a crutch now, huh. You wince at not knowing sooner. An extra brace on his leg as well. His form is more hunched than you remember. He nods at Jayce’s remarks absently, craning his head toward the door, and his face—oh. It lights up when he sees you, just as it used to. Your heart travels all the way up to your throat.

You have to force yourself not to skip. Jayce reaches you first, nearly crashing into you with his embrace. He’s stronger than before, his shoulders broader. Either he’s gotten taller, or Viktor looks shorter. He pats your back and chuckles a mumbled hi—but your eyes are already on Viktor.

He opens his arms in an inviting gesture, and you slide right in. He still fits. He still smells the same, though there’s a lingering trace of oil on his collar. His hair is longer, and his clothes hang looser on his frame, but he feels the same. His neck is just as pretty, his hands just as strong. They go where they used to—one to your back, the other cradling the nape of your neck. You take one last inhale before he pulls back, a familiar spark playing in his eyes as he says, "Welcome back."

***

You stared at the schedule board, squinting as you tried to make sense of the messy list. You muttered under your breath, crossing out dates in frustration when the door behind you creaked open.

A voice spoke from behind, calm and precise. “Do you need assistance?”

You turned to see him—tall, neat, with a cane at his side. Pretty hair falling boyishly over his forehead, eyes the colour of liquid gold, two freckles decorating his upper lip and a spot under his eye. His voice was thickly accented, and you suddenly felt dumber than ever.

“What gave me away?” you huffed, managing a smile. “Groaning or furious scribbling?”

“Eh, a little bit of both,” he said, leaning in slightly to point at a part of the board. “Let me help?”

You handed him your notebook, and he made quick work of explaining the confusing schedule. “Looks like we’ll be seeing each other,” he hummed, studying your timetable.

Thank the gods, you thought. Feigning surprise instead of relief, you raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

He nodded, the faintest smile pulling at his lips. “I’m looking forward to having class with you. I’m Viktor.”

In response, you muttered your name in one breath.

Without another word, he pressed the notebook into your hand, making sure your hands brushed, then turned and walked away, leaving you standing there, momentarily dumbfounded.

***

You follow Jayce and Viktor through the lab, eyes wide as they show you around. The space is far more impressive than you remember—equipment gleams, wires stretch across the ceiling like intricate veins, and the hum of machinery fills the air. Jayce is practically bouncing with excitement, narrating every little detail with an energy that nearly has you dizzy, while Viktor stays quieter, his gaze focused, occasionally glancing at you as though checking for your reactions.

You’re still trying to wrap your mind around everything when the tour finally ends, and Viktor turns to you with a small smile. “Is there anything you need?” he asks, his voice as smooth and calm as ever.

You consider it for a moment, then sigh dramatically. “I would kill for a coffee.”

Jayce snorts a laugh, “Things don’t really change, do they? Do you want to make it yourself as usual?”

“Of course, as you mentioned—things don’t change, which means I still don’t trust any of you with your coffee-making skills, Jayce,” you reply with a smirk, stepping past him toward the kitchenette area. Viktor watches you closely, but you don’t pay him any mind as you start pulling out the necessary ingredients. “Do you want one?” you throw over your shoulder. And Viktor nods with a smile.

You fall into an easy rhythm, just like old times. Your hands work quickly, grinding the beans, adjusting the water temperature, adding the perfect amount of milk—exactly how you know he likes it. It’s almost like your body remembers, and you can’t help but feel a strange sort of nostalgia as the familiar process comes naturally.

The sound of Viktor clearing his throat breaks your focus, and when you turn, he’s standing a little closer than you expected. His eyes are fixed on the coffee mug in your hands, and the way he’s staring at it almost makes you laugh.

You hand him the cup with a raised brow. “Did I get it right?”

He takes a slow sip, his expression unreadable at first. Then, after a long pause, he sets the cup down carefully on the counter, still looking at you, and says quietly, “Perfect.”

The fact that you remember how to make it, that you remember him—how he likes it, what he’s used to—has him speechless. You watch him for a moment, unsure of what he’s thinking, and the quiet fills the space between you both.

“Just like before,” he says, as though to himself, and you can't help but smile.

***

“Okay, coffee or death,” you whined, pressing your forehead to the desk with exaggerated dramatics. It had been your fourth hour of studying, and the letters on the page began to blur.

“I guess it’s coffee then,” Viktor stretched his legs in the chair before scrambling up to the kettle. “I have no idea how I would explain a corpse in my room.”

“I do not care what motivates your actions, I’m just in dire need of something keeping me alive, or I will fail this class,” you mumbled, still buried in the notes resting under your face. A cup set firmly by your left cheek made your eyebrow quirk, and you let out a sigh of contentment.

“Ah, sweet salvation,” you hummed, grabbing it and taking a sip. And then—

“Viktor. What is this?”

Viktor’s voice was light as he shrugged. “It’s a coffee strong enough to keep you awake until morning.”

You winced, shaking your head slightly. “It’s so strong, it could actually solve the dead body problem you’ve mentioned before.”

He chuckled at that, his gaze still on you. “I suppose that’s one way to describe it.”

You huffed in frustration. “Do I have to do everything myself?”

Viktor only grinned, a spark of amusement in his eyes.

You rolled your eyes, pushing yourself out of your chair and crossing the room to the counter. “Alright, move aside.” You grabbed the ingredients with a practiced hand, preparing a new brew. “This is coffee, not the motor fluid you made.”

Viktor leaned back in his chair, watching you as you worked. “That’s very thoughtful. I suppose you can always become a barista if you fail the class.”

You turned, one eyebrow raised in challenge. “Just wait, Viktor. You’ll see. If I fail, I’ll open my own shop. I’ll call it ‘Professor Coffee’—I’ll make sure the brew is strong enough to wake the dead.”

Viktor’s laugh was soft but genuine. “It seems you’ve got it all figured out.”

***

You reach out, barely muttering, “Could you pass me…” before the tool is already in your hand. You glance at Viktor, who hasn’t even looked up from his work.

“How did you know?” you ask, eyebrows furrowing in surprise.

He taps his temple, a small smile playing beneath his goggles. “I have a good memory.”

***

You frowned at your workbench, trying to put a name to the tool you needed, but your mind blanked.

“Can you pass me the…” you began, unsure, your voice trailing off. You made a small gesture with your hand, hoping Viktor would somehow understand what you meant. Without hesitation, he handed you a wrench.

“No, not this,” you said, waving it off. “The other one?” You gestured again.

Viktor stared at you, brows furrowed, before passing you a screwdriver.

“Not that one either!” you huffed, frustration creeping in—not with him, but because your mind had suddenly decided to fail.

The ritual continued, with Viktor visibly amused as your hand hovered over the various tools he’d passed you. Wrenches, pliers, a hammer, and a couple of screwdrivers littered the workbench. You glanced down at your notes, trying to remember.

Viktor hummed, looking from your desk to your notes. His eyes narrowed, and his lips curled into a knowing smile. “Ah. This one?”

Before you could respond, he was standing behind you, lowering the tool into your hand. His arms brushed the sides of your face, and you felt the press of his stomach against your back. For a moment, you froze, breath catching in your throat.

“A calliper,” you whispered.

“Well done, lásko,” Viktor muttered into your ear.

***

The clock announces an hour way past when you’ve expected to be home already. “Should we call it a night?” you ask Viktor, who sits opposite you, a soft smile curling on his lips.

“Some things have changed, then,” he says, tapping his crutch lightly against the floor. “You used to work until figurative death back in the day.”

“Well, I guess I’m getting older,” you reply with a grin, your tone light but laced with a touch of weariness. “What about you? Any big changes?”

He knocks on his brace playfully, lifting the crutch with a small gesture. “Besides the visible?” He chuckles softly. “Not much. Still working to the death.”

Your smile falters for a second, your gaze softening as you roll closer to him on your chair. You rest your hands gently on his knees, studying his face for any signs of deeper discomfort.

“Are you well, though?” you ask, your voice quiet, careful.

Viktor looks at your hands for a moment, then props the crutch on the desk beside him. He squeezes your palms, his grip firm but tender.

“I am now,” he replies, his voice low, almost like a confession. “Haven’t been for a while, but now I’m well. As well as I can be.” He pauses for a beat, then adds with a small smile, “And now that you’re back, I’m even better.”

You brush your fingers gently through his hair, feeling the familiar warmth of his presence, the intimacy of the gesture. Viktor hums softly, his eyes fluttering closed in response. So familiar, you think, a wave of nostalgia washing over you.

You swallow before speaking again, a bittersweet smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “I’ve missed you.”

Viktor’s eyes remain closed, his expression softening, and when he speaks, his voice is heavier. He sighs, “I know.” Then pauses, squeezing your hand once more. “I’ve missed you too.”

***

You and Viktor lay in bed together, tangled in the warmth of each other’s embrace. His arm was draped around you, and the soft rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek was a steady comfort. The room was quiet, unbearably so, when you nuzzled into his neck, inhaling deeply. His scent—rich, familiar, like the warmth of him—filled your senses, and you clutched him tighter, as though trying to memorize the feeling of him.

"I'm going to miss you so much," you whispered, your voice muffled against his skin, your breath shaky with the weight of the thought.

Viktor hummed softly in response, his fingers tracing small circles on your back. "I know. I will miss you terribly too." His words were gentle, but there was a deep sadness in his voice that you could feel even without looking at him.

He nudged your face with his nose, his palm warm as it cupped your cheek. His touch felt like a promise, though you weren't sure what to expect. "If it's meant to be, we will meet again," he said, his voice low, the words wrapped in the quiet certainty.

A pang in your chest tugged at you, and without thinking, you leaned up, pressing your lips to his. The kiss was soft, but your heart ached with the knowledge that this might be the last time you felt him close. It tasted of bitter acceptance, as you poured every bit of feeling you had into it, hoping it would somehow last, somehow hold you both together despite the distance that would come.

When you pulled away, your heart felt heavy, like it was breaking in your chest.

***

You both sit on the couch in your apartment, papers and notes scattered around you, a quiet hum of frustration bounces between you. Viktor’s hair is dishevelled, falling into his eyes, and his shirt has found its way half-out of his pants, a few buttons undone. He stares at the pages in front of him, his expression a mixture of exhaustion and determination. You glance over at him, hoping for a breakthrough.

“Any ideas?” you ask, your voice tinged with a hint of desperation.

Viktor groans and rubs his eyes, his shoulders sagging. “You know what… I think I’m getting old too,” he mutters, dropping his hand to your lap. “Can we get back to it when I’ve had at least two hours of sleep?”

He looks at you, his hand settling on your knee absentmindedly, his fingers warm through the fabric of your clothes. You stare at his hand for a moment, before looking up at him. He seems so tired, but also so… beautiful. His rumpled clothes and tousled hair remind you of the boy you loved.

“Sure,” you say quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. You look at him, really look at him. He’s always been handsome, but tonight you can finally see how much time has passed. Wrinkles carve his face deeper, jaw stronger, singular grey strands shining through the chestnut hair. Eyes the same. He doesn’t look like a boy anymore.

Wordlessly, you move closer to him and his gaze doesn’t falter. You cup his cheeks and brush your thumb over his lip. And then, your mouth comes close to his, into a soft brush, trembling and tentative. And Viktor responds with a hand sliding up your thigh and a tilt of his head. He cranes his neck and closes the little distance left between you with a sigh of relief.

His free hand slides up to your neck, pulling you in as his mouth parts and tongue joins to wrestle with yours. He gasps when you bite his lower lip and hums, as his palm slides behind to cup your ass. Fully in his grasp, you press yourself more onto him, fingers tangling into his hair, coaxing small sounds out of his throat. It’s wet and slow and when you peek through your eyelashes his brows are scrunched and a blush blooms down his neck to his chest.

He doesn’t kiss like a boy anymore, you think to yourself. It comes unbidden and warms your insides.

The taste of him lingers on your lips as you pull away just a fraction, your breaths mingling. You barely have a moment to think before Viktor kisses you back, deeply, hoarse inhale taken straight from your lungs leaves you dizzy.

***

Viktor had walked you back to your dorm after a late-night study session at the library. His pace was slow, almost reluctant, as if he was trying to figure out what to say before you parted ways. You were too tired to wait for him to find the words, your mind still foggy from hours of studying.

“I guess this is goodn—” you started, but before you could finish the word, his lips were on yours. The kiss came out of nowhere, abrupt and clumsy, pressing you back into the door behind you. For a moment, you froze, your tired mind scrambling to catch up with what was happening.

Then, the realization sank in, and the sound that left your lips transformed from startled surprise to a soft moan. You responded without thinking, hands sliding up Viktor's sides, feeling the warmth of his body as you kissed him back.

He dropped his cane, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you closer. His touch was urgent, hands cradling your back and drawing you in as you ran your fingers through his hair. Feeling your response, he grew bolder, shut his eyes and concentrated on drawing deep breaths through his nose to not have to part from you.

Hands everywhere, as if he couldn’t decide what to do. You nearly laughed when she squeezed your butt quickly, only to go back to your waist, slide into your ribs and then to the small of your back. So feverish.

When the oxygen run out, he broke the kiss but still kept you close. “I wanted to do this for the longest time,” he chuckled into your mouth.

***

He gives himself a good-willed push off the couch’s armrest but ends up trapping your hip beneath his. His face scrunches in worry when you hiss, but the sound quickly transforms into a laugh. When your stomach shakes beneath him, Viktor feels a strange swelling in his chest. This is so familiar.

He looks at you longingly, sliding his fingers into your hair. Your laughter dies into a moan when his groin presses between your legs. His tongue grows more eager now, as if he remembers just how much he used to want you. “Fuck, I’ve missed you,” he breathes against your lips, and you respond by fisting his shirt, nearly tearing it. You try to say you’ve missed him too—fuck, how much you’ve missed him every day—but you can’t, because your mouth is full.

You brace yourself on your elbows, meeting him halfway. You’re not sure you can bear to part long enough for him to take your clothes off, so instead, you take his hands and press them to your ass. He accepts, of course, kneading your flesh in rhythm with his breath.

When you finally straddle him, your fingers move to undo the rest of his shirt. That’s when he stills. His palms come up to wrap around yours, and a quiet plea escapes him. “Wait,” he says weakly, his cock already hard—you’re sure this costs him a lot.

“Whatever for?” you ask, nosing at his face before pressing kisses to his cheeks, his closed eyelids. You untangle your fingers from his and wrap your arms around his neck.

“I should show you something first,” he murmurs, and begins to undo his shirt. You lean back to give him space to sit up, but your hips never leave his, and your eyes never look away from his face. You give him the room he needs, and feel unbearably not close enough.

***

You fought with the doorknob to your bedroom for a hot minute. Viktor, being very distracting, had completely derailed your brain from this simple dexterity task with continuous neck-licking and ear-kissing. He kept smirking against your skin, all cocky and pleased with himself, ever since the moment you’d asked, “Do you want to come in?”

You stumbled into the room together, and his fingers immediately shot to your vest. You hadn’t even blinked properly before it was undone, his hands cupping your breasts through your shirt, his cane hooked over his forearm.

Laughing and snorting at his clumsiness, you’d steadied him by the waist and let him walk you backward toward the bed.

Your hands fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, but they were small and stubborn, and you were too impatient. With a frustrated huff, you abandoned the effort and slid your hands over his shoulders instead. “Arms up,” you ordered, and Viktor chuckled as he complied.

He lifted his arms obediently, but as you dragged his shirt over his head, it caught for a moment, tangling around his face. He let out a muffled laugh, flailing slightly as you tugged it free, and the moment he was loose, he lost his balance. He tumbled backward onto the bed with an oof, propping himself up on his elbows as he grinned up at you.

You stepped between his legs, watching as his expression softened, turning almost reverent. His hands found your waist, fingers brushing deliberately over the fabric of your skirt before he slid it down, letting it pool at your feet. His lips followed the motion, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your stomach before he rested his chin there, gazing up at you.

He cradled your hips, thumbs stroking lazily over your skin. “Are you sure this is what you want?” he asked, his voice quiet, careful.

You nodded, eager, and leaned down to kiss him, pouring every answer he could ever need into the press of your lips.

***

“There is both more and less to me than there used to be,” Viktor says, rubbing slow, thoughtful circles up and down your thighs. His expression is pensive, and an apology lingers somewhere in his voice. You hate that he feels the need to apologise in the first place.

Your touch slides across his chest, down—down the leather ridges of a brace you’ve never seen before. It screams Jayce Talis with every bolt, every stitch, and your heart aches at the thought that you weren’t here when this was happening.

Your eyes dart between his chest and his lips before you finally nestle deeper against his pelvis, wrap your arms back around his neck, and crush your mouth to his in a kiss that weeps remorse. “You beautiful, beautiful man,” you whisper, pressing your face into his. “How are you so brave?”

You cup his cheeks, and he only smiles, covering your palm with his.

“I’m not brave. I just… survived,” Viktor says with a small shrug. Then, after a pause: “Would you like to help me take them off?”

You nod, eager, and lean down to kiss him, pouring all the fragmented pieces of yes into the press of your lips.

***

Viktor rolled with you across the sheets, his hands skimmed up your sides, warm and eager, fingers pressing into your skin like he was trying to memorise the feel of you. Your mouths met again, lips parting, tongues teasing—lazy and deep, now that you had each other finally.

He pulled you closer, your thighs bracketing his hips, and when you reached down, fingers curling into the waistband of his trousers, he let out a shaky breath. You grinned against his mouth, tugging them lower inch by inch, letting your nails drag over his skin just to hear the quiet little sounds he made in response. Finally, with one last playful yank, you pulled them off entirely, giggling when they got caught at his ankles for a moment before slipping free.

And then you saw it—his brace.

Viktor stiffened immediately. His hands twitched at his sides, and he turned his head slightly, as if he wanted to look anywhere but at you. "It’s nothing," he muttered, voice quieter than before. "You don’t have to—"

You reached out, your palm settling gently on his leg. "Viktor," you said softly, your touch firm but tender. His gaze flicked back to yours, guarded, unsure. "You are so beautiful."

He gasped, a sound so quiet you might not have caught it if you weren’t so close. His lips parted slightly, eyes searching yours like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard you right.

You didn’t give him time to argue. Instead, you leaned down, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to his thigh, just above the brace. He shivered beneath you. Carefully, you undid the clasps, your fingers working with quiet reverence, peeling away the brace as if unveiling something sacred.

It left behind faint indentations in his skin—lines and ridges pressed deep from the whole day of wear. You kissed each one, your lips trailing over the marks with the same care you’d give any other part of him. Viktor’s breath hitched, his fingers threading into the sheets, gripping tight.

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, barely above a whisper, he breathed, "You undo me."

***

You set the last metal part of Viktor aside, and now, finally—after years of longing—you see him. His legs are parted, eternal bruises marking his thigh and knee, the toes of one foot cramped closer together than the other. His ribs bear pearly little scars where the chest brace has caught against his skin.

His cock rests idly in the crease of his thigh, beautiful as ever—pink at the tip, his navel scattered with curly hair that meets in a neat line just below his belly button. His hips are sharp angles, his belly rising and falling with each breath. You take in this adult man’s body and compare it to the boy you fell in love with. And you are sure now—there is only more to him than there used to be.

You step between his legs, and his arms reach out, fingers tracing a scar on your lower abdomen. He hums, “This is new.”

“You should see the other guy,” you murmur playfully. “A machine malfunctioned at the lab. One of the energy conductors went unstable, and before I could shut it down, a piece of metal sliced me open.” You pause, watching his face tense. “I got lucky.”

Viktor brushes his thumb over the scar tissue before lowering his lips, pressing a kiss to it—slow, reverent. “My brave girl,” he mutters against your skin. Your head lulls back on your shoulders, fingers threading into his hair and you let out a sigh.

You shudder when he presses a delicate touch between your legs. His hand, more calloused than you remember, gathers the curve of your inner thigh—but oh, his fingers still feel the same. The same timid swipe across your core, the same quiet hum of approval at the wetness you've gathered for him. Then, his free arm comes to wrap around your hips, pulling you closer as he presses his ear to your belly and slides two fingers inside you.

More skill, you notice. A pang of jealousy coils in your chest—ugly, unnecessary—but you don’t let him see. He kisses your stomach, and his eyelashes tickle your skin as he moves his hand up and down and his fingers hit the spot that has you moaning out his name. “As tight as I remember,” he hums, and it lances through you how infinitely hotter he has become.

You tug at his hair to make him look at you. Two gold gems drill right through you when you say, “Viktor.” A sigh, then, “I think I really need to fuck you now.”

He smiles sweetly and kisses your stomach again. “Then it seems we are on the same page.”

***

After a lot of fumbling, adjusting, and whispered curses, you finally found what worked. Viktor propped his knee up with a pillow, his other leg hooked under yours, grounding you together. His weight pressed you into the mattress—not crushing, just enough to make you feel him everywhere, warm and steady.

He rolled his hips into you, slow and measured, his arm caging you in as he kissed you through it. The heat of his breath spilled over your mouth, his lips parting just enough to let out the quietest of moans. And even in the haze of pleasure, you could see it—the determination tightening his brow, the concentrated press of his mouth against yours. He was on a mission, and that mission was you.

One arm wound snugly around your neck, cradling you into him, while his other hand worked between your legs, fingers slick and diligent. He timed each stroke with the snap of his hips, coaxing you closer, closer—

“Oh—Viktor—”

The sound of your voice shattered something in him. His rhythm stuttered, his forehead dropped to yours, but his fingers didn’t stop, circling, pressing, working you toward your peak. You dug your nails into his back, rocking up to meet him, and then—

It rushed over you like a cresting wave. Your thighs tensed around his waist, your breath caught, and the pleasure crested so high it stole all thought. He moaned softly, watching, feeling every pulse of your release around him.

His movements became less controlled, needier, a touch more frantic. He groaned against your shoulder, muttered something in a language you barely caught, and then followed you over the edge. His body trembled against yours, hips stuttering, breath shaky as he spilled into you, his lips still parted against your skin.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The only sounds in the room were your slowing breaths, the faint creak of the mattress, and the heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Then, Viktor finally lifted his head, flushed, sweat-dampened curls clinging to his forehead. He swallowed hard, his expression abashed but glowing with something warm and dazed.

“I hope that at this point, it is merely a formality,” he said, still breathless. “But… may I be so bold as to call you my girlfriend from now on?”

***

Your hips slot back together as if no time has passed. He fills you the same way, stretches you perfectly, and the expression he makes as he sinks in—God, it’s the same. Crushingly fucking gorgeous. Relief and bliss war on his face, his lips parting around a shaky groan as his hands seize your ass, pulling you down fully with a sharp slap of skin against skin.

He nuzzles into your neck, breath heavy and warm, licks up the column of your throat before sinking his teeth into your tendon. You gasp, moan, and pull at his hair, and the low, satisfied hum he gives in response shoots straight through you. His grip on your hips tightens, thumbs pressing into your skin as he guides you into motion, dragging you up before urging you back down. A faint roll of his own hips meets yours with every descent, his restraint slipping as the pleasure builds.

It doesn’t take long for you to notice—he’s changed. There’s more confidence in the way he moves, the way he takes from you, the way he talks to you. His voice is deeper, richer, words curling into your skin like smoke.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, dark and approving. He drags a hand up your spine, settles it at your nape, tilting your head so you do look—so you watch the way he devours you with his eyes. “You take me so well, lásko.”

Heat spreads down to your toes. You try to bite back a whimper, but he sees it, hears it, and smirks. Smirks, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

Oh, he’s so much bolder now. And you’re falling apart because of it.

It starts with the way he tilts his hips just right, the way his grip on you tightens like he knows exactly where you need him. His free hand glides down your spine, tracing sweat-slick skin before slipping between your bodies. Two fingers find your clit, and your breath stutters. He circles once, twice—slow and deliberate—before pressing down, firm and unrelenting.

“Come for me,” he murmurs, voice like silk, like sin. He rewards you with a deep thrust, dragging a broken moan from your throat. “Let me feel you.”

You do—oh, God, you do. Pleasure overtakes you, crashing through your body in waves, pulling you under. Your thighs shake around him, your hands fly to his shoulders, nails sinking into muscle as you arch and shudder and keen his name. He groans, eyes dark and reverent as he watches you unravel in his lap.

Yet still, there are things that haven’t changed. The way his breath hitches when you clench around him. The way his moans turn desperate when you lean forward and suck at his throat. The way he starts to chase the pleasure once he gets close, gripping you tighter, rutting up into you with a fervour that makes your head spin.

And the way he comes—the same shudder, the same deep, gasping moan, the same way his arms crush you against his chest as if he could pull you inside him. His release spills deep, his body trembling beneath yours, and you realise it then, as you always have.

He is grateful for this. For you.

Your noses brush as he catches his breath, and his hands smooth over your back, grounding himself in the feel of you.

“Still with me?” you murmur, running your fingers through his damp curls.

Viktor exhales a breathless laugh, lids heavy, lips parted in something like awe. He nods, shifting just enough to press a lingering kiss to your collarbone. “Always.”

[charlietheepicwriter7]

Ś̷̻̼͉͍̙̱̰͔͉̊̔͑͋̅͊̉̍͆̂̄́͘͜ų̷̯̬̅̎͌r̵̡̡̛͖̖͚̟̫̤̯̼͈̂͋͂̏͜v̴̧̠̳͛͠ḯ̶̝͈͈̩̖̳͎̒̃̈́͗͛̽̎̕v̶̨͚͚̪̜̥͓̩̲̖̿ę̶̡̨͇͙̬̮̪̗̓̐

Get In the Water Ruthlessness Hold Them Down

Danyal's blow forced Constantine to skid back several feet. The only reason it didn't cleave him in two was the magical shield he'd thrown up last minute. Damian could only watch as the white magic crawled up his brother's arm.

Danyal screeched, a shockwave erupting from his mouth and shaking the cavern. Gritting his teeth, Constantine grabbed Danyal's arm with both hands and yanked him off course. Whirling around, Constantine threw Danyal across the room. Danyal righted himself midair and lunged again, but Constantine was ready. With a flick of his wrist, a sigil burned into the air, and a barrier of golden light erupted between Danyal and Talia. Danyal’s claws raked against it, sparks flying, but it held—for now.

The whites of his eyes had turned green.

Constantine staggered back, sweat dripping from his brow. He looked worse than Damian had ever seen him, gaunt and exhausted. "That won't hold 'im for long," he remarked. "Lad's losing all sense of himself. It’s the Pits—too much exposure to ‘em. They’ve warped him, torn his essence to shreds." He grimaced. "But if we stay here much longer, he's going to tear us to shreds."

Damian looked away from his mother fleeing the room, to Danyal, hissing and spitting insults as his claws ripped into the magic shield. In the Lazarus Pit, Danyal had been... calm. Disdainful, but calm. It was only in the overworld where Danyal lost his reason-

"No!" Damian said. "We don't need to leave. He does."

"You want to inflict that thing on the rest of the world!?" Todd yelled back.

Damian snapped, snarling. "That thing is my twin brother, and you will treat him with the respect he deserves!"

Danyal screamed from behind the shield. "I'm your murder victim, not your brother!" Danyal cackled again. The green leaked out of Danyal's eyes in jagged cracks as his voice suddenly deepened. "Ṭ̴̢̢̻͓̱̯̭̊̄͊̀̐̐̏̃̊̊̉ê̶̢̱̪̰͇͇̻̺̆̏̋̃̾̓͑̄͘l̴̥̹̫̦̲̳̼̗̮̗̼̤̒͛̇̇̐̔͜l̷͖͕͇̯̹̖̲̬͔̈͑̒̈́̀̕͜ ̵̪̋̋̄̈͘ṱ̸͇͓̃̌̄̄͒̍̒̃̌̔͘h̵̡͈̝͈̠̜̞̳̻̮͕̻͓̯̘̒́̽̓͝e̵͎͔̼̘̺͓͎̹̅̊m̵̛̠̻̰̦̀͋͋̓̈́̿̊̓̈́̿̕̕."

Damian closed his eyes and inhaled through his nose. Upon his exhale, he opened his eyes again, certain of what he has to do. Damian stepped forward, Grayson's hand falling away as he squared himself against Danyal. His voice was steady, though it carried the weight of everything he’d been holding back. “I killed you. I snuck poison out of Mother's room and slipped it in your evening drink.”

The room fell deathly silent. Even the faint hum of the Lazarus Pit seemed to fade as Damian’s words echoed.

Danyal tilted his head, his twisted grin spreading wider. “There it is,” he said, his voice dripping with venom. “The truth, laid bare. But do you feel better now, little brother? Does admitting it cleanse you of your sins?”

“No,” Damian replied firmly. His hand drifted to his sword hilt, but he didn’t draw it. “But I’ll make it right.”

Danyal’s smile vanished, his eyes narrowing as he floated , green light crackling like static around him. “Make it right? You think you can fix this?” His voice was a roar, reverberating through the chamber.

Damian drew his sword, the blade glinting in the eerie light. He pointed the blade at Danyal, his stance resolute. “You said it before; me or them. Me or Gotham. So here I am. I challenge you to a duel. One last battle, brother. Just us.”

"No!" Grayson protested. "Damian, you can't-"

"T̷̲̳̀̋̈́͗͝h̵͓̦̹̪̟̤̀͂̓̃̍̍ȋ̶̖̞̝̐͑́̀̓͝͝s̶͍͎̩̱̫̰̟̈́ ̶̞̺̹̔̂͌͗͒͐͜ȋ̷̢̛̞̱̘͎̙̐ş̴͈̣͎͖̐̐̌͠ņ̴̟̥̟̉̓͂̐̑͗'̵̭͙̳̥̱̦̖̇͂̆̕ͅt̶̲̱̪̠͓̀́͋́ ̵̜͚̪͕̣̙̯̦̈͒a̶͔͔̫͖̹̝͗̀̓̚͜b̷̨̨͚̯̲̮̠̏̍͛̇͊͝ơ̴̙̥̪̰̦̭͆̀̒̐ư̵̻̰̍̇̅̾̎̅̃t̷̢͔̣̻͖̙̦̃̈́͆̆̈́̚̕ ̴͍̖̰͎̪̹̮̲͐̎ỳ̶̖̼͈̥́̀͊̂o̶̡̪͕̒́ư̴͍̬͗̀͗̿͐̊.̴̯̻̭̱̤̩̋́͛͠ͅ" Danyal sneered at Grayson. His claws finished slicing clean through Constantine's barrier. With a deafening screech, Danyal lunged, his hand glowing with green light that morphed into a sword. Damian met him head-on, their clash sending shockwaves through the chamber. His family scrambled to stay out of the way, their shouts of protest drowned out by the sound of steel against spectral energy.

Danyal fought like a demon, his movements erratic but deadly, each strike fueled by years of pent-up rage and pain. And Damian did not stay uninjured, as cuts and bruises built up as he, inch by torturous inch, forced Danyal back towards the Lazarus Pit.

With every strike Danyal landed, Damian gave him one in kind. The moment his feet touched the ground, Damian struck at his heel. In the air, he focused on attacking from behind. And Damian kept up his attack, without falter, because defeat was not allowed.

"I won't let you kill me," he said during a parry.

“You don’t know what it means to survive!” Danyal roared, slamming his claws into Damian’s blade. “You don’t know what it’s like to claw your way back, piece by piece, from the darkness you threw me into!”

“You’re wrong,” Damian shot back, his voice fierce. “I’ve been in that darkness too. I’ve fought my way out. And I won’t leave you there.”

Their battle raged on, but Damian slowly drove Danyal back, step by step, toward the Lazarus Pit. Finally, with a calculated feint, Damian disarmed Danyal, dispelling his etherial sword. Before Danyal could react, Damian lunged, tackling him with all his strength.

The two of them tumbled backward, plunging into the glowing green depths of the Lazarus Pit. The chamber shook, the waters surging violently as they disappeared beneath the surface.

And the world turned green.

[vinnyvamppp]

Hey love you are a great writer so much so i had to request you to write a fic This story idea is super toxic This would never be a real scenario But I'm twisted so here's how it goes sinister mark or whom ever you choose is trying to study and girlfriend is just trying to get his attention kissing him, loving on him taking pictures with him and his snaps and accidentally hit her. He doesn't think that she will fight back though turning into this toxic love hate f$ck

You would be doing a great service (to me mostly😩)

Attention Hungry

NOTE: The person requested and the people have agreed! Typing this on my phone in staples while they fix my computer made me lose brain cells. Sorry in advance! Didn’t stray too far from the request. @nefertiti2003

Warnings: Rough Sex, Accidental Assault, Mild Choking, Mutual Orgasm, Hate Fucking, Power Imbalance, Pussy Eating, Dom!Invincible Variant, Power Bottom!Reader, Biting, Dom/Sub Dynamics, Love/Hate Relationship, Porn w a Plot, etc.

Sinister!Mark x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2,072

Mark is at his desk, the glow of his tablet screen reflecting against the sharp angles of his face. His brows are furrowed in concentration, scanning lines of text faster than any normal person could. The lamp above casts long shadows, stretching across his strong frame, making him look even more unapproachable than usual. You should know better than to bother him when he’s like this, when he’s focused and distant.

But you never listen.

You step behind him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, pressing your chest against his back. His body is warm—too warm almost, like a furnace barely contained beneath his skin. A normal person would melt under the heat of him. You just take it as an invitation. “Mark,” you murmur against his ear, letting your lips brush against the skin just below it. He doesn’t react. Not at first.

You tighten your arms, fingers splaying over the solid muscle of his chest. “You’ve been sitting here forever.” Your tone sing-songy. Nothing.

You try again, trailing your fingers up his neck, into his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. His jaw tenses, slight progress, a smirk tugging at your lips. “You’re really gonna ignore me?” STILL nothing.

Alright then.

You grab his phone from the desk and spin away before he can snatch it back. “Smile,” you tease, pointing the camera at him. He doesn’t even glance up, still reading, as if you’re nothing but background noise. So you step closer, angling yourself into the shot, pressing against his arm. Click. The flash goes off, illuminating his sharp features, and his unreadable eyes. Blinding you in the process. That gets his attention.

It happens fast, too fast to catch.

A blur of movement, his hand shoots out. A hard impact wallops across your face, your head jerks to the side. The sharp sting spreads across your cheek before you even register what happened. For a second, everything stops. Your breath catches and your heart slams against your ribs. Mark’s hand hovers in the air where your face used to be, fingers still curled slightly from the slap.

You gasp. He blinks.

Then he exhales sharply through his nose, something unreadable flashing behind those crimson-tinted eyes. A mistake? No, he doesn’t make those. His mouth parts like he’s about to say something, but you don’t give him the chance.

Your hand flies before you even think about it, striking him across the face just as fast. The crack of skin-on-skin reverberates through the room. His head barely moves. Your palm burns from the impact. It didn’t hurt, but he felt it. He shouldn’t have felt it, that means he was getting weak, it meant he had to show who was stronger, better in every way. And he would.

Slowly—and I mean eerily slow—Mark turns his head back toward you. His tongue swipes over his lip, testing for blood before grinning. “Really?” His voice is low and amused, almost unfamiliar. Your heart pounds, but you don’t step back, you can’t. The air between you is electric, suffocating, and dangerous. His fingers flex, then relax. His eyes roam over you, slow and deliberate. He shifts in his chair, the movement lazy—like a predator just now deciding whether the thing in front of him is prey or something worth playing with first.

With one hand, he grabs your wrist, yanking you down onto his lap. "Now you have my attention."

He seemed amused, if anything.

With a short huff, your wrist curled against his firm grip, yanking with all your might. Nothing. His fingers barely budged, the strength in his hold effortless, as if he wasn’t even trying to restrain you, just reminding you that he could. Your jaw clenched, brows furrowed as you gritted. “Let go.” Mark tilted his head, eyes glinting under the dim light. “Why?”

Your skin burned where he touched you. Not from pain but from frustration, from the way he always did this. Letting you squirm, watching you fight, like you were nothing but a passing entertainment. Like you didn’t even matter. “You don’t even care,” you snapped, struggling again. “I don’t know why I—” He cut you off with a low chuckle. “Why you what?” His grip loosened, but only enough for his fingers to slide down your forearm, keeping you anchored in place. “Keep coming back? Keep trying to get my attention?”

Your breath hitched, but you covered it up with a scowl. “You never bother with me, Mark.” Something flickered in his expression, brief, perhaps sympathetic, but it was gone. “You’re always off somewhere else,” you continued, voice sharper now. “Thinking, planning, doing whatever the hell you do. You don’t talk to me, you don’t look at me, unless I force you to. Like I’m a distraction.”

Mark sighed, as if this entire conversation was beneath him. “You are a distraction.” The words stung more than you wanted to admit. Your nails dug into his wrist. “Then why the hell are you still holding onto me?” His fingers flexed around your arm. A quiet, drawn-out moment passed before he leaned in, just slightly, breath warm against your skin. “Because,” he murmured, “you’re not boring.”

Your stomach twisted. You hated the way your body reacted to him—to this. With a sharp inhale, you pushed against his chest. “I should leave.” Mark didn’t stop you nor did he tighten his grip. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, arms dropping to his sides, leaving you free, daring you. His eyes met yours, calm and all knowing. God, you hated that look. “Then do it.” The room felt smaller, like the walls were closing in. Your muscles tensed under his gaze as he watched and waited.

Seconds passed, your heart still pounding. You should leave. You should turn around, walk out the door, and never look back. But you didn’t move. Mark smirked. “That’s what I thought.” Your fingers curled into fists. “I hate you.”

“Yeah?” He tilted his head, dragging his gaze over you, less restrained this time, more sensual. “Funny. I hate you too.” Your chest rose and fell, breath shaky with something you refused to name. “Then let me go.” He exhaled through his nose, almost like a laugh, before reaching out. His fingers traced your jaw gently before gripping your chin, the sudden tightening causing you to go taut, forcing you to look at him. “I don’t think you want that,” he said, voice dropping an octave. “And I know I don’t.”

And just like that, you were pulled right back into his orbit.

You moved first, tilting your chin up, daring him, challenging him. His lips met yours in an instant, not gentle, not sweet but hungry. It was all heat and dominance, a battle for control that neither of you wanted to lose. His hand slid lower, fingers pressing into your skin, grounding you against him. Every touch, every movement was controlled, always meant to remind you exactly who he was—who you were dealing with.

He pulled back just enough to murmur against your lips, "Still think you hate me?" You exhaled shakily. "More than ever." Mark’s grin was sharp, almost cocky. "Good."

He stood up abruptly, his chair clattering to the floor behind him. With a firm grip on your hips, he lifted you effortlessly, tossing you over his shoulder like a ragdoll. You yelped in surprise, the breath momentarily knocked out of you. You managed to gasp out as he carried you across the room, his footsteps echoing off the walls. He ignored your weak protested mumbles, his hand resting heavily on your ass as if to remind you of his dominance.

The bedsprings creaked as he threw you down onto the mattress, your body bouncing from the impact. You barely had a moment to catch your breath before he was on top of you, his weight pinning you down. Your hands scrabbled at his chest, but he easily overpowered you, gripping your wrists and shoving them above your head.

His other hand found your throat, fingers curling around your slender neck. He applied just enough pressure to make you gasp, to remind you who was in control. His red eyes bore into yours, gleaming with a dark, feral hunger.

"Is this what you wanted?" he growled, his voice rough with desire. "Fuck, yes. Now give it to me." He released your wrists, only to grab the collar of your shirt. With a sharp tug, he tore the fabric open, sending buttons flying across the room. Your breasts bounced free, the cool air pebbling your nipples.

He wasted no time, ducking his head to inhale your sweet scent as his tongue teased your collarbones. He sucked hard, his teeth scraping against the sensitive flesh, sending jolts of pain and pleasure straight to your core. His hand roughly traced the curves of your figure, squeezing what he could. You arched into him, a moan escaping your lips. But he was already moving, trailing kisses down your stomach, pausing to flick his tongue against your navel. Lower and lower he went until his face was nestled between your thighs.

He breathed hotly against your core, the damp fabric of your panties the only barrier between you. With a low growl, he tugged them aside, exposing you to his hungry gaze. Without warning, he licked a long stripe up your slit, from entrance to clit, the wet heat of his tongue making you shudder. You tangled your fingers in his hair, pushing him closer, silently begging for more. He obliged, sealing his lips around your clit and sucking hard. At the same time, he slid two fingers into your dripping cunt, pumping them in and out, giving you little time to adjust.

Your hips bucked against his face, fucking yourself on his tongue and fingers. But he didn't let up, his grip on your thighs holding you in place as he feasted on your pussy like a starving man. "Jesus, Mark," you gasped, your head thrown back in ecstasy. "Don't. Fucking. Stop..."

You doomed yourself, his eyes meeting yours

But just as you were about to tumble over the edge, he delivered a harsh teething and pulled away, leaving you empty and aching. You groaned at the loss, but it was quickly silenced as he covered your mouth with his, forcing you to taste yourself on his tongue.

You could feel his cock, hard and throbbing, pressing against your thigh. He ground against you, seeking friction, and you knew he was just as desperate as you were. With a snarl, he grabbed your hips and flipped you over onto your stomach. He yanked your hips up, positioning you on your hands and knees. You barely had time to steady yourself before he was inside you, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust.

You cried out at the sudden invasion, your walls stretching around his thick length. But he didn't give you time to adjust, setting a punishing pace that had the headboard slamming against the wall. Each thrust was harder than the last, his hips slapping against your ass as he pounded into you. The obscene sound of skin on skin filled the room, mixing with your muffled moans and his grunts of pleasure.

His hand found your hair, fisting the strands and pulling your head back. He leaned over you, his chest pressed against your back, his breath hot against your ear. Both of too far gone in the haze of pleasure to form coherent words. He seemed to take that as a yes, his thrusts becoming even more brutal.

You felt the pressure building inside you, coiling tighter and tighter with each snap of his hips. Your legs began to tremble, your arms threatening to give out beneath you. "Come for me," he demanded, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight circles around the sensitive nub. "Let me feel you come all over my cock." This time coming as a more of a plea.

And with that final command, you shattered, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your walls clamped down around him, fluttering and squeezing as wave after wave of ecstasy washed through you. Behind you, Mark let out a guttural moan, his hips stuttering as he followed you over the edge. He buried himself deep one last time, spilling his release inside you with a shuddering groan.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, both struggling to catch your breath. Finally, Mark slipped out of you, rolling onto his back and taking you with him. “We’re… not done yet, you fuck.” You sneered, and he obliged with a toothy grin. The tip of his cock rubbed gingerly against your lips as he parted the soft flesh. This is so dramatically written LMFAO.

MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚

[bumblehoneybee]

Hear me out hear me out

Captain Curly x reader .. but it's after the crash. Curly never really saw reader in a certain light before, but now that they are starting to take care of him, he "loves" them. Or moreso mistakes his feelings of codependency as falling in love

You're All I Have

Consciousness was strained and barely hanging on by a thread. Pain, however, forced Curly to be aware, to understand what was happening to him, even if he was exhausted and mentally ravaged. It only eased when the pills kicked in, and taking those was a chore. It hurt, it all hurt no matter what.

Curly wished it would all stop, he would pass out and maybe wake up to a world where this wasn't his reality.

But then, he reasoned, watching the doors carefully, he wouldn't be aware of your visits.

Being a janitor on the Tulpar, your hours were flipped from all the others. You crept out at night, taking care of everything that could result in sickness or disrepair to the ship. Curly had to let you into the cockpit a few times too, so he knew your work was important.

He never noticed, however, how tired you always looked doing what you did. Cleaning wasn't really the most interesting activity, and your hours kept you away from the others, so you weren't interacting with many folks. It had to be lonely.

Curly could relate some, now. Besides Anya and Jimmy, he didn't really get visits from the others, and those two who were around weren't ever much for conversation.

But you, with your new duty of watching over Curly's condition at night, were fine to talk with him for hours. You whose touch was feather light on his charred skin. You who would coax water into him, massaging his throat to help it down. Hell, you even got him swallowing some of the softer food, guiding bites to the back of his throat where reflexes would take care of the rest.

Curly felt a little more human with you. He could watch your hands carefully wind his bandages for hours, washing them and disinfecting them before reapplying them with what medicine you could find. You covered his remaining eye in a wet cloth so it didn't dry out, talking him into a state so close to sleep.

Sometimes, if he was lucky, you'd even sing. Slow and soothing songs would spill out of you, every hiccup in tone or lyric followed by a breathy laugh and a smile Curly couldn't believe he never noticed before. It was hard to smile nowadays, but here, tucked away in the med bay, you shared them with him, and only him.

Your hand drifted down his cheek, just barely there for him to feel. Curly sighed, leaning into your touch despite how his skin protested the stretch. He wished he could speak more than just rasps of a dry throat. He wanted to tell you how much you meant to him, how much he appreciated you doing this for him.

He could only groan, though.

You nodded. "Yeah, I bet." Grabbing a small cup of water, you eased Curly's head upright, helping him drink. "We'll get picked up, so don't worry, Curls. We'll get ya a real doctor with equipment and shit, not this poser and their terrible bedside manner, yeah?"

Curly grumbled best he could without choking on the water. It earned him a smirk, tired and dazzling.

"I'm gonna help ya get better." You promised him. "And soon you'll be bossing us around again."

Nah. Curly didn't want that. He didn't want to be your boss or your coworker. He wanted to take care of you, though. Wanted you to take care of him too. Once he healed, as much as he could possibly heal, he'd hope you'd stick around. Let him lean on you some more, sing to him some more, ease his nerves and his pain.

He'd repent, beg forgiveness, tell you the truth and then some. He'd work hard, with Anya and everyone, to make sure things were fixed for the better. He'd get better. He would. He promised.

So please. . . don't go.

You were all he had.

[ddiidi]

bf!Bangchan x gn!reader (ot8 mentioned)

Masterlist

When he calls you clingy, so you distance yourself

Previous Pt. 1

Pt. 2

Next Pt. 3

!Warnings: angst, swearing, fun at the end bc reader needs fun in life (lmk if i missed anything)

Important!Side-Note!: Should I do a happy ending for them?

It has been 3 days since that incident. 3 days and still not a single message from Chan, not even an apology for yelling at you, nothing. You've been texting him every now and then, to ask if he's okay, eats and sleeps. He never replied to any of them, nor has he seen them, so you spend most of the time packing your stuff and working from home. You were glad you had a job you also could work from home for. Every now and then, you went over to the building, to check a few things, walking extra detours, to make sure, you won't bump into Chan.

A few of the other members texted you the past days, asking if everything is okay and why the haven't seen you around for a while, to which you just replied with "Busy with work and private stuff, dww:)". It made you happy they actually care that much about you, just because they haven't seen you in a few days, but also anxious and sad, since they care, but chan hasn't even shown any intress in you the past days. You weren't even able to tell him that you're moving.

More days pass, and a few days, turn into a week of no textes from Chan. At this point, you wondered if he even knew that you still exist.

So here you were, in your old apartment, stuffed with boxes, not being able to get your mind off chan and his well-being, even though, you're still deeply hurt from what he said, you couldn't just not not care about him....He pointed out two of your insecurities, just like that as if it was nothing and he doesn't even care...not about you not your feelings.

You let out a deep sigh. You should be getting ready for a day with your friends. Not think about some man, who happened to be the love of your life, who calls you his partner, but doesn't even know how to cherish you.

You let out another, heavy, sigh as you drop to the floor to put on your shoes, Let's just focus on having a great time today, you thought to yourself and left the apartment.

Well, maybe it was not the best decision to go out today...

Chan for his part, had to listen to a lectur from Felix, after you ran out, crying. "Chris..you really shouldn't have said all that to her. I understand that you were annoyed or whatever, but that was no reason to yell at her" "Really now? They were just being a fucking, clingy and annoying crybaby that couldn't take no for an answer, for whatever reason." chan sighed out, at the younger member. "That crybaby...was really uncalled for chris. They're your partner, not some random person on the street you can yell at. I wouldn't wonder if they took that "Leave me alone" to heart and actually leave you after that action." "But I-" chan starts, "I'm just saying chris. You better fix this before it's too late. After what you pulled, partners are faster gone than you could blink" with that, Felix leaves the room, leaving Chan alone, again.

Since that talk, Chan locked himself in his studio, thinking about the best way to apologize for what he said. But he couldn't find one. No matter how long he thought, days, a whole week, there was nothing but regret. He just had to apologize in person and beg for forgivness, hoping that you'd actually forgive him.

So there he was, with a giant bouquet of flowers, fresh clothes and hope.

He had the code to your apartment, so he opened the door, ready to be greeted by the warm, wide open hallway, but was greeted with the cold gray of bunch of boxes instead and the first thing he felt, was panic."Y/n? Y/n are you there?" he yelled, as he ran through your whole apartment, but as he saw that even all your date polaroid pictures where gone, he couldn't help but panic even more.

He let's the flowers fall on the floor, running to your room and nearly collapsed when he found..nothing. Where were you? Did you actually go? Did you actually leave him? All these questions consumed his head and that's when he broke, crying to the point he couldn't breath. He took out his phone and called the first number he saw in his recent calls. It peeped a few times, before someone took the call.

"Hey Chris everything alr-" "They're gone! Felix they're gone, they're not here i don't know what to do! I've never meant it I was just-" chan cried and gasped out at felix on the other line. "Woah there calm down, try to breath I don't understand a word. Relax, I'll be there okay? You know there is an explination for everything, that's what you always say, so try to relax it's okay" Felix tried to soothen the older man, while grabbing his keys and running out to his car. Chan didn't reply anything to that and continued soobing.

I have your location, I'll be there in 5." that's the last thing chan heared from felix, before he collapsed on the floor in your apartment.

And you? You were drinking coffee with your friends, while your bestie told you guys a story how she saw a horse that nearly drowned.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾✧༺🖤༻✧✧༺🖤༻✧✧༺🖤༻✧☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

@finnbbl @wolfs-howling

[kjsasha]

That Night - Choi Seungcheol

Pairing : Idol!S.Coups X Idol!Female Reader

Genre : Smut, one night stand, friends to lovers, angst

W.C : 3K+

Summary : She realised that she couldn't be just friends with him. She wanted more but what she hadn't realised was that he wanted that too

Warnings : kissing, biting, pet names, spitting, unprotected sex (practise safe sex everyone), not sure if this should be considered semi-public sex, lmk if I missed something.

NSFW

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Irrevocable (Kim Mingyu X Female Reader)

(Check this out👇)

"Pretty scarf, Y/N-ah. But why did you wrap it around like that?", Jihyo, one of my members, said as we were heading to our company. I chuckled awkwardly as a reply while fixing my scarf instinctively to make sure my neck was well covered.

After a recording session of our new tracks, I went to the rooftop cafe on our company's building to get their grilled sandwiches. My members had their individual plans for their break time so it was just me and our manager, Danielle. As the elevator dinged open, the sight of Jeonghan brightened me up right away.

"Hey"

"Hey, going to get your sandwiches?", he asked.

Y/N : "Bingo"

Seventeen and my group, Sirens, are pretty close. Though we debuted much later than them, somehow we all got really close in a very limited time. We cross paths very often as both the groups are under Pledis Entertainment. It'd been some years since we met and our bonding just kept getting better and stronger everyday.

We got out of the elevator, "Oh, S.Coups-nim is here too", a familiar 'back' standing some feet away caught my eyes after Danielle spoke. I turned around immediately but the elevator was already going down by the time I pressed the call button.

"What happened?", Jeonghan asked.

Y/N : "I have some work, see you later"

Danielle : "But-"

I practically sprinted out of there using the stairs leaving Jeonghan and my manager dumbfounded.

I didn't have the energy in me to deal with him at that moment.

Author's Pov :

Later that day, Sirens had a meeting with their CEO about their album release and other projects. They'd have a 10 days vacation before the release date. "Rejuvenate yourselves in those 10 days. Y'all shall be back about two weeks before your comeback for rehearsals and everything", the CEO said to them.

As the day wrapped up, Y/N received a call from Mingyu. "Do you wanna get dinner with us at Jin hyung's restaurant?"

Y/N : "Us?"

Mingyu : "Me, Shua, Coups, Wonwoo, Jeonghan and Dino"

"Oh. Um, I, I'm not feeling well. You guys go, I'll just head home", she ended the conversation.

"She said she isn't feeling well", Mingyu informed the others with a little frown between his brows.

The next day, Y/N and her members finished recording all the songs for their upcoming album. They have been working hard for it as people have high expectations from them. They have the potential and are one of the hardworking, talented and rising groups of the industry as of now.

Y/N recorded her final part perfectly and their producer gave her the cue to come out. She wasn't aware that Woozi, Seungkwan and S.Coups came to the studio while she's doing her lines.

"Woah, you nailed it, Y/N-ie", Woozi said the moment she stepped out of the recording booth.

"As expected of the Sirens' main vocalist", Seungkwan added.

S.Coups was on the sofa, his legs moderately manspreaded, his right elbow resting on the armrest while his other hand's placed on his thigh. His gaze has been on her this whole time, the intensity of his stare felt almost tangible to Y/N.

Seungkwan : "Coups hyung...Coups hyung?" Seungcheol averted his gaze to him. "I was asking if you'd wanna go out with us for bowling right now", he repeated. "No, some people wouldn't like it", S.Coups said looking my way and walked out of the studio.

"Here goes our sulky leader", Woozi commented jokingly. "But what's the reason?", Seungkwan asked in a pout.

They invited other seventeen and Sirens members to join. Jihyo, Wonyoung and Lisa along with Jeonghan, Jun, Mingyu and Dk came and they all gathered at the parking lot.

Seungkwan's still whining about why his Seungcheol hyung rejected his offer and behaved like that; he even complained to Jeonghan about it.

Y/N's Pov :

The following day, when seventeen visited Sirens' practice room, I was left with no choice but to face him. I knew it was inevitable but I still wanted to prolong it as much as I could.

One conversation led to another and Seungcheol and I began to argue. I believe it started along the line where Wonwoo said something about him liking my quality of owning upto things no matter what it is and Seungcheol scoffed and said, "She does anything but owns upto her things".

And then there we were, getting at each other with remarks that the others couldn't quite interpret.

As their eyes went back and forth between the two of us, they tried to calm us but it's in vain.

Y/N : "I really can't stand you"

Seungcheol : "But you seemed to stand me very much when I was f-"

"Shut up", I cut his sentence hastily.

Hoshi : "What is wrong with you two?"

"Ask her", he said before storming out of the room.

Author's Pov :

Jeonghan and Mingyu went after S.Coups.

"Not now", he said as they were behind him.

"At least tell us what happened between you two so we can grasp the situation a little", Jeonghan said.

"......."

"Fine, we'll let you be for now but then you better come and tell us what this is all about", Mingyu said to him.

"She drives me crazy", he let out a breath.

Two days later, they all gathered like they usually do at Seventeen's mutual home which is a duplex house in Gangnam. Y/N tried to come up with excuses to not join them but Lisa dragged her out of their dorm. "I can't put up with that jerk again. Let me go back", she said as they made her sit inside the car. "I don't know what's going on with you guys but that can't be more important than the friendship we all share, can it? So please, patch up with him or something, unnie", Wonyoung said.

Once we arrived there, everyone and everything felt how it always did but yet a part of me was at unease. We all bunched up in their living area. S.Coups and I haven't interacted at all. He wanted to go to his room and take a nap but Joshua held him back, "We're gonna plan the trip now, stay".

Since Seventeen and Sirens, both groups are gonna get a 10 days vacation, we agreed on going on a trip together which has been long due.

The discussion was going smoothly and then Seungcheol and I ended up bickering again. I can't even remember how it began but at that moment, I was on the verge of throwing hands at him.

Wonwoo : "Seriously, what the hell is wrong with you both?"

Y/N : "Everything is wrong with this jerk"

Seungcheol : "Mind your language"

"Stop it", "Come with me", Jeonghan grabbed us both and dragged us to a room upstairs.

"You two are gonna be civil and tell me what the hell happened", he said.

"......."

Jeonghan : "Speak"

"He claims that we slept together", I said as I stared at the floor.

"Seriously, Y/N? 'He claims'?", S.Coups asked, clearly fuming.

"I don't remember that night", I tried to sound composed.

"Now you don't even remember", he was in disbelief.

"What do you mean 'slept together'?", Hanie questioned.

"We had sex"

Jeonghan : "How?"

Seungcheol : "What how? Do you want me to tell you how we-"

Jeonghan and Y/N : "NO"

"I mean how did it happen and why is it the reason that you two are mad at each other?", he asked evidently trying to figure things out.

I cleared my throat before telling him, "That night, at the party on the terrace, I was drunk and so was he and then one thing escalated to another and we ended up in his room and that's all I recall"

Flashback

Y/N's Pov :

My head throbbed and every ounce of my body felt sore as I tried to get up. I pressed my eyes shut for some seconds before opening them to clear my vision. The only source of light being the early morning sunlight seeping in through the glass window, I looked around as I sat on the bed. The rooms quite big and minimally well furnished. It's not my bedroom but.......I've been here before. And then, faint snores reached my ears. I gulped as I slowly turned my head towards the sleeping figure on my right.

Please don't be him, please don't be him.......It is him and the moments from the night are still very fresh and vivid to deny it.

End of flashback

"She left before I woke up", he looked at me, "And has been running from me since then".

Y/N : "What do you want me to do then?"

Seungcheol : "Own up to it"

"Should I write it on my forehead that 'I let Choi Seungcheol do me'?"

Seungcheol : "I want you to stop pushing me away, Y/N"

"And what's your side? Why are you avoiding it", Jeonghan asked.

".....Because, I, I....."

"Say it, say the word", Seungcheol sounded like he's challenging me.

"I'm embarrassed for giving in myself like that, okay?", my hands balled into fists by my sides. "This whole thing might be insignificant for him but I can't pretend that nothing has changed. I can't even be in terms with it so isn't it better to just avoid it? And what does he even want me to say to him? 'Hey, Coups, we had sex. Now you literally know me inside out'?".

"I want you to admit that you remember everything just like I do. Say that it matters to you too and it's not just me who's holding onto it", Seungcheol said.

"No, I don't remember anything, Choi Seungcheol"

"Stop calling me that"

"Choi Seungcheol"

"Don't, Y/N", he neared me.

"Choi Seungcheol, Choi Seungcheol"

"I said stop", he's right in front of me, his height towering mine.

"Or what, Choi Seungcheol?"

"Or I'll fuck some manners into you, right here and now, right in front of Jeonghan", he clenched his jaw.

"You perverted asshole", I gasped.

A baffled Jeonghan stood there as Seungcheol and I glared at each other.

"I'm giving you both 30 minutes. Talk, fight or do whatever the hell you want but when you two step out of this room, no more arguments or ignoring. I want my old Y/N and Coups back, understood?", and with that, Jeonghan walked out of the room closing the door behind him.

"Speak", I crossed my arms.

"First admit that you remember that night"

"Well, there wasn't anything worth remembering", I said in a taunting tone.

"Really?"

"Really"

"Then how about I remind you? Recreate the things we did?", he advanced towards me as I stepped back involuntarily until my back hit the wall. (That one episode of mmtg and going seventeen collaboration where JaeJae and S.Coups played rock, paper, scissors and something akin to this happened has been in my head for some time now)

As I got trapped between the wall and him, he caged me placing his hands on either side of me. Seungcheol let out a deep sigh as his demeanor shifted to something more gentle.

"You're important to me, a family, and I don't wanna lose you. And I don't regret that night even a bit but if you do, tell me how I can change that. Talk to me but don't walk away from me, please", I could feel his minty breath as he spoke due to the close proximity between us.

I looked at him and all I could see was honesty and something akin to longing.

"I don't wanna lose you either but can we really pretend that things haven't changed?"

"We don't have to pretend. Things did change but we can go on with it"

"Then where do our relationship stand? What are we now? Coz friends don't do what we did", my tone sounded closer to a whisper.

"Be mine"

My breath hitched.

"And let me be yours", he added.

Y/N : "I'm serious, Seungcheol"

S.Coups : "So am I"

Y/N : "Stop messing with me"

S.Coups : "I want you to be mine, Y/N. Should I write it on my forehead?(He repeated my words from earlier)"

"......."

"Say something"

Y/N : "Then make me yours"

A smile crept on to Seungcheol's lips as a sense of relief and warmth washed over him.

He stared into my eyes as if searching for clarity. He held the side of my face with his right hand and his eyes drifted to my lips. Tracing it once with the pad of his thumb, Seungcheol rested his forehead on mine, "Stop me before I lose it, Y/N".

"What if I don't want you to stop?"

He smashed his lips on mine as an answer to it. His mouth moved against mine passionately, almost as if trying to convey through it how much he wanted me. He bit on my bottom lip and pulled on it before breaking the kiss.

"I'm gonna fuck you so hard you'll feel me in you for days, baby"

Y/N : "Not right now, others are around"

"I don't care", he said before lifting me up by the back of my thighs as I wrapped my arms around his neck.

Y/N : "Seungcheol, we really shouldn't-"

He made me sit on the study table and stood between my parted legs and kissed me again while his hands were busy exploring my body under my shirt. The ring on his finger felt cold; his bare touch elicited goosebumps on my skin and I raised my hip to help him hike my skirt up.

"May I?", he asked as his fingers grazed my inner thighs.

"You may"

He moved my panty to the side exposing my womanhood to the air. He placed a finger on my slit and hummed in satisfaction feeling how wet I was.

"Weren't you just saying that we shouldn't?", he teased.

Y/N : "Shut up"

The mere contact of his digits on my bundle of nerves shot up my need for more.

"We don't need the foreplay, just fuck me, please"

"As much as I wanna do just that, I don't wanna hurt you"

"You won't, I promise. Please"

Seungcheol smirked at my eagerness, "As you wish, princess", he took a step back to unbuckle his belt.

His dick sprang free as he pulled it out, the tip's swollen and red and the sheer girth of his length had me clenching around nothing in anticipation of being filled by him again. He pulled me closer by my waist to the edge of the table and I wrapped a leg around his torso as I leaned back balancing my upper body on my palms.

Seungcheol stroked his member a couple of times and spat directly on my slit to lubricate it before guiding his tip to my hole. As he prodded it in, he kept his eyes strained on me as if memorising all my reactions.

He pulled it out and pushed a little in and repeated it a few times before thrusting it all the way in knocking the air out of my lungs as he bottomed out.

My lips grazed his, both of our mouths parted mingling our breaths.

"Can I move?"

I nodded my head.

Seungcheol pulled out his member leaving the tip in before pushing it back and then picked up his pace. He kissed my jaw and neck. I hissed when he bit near my pulse point and then lapped his tongue on it to soothe it all the while plunging in and out of me.

"Oh fuck.......I'm...I'm gonna cum", I said as I felt the coil in my core twisting impossibly to the point of snapping.

"Go on, sweetheart. Cum on my dick like the good girl you are. My girl. All mine, aren't you?"

I nodded.

He slid up his left hand to my breast and gave it a squeeze, "Say it".

"I'm all yours", I breathed out.

The skin slapping against skin could be heard throughout the room. Seungcheol groaned as my walls constricted around his length like a vice as my high crashed over me.

I laced my fingers through his hair and wrapped both of my legs around him as he kept fucking me almost like an animal in heat.

He lowered a hand to my clit and began to rub it in circular motion with his thumb.

"Ah, ah, Coups"

"Yes, baby?"

"Sensitive"

"Give me one more, you can do it"

The ministrations of his finger followed by the movements of his hip bubbled up another orgasm in me soon.

This time, it was more intense than the previous one. I tightened my hold on his hair making him groan and smashed my lips on his to hold back the scream that threatened to spill out of my mouth. My body shook in rapture as my cunt fluttered.

Seungcheol slowed down his thrusts and parted our lips with a proud smile. My eyes were glossy when I opened them.

Y/N : "Stop smiling like that, you're not that good"

"Sure", he said and began to plummet in and out of me.

"Oh god, I can't"

"Just a little more, please"

A few more snaps of his hip and then he spilled his load deep inside of me.

Seungcheol : "Oh, Fuck"

We stayed there like that for a minute before he cupped my face with both hands and kissed my lips. He pulled out of me and placed my panty back in place. "Keep it in for me, princess", he said grinning as he tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear and then stepped back to fix his pants.

Once we both made ourselves presentable, we stepped out of the room. Jeonghan's leaning on the railing a few steps away from the door, earphones plugged in as he vibed to some music clearly trying to diffuse any other sound that might reach his vicinity.

He took off the earphones once he noticed us, "I thought I said 30 minutes but tell me my wait has been worth it and that you brought me good news". Seungcheol wrapped an arm around my waist pulling me closer to him and Jeonghan got his answer. A smile crept up to his face, "I'm so happy for you. Let's go now, others are waiting for you two".

Author : I hope you enjoyed reading it. Let me know your thoughts about it and I'd appreciate it if you could reblog the post. Thank you!

[maddascanbe-blog]

Nice to see you again Ma'am. This is the only redesign I'm going to both posting new for and not just update the original picture. Some of this was simple changes in style, and due to resizing issues Chloé's line art got really grainy. But more importantly I want to change Chloé in terms of my re-write, and I want to acknowledge my improvment.

Before we get to that lets talk small design changes. I likes my Anti-bug design originally but it waned on me over time. Recently I did a doodle of Chloé with the actual Ladybug miraculous (a hypothetical heroic) if you would. And translating that to Anti-bug made me much more satisfied with her.

I gave Queen Bee rounded stripes on her OG-redesign, but after looking at cannon again, she just is better suited for sharper shapes. So I changed her legs to something closer to her cannon design, the thigh-high boots feel much more Chloé.

Similar with Queen Wasp, just small changes, this time with her leg stripes just getting wider. I also decided to change her wings back to blue albeit a much darker color than Queen Bee's

Civilian Chloé and Zoé are the same, I already updated kid Zoé a bit for her page so I was able to just keep that asset and move it here.

Re-write. I've changed my opinion on Chloé a bit since I initially planned her re-write. Put simply, the only way I could think to redeem Chloé before was to make her an entirely different person.

Well not anymore. We're gonna rebuild her story from the ground up. First and foremost, Chloé is still a bully. She wants what she wants and doesn't care who gets hurt to help her get it. Now, she's not a full blown villain, because she doesn't need to be. But she does need to be selfish.

Chloé has a very short list of people she cares about. At the moment that includes Adrien, her Father, and Sabrina. Specifically she needs to care about Sabrina for the sake of her downfall and turn around, and later this list would include Ladybug, Chat Noir, and Zoé. She cares about them, and shows it, but everyone else isn't worth her time. This Chloé wouldn't insult Sabrina for not wanting to go through with a plot but she would still go and steal Marinette's diary.

But she also isn't oblivious, Chloé knows the class doesn't like her, he just doesn't care. She can still get what she wants, Marinette's seat, the Class Rep position, Ms. Bustier's favoritism, without the class liking her. Oh uh- small change her though, Chloé was bad at the student complaints and suggestions on day to day school stuff but I head cannon she was good at event organizing. As much of a pain as she was to work with, the school dances 'til now were spectacular. Mostly because I think Chloé needs to be good at something, and event planning is probable.

The first time she realizes her actions may have consequences (at least ones she cares about) is when she gets akumatized. She likes Ladybug, and Chat Noir if not as much. Her actions, her tantrum, not only didn't get her what she wanted but actively hurt two people she actually likes. This doesn't super change her behavior, but it does trigger the realization that she can't get everything she wants, and will in fact do things she doesnt want and cant fix in her wake.

The next is Lila showing up. Because she's spent her whole life around businessmen and politicians. She knows a liar when she sees one. But hey, if her class are idiots its not her business to educate them, its a little frustrating that Sabrina doesn't believe her. She just makes sure Adrien knows, and is surprised to know Marinette also already figured it out.

Then Zombizou happens, and everyone in the class are refusing to leave her alone and are protecting her. On one hand, no she doesn't want to be a zombie. But two, she thinks their idiots for sacrificing themselves over and over. They aren't friends, so why would they care? Then in a split second decision, Chloé gets between the zombies and the heroes. At this point she's acknowledged she's more a burden than a help, and that the heroes will be able to work better if she's out of their way. It's fine, they'll save her anyway. And they do.

This is where her character arc is actually going to start. Not with just with Bustier, but with her just gradually getting less antagonistic. She has her low moments of course. Since she hasn't exactly gotten better, just quieter the incident with the fire department causes Adrien to break off their friendship. And Lila successfully pulls Sabrina away from her. Now Chloé has no one.

And this is when she meets Pollen. Unintentional, but Chloé still loves Ladybug, so of course she wants to help. She doesn't give Pollen back at first, but she wasn't stupid enough to reveal her identity. Chloé is specifically not an idiot. She's actually one of the few who seems to regard Hawkmoth with as much fear as the heroes. She isn't expecting Marinette to turn down the opportunity and for the first time, Chloé see's her mother the way everyone else does. Flighty and Vicious, and uncapable of loving anyone but herself. And at the same moment she realizes that's the direction she's going.

Chloé realizes she's got to change. And she'd going to have to do it alone. Ladybug can support her, but not carry her. Marinette still doesn't trust her has far as she can throw her, and Adrien has his own stuff to worry about.

Then Zoé happens.

[potatoplace]

We Can Do This Together

Poly!Feysand x Reader

We Can Do This (part 1) | We Can Fix This (part 2)

Poly!ACOTAR x Reader Masterlist

Story Summary: As you near the end of your pregnancy, your doctor puts you on strict bed rest. Your doting partners make sure that you still get everything you want: your wedding, baby shower, and honeymoon.

Warnings: lots of pregnancy talk, labor (nothing graphic), light smut

Words: ~9.6k

Author's Note: AHHHHH I'm so excited to post this one!!! It is 100% fueled by how baby crazy I would be for Feysand, and also by just how damn CUTE it is (plus some unexpected spiciness, I did not plan on that lol). So enjoy it! I hope you all like this one.c I know I love it 🫶 p.s. this was supposed to be like... 3k long. This got uhhhhh a lil out of hand hehe 🤭 @icey--stars here's the extra part 💖

🤍🩵🤍💜🤍

Cold gel was smoothed over your massive bump as the doctor worked, one of your hands clutching at Feyre's as she did.

"Sorry, I know it's cold," Madja said as she got a better image, smiling softly down at you.

"It's okay..." you replied, craning your head to try and see the image. "Are they okay?"

Madja squinted at the screen for a moment, before raising a hand to the screen. "All three of the babies seem to be doing just fine, their heartbeats are strong and they're all doing well weight-wise. The main thing I'm concerned about-"

"Don't tell us the cord is wrapped around one of them or one of them doesn't have lungs or-" Rhys panicked, his eyes frantic as he looked at her. She fought back a smile, while you and Feyre both rolled your eyes.

"Neither of those are reality, Rhysand, I am simply worried about Y/N," Madja said with a pointed stare at you, her eyes serious. "Carrying three babies is no easy feat, especially with you still working and being 28 weeks along with triplets. And given that you came in after a fainting spell... I am recommending complete bed rest, and if you must leave the house, you need to be in a wheelchair whenever possible. And I'm going to prescribe some extra vitamins, just so we can keep the little girls inside as long as possible. Understood?" Madja asked you, and as much as you wanted to yell 'no' at the idea of bed rest... You wanted your babies healthier more.

"Okay..." you said poutily.

"We'll make sure she follows your orders, Madja," Feyre said, squeezing your hand reassuringly.

"Good! I'd also recommend massage to help with your circulation, the added benefit is that it will help with some of the aches and pains I'm sure you're feeling. Now, I'll go write those prescriptions, you three sit tight for another moment." Madja left the room, leaving you alone with your two fiancés.

You may not be able to get married in the traditional sense, but Feyre and Rhys had insisted upon a ceremony, as they wanted you to feel just as important in the relationship. You, of course, had agreed immediately, wanting nothing more than to be bound to the two in whatever way you could be. That, and the promise of a week long honeymoon of just the three of you would have been more than enough to convince you.

That had been before you discovered you were carrying triplets, though. You had to be the most fertile woman on the planet, to not only get pregnant after having sex with a condom, but for that to result in triplets. That exciting and terrifying appointment had been just a few weeks after you'd had that horrid haircut...

And now you certainly weren't getting your honeymoon, as it had been planned for three weeks from now, your wedding ceremony the day before you were to leave. With you on bed rest, their might not even be a ceremony at all...

Tears came to your eyes unbidden at the thought, and you tried to blink them away before either Feyre or Rhys saw them. But you were unsuccessful, only causing them to fall faster as disappointment swept over you.

"Oh, little love, what is it?" Rhys asked, one of his hands coming to cup your face and swipe away the tears with his thumb.

His gentle touch only spurred on more tears, a sob ripping through your chest. You covered your face with your hands, rubbing your palms into your eyes to try and stop the tears.

"Y/N, you need to tell us what's wrong so we can fix it, darling," Feyre said softly, her hand moving from your hand up to wrap around you, taking you into her arms as much as she could while you were on the exam table.

"I just- our- our wedding!" You cried, sobbing harder. "Our perfect honeymoon, and the ceremony and the baby shower!"

"Oh, love, we'll still have all of those," Rhys reassured you as he pried your hands off of your face. "The ceremony will be easy enough to do, you'll just need to sit as much as you can. We can do the baby shower at home, or even on the day of our wedding, and the honeymoon we can move to somewhere close by, a cottage by a lake, just the three of us, hmm?" Rhys asked as he cradled your face, keeping your eyes on him.

"See, little love? We can still have all of those things, you'll just be resting as much as possible. Okay?"

You stuck your lip out in a pout, which Rhys immediately caught between his thumb and forefinger.

"What do you say, baby? Will you let us take care of you?"

When he talked to you like that... Even with the hormones raging through you, you couldn't say no.

So you nodded your head.

🤍🩵🤍💜🤍

"I'm going crazy!" You complained from the couch as Feyre and Rhys bustled around the kitchen, delicious scents wafting over to where you had been banished to.

"You're not going crazy, Y/N, you're just bored!" Feyre called out. "Watch something or play a game, love!"

"But I'm tired of playing games and watching things," you whined, throwing the blanket off of your lap. Your bump made it harder and harder to get up without help, but you managed to push yourself off of the couch.

Over the past three weeks, you had moved into Rhys and Feyre's penthouse for good, your own personal effects now strewn across every room, and your clothes in their closet.

Getting to sleep with them every night had been heavenly, or as heavenly as sleeping at almost eight months pregnant with triplets could be. Their arms around you and soft touches helped lull you to sleep without fail, and waking up next to them and not leaving? Perfection.

The only problem? You'd been put on maternity leave at work! When you could very easily work from home on your laptop, but no. No. Your work had decided that you continuing to work with such a high risk pregnancy was a no-go, so now you were stuck in the loveliest apartment you had never been in, completely and totally bored.

You padded over to the kitchen, fluffy pink bunny slippers on your feet, this pair one that Feyre had gotten after you moved in. Your old slippers no longer fit your widened feet and ankles, and when you had cried over the fact, Feyre had run out and purchased three different pairs of slippers for you, all varying shades of adorable bunnies.

"What are you doing in here?" Rhys scolded, wrapping his arms around you when he turned around. "You're not supposed to be walking around, little love."

Feyre had turned around too, and both of their very mildly disappointed stares on you made you wish you hadn't gotten up. But still...

"I'm bored, I'm so tired of sitting on the couch or laying in bed," you whined into his chest, hands clutching at his shirt.

"There's only one more night that you're going to be this bored, darling, and that's tonight," Feyre said as she took the spot behind you, winding her arms around your middle and stroking your gigantic stomach.

"Because what's tomorrow?" She asked in your ear, sending a small shiver down your spine.

"Our wedding and baby shower," you answered, a big grin on your face as you thought about it.

"That's right, sweet girl," Feyre said, placing a kiss along your neck with every word. "Tomorrow we're getting married, and getting lots of cute gifts while we spend time with our friends, and then the day after?"

"The day after we're going to a lake cabin," you giggled, absolutely giddy at the idea. It wasn't the oceanside resort you had planned to go to, but it was nearly the same, just much closer. After all, the main thing you were excited for was spending every second of every day with your Feyre and your Rhys, celebrating the life you'd all started together eight months ago.

"That's right, Y/N, and you get us for one hundred and twenty uninterrupted hours," Rhys purred, sending a thrill to your core.

The one area you hadn't been bored in? Lovemaking. While Rhys had been too afraid to fuck you roughly, especially in the last three weeks, he and Feyre had made it their personal goal to find every other way there was to make you climax.

"Mm, and I can't wait," you said happily, craning your head to steal a kiss from him.

"Not fair," Feyre whined from behind you, even as she herself stole a kiss from Rhys. "I want one too." You twisted yourself in their arms, a grin on your face as you placed a kiss on Feyre's lips. "Good. Now that we've all gotten our smooches, you can go sit back down on the couch." You went to protest, but Feyre cut you off, "If you're a good girl and only walk when you have to tonight, you'll get a good night surprise from me."

A flush spread over your cheeks at the idea- Feyre's surprises were always the best. "I'll go sit down and be good, if you come with me. Let Rhys finish dinner."

"Hey, I want to come snuggle too," Rhys complained.

"But you're the better cook, Rhysie," Feyre said, already tugging you from his arms and over to the couch. "Besides, we need Y/N to eat soon, and if I stayed alone in the kitchen we'd have to order in!"

Rhys groaned but continued cooking, though you could tell he was doing it with a pout, even if you couldn't see it.

Feyre settled you into the couch, pulling your blue throw blanket that matched her eyes back onto your lap, but left your feet and lower legs uncovered.

"How have you ankles felt?" She asked as she settled down in front of you, grabbing the bottle of lotion that they kept nearby now.

"They've been fine," you said, a hint of a lie in your voice even as you tried to hide it. Feyre caught it, staring at you sternly. "Okay, fine, they've been sore and puffy..."

"That's what I thought, I think we need to start giving you massages twice a day now to keep your circulation going more," Feyre said gently as she started working the lotion into your skin, your head falling back onto the couch pillow. Feyre chuckled at your reaction. "Feel nice, baby?"

You managed to nod, but couldn't find it in yourself to speak. Before you'd been bored and restless, now you were just... tired. Calm. Especially with Feyre's hands on you.

You drifted off quickly, awoken by Rhys's deep laugh. "Did she fall asleep in the ten minutes it took me to finish dinner?"

"She did, I think she was just lonely," Feyre said gently, and you could still feel her hands massaging your ankles with such care.

"I was bored," you mumbled, still not fully awake.

Rhys laughed again, softer this time. "Of course you were, darling. Are you ready for dinner?" His hand stroked over your hair, his touch bringing you back to awareness.

"Dinner?" You asked sleepily, blinking to clear your eyes.

"That's right, dinner. You should eat something before you take your vitamins."

You made a face at the idea of vitamins, so many tiny little pills to swallow. But dinner...

"Dinner sounds good."

🤍🩵🤍💜🤍

Tears were pouring down your face as you stood in front of a floor length mirror, taking in how you looked.

"Oh, Y/N, don't cry! You look absolutely beautiful!" Emerie said, dabbing the tears off your face with a tissue.

"I know, I just-" you cried. "I just love them so much!"

"Oh, I know you do! Which is why you're getting married to them! So no more happy tears until you see them at the end of the aisle, hmm?"

You sniffled but nodded your head, doing your best to stop your tears as Emerie wiped the remaining ones from your already made up face. "Okay. I can try."

"Good. Now, does everything with your dress look right? And the veil? And your hair?"

You looked yourself over again, fighting back more tears- happy ones, thankfully, but tears nonetheless. Your soft, silk white dress had a Queen Anne neckline with cap sleeves and a flowing waistline that hung prettily over your bump, more flattering and pretty than you'd thought possible with how massive you were now. It met the floor, just barely dragging over it as you walked, and your feet were clad in comfortable ballet slippers, with an extra support stuffed inside that Feyre had insisted upon.

Your hair was lovely, having grown back out a bit, laying in soft curls and your bangs styled. Your veil was beautiful, attached to your head with a small tiara and flowing down to the backs of your knees, made of a delicate white lace.

"Everything is perfect," you breathed, fingering the necklace that Rhys and Feyre had gifted you four months ago, tiny starbursts of diamonds surrounding three square sapphires, one for each of your daughters.

Emerie smiled at you in the mirror, then began guiding you back to the couch against the wall of the dressing room. "Good, because you should be getting your cue to walk out any minute now!"

True enough, the moment after you sat down, Mor knocked on the dressing room door and opened it, peeking inside. "Oh good, you're ready, come along now!" She squealed, helping Emerie pull you back to your feet.

The two of them helped walk you to the double doors that separated you from your future. Emerie fluffed out the short train of your dress while Mor pulled the doors open, and the both of them stepped aside to let you pass through on your own.

The moment you saw them standing there, Rhys and Feyre, you thought you might faint.

Rhys looked fantastic in his fine black suit with silver stitching, his blue-black hair styled into the soft curls that you loved so much, a slight blush on his cheeks when he met your eyes across the hall, his signature smirk softened into something even lovelier. His dark purple tie brought a smile to your own lips, the dare that you and Feyre had made him take after teasing him about not only wearing black at the wedding.

And Feyre... Feyre took your breath away, her golden brown hair styled into pretty ringlets, her own veil carefully pinned onto the crown of her head. Her dress was beautiful, clinging to her curves before flowing out at her hips, with tiny spaghetti straps holding the bodice to her chest. A flush spread over her cheeks and chest when she looked at you, a smile taking up her whole face.

You finally remembered to start moving when Feyre wiggled her fingers at you, your face turning bright red as you slowly made your way down the aisle, giggling when you met Feyre and Rhys at the end, who both immediately wrapped an arm around you to help take the pressure off of your feet.

The ceremony flew by, with you hardly remembering a single word of what had been said, your mind more preoccupied with how loved and cherished the two people you were now bonded to made you feel.

Your first kiss married to the two of them was from Feyre, Rhys having muttered something like "Ladies first," to Feyre.

It was magical, getting to kiss your wife and husband, and Rhys had you giggling when he immediately scooped you into his arms, careful not to squish the babies. He carried you from the wedding hall to the attached reception hall, a large couch in the center of it with chairs, tables, and a few other, smaller couches set up as well. He gently set you onto the couch in the center before settling beside you, Feyre taking up the spot on your other side.

That was something he loved doing- literally sweeping you off of your feet whenever he had the chance, especially over the past three weeks. You didn't mind one bit, not when it meant snuggling into his chest while he carried you up a set of stairs, or being held the entire duration of the elevator ride when you could suck little marks on his neck, enjoying the pleasured hiss he would let out.

You let out a contented sigh as you leaned your head on Rhys, letting it sink in.

You're married.

Emerie quickly began taking charge of the festivities, ordering for the food to be set out and music to be played, even bossing Mor into dancing with her before they'd had a bite to eat.

Rhys had gone to get a plate for the three of you, coming back with it piled high with beef pot roast, mashed potatoes, mac and cheese, and green beans- it had been your idea after seeing the fancy displays the caterer had made, your stomach rolling at the sight even though you knew it would taste just fine.

The babies had had a different, less logical idea.

So pot roast it was, the other dishes suggestions from Feyre and Rhys.

Rhys took great pride in feeding both you and Feyre, only taking his own bites when the two of you decided to steal the fork from him and feed him yourselves. Rhys would steal back the fork and continue feeding you as much as you could handle, rubbing your back as you chewed each bite. Which of course only spurred you on to eat more, wanting more of his soft smiles and gentle touch.

You could only eat so much, though, before you collapsed back against the couch cushions, rubbing at your tummy and delighting in the little kicks that your hands were met with.

They were happy too.

The ceremony had been small, no more than 30 people that the three of you had trusted to share this experience with. Your own family had declined to attend, which had stung at first, before you realized that you had a new family, one that would support you unconditionally.

And that was all that you needed, all that your babies needed.

After an hour or so, Emerie decided that it was time to open presents- likely sensing the inevitable lag in your energy that would happen sooner or later.

Presents were piled around the couch you and your spouses were sat on, far too many in your opinion. But truly? You were touched that people wanted to spoil your babies so thoroughly, when they hadn't even arrived yet.

The combined wedding reception and baby shower went by quickly at first, but your energy began to lag after the second hour, your head resting against Feyre's shoulder between presents. After a while you stopped opening them, preferring to react sleepily while your partners tore apart wrapping paper and peeked into bags.

So many baby clothes, all of the outfits coming in three matching sets and each one getting you closer and closer to tears as you thought about your babies snuggled up in cute onesies, or in the little fox outfits that Lucien and Elain had gifted you.

You gained a small second wind after the cake was cut, strawberry with a lemon filling a pretty strawberry icing, your favorite since you had grown pregnant.

Feyre and Rhys had both offered you the first bite, which had made you laugh, both of them waving forks in front of your face to try and sway you to choose theirs. Instead, you directed Rhys's fork to Feyre, and Feyre's to Rhys, only taking a bite from each of them after they'd had their own.

Soon enough, though, you were out of energy again, dozing off against Rhys's shoulder while Feyre went to the restroom. He had you sit up for a moment which had made you grumble, before pulling you back against him after draping his suit jacket over your arms and back.

"Thank you, husband," you murmured against him.

"You're welcome, sweet wife," he cooed, placing a gentle kiss to the crown of your head.

The clicking of heels just barely alerted you to Feyre's presence before she spoke. "Awe, is she all tuckered out?"

Rhys chuckled quietly. "I think so, darling. Should we get her home?"

You mumbled against his chest.

"What was that?"

You sighed but moved your face away from him a bit. "We haven't danced yet," you whined.

"Oh, love, I don't know if-"

"Madja said I could dance to one song, maybe two if I rest for a bit between them. Please?" You begged, using your best puppy dog eyes on the two of them.

Feyre sighed, but you knew she was going to give in. "Alright, since Madja said it was okay. But if you get tired you need to tell us, yeah?"

You nodded. "Of course, my pretty wifey," you said, and shrugged off Rhys's jacket. Feyre's blush was delightful, and you let her and Rhys help you stand, immediately clinging to her once you were. "I really just want to sway with you..."

"We can sway," Feyre said, wrapping her arms around you.

"Can I join or are we doing separate dances?" Rhys asked cheekily from behind you, already winding his arms around both of you, sandwiching you between them.

Just how you loved to be.

"Dances together, of course," you insisted, squeezing one of his hands. "Everything together, I think." You rested your head on Feyre's shoulder, smiling when you heard the sound of their lips meeting.

This was right where you needed to be, for the rest of time.

🤍🩵🤍💜🤍

The party had wound down early, with you falling asleep on Feyre's shoulder while she and Rhys talked to their close friends, their conversations garnering the occasional sleepy giggle from you when you managed to pay attention long enough.

Mostly, it was Cassian and Mor teasing Rhys about having two wives that were far prettier than he would ever be, and Rhys adamantly agreeing with it, to which Cassian and Mor would reiterate how he is not the prettiest person in his relationship. They were obviously trying to rile him up, but it seemed Rhys's overwhelming love for how you and Feyre look overrode any need of his to proclaim himself the most gorgeous person in the room.

It was only once you had drooled the tiniest bit on Feyre's shoulder that your husband and wife declared the festivities over, at least for the three of you. Rhys had scooped you into his arms once more, this time carrying you to the town car waiting to take the three of you home.

You dozed between the two of them on the way home, feeling safe and content. The drive was short, no more than ten minutes, but by the time you arrived, you were more than ready to stay in the car and sleep there until the morning.

Thankfully for you, Rhys pulled you gently into his arms and carried you all the way up to the penthouse, Feyre opening and closing the doors. You blinked yourself awake when you felt your dress being unzipped and tugged from your body, watching Feyre put it on a hanger and store it in the closet before Rhys helped her remove her own dress.

You sighed dreamily at the sight of her, clad in white lace lingerie like the perfect, pretty present that she was.

"Like what you see, darling?" She asked teasingly as she undressed Rhys slowly, grinning when she saw your eyes catch on his muscled torso.

"Mmhm," you hummed. "Come over here and I'll show you just ho-" the rest of your sentence was cut off by a wide yawn, drawing a chuckle from Rhys.

"I think you can wait to show her until tomorrow, little love," Rhys said, crossing the room once he was down to his boxers.

Also purple, like his tie.

"But I want to-"

"I would much rather help you take a bath, darling," Feyre said softly, already taking both of your hands in hers to help you up. "We can celebrate tomorrow, when we're all feeling refreshed and at the cabin. Doesn't that sound nice?"

You pouted at her for a half a second before giving in- after all, a bath did sound heavenly right now...

"Okay, as long as both of you take one with me."

"We wouldn't dream of doing it any other way, love," Rhys murmured in your ear, picking you up a moment later. "Now let's get us all warm and clean and cozy."

🤍🩵🤍💜🤍

You woke tangled in the blankets the next morning, somehow having stolen nearly the entirety of it from your wife and husband, leaving them curled up close to you, half covered.

Not a bad view, you thought to yourself, drinking in the way the sunlight hit their skin, the curves of their bodies.

But still, the thought that had woken you needed to be tended to.

Though getting out of bed without waking either Rhys or Feyre... Would be tricky, seeing as you were nestled between them, their arms looped over you.

You started with Rhys first, he was always a bit of a heavier sleeper than Feyre. His arm was carefully placed over his side, though it immediately started creeping forward in its search for warmth.

The moment you moved Feyre's arm though, her eyes fluttered open, gorgeous blue meeting your own. The sleepy smile she gave you made you wish you had a camera in your hands, it was so soft and cute and sweet... Just like her.

You couldn't help it, you leaned forward to steal a sweet kiss from her, which she gladly gave, her arm tightening around your middle, pressing your bump to her tummy.

"Why are you up so early, love?" She whispered. "Did you need the bathroom?"

Well... "Yes, but I need to do something in the nursery too..."

Feyre's eyes narrowed briefly, likely having guessed what you wanted to do after relieving yourself.

"Okay, let's get you up, sweetheart," she whispered, getting out of bed herself before helping you swing your legs over the side, then pulling you to your feet. Her eyes lingered over your exposed bump and breasts, and you could sense that she was resisting pinching you somewhere.

Once you had used the bathroom, Feyre helped you get dressed in a comfortable lilac wrap dress and your purple bunny slippers before getting dressed herself. She slipped on a pair of light blue jean shorts with a forest green tshirt, looking even lovelier than ever.

Of course, that's what you thought every time you saw her, but it was still true.

"Let's get you to the nursery, love," Feyre said softly, letting one of your arms wrap around her while she did the same, helping support you as you walked the short distance to the nursery, only a door down from the master bedroom.

Inside of the pastel pink nursery, three cribs had already been set up, little mobiles dangling over them. There were already three pastel dressers that had been half filled with tiny baby clothes, carefully arranged by you into age groups, and three matching changing tables lined up against one wall, already stocked with all you would need to change the babies.

There was also a large couch against the back wall, a nursing chair positioned next to it in the corner. Both were heavenly to sit in, and remembering how long it had taken you to pick them out made you smile. Feyre and Rhys had been insistent on you getting only the most comfortable furniture for you, as you would be the one using them the most while breastfeeding.

In the middle of the room, covering most of the area rug with little animals on it, were the gifts from yesterday. None of them had been put away- good, you thought. You would only have arranged them all over again by yourself, needing them to be organized just how you liked.

Nesting, as it turned out, was very much you being overly needy about how things looked in the bedroom and nursery, but especially the nursery.

"I'll go make us some tea and be back in a few moments, alright love?" Feyre asked, waving a hand in front of your face when you didn't respond, only stared at the large pile. "Sit down, Y/N, I'll be back in a minute to help you sort it all out, don't worry."

She left the room, and you could hear how quickly she moved down the hallway. Maybe she was anxious about leaving you alone...

You sighed and sat down on the floor on your knees, not sure how better to position yourself. Picking through the pile, you started to sort the clothes out into their different age ranges, starting from newborn and going up to two years.

It was only five minutes later when Feyre returned, a tray with a pot of tea and three cups resting on it in her hands. "What are you doing on the floor?"

You blinked at her for a moment. "Uh... Sitting?"

"I can see that, silly, I meant for you to sit on the couch!" Feyre tsked, setting down the tray and holding her hands out for you to take. "Come on, little love, it's not good for you to be sitting like that."

You sighed and scrunched your face, but took Feyre's hands and let her help you onto the couch.

"Don't worry, I'll help you sort everything out exactly how you want. Now... How were you organizing this?" Feyre asked, kneeling in front of the pile.

"Well..."

It was maybe an hour later when you and Feyre had finished sorting all of the clothing that Rhys burst through the nursery door, a panicked look on his face.

"Are you okay? Are the babies okay?" He asked frantically, already by your side, assessing you with his hands and eyes.

You slapped his hands away gently when he tried to take your pulse, giggling at his antics. "I am just fine, darling. Are you okay?"

Rhys let out a breath of relief. "Of course, I was just worried when I woke up and both of you were gone..."

Feyre laughed and wrapped her arms around Rhys's shoulders. "You're such a mother hen, Rhysie. We just wanted you to sleep in a little bit, and Y/N wanted to organize all the new baby clothes we were given yesterday," she explained, rolling her eyes over his shoulder at you.

"I'm no mother hen, if anyone is a mother hen, then it's you, my dear Feyre."

"Oh, that's bull and you know it Rhys. You barely let Y/N take a step these days!"

It was Rhys's turn to roll his eyes. "Like you wouldn't also be carrying her everywhere if you could?" Feyre was silent, looking away with a smile growing on her face. "That's what I thought, darling. Now, if all the clothes are sorted, I thought we could get on the road soon," Rhys suggested, smiling when he saw your eyes light up.

"Yes, let's hit the road!" You exclaimed, and started to push yourself off the couch. Rhys and Feyre chuckled at your enthusiasm and helped you up, the three of you heading into the bedroom together.

"I think we have everything packed already, besides the blankets and pillows," Rhys said as he pulled the four duffel bags he had packed two days ago onto the bed, three stuffed full of the clothing you would be needing for the next five days, the other stuffed with toiletries, your vitamins, books, and a couple of canvases for Feyre. She would also be bringing her travel easel, packed tightly with the brushes and paints she would need to paint you in the water, as she had declared she would be doing.

And, of course, the go bag. Stuffed full of anything you would need should you go into labor, it was a must to take with you. It had the first onesies you wanted the babies to wear, lilac with a customized saying on it: 'Mommy's and Daddy's and Mommy's girl'.

You had cried when you opened them, a surprise from Feyre and Rhys two months ago.

Also inside was a Polaroid camera, a digital camera, a film camera - you wanted everything documented, and you wanted it done right... though, not the birth... That could stay off film for good.

"Is there anything else you can think of?" Feyre asked you, her pretty eyes distracting you from the question.

"Uhm... No?" You answered, your mind not coming up with anything.

"Then I do believe that we are ready to go!" Feyre said cheerily, guiding you to sit down on the bed so that she could change your shoes.

"I'll take the bags down, do not let her leave the apartment until I come back up," Rhys demanded, fixing you with a stern eye. You blushed but nodded, not wanting a repeat of your fainting spell three weeks ago.

Less than ten minutes later you were bundled into the car, your favorite pillow clutched in your lap, along with Feyre's hands. She played with your fingers the whole car ride, even when she was kissing you.

Which was nearly the entire time, both of you deciding that you didn't really need air anyways to live, you'd much rather breathe each other in.

You could hear Rhys's longing, quiet groans whenever he glanced at the two of you in the rear view mirror, and whenever you looked at him he had a slight flush to his face and neck, which only made both of you more enthusiastic.

"Oh mother, you two will be the death of me," Rhys grumbled, and you saw his right hand lower to his lap and heard the rustle of fabric.

"Hey, hands on the wheel, Rhysie," you said between kisses, tilting your neck to give Feyre access.

"Easier said than done..." He sighed, but moved his hand back to the steering wheel.

"You'll get your turn once we arrive, don't you worry husband," Feyre said against your skin, sending a shudder through you.

By the time you arrived you were a needy wreck, putty in Feyre's capable hands where they had slid below your dress, playing with your breasts.

"Alright, girls, my turn," Rhys growled as he pulled you from the car, entering the cottage once Feyre had unlocked the door and making a beeline for the bedroom. He set you down carefully, so gently that it brought tears to your eyes. "None of that sweet love, unless it's from too much pleasure," Rhys said quietly against the skin of your neck, just below your ear.

Feyre dipped onto the bed a moment later, her hand sneakily undoing the tie of your dress, which fell open easily, baring you to both of them.

"Too much pleasure? I think she can handle it," Feyre purred, her hand already snaking down your tummy and to your cunt, chuckling lowly when she felt the wetness that she'd created. "Don't you, sweet girl?"

You nodded your agreement, mouth falling slightly open when she dipped a finger inside of you.

Oh yes. You could handle this.

🤍🩵🤍💜🤍

An hour of their hands exploring every inch of you and another hour peacefully dozing in their embrace later, and Rhys was disentangling himself from the pile of limbs the three of you had made.

"Where are you going?" Feyre asked sleepily from your left, her breath warm against your chest.

"I'm going to go get food for our time here," Rhys replied, and you hear the shuffle of fabrics and jingle of his belt.

"I wanna go," you yawned, stretching your legs out and sighing at how lovely it felt.

Rhys kneeled on the mattress and over you, a thumb stroking over your cheek prompting your eyes to open. "If you go to the store, you know you have to be in a wheelchair the whole time, right darling?"

You scrunched your face up for a second. You hated using the wheelchair. But...

"I want to pick out snacks and drinks," you insisted, raising your own hand to cup his face. "You're so preeetty."

Rhys smiled, a toothy, adorable thing. "Okay, okay, so long as you stay in the wheelchair you can come shopping. I take it you'll want to come as well, Fey?"

"Of course, I'm not going to be left alone here while my wife and husband go shopping," Feyre said cheerily, already pulling herself into a sitting position. Rhys helped you do the same, and then to stand.

You all finished getting redressed before Rhys scooped you into his arms again and depositing you gently into the backseat, even buckling you up and pressing a kiss to your forehead.

The trip into the lakeside town was short, no more than ten minutes, and you were relieved to see it had a small hospital, just as Rhys and Feyre had reassured you.

The local grocery store was cute and fairly large, and hopefully housing all of the items that you were hoping to get. You were wheeled inside, your cheeks flaming red as you saw people stare at your large baby bump and the two gorgeous people with you.

You never had liked being stared at... Unless it was Feyre and Rhys doing the staring.

Feyre pushed a cart while Rhys pushed you along, all of you picking out ingredients for dinner, breakfast, and the occasional snack, that was until you reached the candy aisle.

Recently you'd been craving chocolate- chocolate bars, chocolate cookies, chocolate covered fruit, chocolate anything.

And today was no different.

"Okay, Y/N, you can pick out five different candies if you'd like, and we'll all share them," Feyre said, obviously having noticed how your eyes were flitting over the choices.

"Five? Really?" You asked, surprised. One item a day, even if you were sharing, seemed like a lot.

"Yes, five," Feyre chuckled. "You don't have to pick out that many if you don't want to, but I thought since it's our honeymoon and all, that you could have some extra sweetness to go with you... extra sweetness," she said, wiggling her eyebrows at the last two words.

You only flushed further, though this time was from anticipation. Still, you made yourself take your time to pick out your items, not wanting to regret not choosing something later when the cravings struck.

With everything picked out, Feyre went to the cash register while Rhys took you back to the car, gently lifting you inside and buckling you in once more, this time with a heated kiss press to your lips.

You were breathless when he pulled away, your heart fluttering. "I love you," you whispered against his lips, smiling widely when he said the words back to you.

Feyre returned a moment later with the groceries, and once everything was unloaded and they were both buckled in, you were headed back to the cottage.

Rhys carried you inside once again, this time sitting you on the couch that faced a window, overlooking the lake that was right there.

"Can we go swimming soon?" You asked once both of them were seated beside you, groceries put away.

"Of course, love," Feyre said as she nuzzled into your shoulder.

"After you've eaten something, and rested for a bit," Rhys added, already up from the couch in search of something for you to have for lunch.

"Mother hen," you muttered, drawing a laugh from Feyre.

"I told him so," she giggled into your shoulder.

🤍🩵🤍💜🤍

Swimming had been lovely, the three of you floating in the shallow end- or rather, you floating in the shallow end as Rhys and Feyre fought with tiny squirt guns while keeping a close eye on you.

After a bit they had called on you to play referee, but you kept forgetting how many points they had and eventually called it a tie, with the winners both receiving big smooches from you.

Rhys had insisted upon carrying you out of the water and back into the cottage without even drying off, leaving a trail of water behind you as he carried you to the bedroom and into the massive bathroom, taken up by a bathing pool that could easily fit five people.

He stripped both of you out of your bathing suits and lowered you into the water, grinning when you let out a pleased sigh at the warmth. He shifted so he was behind you, your back resting against his chest and sat between his legs, his hands stroking over your belly as the babies kicked softly.

Feyre came in a moment later, clad in only a towel, though not for long. She joined you in the tub, settling in to the right of you after pressing a soft kiss to your lips.

The water was warm, but not so warm that you couldn't soak with them for a while. You were already drifting off in Rhys's embrace, the warmth of the water and excitement from the day tugging you into the place between sleep and awareness, drifting through it as you felt Feyre and Rhys's soft hands, heard them kissing above you.

🤍🩵🤍💜🤍

The next morning you had demanded to go swimming after breakfast, not caring that the water was still somewhat cool in the morning sun.

Feyre had decided that she very much cared, choosing to stay on the patio and paint you swimming.

Rhys was happy to swim, and even happier to have you float in his arms as he slowly tugged you through the water, completely relaxed in his hold.

Eventually, though, your skin was pruned and your stomach grumbling for a snack, and Rhys had to drag you out of the water, a pout on your face while he carried you to the patio.

"You can go back in after you've let your stomach rest a bit, love," Feyre reassured you as she patted you dry with a towel, then tied your swim dress around you.

"I know..." You pouted. "Will you join us next time?"

Feyre glanced over at her easel, a half finished painting still on it. "I suppose the rest of the painting can wait until tomorrow, if you'll be swimming then too?"

You nodded vigorously. "Oh, I plan to swim as much as I can while we're here. Once the babies come, it'll be even harder to find the time, and I think they really like it when I'm swimming," you smiled, rubbing a hand over your tummy, a small kick being enough to convince you that you were right.

Feyre placed her hand over yours, smiling when she also felt a kick, this one stronger, like she was showing off for her second mom.

"Well, let's go get you lunch then, so we can get you back in the water," Feyre said, leading you back into the cottage and to the dining table.

🤍🩵🤍💜🤍

When you had finished swimming that evening, Rhys and Feyre both helped you bathe again- which really meant that they washed you twice, both of them running their hands over every inch of skin, with Feyre's fingers dipping between your thighs, Rhys's mouth swallowing your cries when you came under her touch.

You watched them bathe each other, which was somehow more erotic than doing it yourself, your own hands reaching up to cup your breasts while you stared at them hungrily.

You were fixed with identical feline smirks after you let a gasp slip loose, the look in their eyes promising you nothing but trouble.

"Does our sweet girl like watching us?" Feyre crooned as she kneeled over you, your gaze locked on hers.

"Mhmm..." You nodded, biting your lip, a question on the tip of your tongue. "Would.. Rhys?"

"Yes, darling?" Rhys asked lowly from behind Feyre.

"Would you..." You blushed heavily even at the thought. "Would you fuck Feyre? Hard," you said. "I... I want to watch you fuck her until she screams," you whispered, your blush intensifying under their gazes.

"Are you asking me to fuck my pretty wife while my other pretty wife watches?" Rhys asked teasingly, and you nodded. "What do you say, Feyre?" He asked her, pulling her hair aside and kissing along the expanse of her neck.

"Mm, I say yes- as long as I get to eat Y/N's sweet cunt while you do," Feyre said, a wicked glint in her eyes as she looked you over.

"I'm sure that can be arranged," Rhys said lowly. "I do think it requires a change of scenery, though."

A moment later Rhys had hoisted a squealing Feyre over his shoulder, and you heard the bounce of a mattress as he deposited her on it, only moments later returning for you, a hungry look in his eyes.

"Once Feyre is done eating you, it'll be my turn, little love," he whispered in your ear as he brought you into the bedroom. Your eyes caught on Feyre, already on her knees and forearms on the bed.

You giggled with anticipation, more than ready for whatever the night would bring the three of you.

🤍🩵🤍💜🤍

The next morning, you were awoken by a dull ache in your abdomen. You tried to disentangle yourself from Rhys and Feyre's arms, but they both stirred awake before you made much progress.

"Bathroom?" Rhys asked sleepily in your ear, his hand rubbing over your stomach in a soothing pattern.

"Mm... I think so," you whispered, wiggling your hips against him, delighting in the soft moan he let out.

"Wicked girl... Come on, let's get you up."

You relieved yourself quickly and exited the bathroom, finding Rhys and Feyre sitting in bed together, both yawning.

"I'm sorry I woke you up..." you said quietly, padding back to the bed and plopping yourself back down between them.

"Oh, nonsense Y/N," Feyre said softly, carding her fingers through your hair. "Don't ever feel bad about waking us up. Especially when you come back to bed for snuggles."

You hummed in agreement, but winced when another pain went through you.

"Are you okay, love?" Rhys asked, pressing a hand to your forehead.

"Mhm, just... a little pain happening."

Feyre frowned above you. "Pain? Where?"

Your expression matched her own as you placed your hand over your lower abdomen, at the bottom of your baby bump. "And a little in my back, too," you said, just before you realized.

Oh shit.

"I'm going into labor," you said, fear creeping over you.

"You're going into labor!" Both Rhys and Feyre exclaimed at the same time you spoke, all three of you exchanging looks before you all laughed for a moment, until it sunk in.

"Oh fuck, you're going into labor!" Rhys yelled, jumping up from the bed. "Quick, we need to get dressed and get the go bag and get in the car!"

You and Feyre shared a look, both of you still on the bed.

"Uhm... Rhys?" You asked, watching as he flew around the room, picking out a dress for you and Feyre and grabbing his own clothes, throwing them on quickly.

He paused for a moment, looking over to see the two of you, still relatively calm. "What? Why aren't you moving? Get up, get up!"

Feyre laughed from beside you. "Rhysie, she's not having contractions very close together, and her water hasn't broken yet. We don't have to rush quite so much."

He blinked at her for a moment, considering her words. "Nope, nope, get dressed. I'll make us some breakfast and pack everything up, but after that, it's the hospital for all of us!" Rhys exclaimed, breezing out of the room with his shirt unbuttoned and belt unbuckled.

You and Feyre shared a laugh together, muttering about him being a mother hen to each other, but you could tell that Feyre was nervous. Not that you weren't.

After all... You could very well be pushing three little humans out of you today, and if not today, then tomorrow.

Talk about scary...

Feyre helped dress you, the soft pink wrap dress that Rhys picked out comfortable and loose against your skin, soft slippers secured on your feet.

When you entered the main room, Rhys was already in a flurry of activity, switching between stirring the oatmeal he was cooking on the stove and packing up whatever he could get his hands on.

Feyre made sure you were sat at the table before disappearing into the bedroom, likely packing up all of your clothing and possessions to keep Rhys from having a heart attack at how much there was to do, and how little time he thought he had.

"I've already called Madja, she's going to meet us at the hospital in town in no more than two hours," Rhys informed you as he set a bowl of oatmeal in front of you. "How are you feeling? Any more contractions?" He asked with a gentle hand on your cheek.

"I'm doing fine so far, Rhysie. No more contractions yet."

"Good. Good," Rhys said, placing a kiss to the crown of your head. "Eat up, little love." He started to leave the table, but you caught your hand around his wrist.

"Wait," you pleaded. "Eat with me? Please?"

Rhys's expression softened at your tone, some of his panic ebbing away. "Of course, Y/N. I'll go get Feyre, and we can all eat together."

You smiled brightly at him, pleased that you would have one last meal as a family of three, rather than a family of six.

It was peaceful, once you had gotten both Rhys and Feyre to sit down and eat, both of them keeping a soothing hand on some part of you at all times.

The babies were kicking like crazy, obviously sensing that their time inside you was coming to an end, and seeming very excited to meet the world.

The calm ended once your face pinched with another contraction, though, Rhys immediately springing up to get the dishes washed and finish packing the rest of your things and lugging them out to the car.

Feyre sat with you while he bustled about, her hand resting over yours on your stomach while she talked about everything and nothing to distract you.

But soon Rhys had hoisted you into his arms once again and strapped you into the backseat, a sweet kiss pressed to your temple before he shut the door.

Feyre buckled in beside you, and you rested your head on her shoulder during the drive, soaking in the love she was giving you as she held you and stroked your hair.

By the time you reached the hospital, the contractions were coming closer together and lasting longer, a sure sign that you were nearing full-on labor.

Rhys settled you into a wheelchair before quickly leaving to park the car, promising that he would bring the go bag and for you and Feyre to head inside.

You and Feyre did just that, Feyre pushing you in to the front desk.

"Hello, what can I help you with?" The nurse asked, her eyes glued to the paperwork on her desk.

"Hi, uh, my wife is going into labor," Feyre replied, a hand running through your hair.

"Your wi-" The woman began to ask before she looked at the two of you, eyes sticking on the large bump of your belly. "Oh. I'll page OB right away, here's some paperwork for you to fill out."

"Thank you," Feyre said, grabbing the clipboard and pen from her and settling it in your lap before wheeling you over to the waiting area.

You had nearly finished filling out the paperwork together when Rhys flew through the doors, looking around frantically before his eyes landed on the two of you, immediately crossing the room to sit by you.

"Oh, good, you didn't get taken up yet. Well... Not good, but you know what I mean," Rhys rambled.

...

"This is the first time I've seen you nervous," you remarked, smiling when he looked offended.

"I am not nervous, I am appropriately aware of everything that is happening."

"Nervous," Feyre said, earning a light swat on the thigh from Rhys. "It's okay, Rhysie, I'm nervous too."

"Me too," you admitted, rubbing your belly absently.

"Well... Good, we're all nervous, we can all be nervous together," Rhys said, bobbing his head up and down.

You giggled at him, but was cut off by another contraction taking you off guard.

"Man... These things are annoying..."

"Y/N Night?" A nurse called from across the room, her eyes already locked on the three of you. Or, more specifically, the bump you possessed.

You were taken up to the second floor and given a nice room with a good view out the window, not that you could see it with all the doctors in the room.

As you were being transferred from a wheelchair to your bed, your water had broken, spilling down your legs and onto your feet.

The sensation had brought tears to your eyes, and your loving partners had so kindly cleaned you up without even a word of complaint, instead choosing to press loving kisses to your forehead and cheeks and hands as often as they could.

Madja had arrived only a half an hour after the three of you had, entering the room and parting the sea of doctors with her presence alone. Immediately she had given you steroids to help the babies' lungs develop as much as they could before you went into full labor, and had given you an epidural.

The feeling of your lower half being numb? Not your favorite. But you supposed it was better than feeling every contraction moving through you.

Rhys was pacing in the room, not able to stay still for a moment unless he was touching you in some way, but the fleet of doctors that had come to witness a birth of triplets had made that more and more difficult as the day wore on, to the point that you were beginning to feel a bit touch starved.

Feyre had stayed calmer, sitting in a chair that had a direct line of sight to you, but you saw her legs bouncing up and down, growing faster whenever a new doctor would touch and examine you.

After three hours of waiting to be left alone with your husband and wife, you were feeling fed up. Madja had just reentered the room after giving a short briefing to Rhys and Feyre, the two of them trailing behind her.

You made a pouty face, hoping that you looked as sad as you felt, not having enough access to your spouses.

Thankfully for you, Madja knew almost every one of you looks at this point, having seen you at least once a week for the past six months.

"Alright, that's enough exams for now, let's let the mother rest a bit," Madja commanded, the sea of white coats filtering out the door, taking their mumbled words with them.

You had a feeling that more than a few of them would have said choice words about the parenting situation of the babies.

But that didn't matter. Because when you looked at Feyre and Rhys, now by your sides, each holding one of your hands? You knew that you had everything you would ever need.

🤍🩵🤍💜🤍

Eight more hours later, and you were blessed with three beautiful, healthy baby girls. They were all small, yes, and were nearly swimming in their first onesies, but they were healthy.

They were healthy, and you had made it through labor safely, thanks to Madja's expertise.

And, of course, the parents of your children, who had stuck by you throughout the entire labor, offering their hands to squeeze and dabbing away your sweat and fanning you when you felt too hot.

They were perfect.

Your babies were perfect.

Life was perfect.

Little Astra, Aurora, and Ayla had already lit up your life with their presences, their tiny coos and cries music to your ears.

Rhys and Feyre had managed to squeeze themselves onto your hospital bed, each of you holding one of your precious little nuggets.

You had Ayla in your arms, the smallest of the triplets, but the loudest. Rhys had Astra, who had been born with a thick tuft of blue-black hair, her violet eyes wide as she surveyed the room. And Feyre was holding Aurora, the largest and most mobile of the three, her little hand already grasping at your fingers when you offered them to her.

You were exhausted, of course, but before you went to sleep for the first time as a mother, you wanted to snuggle and feed your babies, and spend some quiet time with your lovers.

"They're so..." You sighed, unable to even finish the thought.

"Perfect?" Rhys asked.

"Amazingly adorable?" Feyre suggested.

"Yes and yes. I just know... I know that they will own me forever," you said softly, taking in a deep huff of baby smell.

Fresh, sweet baby.

You could hardly believe that a one night stand, no matter how fantastic, had lead to this.

You had a family now, made up of two loving spouses and three perfect little babies.

And even if things got hard, which they surely would... You knew that everything would be alright.

Because the three of you? You can do this, together.

🤍🩵💖💜🤍

General Taglist: @daughterofthemoons-stuff @lilah-asteria @meritxellao @twismare

[zerocoded]

summary: you both share the past of being human experiments and when his nightmares start to become frequent again is the time you can comfort caleb the most.

authors note: guess who's back with another caleb work??? give me a man in a military uniform and i'll make it as my new personality for the next six months. so yeah, here is us comforting caleb then kissing him right after because he can't get enough of us hehe. CREDITS TO THE AMAZING ARTIST WHO MADE THIS DRAWING THAT I'M IN LOVE WITH (thank you who helped me find it!).

warnings: slightly suggestive • hurt/comfort • not much hurt actually • sfw content • ptsd symptoms

word count: 1.2k

the room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of the stars outside the ship's viewport. caleb sat on the edge of the narrow cot, his broad shoulders hunched, the pale light catching the contours of his bionic arm. his flesh hand, calloused and warm, trembled slightly as it rested on his knee. you sat beside him, the silence between you thick with unspoken words, heavy but not suffocating. it was the kind of silence that held space for both of you to breathe.

his breathing was uneven, shallow. he hadn’t spoken much since waking up in a cold sweat, jolted out of the nightmare that had gripped him. you knew better than to press him. instead, you let your presence speak for itself, your hand brushing lightly against his. a small gesture, but it was enough to draw his gaze to you.

“it was the lab again,” he murmured finally, his voice hoarse, as though the dream had clawed its way up his throat. he didn’t meet your eyes. instead, his gaze was fixed on the floor, on the faint scuff marks of boots against the metal. “the restraints, the lights…” his words trailed off, his jaw tightening.

“you don’t have to talk about it,” you said softly, though your heart ached to share the weight of his pain. “not if you’re not ready.”

he shook his head, his bionic fingers flexing involuntarily, the faint whirr of servos breaking the quiet. “it’s not… it’s not the memories. it’s what they make me feel. like i’m still there. like i’ll never really leave.” his voice broke on the last word, and he exhaled sharply, a frustrated sound, his flesh hand running through his sweat-dampened hair.

you shifted closer, the mattress dipping slightly under your combined weight. reaching out, you let your fingers graze the cool metal of his arm before moving to his human hand, your touch deliberate and steady. “you’re here now,” you said, your tone quiet but firm. “you’re here with me. that place doesn’t own you anymore.”

at times like these, you felt guilty for not having memories of the lab. your nightmares consisted of visions of people that suffered from guilt, not this. caleb suffered from nightmares almost every night, having to become dependent on drugs to keep his consciousness at bay at night.

he finally looked at you, his pale purple eyes glassy but searching, like he was looking for something to hold onto in the vast expanse of everything he’d been through. “i don’t deserve you,” he said after a moment, his voice barely audible. “not after… everything i’ve done. everything i—”

“stop,” you interrupted gently, your hand tightening around his. “we’ve both done things we’re not proud of. but that doesn’t change what’s here, now.” you raised your free hand to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing over the rough stubble along his jaw. “you don’t have to be perfect, caleb. you just have to let your mind rest for a bit.”

his eyes closed at your touch, his breath evening out, a small, shaky exhale escaping him as he leaned into your palm. “you’re too good at this,” he muttered, a faint, tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“someone has to be,” you replied softly, unable to resist a wry smile of your own. the thin blanket draped over your legs had slipped during the night, leaving your shoulders bare, your skin cool in the artificial air of the ship. your nightshirt—more for modesty than warmth—hung loosely on your frame, slipping off one shoulder, the hem barely grazing mid-thigh. the stark contrast between the unyielding metal floor and the intimacy of this moment made it feel all the more fragile, like a secret shared in the dark.

his gaze flickered downward as his smile faded into something more tender. his identification tag caught the dim light, the worn metal etched with his name and the faint outline of an apple painted in red. the words "when you come back" written in a hushed cursive. it dangled against his chest, just above where the soft fabric of his sleep shirt clung to his torso, slightly damp with sweat. the chain swayed faintly as he shifted, the sound faint but unmistakable in the quiet room.

“you’re freezing,” he murmured, his hand—flesh, warm, and calloused—skimming over your exposed shoulder. the touch was light at first, almost hesitant, before his fingers splayed, tracing a line down the curve of your arm. his bionic hand rested in his lap, motionless for now, but the faint hum of its servos was a constant reminder of his reality.

“i’m fine,” you assured him, though your body leaned instinctively into his touch. it wasn’t the cold that made you shiver, but the way his fingers lingered, reverent yet grounding, like he was memorizing the texture of your skin.

his thumb brushed the edge of your collarbone, following the faint rise and fall of your breaths. “you always say that,” he said, his voice low, a hint of vulnerability threading through it. “but what if you’re not?”

“then i have you,” you replied simply, your words so certain they made his chest tighten. his lips parted as if to respond, but whatever he was about to say dissolved in favor of something else entirely.

he leaned forward, his breath warm against your neck as his lips ghosted over your skin, pressing the softest of kisses there. it was tentative, almost unsure, as if testing the boundary between solace and something deeper. but when you didn’t pull away, when your hand moved to thread gently through his hair, his resolve seemed to shift.

the next kiss was firmer, placed just beneath your jawline, his lips brushing against the delicate pulse there. his hand had moved now, splayed across your back, pulling you closer. “you make every little mistake i made worth it,” he whispered against your skin, the words barely audible, as if saying them louder would shatter the moment.

your breath caught, your hand trailing down from his hair to rest against his chest, just above where the necklace rested. the cool metal was a stark contrast to the heat of his skin, the faint thrum of his heartbeat steady beneath your palm. “you are human, caleb,” you said softly, your voice laced with something between insistence and yearning. “we all make mistakes.”

he closed his eyes again, his forehead resting against yours now. his bionic arm moved, finally, the whirring sound almost imperceptible as the cool fingers brushed along the curve of your hip, grounding him further. the dichotomy of his touch—metal and flesh, strength and vulnerability—felt uniquely him.

as his lips found yours, the kiss was unhurried but no less consuming, a slow melding of need and comfort. it wasn’t about passion or urgency but connection, the quiet reminder that neither of you had to face the shadows alone. when he pulled back, his hand lingered on your waist, his thumb brushing idly against your skin as if afraid to let go.

“stay,” he murmured, though the word wasn’t a plea. it was a promise, one you’d already made and had no intention of breaking.

you pressed another kiss to his lips, softer this time, your fingers brushing the edge of his collarbone before settling over his heart. “always,” you whispered back, the word filling the small space between you, wrapping itself around the both of you like a second skin.

author's note: and the crowd went... silent? pls tell what you think about this post in your reblogs or comments, i love to read them all ♡ yes i have some more caleb content in my drafts and can't wait to post them. hope you enjoyed! xx. send me a request • my masterpost

[screamlet]

“I wish you would write a fic where…” Through whatever contrivance, Buck tries to woo Tommy back through trivia. Maybe he gets Tommy’s team in on it, or the emcee/host - but it’s all Tommy-themed questions because Buck is trying to prove he knows him. Does it work? Maybe it’s all surface level and it hurts Tommy as much as he appreciates it. Maybe he revealed more than he thought and Buck was listening, taking it all in. Maybe Tommy decided to participate against him and inadvertently reveals something or accidentally says he loves him or something. If you would like it, I humbly offer whatever you can do with this premise!

heeeeey it took one million years but here's something!!! i love shenanigans, i hope this lives up to them.

bucktommy fix-it, 2k

read on the ao3!

---

Tommy's not exactly kidnapped.

He's met in the parking lot at Harbor by Hen, Karen, and a couple of big smiles, and then shoved into the backseat of their car and driven off somewhere. 

"You know, it's been my experience that some people text when they want to hang out," Tommy says.

"So you did ignore my voicemails!" Karen yells. "I knew it."

"It's not personal!" Tommy says.

"I'm taking it very personal," Hen replies. "Like hell you're leaving the Christmas card list again." 

"I'll move."

"Not in this housing market."

Tommy groans because it's true. 

And see, that's a little crazy but a little fun, to know that they care enough to abduct him and take him out for the night. It's then not really surprising that Howie's waiting for them at the bar they used to frequent ages ago, when Tommy was still at the 118. 

"I got the cuffs," Howie announces, a pair of very-real looking handcuffs dangling from his fingers.

"Those better not be for me," Tommy says as Karen pulls him out of the car with shocking strength. 

"Don't worry, they're not LAPD property," Hen assures him. "They're Bobby's."

"Please stop making me learn things," Tommy says.

He's already handcuffed. Howie's living-with-a-toddler sleight-of-hand has gotten unreal. 

It's around this time that one shock wears off and another dawns: this is a scheme and Tommy is trapped.

"No no no no, whatever you're doing—"

"Chim, no!"

The bar's tables have been cleared from the center to make two long tables facing each other. Fine, cute, two teams, it's now clear to Tommy that he has to win Evan back or something with trivia. The difference, though, are the two chairs in the center, where Evan is already sitting (and handcuffed). He turns around, almost tipping the chair over except Eddie catches him. 

"Fine, whatever," Tommy says as he's sat in the chair next to Evan. To make things better/worse (because Evan's so fucking squirmy), their chairs are put back to back so they can be tied together, too. "Oh, we're going full Last Crusade, are we, Howie?" Tommy has to grunt because Athena ties a really, really good knot and again: he wishes he knew less. 

"If you had answered your phone," Bobby says coolly. "If you had bubbled less and texted more—"

Tommy whips his head around and smashes his skull right into Evan's. "Goddamn—you saw that? Why didn't you text, if you were just sitting there watching me type?"

Evan struggles against everything keeping them together, then finally says, "Because you left and you didn't want me! If you wanted me, you would have called! And now we're—" One more hard thrash that gets Tommy in the shoulder. "Kidnapped and this is your fault."

"It's my fault? You wanted me to give up—"

"No I didn't! I said something dumb and you walked out before—"

"No, no, no, we can talk later," Eddie says. "It's time for Buckley-Kinard Family Feud."

Tommy and Evan turn their heads at the same time. "The hell are you talking about?" Tommy asks. 

"It's time to draft your teams," Hen announces. "I'm hosting, so I'm removing myself from the pool."

"This isn't fair! It's Buck's family—"

"You didn't just call me that in front of everyone," Evan hisses. 

"It's Buck's family against me, I don't have anyone—"

"I'm drafting myself," Howie announces. "Buck, your turn."

"Fine, I pick Maddie," Evan replies.

"Don't sound too thrilled," she replies. 

"Your next pick?" Hen asks Tommy.

"I told you, I don't—"

Bobby comes over to his side.

"You're insane," Tommy says. 

"That's not fair!" Evan yells.

"I met him first, Buck," Bobby says placidly. 

"Yeah, but—ugh, fine, then I pick Athena." Evan turns his head and bumps into Tommy's again. "You better not pick Eddie."

"I'm picking Karen," Tommy says. "She's my friend who's a lesbian—"

He can feel Evan tense against his back, probably out of frustration and a deep, deep desire to slam his skull into Tommy's again. He doesn't know how Evan resists.

"I've been bisexual for like, nine months, could you cut me some slack?" Evan asks.

"You spent an entire afternoon reading me articles and watching videos about the three-body problem and you couldn't fucking bother—"

"Because then I'd know," Evan yells. "I'd know that you and me were too good to be true, and I'd know that it was just temporary, and I'd know that you can't live your whole life one way and suddenly a guy kisses you and everything, everything is different, and your life's completely changed! I'd find something that would tell me it can't happen, it's probably not real, and then I'd realize I was wasting your time because I can never really change. If I looked at us too hard, I'd know it was just—"

Tommy's so overwhelmed, his chest so tight, that all he can manage to say is: "Yeah, it's called biphobia, and if you had asked, I don't know, one of the three gay people in your life—"

"I didn't know what to ask, Tommy! Fuck!" Evan tries to struggle out of their bindings again, but then he stops. "Apologize to me for being such a dick about this." 

The room is tense and quiet, eerily quiet, until Tommy finally says, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, okay? You're right and I'll stop throwing that at you. It's really unfair. It's unfair of me and unfair of, I don't know, the whole world, that made you think this could never be for you."

"That you could be it for me," Evan corrects.

"Sure, whatever." Tommy's voice is nowhere near as light and bitchy as he meant that to sound. "So are we gonna play this game or what? Now that we've got some teams of dubious quality?"

Bobby takes a seat at what is now, apparently, the Team Tommy table. "I know you like fresh pasta because then you can have soft pasta and no one will call you a heretic for not liking it al dente." 

"That's psychotic," Tommy says. "And no one cooks it true al dente, it's always just barely cooked and I shouldn't have to chomp on pasta like a horse to enjoy it!"

Evan says, "And all of you said I was the weird one and he was the normal one."

"Literally no one said that, Buck," Eddie says. "You're both absurd, that's why you're perfect for each other."

"Well," Evan says, "I know you were thinking it."

"You were thinking it, and sometimes thoughts have to make it out of your mouth for people to hear them," Tommy snaps.

The entire room bursts into an uproar and Tommy tries to struggle out of his chair again. "Fine, fine, I'm a huge hypocrite, can I get a point for admitting it!" 

"Yes, just one," Hen says. "Alright, gather up, teams. Bobby and Maddie, you're up first."

"This is a nightmare, this is a nightmare," Tommy whispers to himself. "I crashed my helicopter and this is hell."

"Hey, Mr. Keeping Your Thoughts Inside, we can't hear the question," Howie says.

"You're on my team, you have to be nice to me!"

Howie dramatically pops his piece of gum and says nothing.

"This first question is in the category of fashion," Hen reads off her phone. The TV over the bar has turned on to show a Family Feud style board with four options and Tommy can't believe his vision of hell is this detailed. It's impressive. "Name one novelty apron belonging to either Buck or Tommy."

Bobby slams his hand on the buzzer that someone brought for the occasion. "Tommy has one that says Warning: Fowl Language and it has a rooster on it." Bobby points at Tommy and says, "Sal gave it to you for your fake birthday, which is June 13, but your real birthday is in November."

The room is quiet again.

"You had a fake birthday?" Evan asks.

Tommy looks up at the ceiling. This means that he and Evan's heads are touching and he can't help but lean into it a little. He doesn't go any further, though. "Did I mention I'm like… that there's a lot of things wrong with me?"

"Yeah, these are really struggling to stay in the quirks category," Karen says. "But hell yes, one point! Let's go, Bobby!"

Bobby rejoins the team and Hen strolls down to their side of the room. "Now, Karen: can you name another apron that Tommy owns?"

Karen winces. "Okay, this can be any apron?"

"Any apron," Hen agrees.

"Alright, then I'm gonna say… a plain, utilitarian grey apron that he wears because he doesn't want to use the nice ones." 

Hen says, "Show me boring!"

The word charcoal appears on the board with a (2) next to it.

"Two charcoal ones?" Maddie asks. "Tommy, love yourself."

"Yeah, I think that's the point here and I hate it," Tommy replies.

"Alright, Chim," Hen says. "Name another apron in Tommy's kitchen."

"I think we all saw Buck's lockscreen this summer," Howie says. "Tommy in a sleeveless shirt with a black apron that said Flippin' Awesome and had two spatulas crossed on the front."

"Show me spatulas!" Hen calls out. Another point. 

"Cheap shot," Tommy says. "Evan gave me that, of course you knew that."

"Hey, genius, how do you think people learn things about each other?" Howie asks. "Hen, take it away." 

"Alright, Team Buck," Hen says, wandering over to Maddie. "Name an apron you can find in Buck's kitchen." She turns her head and says, "And don't think we didn't notice he's Evan again."

Tommy turns his head away and whispers to Evan, "Can you make them stop? Please?"

"Sorry, do you think I wanted to be tied and handcuffed to you tonight?" A beat. "Okay, that's not—whatever, I'm suffering here, too."

"Are you?"

Evan huffs. "I'm tired of chasing after people who don't want me, and you don't want me." 

Tommy stays quiet as Team Buck racks up bonus points for Evan's punny apron collection. 

"I thought you'd call or text, or come over," Evan says, voice quieter. "You said, no matter how bad I want to be, so I thought… I don't know. I waited, Tommy. That didn't feel like the end. And you never answered my voicemails, so."

"I haven't checked my voicemail in five months," Tommy admits. "I saw you left a couple the week after and I just—I couldn't. I knew I'd—I'd press play and before you'd even said Hey I would be in my truck on my way to you."

"And would that have been so bad?"

Tommy drops his head down. "I wanted a clean break so we could both walk away." 

"Tommy," Evan whispers. "No matter how bad you want that to be true… it's not."

Tommy nods to himself. "I'm sorry."

"I should have come after you," Evan says. "I should have broken down your door or, I don't know, hung onto your helicopter like Captain America."

"Yeah, good luck," Tommy laughs. 

Between them, Evan's fingertips reach for Tommy's. They cling the best they can, and Tommy—he clings back. 

"Do you mean it or do you just want to get away from everyone?" Evan asks.

"Well, apparently I can't get away from them." Evan laughs dryly, so Tommy clutches his fingers again. "I mean it. Both of those things. If they take the cuffs off, I won't run. Will you?"

Evan laughs. "Only if you'll follow."

"Then we should make a break for it."

"You got it."

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read on the ao3!