#buckets aggression is showing

[dailykugisaki]

Day ninety-five | id in alt

Long time no Nanami💥

[irisintheafterglow]

touya todoroki completes community service hours at an aquarium.

your supervisors, understandably, were adamantly against having the convicted criminal anywhere near the facility, its staff, and its animals. however, after being reassured time and time again that he wouldn't be working in public areas, you were assigned to be his unofficial parole officer (or off-fish-er you called it) because of your hydrokinetic quirk. not only were you responsible for watching a criminal, you were also the first line of defense in case he decided to make the facility into a seafood boil.

you'd better be getting a stellar letter of recommendation after all this.

as luck would have it, word spread quickly among aquarium staff about the new volunteer and his...messy...history. you received many texts wishing you good luck and stating that you're in many people's prayers as if working with him would be a death sentence. but, to your surprise, your first day with touya is actually...not terrible.

"you're doing a nice job. you can cut them into larger chunks if you want," you recommend kindly as he slices pieces of shrimp and fish for the penguins and drops them into the gray bucket.

"don't want them to choke," he mumbles almost imperceptibly. from what you've heard about him, touya was physically incapable of shutting up and always had some snarky insult to mutter under his breath. the man you were working with, however, kept his thoughts to himself and only engaged you with curt acknowledgments of tasks. "these got bones in 'em still?"

"digestible ones, yeah," you confirm, a little confused about why he's so curious. he struck you as the type of guy to just work and finish his assignments with as little energy exertion as possible. but here he was, concerned for the animals' safety even when he hadn't even seen them yet. "we just need to cut them up because some of them try to swallow the big ones whole, and we don't need them blocking their throats."

"how many are there?"

"the penguins?" he hums in assent, never taking his eyes off the precise cuts on the food. "i think our colony is a few dozen, maybe twenty-two?"

"do they get along well?"

"some of them are a little feistier than others," you admit with a fond smile. "but the majority of them are really sweet. you'll see when you meet them."

"meet them?"

"you're not walking out with me, of course," you quickly correct. "my shift lead's gonna have my head on a stake if you so much as show a finger to the public." he nods, an odd sort of quiet falling between you two that was more awkward than the previous silence. if you knew any better, you would interpret his expression for disappointment. "there's one recovering from an illness backstage named peach. she gets fed on her own, but if there's some left over i can take you over there to feed her."

"it's fine. don't wanna bother your routine," he mutters with a shrug, but you catch the renewed glint in his eyes at the prospect of meeting one of the animals personally. after feeding the main colony and not-so-accidentally leaving a few treats at the bottom of the bucket, touya follows you through the back halls of the vet center to peach's holding area.

"be warned, she's one of the feisty ones," you caution him, carefully stepping into the plexiglass-enclosed space. he copies your motions exactly and you're surprised, again, from the great care he seems to take when interacting with the small penguin. "so, all you need to do is hand out the fish to her and let her take it in her beak."

"does she dislike new people?" he asks as peach aggressively inspects his shins, prodding them with her beak when touya tries to step away. "i don't think she likes me."

"it's the opposite, believe it or not; you're making her angry when you try to give her space like that," you reply with a stifled laugh.

"oh. i see." peach continues to slap touya with her fins and poke him until he gives her what she wants, a large chunk of fish straight from his hand. you kneel down next to him when he has a seat on the floor, his eyes curiously observing the spunky bird. "she always this sassy with you?"

"only when she gets jealous," you smile, running your hand over the top of her head. her eyes close in contentment before returning to touya's outstretched food offering. "what do you think?"

"about what?"

"do you think this arrangement is gonna be a nightmare for you?" he pauses and, for the millionth time that day, surprises you with how much thought he put into his actions.

"if everyone i meet is as easy as you and her," he says, gesturing to peach but speaking soft enough to make your cheeks heat, "i think i'll get by."

---

"peach duty today?"

"schedule got mixed around, so we'll be giving her dinner instead of lunch today," you reply and touya hums at your side, an answer that could be considered rude if you didn't already know he was a man of few words.

few words, that is, if he was speaking to anyone other than the animals. after a month of touya shadowing you, you could pick up on the little conversations he had with the different animals he took care of: asking the cownose rays to calm down during feeding time, warning the reef sharks that they might need braces if they keep losing so many teeth (he kept forgetting it was normal for them to lose that many teeth), quietly cheering on the day octopus as he breaks into a jar full of crabs.

"who've we got today?"

"took a hell of a lotta convincing, but my boss is letting you meet my best friend today," you inform him. touya walks in step beside you like he'd memorized the fishy-smelling back halls of the aquarium, barely sparing passing wary staff so much as a glance. you'd be intimidated, too, if he wasn't your partner; he was formidable in his favorite blue windbreaker with his hands stuffed casually in its pockets that subtly accented the lean muscle in his arms. not that you were paying much attention to his body, anyway.

"and who would that be?"

"her name is donna, but i call her mama donna." he follows you down a corridor he'd never taken before, toward the very back of the medical wing. "take that hall on the right and change into a wetsuit; i'll meet you back over here, okay?"

"why do i need to change?"

"well, because you're getting in the water with me."

shit.

it's the first time touya hesitates in a long time when you beckon him to join you in the shallow pool. you'd already summoned donna, who was much larger of an animal than he expected. you said she was an adult zebra shark, but all he could register is the tiny tank of brown sacks the size of his hand just outside the walls of the pool.

"i don't think it's the best--"

"get in the water, touya, or i'm gonna report you for insubordination," you interrupt, waist-deep in the water. you don't mean it, of course, but you did need a hand with donna if you were going to check on the status of her eggs.

"i shouldn't be in the water with her, 'specially if she's a mother."

"what, you got something against moms?" he flinches and you suddenly regret speaking so brashly, something about his reaction indicating that you'd hit a nerve. "sorry, that was insensitive--"

"i don't wanna hurt her if i..." his voice trails off and he looks down at his scarred hands, the tissue dark enough to almost match the color of his wetsuit. "it's better for everyone if i don't get close to her if she's vulnerable." you wait for him to look you dead in the eyes before answering.

"i wouldn't bring you to meet her if i didn't think you were ready, touya," you begin gently. "i don't think of you the same way as the rest of the staff because you've proven that you're different from the gossip."

"but what if i--"

"did you forget why i'm paired with you in the first place?" donna swims around you impatiently, nudging you with her nose while you continue to convince touya to get in the water. "i'm the only one on staff that can neutralize you, but i know i won't need to."

"how are you so sure?"

"because i hear you talk to them," you state simply, rubbing your hand on donna's nose as her tail splashes your upper body. "your little conversations tell me you care, even if i'm not allowed to be a part of them." you shoot him a wry smile and he finally scoffs, partly a chuckle and partly an exhale; he didn't realize he'd been holding his breath. "i'll drown you if you heat this water by even half a degree, so help me with donna and then we can go visit peach, yeah?"

---

you'd fallen into an unexpectedly fond partnership over the course of your six months of touya-duty. he was a pretty damn good listener, letting you boss him this way and that and only retaliating with a lighthearted eyeroll. on certain occasions, he would open up about his history, and you followed along intently. he insisted on doing the heavy lifting and opening every door for you, even if you weren't carrying anything. he remembered every animal by name and could tell apart the most similar looking creatures, pointing out their differences with an expression that screamed 'is it not obvious?' towards the end of his assignment, you both faced an unexpected surprise.

his family came to visit.

well, not all of his family, only the ones touya maintained somewhat of a relationship with. in the times he'd opened up, he briefly mentioned his now-graduated little brother, shoto, and the work he'd done to mend the tears between him, his mother, and his other siblings. you consider it a blessing that only his mother and siblings appear when you round the corner to the 'vip only' waiting area (from your talks, you'd also learned it'd be on sight if touya's retired father stepped on the property). he freezes when he sees his family as the guests who would be shadowing him, becoming uncharacteristically stiff as petrified wood.

"welcome, todoroki family. i'm so glad you could join us today," you greet with a polite smile. only when your hand gently settles on touya's shoulder, the reminder of your presence melting the chill in his veins, does the tension in his body dissipate. "touya? d'you wanna introduce me to your family?" he glances at you, your unwavering trust in him, and his eyes soften as he nods.

"yeah," he affirms quietly. "yeah, i can do that."

"doing great, partner," you whisper once you're acquainted with the family and on the move, heading toward the back halls of the tropical gallery. "i'll only talk if you need me to, today, because i want this to be about you and them."

"but you're not gonna leave me, right?"

"wouldn't dream of it," you reassure him, something in your heart stumbling when he gives you an easy smile. as the day goes on and touya guides his family through the back corridors of the facility, he's able to ramble about all the knowledge he'd acquired while working with you. at each exhibit, he points out every species with total accuracy and shares his favorite quirks about certain animals. you have a front-row seat for the way his eyes, usually so molten and intense, have a star-like quality to them when he talks about his new friends, the abalone and the otters and the sea bass. his family observes him in awe, and you catch his mother watching you watch him several times. touya ends the day by introducing peach, his self-proclaimed 'number one girl,' and helping his family with her nightly feeding. though all the todoroki siblings struck you as reserved when you first met them, their conversations were full of life as they walked ahead and you trailed behind with his mother.

"this suits him," rei states with a thoughtful smile.

"i'm biased, but i agree," you reply. she fixes you again with that curious stare, analyzing you. "do i have fish scales on my face?" she laughs and shakes her head.

"no, i'm just indebted to you for getting through to him." you blink, taken aback by her genuine response. "being with you makes him happy. i haven't seen him like this in a long while." she turns back to her children, walking in one raucous group and making plans to get dinner after his shift. "he doesn't talk with them like this often."

"i imagine it's all a mother would want after everything they've been through, if i may," you add and she hums in agreement.

"it is. it's also why, i hope you wouldn't mind," she trails off and her eyebrows pinch slightly, like she's thinking of something worrisome. "if he could stay here."

"of course. i've noticed that he has a knack for husbandry, so--"

"he wants to stay with you," she cuts in, her voice soft as powdered snow. "and i'd like him to stay with you, if it means we can see him more like--"

"this," you finish for her, gesturing to the pile of adult men wrestling each other just ahead, their sister shaking her head from afar. rei sighs, her smile turning sad.

"exactly." before you can give her your reply, touya has escaped his brothers and approached to steal you from his mother.

"if you take those double doors and turn left, you'll end up in the gift shop. wait there and we can get dinner once i'm off," he tells rei, taking her hand and squeezing it once. "i won't be long." she nods and joins her other children, leaving you alone with touya in front of the staff-only window of the sea lion pool. the fading afternoon light catches in the water's rippling and sends a soft beam of light across the cavern. the largest of the lions, boris, floats from below to observe you and touya standing in front of his tank.

"he moves like a slinky," touya states and you can't help but laugh.

"he does move like a slinky, you're right." you turn to him and find he's already looking back at you, not boris. "i loved meeting your family today," you offer in the silence that makes the heartbeat in your ears sound so much louder. "they're very sweet, especially your mother."

"what were you two talking about while we were away?"

"she wanted to show me baby photos," you tease and he gives his signature eyeroll. "but really," you inhale and steady yourself, "she was saying how much this suits you."

"i'd have to agree," he murmurs, his eyes glowing like dying embers. you're close enough to smell him, smoky and rich and only the slightest bit like fish. the proximity feels comforting, like home. "if...if you'd let me--"

"stay with me," you blurt. he blinks at you, the rosy color on the tips of his ears standing out against the bright white. "i-i want you to stay with me." you wait and the quiet stews, nothing moving except slinky-like boris in the water beside you. touya's reply is barely above a whisper.

"i want to stay with you." you release a shaky exhale and let your head fall forward against his chest, steadied by his arms securing themselves around your waist. your hands slide over his shoulders and rest at the nape of his neck, fiddling with the tuft of hair at its base. "please let me stay with you," he breathes in your ear. his arms flex as his grip tightens, like you'd turn to water if he held you too loosely. touya feels like his heart is rattling in his ribcage, bouncing around uncontrollably the longer he has you in his arms. he hasn't felt his chest ache like this before.

"yes, i want you to stay with me," you confirm and he melts into you, breathing you in like fresh oxygen.

"for how long?"

"as long as you'd let me," you answer honestly. the corner of his mouth turns upward in a teasing smirk.

"and if i said forever?"

"then i guess i'd have to oblige," you beam. your hands cup his face, tracing the seam of his scars, and your eyes flutter shut as his lips meet yours. it's careful, the first time he kisses you, and he's terrified you'd slip from his fingers. but you don't disappear, so he lets himself lace your fingers with his and drag you out to the rest of his loved ones, hand-in-hand and finally feeling like he can do something good.

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[prettygirl-gabi]

Title: Mic’d Up Mayhem

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x !USC girlfriend Reader

Rating: General (Fluff, Light Angst, Competitive Banter)

Fandom: Women’s College Basketball (USC & UConn)

Summary: In a highly anticipated USC vs. UConn matchup, you and Juju are mic’d up alongside Paige and Jana. Only to be mic’d up for both games against each other.... and everyone is enjoying the show

“Alright, y’all,” Juju grinned, adjusting her mic pack as we stretched at midcourt. “Let’s give the people a show.”

“Oh, I plan to.” I smirked, shooting a look across the court where Paige was going through layup drills.

Paige caught my stare, smirking right back before launching a perfect three-pointer. She didn’t even watch it go in. Show-off.

“You always do when she’s around,” Juju teased under her breath.

I nudged her. “Shut up.”

Jana jogged by, adjusting her mic. “Y’all are disgusting already. Game hasn’t even started.”

“Jealous, El Alfy?” I teased.

Jana rolled her eyes. “Let’s see if you’re still talking when I send your shot into the stands.”

“Try it.”

Paige, apparently always listening even if mid conversation with Ice, called from across the court, “Babe, you’re not getting past Jana.”

I gasped. “You’re supposed to support me!”

“I do—just not when you’re lying to yourself, or going against me and fam.”

Juju cackled. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”

From the second the game started, Paige and I couldn’t shut up.

“Nice pass, baby,” Paige taunted after I barely got the ball past her defense.

I grinned, catching the ball again. “You want an assist? I can pass you my number.”

Paige snorted. “I have your number, loser. And you text me every five minutes.”

Juju cut in. “She’s not lying.”

I whipped my head around. “Girl, whose side are you on?”

“The side that wins,” Juju shot back, sinking a jumper, sending a wink at me as we moved back to being defense.

Jana jogged past, clapping. “But not for long.”

By halftime, it was a battle.

Paige hit a smooth pull-up jumper over me, then winked. “Too slow, babe.”

I exhaled sharply. “You want me to start playing for real, huh?”

Paige just grinned. “Try it.”

So, I did.

The next time Paige drove to the basket, I bodied her up. Legal contact—barely—but she stumbled.

“Damn,” Paige laughed, catching her balance. “Didn’t know my girl was this aggressive.”

Juju clapped beside me. “Oh, we love it.”

“Don’t hype her up,” Paige groaned.

Jana called, out just before trying to set up a screen for Paige. “She doesn’t need hype. She’s cooking us already, P.”

Paige raised a brow at me. “Oh, word ? Do less talking and more defense Jana.”

I winked. “Love you, baby”

She smirked. “Love you more, I guess.”

Juju fake gagged. “GOD, we get it. You’re in love.”

The game was tight—UConn and USC trading buckets down to the final minutes.

I had the ball at the top of the key, trying to shake Jana off me. She was locked in, waiting for me to drive.

I hesitated, then went for it—big mistake.

Jana timed it perfectly, swatting my shot into the stands. But my momentum was off, and as I landed, my foot twisted awkwardly.

Pain shot through my ankle. “Shit.”

Before I could even process it, Paige was there.

She dropped down beside me, pushing past the trainers. “Baby, you okay?”

I hissed, clutching my ankle. “I—I think so.”

Juju kneeled beside me, concern all over her face. “That looked rough, man.”

Jana hovered behind her, guilt flashing in her eyes. “I—I, you good.”

I shook my head quickly. “It was clean, Jana. Just bad luck.”

Paige, however, was not focused on the play. She was brushing sweaty strands of hair from my forehead, scanning my face like I’d just been shot.

“Babe, you’re scaring me,” I muttered, as she and Juju helped me stand.

Paige exhaled. “Sorry, sorry. Just—you good?”

I nodded. “I’ll live.”

And then, as I fix my semi untucked jersey, my mic pack fall out, the realization hit all of us.

Juju’s eyes widened. “Wait—”

Jana cursed. “Shit, we’re mic’d up.”

I froze.

Paige paled.

The entire arena had just heard us being disgustingly in love.

I covered my face. “Oh my God.”

I managed to play the final minute—adrenaline doing most of the work. With two seconds left, I sank a cold-blooded three, sealing USC’s 80-78 win.

The crowd exploded.

Paige was visibly annoyed, but she still smiled as I limped toward her in the handshake line.

“Good game,” I teased, taking her hand.

She smirked. “You owe me.”

I shrugged. “How about a kiss?”

Paige blinked. “Right here, ma ya sure?”

I grinned, tugging her forward. “Why not? Everybody already heard us acting like lovesick idiots.”

And with that, I kissed her.

It wasn’t long—just enough for the cameras to catch it, for the crowd to roar, for our teammates to lose their minds.

Paige pulled back, dazed. “You’re insane.”

“You love it.”

She chuckled. “Yeah… I do.”

Before I even got to the locker room good, my phone was blowing up.

Juju ran up beside me, showing me her screen. “Bro, look.”

Twitter (X, whatever) was exploding:

@NCAAWNation: Paige Bueckers & Y/N mic’d up while trash talking/flirting is everything I didn’t know I needed

@USChoops: NOT THEM FORGETTING THEY HAD MICS ON LMAO

@WNBAFuture: Juju’s reaction when she realized they were mic’d up is sending me

And then, TikTok.

Clips of our mic’d-up moments were everywhere. Paige saying love you more, me calling her a flirty menace, her full-on panic when I got hurt—TikTok was eating it up.

And, of course, the kiss.

Jana walked by, shaking her head. “Y’all are ridiculous.”

Paige just grinned, wrapping an arm around me. “Jealous, El Alfy?”

Jana groaned. “so glad she kicked your ass not gonna lie,”

Paige smirked down at me. “Eh. I got the real win right here, plus she kicked OUR ass by two points.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re so corny.”

She kissed my temple. “And..”

I barely had time to shower before Paige was waiting outside my locker room, arms crossed, smug as hell.

“You’re taking me to dinner,” she declared, leaning against the doorframe.

I scoffed, finishing the knot on my hoodie. “I’m taking you?”

She smirked. “You kissed me in front of an entire arena, babe. Least you can do is buy me a burger.”

Juju appeared at my side, throwing an arm over my shoulder. “I vote we all go. Y/N paying.”

I groaned. “Why am I paying?”

Jana, walking by, answered without stopping. “’Cause, it'll be pitty dinner to the looser, name Paige.”

Paige cackled. “ouch, but she’s got a point.”

So, somehow, I ended up at a late-night diner with Paige, Juju, and half of our teammates from both teams. The game had been electric, but the real fun? Watching Paige smugly take sips of her milkshake while everyone talked about the mic’d-up chaos.

“You really forgot?” Aubey grinned, nudging Paige.

Paige didn’t even blink. “I was focused on my girl.”

Juju fake gagged into her fries. “I want a refund on my ears.”

I rolled my eyes, flicking a fry at Paige. “You were focused on trash-talking me.”

“And look where it got me,” she smirked. “victory in trash talking milkshake.”

Jana cut in. “Barely. If Juju had missed that shot, it was OT.”

Juju lifted her fork like a mic. “I never miss.”

Paige side-eyed her. “I’ll remember that.”

She was already plotting her revenge for our next match up in two weeks.

The people wanted more, so here we were. UConn vs. USC, round two. Except this time, Paige was locked in. Less flirting. More trash talk.

“I hope you stretched, babe,” I teased, adjusting my mic pack.

Paige grinned. “I hope you practiced your jump shot.”

Juju and Jana exchanged looks. “Here we go again, just dont forget we're mic’d up y'all.”

Paige was relentless.

Every time I touched the ball, she was in my space. I barely got off a shot before she smacked it away.

“Not today, mamas,” she taunted, wagging a finger.

I groaned. “You’re so annoying.”

Juju, running past, laughed. “Says the one who spent the last game flirting.”

Paige just smirked. “I can do both.”

She proved it by stealing the ball from me, driving downcourt, and sinking a three.

I put my hands on my hips, before doing a quick check ball with Juju. “Show-off.”

Paige jogged backward, smirking. “I know.”

Once down the court and getting reader to take the shot for a 2, Paige blocked me again. I swear, she was on a mission.

“That’s three.” She held up fingers. “You good, babe?”

I groaned. “I will be when I get past you.”

“Manifesting, huh?”

Juju clapped beside me. “She needs something, cause gurl you could have made that way before her block.”

I deadpanned. “Y’all suck.”

Jana shouted from the paint, “You still haven’t scored on her, by the way.”

Paige grinned. “Thank you, Jana.”

I glared at them both, Juju snorted. “She’s salty.”

I managed to shake Paige on a screen and hit a floater over Jana.

Paige sighed dramatically. “Congrats, babe. You’re on the board.”

I flipped my hair. “You’re just mad I scored, and it wasn'tagainst you.”

Paige grinned. “Nah, I’ll just drop a three on you next possession.”

And she did.

The game was tight, but UConn pulled ahead. Paige hit back-to-back threes, then turned to me with the smuggest grin.

I rolled my eyes. “Alright, Steph Curry.”

Paige shrugged. “If the shoe fits.”

Desperate, I went for my own three. I followed my form, watched the ball arc—and bricked.

Paige cackled. “Babe.”

I groaned. “Don’t.”

She jogged past, patting my shoulder. “What did I tell you about following your shot?”

Juju, chimed in. “Hate to agree, but Bueckers is right, gotta stick the form and follow ya shot girly”

I roll my eyes , “Judea, who's side are you on bro.”

We fought hard as we could, but it's wasn’t enough. UConn won by six, 90-84 and I was annoyed. Paige, however, was thriving.

She found me in the handshake line, tilting her head. “Dinner’s on me, ma.”

I groaned, softly. “Yeah your turn to get me pitty dinner.”

She grinned. “Love you too, baby.”

I sighed. “You’re so obnoxious.”

Paige leaned in, voice low. “Yeah, but you keep coming back for more.”

She wasn’t wrong.

Another night, another viral moment. This time, Twitter was roasting me.

@NCAAWNation: Paige blocking Y/N three times in a row and then hitting a three on her is top-tier entertainment.

@USChoops: NOT Y/N BRICKING A THREE RIGHT AFTER PAIGE HIT ONE

@WNBAFuture: I need these two mic’d up forever.

@lil_paigey.p: hope no trouble in paradise for those two later...

And, of course, Paige had zero sympathy.

She FaceTimed me that night, grinning. “Had fun?”

I groaned. “I’m blocking your number.”

She smirked. “No, you’re not.”

And, of course, she was right. “But no, good game, P. You did an amazing job”

Looking in the camera with a soft smile, “You fought, hard baby and I'm proud of you for that.” she said as she propped her phone up as she entered the fortnite lobby, with Juju.

---

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-Thank You For Reading!🩵🩶

-prettygirl-gabi🎀✨️

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1972 Ford Gran Torino Sport

The 1972 Ford Gran Torino Sport stands out as one of the most iconic muscle cars of the early '70s. Its aggressive, long hood and fastback design gave it a distinctive and powerful presence. Powered by a range of engines, including the 302 V8 up to the 429 Cobra Jet, the Gran Torino Sport delivered serious performance for the era.

The interior featured sporty bucket seats and a console, enhancing its muscle car appeal. Its popularity surged even more after being immortalized in films and TV shows, making it a symbol of raw American power

[empresskylo]

➠𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈; 𝟏𝟖+ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓; 𝐄𝐗𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓

ZOMBIE!SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY X AFAB!READER

SUMMARY | Simon is dead. And you were forced to leave him behind as the rise of the dead took over. When you volunteer to sneak back into base to grab med supplies, you don't expect to run into Simon—alive, but certainly not himself...

WARNINGS | dead dove do not eat! this is literally smut about zombie!ghost... so... beware i suppose. gore. dub-con?? afab!reader. wc 3k

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇ lock me up! send me to jail!!! i can't believe I wrote this yes i can. This is how down bad i am for Ghost, I literally wrote smut about fucking him as a zombie... someone send the authorities, i need my internet taken away. (happy oct 1st btw)

𝐜𝐨𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ✩ 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

It had been less than two days since you lost Simon.

The image of him dying in the infirmary wing, bleeding out on the bed, was plastered behind your eyes. You saw it every waking moment and even dreamt of it during the night. You could still feel Soap’s hands squeezing your arms far too aggressively as he dragged you out of the infirmary while you cried out for Simon. You tried to claw your way to him but Soap was stronger than you by a long shot. “We have to get out of here!” he shouted at you over the cacophony of voices, people running around frantically. You let him drag you away to safety, your body limp in his hold, thinking of Simon’s dying breath.

The infirmary had promptly been boarded up, the doors all sealed tight. The breakout had begun a few weeks ago and it only just infiltrated the base. When Ghost had come back, bleeding out after a mission gone wrong, you furiously checked him for bite marks. The relief you felt when you didn’t find any was short-lived. Simon had lost a lot of blood. Too much blood. You could still see it covering your hands the days following like a wraith. You felt like his blood was still wedged under your fingernails even after scrubbing your hands violently in a bucket of water. 

With the infirmary infected and the outside world gone, you had little options but to hunker down in the barracks. There were small hunting groups that would leave base and dare to edge into the city, trying to help people, and gathering resources. Ghost had been in one of those first groups to leave the safe confines of base. You wished you had begged him to stay. Pleaded with him not to go. 

The lights above you flickered, the generator not the most reliable of equipment. You looked across the table to your teammates, trying to keep yourself pulled together. It was only at night that you let yourself feel the pain, crying yourself to sleep. 

“We’re never gonna survive here if we don’t get that medical supplies,” Soap explained. 

“It’s too dangerous, Soap. We have no idea how bad it got in there. We have no way of knowing if all the bodies left behind turned,” Price retorted, pulling off his beanie and running his hand through his hair in nerves. 

“So, what then? We’re gonna send more men off to die, tryin’ to get shit from the city?”

Price closed his eyes momentarily. The bags forming under them showed just how little sleep he was getting. “We can’t risk more men. We’d be sendin’ them to their death, Soap. We don’t have the ammo to spare.”

“We don’t know that. We’re still not even sure if it's a guarantee the dead will change, or if they have to be bit.”

“It’s too–”

You cut the men off. “I can go.” Both their heads snapped in your direction. “I’m just a technician. With everything gone to shit, I haven’t been as much help as you guys have been. I can’t fight. I can’t–”

“No. We’re not riskin’ you,” Soap said sternly. 

“Soap,” you breathed. “I’m the only one here that isn’t crucial to the team. And don’t argue with me. It’s just a fact. Let me go. I can sneak in and grab what we need. I’m far quieter than any of you boisterous men anyways.”

Soap breathed your name. He was worried about you. He could see the pain in your eyes after losing Simon. He was worried this was a suicide mission. And that you wanted that. 

“Let me be of use,” you begged. Soap wanted to argue. So did Price. But you were right. You would be the fastest. And as much as they valued you, the remaining men couldn’t survive here without Soap or Price. 

“Lass, are you sure?” Soap said finally. He wanted you to feel useful, but he didn’t want you running off and risking your life because of the pain you felt from losing Simon. 

“Let me do it, Soap. Please. I need this.”

He couldn’t argue with you. He didn’t have it in him to hurt you more than you were already hurting. 

“Fine. But I’m not happy about this.”

You stood in your gear, an empty backpack plastered to your back waiting to be filled with medical supplies. Price had gone over the layout of the wing with you, showing you exactly where you needed to go to get the right supplies on a map of the building. 

You stood before the infirmary doors, the ones that would lead to a long, winding hall that would bring you to the center of the infirmary. Off of that were several rooms and more halls, and a surgical floor. It was a large span of space to cover, but you believed you could do this. 

“Be quick about it, lass. We’ll be right here when you get back,” Soap said to you, his hand resting on your shoulder. 

You took in a breath and walked up to the doors that had been unlocked, a large piece of plywood that had previously been nailed against it, removed so you could go in. Before you reached out to the door handle, you turned around and rushed into Soap’s arms. He held you tightly, your head tucked right under his chin. “Don’t you fuckin’ die on me,” he mumbled into your hair. 

You pulled back and gave him a sad smile. Then you nodded at Price and faced the daunting doors again. Once you stepped through the threshold and the doors shut behind you, you could hear the plywood being put back up, a hammer nailing it in place. When you got back, you were to knock and Soap would be there waiting to let you back in. 

The hall was flickering with a few overhead lights, the generator still powering a few of the rooms in this wing. 

Ghost had a glazed-over expression when he rolled off his medical bed. The room around him was silent apart from the ticking of a clock in the corner. There was blood pooled all around him and dripping onto the tiled floor as he stood. He had some semblance of who he was, of what happened, but most of his thoughts were hazed over like he was stuck in a daydream. 

He had walked the length of the room, a sudden craving for food hitting the pit of his stomach. Any sound made him snap in that direction, rushing towards it as if on cue. He heard banging coming from one of the med rooms, the door locked and nailed over with whatever scrap of wood they could find. More people like him were trapped behind those doors, their groaning echoing down the hall. 

Ghost limped as he walked, remembering how he had been shot in his leg. He looked down at his crimson-stained pants, almost like he should be feeling pain, but he felt nothing. 

Days had passed and he roamed the halls aimlessly, not even getting bored. His mind had drifted off, somewhere that wasn’t in his body, allowing him to walk around like a zombie, completely void of any logical thought. 

He grumbled as he made his rounds, stuck in a time loop, walking down the flickering hall again and again, passing by bodies that had been left behind. 

He hesitated when he heard something. He turned to look in the direction of the noise, intrigued. It sounded like someone had just walked blindly into a metal medical tray, knocking instruments onto the floor. His movements were fast and nimble as he approached the sound. 

He froze in place when he saw you–though he didn’t know who you were at that moment. You cursed yourself for being loud but didn’t hear anything in retaliation so you figured you were safe. Your hand rested on the knife strapped to your hip anyway.

You were edging towards the main infirmary double doors, your hand touching the metal of the handle. You should go in there and get supplies, but that’s where you had last seen Simon. You didn’t have it in you to see what had become of him, his body rotting alone. 

Instead, you walked down the hall and into a storage closet, oblivious to the shell of Ghost who trailed behind you. 

You left the door to the storage room open to let in a few strips of light so you could see better. You hunched over and began to dig through the supplies that had been thrown all over the floor in panic. 

Ghost rolled his neck as he saw you in the room, your back to him. He had a sudden urge to sink his teeth deep into your skin, to tear you to shreds. In fact, he wanted nothing more; the instinct was overpowering. 

But when he got close, he could hear your voice as you mumbled to yourself, going over the list of the items you needed. You held up a pack of linens, trying to see if they were clean. “These will have to do,” you said softly, shoving them into your backpack. 

A wave of familiarity surfaced inside Ghost, a strange feeling of being alive pumping through his veins. When he got to the doorframe, he could smell you. His senses heightened, the waft of your natural scent sent Ghost into a daze. He remembered—though he wasn’t sure what he was remembering. All he knew was that he recognized that smell. 

His body had felt like it was in hibernation, his motors set on autopilot as he mindlessly walked down the halls. But suddenly, Ghost’s true mind was brought to the forefront. And his body craved you, though not in the way he had just moments earlier. He didn’t want to sink his teeth into your neck, he wanted to feel your warmth against him. 

Ghost moved with such dexterity and silence, it was clear he was no longer human. When you stood, his arms immediately wrapped around you, eliciting a scream from your throat. 

Ghost still wasn’t fully comprehending what was happening; all he knew was that his body wanted you. His hand slid up around your neck, leaving a trail of blood on your clothes. He tried to speak, but he couldn't fathom what he wanted to say. All that came out was a strangled groan. 

You sputtered, trying to catch your breath as your heart raced in your chest. Ghost felt for your pulse beneath his fingertips, relishing in the way your blood pumped through your body. 

You turned your head slightly, spying the man who had you trapped against the many shelves in the closet.

It was Simon.

Terror flooded your system. He didn’t look like himself. His eyes were glossed over, his pupils and iris almost unidentifiable, the entirety of his eyes were white, appearing like he was blind. The blood that had soaked his face had congealed, the rusted color running down his clothes where he was shot in the chest and leg. He looked just how you left him, and it sent a sense of terror through you. 

“S-Simon?” You whispered, unsure if you were caught in a nightmare. 

A groan escaped his cracked lips. You gulped. He had become one of them . 

You were certain he was about to tear you apart, just as you had seen other fallen men do to your teammates. You closed your eyes, tears rushing down your cheeks as you prepared for the worst. His hands felt cold around your neck, like ice. You shivered against him. You accepted your fate—a small part of you actually wanted it. You wanted him to end you. To take you down with him. You didn't want to be alone anymore.

He nuzzled his nose against your neck and you squeezed your eyes shut, preparing for him to bite you. But it never came. 

Instead, he just moved his nose against you, smelling your hair and skin. His hands were still locked tightly against you, but they began to travel across your body. You opened your eyes in shock. Ghost’s hands trailed your chest, groping you with one hand, the other sprawling over the front of your thigh and stomach. You gasped in surprise. 

You felt him harden against you, something you had experienced many times before now, and the familiarity of it made your heart pound with mixed emotions. Your mind was too caught up trying to decipher what was happening to truly take the moment in. 

Ghost’s cold hands slid under your black shirt, snaking their way up to your breasts, cupping each one in his hands. Your nipples immediately hardened from the iciness of his touch. He ground himself against your backside, making you close your eyes in a moment of reprieve. You got lost in the past, imagining this was how it used to be. How he had touched you so many times before. 

You breathed his name and he seemed to like that, for he rolled his hips against you harder, his chest rumbling in satisfaction. 

The cold of his hands left you, making you oddly yearn to have them back on your skin. His fingers traced the hem of your pants before aggressively pulling them down. He got them past the curve of your ass and turned your bodies so your hips hit the edge of a shelving unit that acted as a table. You knocked all the supplies off as Ghost pushed you down against it, using your hands to catch yourself. 

Ghost shuffled with his own pants, wasting no time at all to slip himself inside you. You called out in a brief shock of pain. He held himself deep within you, his hands squeezing as he held you, his body bent over slightly, his chest flat against your back. Your own hands reached out to grab the edge of the table to help steady yourself. The searing heat of you against his frozen skin spread through him like wildfire.

Your cries ignited a flame in Ghost’s chest—the feel of your body, the sound of your gasps, the smell of your hair—felt natural, like this was exactly what he was supposed to be doing. That he was made to take you like this. That your body against him was something so ingrained in his system, that he had no choice to to let his limbs move on muscle memory. 

He began to thrust inside you, your hips hitting the table with each snap of his hips. His hand snaked around your neck, the smear of blood now coating your skin. One of your hands came up to wrap around his wrist, resting it there in support. 

You groaned as he rocked into you harder. The pain from his sudden intrusion had subsided, and now you were filled with a haze of rapture. A tear slid down your cheek. You were unable to process what was happening, but what you did know was that you had missed Simon more than anything and that this wasn’t real. This wouldn’t last longer than this moment in time. 

Ghost’s chest rumbled in pleasure as he thrusted into you. Your walls squeezed around him and he let out a loud groan. His arm not clutching your neck wrapped around your midsection, pulling you away from the table so you were flesh against him. He held you tight, almost like he couldn’t get you close enough. That if he had his way, he’d let you make a home beneath his skin. 

His hips snapped vehemently against you, his pace quickening. You moaned, your sounds coming out strangled as his cold hand held your neck. Your walls tightened around him, your climax rapidly approaching. You couldn’t quite believe that you were not only fucking your dead boyfriend, but you were going to come in record time. 

You were absolutely intoxicating to him as your warmth clenched down on him, your heat something recognizable to him, and yet, the intimacy was foreign at the same time. Now that he was devoid of his usual body temperature, the warm feeling of you around him was almost painful. 

When you mewled and cried under him, your walls spasaming, he drew himself to the edge right behind you. Ghost came inside you with a great urge, growling in your ear as he tried to support the two of you. You felt him fill you, the white fluid seeping out around where his cock continued to pump in and out of you. His movements became sloppy, your legs shaking, your hand clutching onto his wrist for dear life. 

You couldn’t hold back the cascade of tears, finally letting them flow as Ghost slowed his pace before stopping altogether. He edged out of you, his arms hesitantly letting you go, and you immediately turned around to face him, burying your face in his chest. You sobbed as he stood there. His arms didn’t reach out and hold you like he once would. He didn’t try to comfort you like he always did so well. 

But still, he just let you huddle against him, taking what you needed from him. He didn’t attack you. He didn’t try to kill you. He wasn’t himself, but he wasn’t fully gone either. You turned to look up at him, resting your chin on his chest. He looked down and you stifled a cry. His white eyes were going to be permanently burned into your mind, haunting you for eternity. His face was sullen and blanched, blood smearing all across him; fresh blood dripping slightly from his mouth.

You tentatively reached a hand up and rested it on his frozen cheek. “I’m sorry,” you mumbled. Ghost made no indication he could even hear you. 

You took in a deep breath, willing yourself to do this, and stepped back. You adjusted yourself before slowly reaching down for your bag. Ghost stood and watched you, the only thing moving was the tilt of his head as he traced your movements. 

You shuffled to the door, anticipating him to reach out and end this daydream, ripping you apart. But he just watched you go, his mind riddled with foggy thoughts. He wanted to tear into you, but another part of him prevented him from doing so. He wanted to grab you and hold you against him for some reason. He liked the warmth your body provided. But another part of him felt nothing at all. 

He watched you leave in a stupor, his mind just barely grasping onto the image and memory of you. It’s true, he wasn’t completely gone, but he was fading fast. 

You cried violently as you stumbled back to the exit. When you banged on the doors, you heard the plywood being ripped off and the doors swinging open. Soap pulled you back into the base and held you at arm's length. “What happened?” he asked desperately. You were sobbing and covered in blood.

Should you tell him? Would Soap let you return to Simon knowing he wasn’t gone? Or would they make you stay here, letting Simon slip away forever? 

You suddenly regretted leaving him. You should have stayed with Simon, even if he was a shell of who he used to be. You should have waited the time out together until he fully lost himself, and you would let him take you down with him. 

[54625]

I miss kelp cocaine

I miss everyone congregating at Phil and Missa's, I miss Roier's over exaggerated moan every time he and Cellbit kissed, I miss everyone throwing their balaclavas on and going "passa tudo...", Tubbo's constant grilling of Fit and Pac (especially Fit), Mike's hairdressing, everyone singing the Pac e Mike wow wow song, Gegg, the admins striking people with lightning perfectly on cue, the Foolish cheating allegations, Slime and Mariana traumatising their viewers, Dorime playing randomly, people turning eachother rainbow coloured with the rainbow jelly, Dapper randomly pulling out all kinds of crazy creatures from his backpack, the extremely overwhelming pre-event meet ups, Las Casualonas, the casualonas dance, Sunny's materialism, Etoiles telling everyone how and why their armour and weapons aren't actually optimised, Phil breaking the fourth wall, Baghera and her fish joke, Rubius abusing his creative power, Foolish ruining the tension during serious moments, Cellbit obsessing over every lore lead or clue, Roier and his hilarious PNG builds, Felps "finally being added to the server", Fit always looking after Mariana's builds in his absence, everyone playing hide and seek, Cucurucho spying on and jumpscaring everyone, Quackity constantly being made fun of for his dead kid, Phil and Fit's aggressive "friendly" flirting, Cellbit talking over Richas' shoulder while he's painting, Leonarda's spoiledness, Ramón's obsession with the citric acid cycle, Slime's ability to show up for an event out of nowhere and just completely derail everything, new players always freaking out about Fit's voice, Quackity desperately trying to find a match since day 1 and always failing, Maximus' talk show, people teleporting in and out at just the right second, Jaiden's love for Hatsune Miku infecting the server, Bad and Foolish's encounters, Ramón threatening to blow himself up or digging himself into the ground when he doesn't get his way, Tallulah drowning herself when she doesn't get her way, the hilarious mistranslations, the wonderful screenshots, Vegetta's mines, Jaiden's expanding list of nationalities, Antoine being an enigma, the in-game karaoke place, Bobby starting fights, Juanaflippa dying over and over, Empanada trauma dumping about her first death to Bagi, Cellbit's vivo turbo ad, Bad yelling "language!", Pol and Foolish and Mouse not being able to stop laughing around each other, Pierre and Max's damn furry club, "no mames!", Spreen leaving for cigarettes, Bad stealing furniture, Missa being incomprehensibly cringefail (I will never forget that "bucket clutch"), Felps' hole, Tubbo's bigger hole, Mike going crazy that one time, Chayanne whipping out his cooking utensils, "Fofoca!", Pomme being the French Sniper, Pepito being homeless for a sec? Richarlyson's many personalities and characters, Tilin being "la tres leches", Trump even being called Trump to begin with, Cucuruchito flirting with everyone, dozens of plots to break into various federation buildings, hundreds of rule breaks, DanTDM being theorised to be Bagi's missing brother, Etoiles' love-hate relationship with the codes, Kameto going out for milk, Tina's heavily one sided rivalry with Fit, everyone changing their skins for events and some people being so extra with it, things falling into chaos every time an event needed them to travel a long distance together, the messy group photos, Charlie's grief spirals, people meeting up at Spreen's bar way back when, everyone making an effort to speak languages they don't speak, the sharing of international memes, the teaching of swear words, the joy that was born from the interconnectivity.

Just all of the things, dumb, hilarious, or adorable. The moments, bits and little jokes that made the QSMP so engaging, fun and entertaining to watch. That made you feel like you were participating in one massive celebration. I miss it.

[jinxs-gf]

beauty is in the eye of the beholder

pairings: jinx x reader

summary: You’re an artist, giddy at the thought of creating a portrait of Jinx, your lover. Except she can’t understand why you’d want a portrait of her.

content, warnings: jinx has cute aggression & insecurities, fluff! reader calls jinx ‘angel’ and jinx calls r her toots, too much description and it’s all barely edited D: pretty cringe but it’s okay

w.c. 2.2k

a.n. based off this request <3 again tysm anon ILY :)

You walk into the little corner of Jinx's room (the abandoned, giant space full of nothingness—that goes down...who knows how far) exclusively reserved for you. There's easels with and without canvases. Some covered in abandoned art, some finished, and some blank. The corner screamed you all over it. Especially the mess of unnecessary amounts of paint brushes, buckets, pencils, tore up paper...

Paint splotches and spills were scattered across your little desk and the floor (the work of you and Jinx).

There's particular squabbles of paint that you don’t mind. A happy face with a squiggly smile that's been there long enough to start chipping away. An uneven mess of hearts scattered in attempt to make the perfect one. Big words that read "I love you" in blue and smaller words next to it, "jinx waz here" in pink. The newest stain is on one of the many cans of your desk, a mark of her kiss. She'd quite literally painted her lips with bright purple and kissed the can, insisting it was there so her toots would never miss her.

Even though there's no time to miss her. Even though she resorts to bringing her work over to your tiny desk instead of keeping it to her very spacious one. You don't mind, the closer to your girlfriend the better. You pretend to be bothered though, only so she'd persist and annoy and squish into your space further.

You tie the apron, generously gifted by Silco, around yourself, excited to (hopefully) start a new, special project. It was gifted reluctantly of course. He tried to make it seem like it wasn't a big deal, but it was a very big deal. The eye of Zaun gift giving? Unheard of. You must be special. And you were, according to your blue haired menace that reminded you everyday. The very menace you affectionately named Angel.

"Toots!"

Jinx's gloved hands wrap around your body and suddenly, your back is crunched to her front. Her hands squeeze your tummy while nuzzling her face into you. Clearly she had missed you...for the whole minute you were separated.

It's like she can tell you were thinking it, "What? You didn't miss me while you were gone? You don't seem so excited I'm here." She's teasing like she always does. The edge and rasp in her voice so close to your neck doing wonders to the butterflies in your stomach.

But of course Jinx missed you. Could you really blame her? She hates every second you're apart, and she loves that you do too. So she's open about it, maybe more dramatic and a bit of a show off, but only to make you laugh and see you turn bashful. She loves getting you shy with her affections and teasing, unable to fathom the way you're wrapped around her finger the way she's wrapped around yours.

Your hands delicately grab her small, rough ones, turning yourself around to face her. "Don't even start with me, I'll tickle you to death if you keep up the accusations."

"Is that supposed the be a threat?" And oh, the pout is more real than sarcastic than she wants it to be. Like she genuinely doesn't like the idea of being threatened...by tickles (you know the idea is scary to Jinx, it's the truest form of torture she said once).

"Kind of." Your hands swing in the gap between the two of you. "Hey I actually had an idea. Care to hear?" It's something you've been wanting to do for a while now, giddy at the thought of it. Yet suddenly you find yourself a bit reluctant, still undoubtedly shy around your lover. You hope she'll say yes and that her teasing from this won't be too harsh.

"Hit me with it!"

"Will you let me draw you? Like a full portrait? I promise I'll do you justice!"

Jinx is sorry for it, but she stopped listening immediately, too enraptured by your connected hands, heart beating a little faster at the contact. You'll never know the effect you have on her (or so she thinks), she refuses to get teased even though she loves to tease you. She adores how flustered you get. Teasing is her love language, Jinx's way of showing her love for her toots. And when you decide it's unbearable enough, you'll shut her up with a kiss. Jinx will drag it out and annoy you for that reason alone. She counts on a messy kiss every time.

Unknowing of what to do with the sudden adoration creeping up on her, she pinches your hands hard.

Unfazed, you call her "Angel?"

"Hm?" She looks up and at you with so much affection. So much it stops you for a moment. Your giddiness to do this increases tenfold, her expression killing you in the best way possible. You can be extremely honest about this to soften her up, make her want to say yes.

"I'd like to draw you. Like really, really badly. I have for the longest time. You're just...stupidly pretty and it makes me feel so stupid and I want to scribble your face all over my canvases all the time. So...can I? You'll have to sit for me as reference." You say it as if you don’t have every bit of her memorized, which you completely do.

And for whatever reason, your menace (angel) is stunned. You notice it’s a bad kind of stunned, you realize quickly.

“…Me?”

“Yes?”

“But why?” Jinx asks quiet and unsure of herself. Her eyes look everywhere but you, she tries pulling back but you squeeze her hands. There’s a hint of anxiety around her, something she hasn’t experienced since she met you.

The mood switch and uncharacteristic behavior causes worry to stir in your chest. “Uhh, why wouldn’t I? You’re my girlfriend, you’re the prettiest girl in the Undercity and in Piltover! Trust me, none of those snotty ladies are as pretty-”

“You haven’t even been to Piltover.”

“I don’t need to go over there to know they don’t compare to you.”

She heaves a big sigh, your worry growing.

“I just- I'm not pretty or beautiful or any of the things you say I am. You call me angel when I'm far from that! You love art, it’s your thing, toots. Your passion and escape. How can you let someone like me ruin something you love so much? I don’t want to…I don’t know.”

When you don’t answer, she continues.

“I’m not worthy of so much time being spent on something so precious you know?” She says it like she hopes you’ll agree. You won’t.

“Angel,” you let go of her hands to cup her face, needing her to hear you. “Of course you’re worth spending time on. I love you. Do I not say it enough? I know I can be-”

“No, you say it lots and lots!”

“I’ll say it more. I need to make sure you believe it. And guess what? I meant what I said Angel. You’re the prettiest girl. The prettiest to exist. And you’re mine, do you know how lucky I am? You clearly don’t understand how much I feel for you. You’re worth every second I’m gonna spend on your portrait, you understand?”

And finally, her smile is back, gone is the unsure frown.

Jinx nods and you nod while smiling with her, going in for a kiss…multiple kisses. Kisses all over her precious face, because she deserves to feel loved. To know that she’s loved.

You can be put your timidness to the side for the hour. She needs your confidence in your feelings right now. Your confidence in her.

"Now get in my lap, I need a better look at your pretty face." Your teasing demand flusters her. She immediately settles in your lap so your chests touch. It wasn't everyday (really ever) that you spoke to her like that, always too shy to do so. But Jinx finds that she kind of likes it, she wants you to demand contact with her, especially in a position like this. It makes her feel gooey inside. Butterflies uncontainable.

It's not exactly ideal, you're not used to having your girlfriend in your lap while sketching. But you wanted this, and it's not making it impossible. All you have to do is wrap your arms around her pretty waist and rest your chin on her shoulder. It's perfect.

"For science huh? To 'get a better look' at me was it? Toots, if you wanted me in your lap you coulda just said that!" She teases, assuming you just wanted her there to have a more accurate picture.

You quietly confess, "jus' wanted you in my lap." Giving her waist a squeeze while you sketch her jaw.

You can tell you've stumped her (but this time in a good way). She's gone impossibly quiet and still. Warm too, just like she always does when you attempt to flirt. The two of you were truly unable to get over and deal with the timidness of being affectionate. Of being together.

And just like always, she melts. Like how ice cream does in the sun (a sugary delight you've been able to share with Jinx once). Her stiff back let's loose and she squeezes in return. She holds on like you'll disappear. You wouldn't. Not ever, because how could you? When you love her and when she loves you to death?

It’s quiet for the rest of the time you’re drawing, Jinx resorting to drawing patterns on your back, seemingly drifting off at some point. She internally scolded herself for it, not wanting you to think she was bored but it was taking a while. She wanted to have this moment with you though, it was so delicate, something that’s not occurred before. Especially with the earlier conversation. It was special.

You dot the last bit of her freckles on the white sheet. "All done," a kiss to the side of her head that makes her impossibly warm and dig her face deeper. "Needa color it in now." Color it with the paint the two of you always make a mess out of, there's no doubt in your mind it'll happen again.

She turns to finally look at it, her eyes wider than you've ever seen. "Holy shit toots, there's no way you did that!"

"Are you accusing me of cheating?"

"Maybe." She always knew you were the best artist of the Undercity (definitely not biased), you were just that good. But this was different. Was it because it was a drawing of her? Well...it was also the fact that it was so accurate. From her eyes, nose, mouth, jaw...even the way her hair curled in front of her face. And the scars, scars even she herself had forgotten about. But you remembered, you hadn't looked at Jinx once the whole time. You really did have her memorized huh? You didn’t have to say it, the way you insisted she sat in your lap instead of on a different chair for reference and the drawing in front of her is enough proof.

Jinx needed to go look in whatever was left of her shattered mirror to see this. She couldn't believe how pretty she looked on a piece of paper. She couldn't believe you took the time to do this. That you even wanted to in the first place. Jinx has been flustered and felt her heart beating awfully fast just from your gaze alone. But she thinks her heart might be about ready to explode, much like her countless monkey bombs or firelights.

She's unsure how to contain or show this rush of deep, deep affection, so she pushes your face from where it's searching her reaction and jumps out your lap, rushing for your paint cans.

You're kind of confused, but also accepting of her reaction. You're used to it, not that she always runs away due to avoiding feelings. Definitely not. Jinx was one to have so much affection for something or someone that you just...want to pinch, squeeze or...bite it. Luckily she hasn't got you (yet). It was a little shove, probably to prevent herself from sinking her teeth into your cheek. (You truly wouldn't have minded) (you kind of would have, it hurts).

She's back in front of you holding up a bucket half full of bright blue paint. At her feet she's set down small cans of various blues, pinks, and purples. Her favorite colors, obviously.

"Here ya go toots!” There’s no doubt in your mind you’ll be making a mess with the paint when you’re done.

Except, you haven’t even picked out a paint brush before you feel her hands grab your waist from behind, the familiar feeling of paint transferring from her touch to your body.

You look back at her, squinting. “Excuse me?”

“What? Can’t grab my toots’ love handles?”

You turn around, grabbing her hands and pulling her closer to you. You take a peak at her handy work, the blue on your waist making you feel things. You won’t let her know that though.

“Two can play at that game.”

“Try me then toots.”

You release your hands from hers and cup her face with them, leaving blue prints of your palms on her cheeks.

[makiquas]

Its Butchtober. Bear with me for a second as I rant about children's cartoon ships, butchphobia, the conditional acceptance of butches in sapphic spaces on the basis of desirability, and feeling erased as a butch kid.

It's so funny that I realised early on as a 2000-2010s teen/kid how a lot of so called "sapphics" of social media are really, really anti butch4butch, only by interacting with certain subsets of Catradora and Appledash haters. It may be flippant to connect butchphobia with children's cartoons, but you cannot deny it is there. We finally had two canon butch4butch and masc4masc lesbian animated ships. And the fandoms decided that the best possible reaction to this is to violently hate on the ships for bullshit reasons and write up masterdocs about how the butch character actually looks better with a femme character instead (in both cases–Rarity and Glimmer, who is arguably feminine but not femme, but that's a conversation for another day, how the SPOP fandom waters down gender identities for aesthetics).

This is not just about two cartoon ships; this mindset of seeing two masc lesbians and immediately going "actually they act like bros; but this BUTCHFEMME couple has real chemistry" comes off sounding really, really bad in 2024 when you have no idea how butch identity operates, outside of depicting us as pants-wearing sexually aggressive muscular women. Butches ARE bros, even the ones who kiss each other. Camaraderie and tomboyish swagger *is* a part of their life. It's not our fault you are too fanfic trope-pilled to read these interactions are sexless friendship bantering.

It's also quite concerning, given how there are only a handful of butch4butch books in the market, and almost all of them talk about the stigmatizing of relationships between two butches/studs/masc lesbians. There are many butch lesbians who themselves face internalized butchphobia because of societal standards and expectations of being turned into the "gallant" provider of femmes. Butch and femme are not always inherently complementary, butches can be attracted to other butches, there is no "natural order" model of lesbian/sapphic attraction and your thinly veiled butchphobia is really off-putting, given you guys don't seem to extend that same rhetoric to mascfemme ships like Korrasami or Caitvi, or femme-femme ships like Harlivy.

Here, I must mention relationships like Rei and Kaoru from Oniisama E, or Jess and Lupe from A League of Their Own, who have bucket loads of chemistry but still have some vehement antis only because both the lesbians are masculine. (What's funny is the new wave of lesbian Oniisama E fans are almost all Rei/Kaoru shippers despite the show putting them into two butchfemme pairings.) Something something to be butch4butch is to be failing the tests of palatability and desirability according to conventional models of societal norms. Forever.

Again, one may have valid reasons for disliking these fictional ships (what, I genuinely don't know). But it *is* weird that you guys can watch fifty white fem4fem sapphic shows in a year and read 100+ GL with the same feminine girlish blonde and brunette/pink haired archetype and not bat an eyelid, but conjure a world of made-up "platonic" dynamics just because you read every butch4butch interaction as fundamentally platonic.

A lot of you love to throw around Stone Butch Blues as a catchphrase to educate strangers on the internet about 1950s-70s blue-collar bar culture and USA butch femme history, but how many of you actually know that within the book itself, the lead character acts prejudiced and hates on another butch for being butch4butch? How many of you know that she apologizes to her friend at the end for her hateful remarks? Fun fact: when you ostracize a butch for not fitting into your butch-femme subculture aesthetic, you're no better than lesbiphobic bigots actually.

Anyway, here are some butch4butch resources if you are a baby butch4butch and feel alienated by these kinds of weird rhetoric in online and fandom queer spaces too:

Butch4Butch romance books

My Butch4Butch books masterdoc (**being updated regularly**)

Leo Wilder's Butch4Butch writing (18+)

Butch4Butch photography archive (insta)

Boyish² Butch4Butch yuri anthology (insta)

@milsae Butch4Butch artist (tumblr/insta)

This post is made by a trans masc butch of color. Terfs, racists, biphobes and radfems kindly do not derail or interact.

[arcanewhoosh]

Could you right a story where jinx’s S/O is scared of bombs or loud things in general and one of jinx bombs went off scaring S/O and jinx comforts them.

So I forgot that the inbox was a thing and found this two years after you asked for it. Sorry lmao.

I think I completely failed this cause I chose season 1 Jinx and hooboy Season 2 Jinx would've been a better choice.

Also this went over 2k words I realize I may be a yapper.

The Monsters We Allow

2k words (Jesus this wasn't supposed to be this long)

Proofread? Y/N

TW: Descriptions of injuries

You're no stranger to the hazards of working for the Eye of Zaun. Even the more hardened residents of the Undercity oftentimes couldn't stomach some of the work the job entailed, more so the people involved in those jobs.

So now here you were, helping build an explosive device of some sort. Fishbones Jinx had called it. You guess that you should add assistant weapons maker to the long list of jobs you've held working for Silco over the years. It wasn't always like this, though.

You started out as cleanup crew, showing up after fights. You didn't want to at first, but if you crossed Silco, you'd most definitely cross his daughter, Jinx. If you crossed his daughter, then it was almost a certainty that you would end up in pieces and puddles on the walls and floors. You'd rather be the one cleaning than be the one being cleaned up. So you put your head down and went along with it.

It was messy work, but it turns out even with all the fucked up things tolerated in the Undercity, rotting body parts weren't one of them. It wasn't pretty, and your first few days you had to include your vomit in the list of things you had to clean up. Eventually, though, you got over it, got better. Well enough that Silco would only trust you to do cleanups of whichever unfortunate soul was on the receiving end of Jinx's chompers. You could figure out which weapon was used to do what, what the direction of the splatter on the wall or floor meant. You could look at a scene once and replay how the entire fight went.

The job wasn't pretty, not at all, but it put money in your pockets, good money. It put food on your table and clothes on your back. Most importantly, it gave you security. A blanket of protection that ensured people would think twice to cross you. Silco only kept a select few on constant contract. Sure, you didn't run around beating the shit out of people during collections, or blowing them up. You didn't have a robot arm or guns-choice of weapon was bucket and shovel-- but hey, you were deeper in his inner circle than most people.

Eventually, he started bringing you along to meetings. After those meetings, he'd ask you, What's the quickest, and cleanest way we can get rid of this person?

It was jarring at first, being asked how to kill someone. But whatever reservations you had about becoming a murder consultant was heavily outweighed by your fear of being the one consulted about. So you'd answer diligently, if a little hesitantly. The first time you answered, he had looked pleasantly surprised. As if getting recommendations on assassination was pleasant. You remembered thinking.

It didn't take long for people of the Undercity to associate your presence in these tag-alongs with the sudden death of whoever you and Silco were visiting. Whispers about how you wouldn't even talk during the meetings, how you'd sit and simply look around. If you were addressed by the person you were meeting with, Silco would politely redirect their attention back to him. Sometimes, sometimes, that person wouldn't die. Silco once credited it to you, that people suddenly became more pliable once he brought you along. Another blanket of security. People started treating you differently, more respect, fear maybe. It was a little funny, how typically aggressive brutes would become the politest people towards someone who had just barely reached the age of eighteen.

One day, Silco had asked you to his office. You thought it would just be regular stop before another meeting, standard procedure by then, really. But that day he had another guest in his office. The blue braids were already a dead giveaway, but you still politely introduced yourself.  She laughed, and identified you as The one who ruins my fun because she had to follow your instructions when Silco needed her to get rid of people.

You knew back then that she was dangerous. Quite frankly, she scared the shit out of you. You didn't have a problem with seeing dead bodies and parts, sure. But she was younger than you, and already had no qualms about taking lives. She was the one leaving behind entrails that you had to clean up. And apparently, she was now to be occasionally under your watch. Silco thought you'd be a good fit for a companion. Around the same age, he had said.

You kept a respectful distance from her, but she unfortunately grew fond of you and decided to keep you around more often than not. Silco didn't see anything wrong with it, if anything it made the both of you more notorious. His Loose Cannon and his Harbinger of Death. A deadly combination in theory, but in practice, it was mostly you having to accompany Jinx for her less dangerous - there were still casualties - pranks, and bailing her out of sticky situations.

And now here you were, two years later, making a launcher with her- making was a generous word, more handing her stuff - and getting ready to probably blow more people up.

You feel your stomach begin to unsettle again. You were used to seeing dead bodies, parts of bodies, what was left of bodies. But never in the stretch of time that you had worked for Silco, had you ever had to see dying. You always showed up after. It had only been two days since the explosion at the bridge, but somehow Jinx was walking around as if nothing had even happened to her. As if she didn't blow herself up the last time you had seen her. If you were making an educated guess based off of her eyes, you'd say she was hurt and got pumped full of shimmer; or maybe she was just living off of pure mania at this point.

You've cared for her, but now you also care about her. It seems that no matter how much respectful distance you put between yourself and her, propinquity eventually came into play, and affection followed. And the only sense you had was to go along with it.

It took you a while to get used to being around her. She was temperamental, to say the least. But you eventually learned not to ask any questions about her family, not to bring up the dolls she kept at her place, and avoid asking any questions at all about her past. If she wanted to, she'd tell you. The only time she wasn't unpredictable was when she was tinkering away at her little station, blasting her music.

She was calm, placated, almost normal. If you had never met her before and had seen her then, you would have thought she was beautiful. Not that she isn't, it's just that her reputation tended to precede all her other perceivable qualities. More than all of this, she was vulnerable. Her back turned to you, not a care in the world if you wandered around touching things. You realize now that it was in those moments probably that your affection for the girl grew. All of a sudden, getting her out of unideal predicaments included treating her wounds; then nursing her back to health if she was sick; staying over when she had nightmares. And yet you were still cautious, careful not to trip on some invisible wire that would trigger her temper.

"Whoops-"

A bang, a clattering of tools, and you're back at the bridge. Back at looking at screaming people, crawling on the ground because their legs had been blown clean off, some with limbs partially attached, some falling off, someone trying to feel where half of their face had gone. All moving, breathing, alive.

"Easy there, jelly legs." You look up to meet Jinx's eyes. Once a soft powder blue, now striking orbs of red violet. She's holding onto you. At some point you had lost your balance and was now kneeling on the floor, one hand on the side of Jinx's desk for support. "You sick or somethin'?" She asks.

"Sorry," You breathe out. "I think… I think I'm still reeling from what happened at the bridge."

She lets out a laugh. Loud, boisterous, manic.

"The bridge? The little ol' light show? You didn't like it?" Her smile falls, and she cocks her head to the side. Fuck.

Now you're on thin ice. "No, no. It was nice." You quickly say, shaking your head. "It's just, I'm not- I'm not used to seeing the before part, you know?"

She guffaws. "Wait, wait, wait." She stands, walking over to her desk littered with metal scraps and remnants of her previous projects, picking up one of the butterfly robots she had made. "You're telling me-" She plucks off a wing, the remaining one flapping aimlessly. "You" Points it at you. "Who's in charge of cleaning up exploded bodies, and telling Silco - who tells me - how to kill someone without a mess," Plucks off the other wing and throws the body away. "Gets queasy over a few blue bellies kicking the bucket?"

You take a breath to steady yourself. "I don't know. I never- I never thought about that part. I've never had to see it."  You unconsciously start clenching and unclenching you hand not holding onto the desk. A nervous habit, one that you tried to shake off. A habit that Jinx had taken note of the first few months of her dragging you along with her escapades.

"I'm sorry." You say after a few beats of silence.

In one quick flash - too quick, inhumanly quick - Jinx is kneeling again in front of you, cupping your face in her hands.  "Hey now, it's alright." Her tone is soft, caring, tragically comforting to you. "We all got our little quirks. I sure do."

She frees up one of her hands to brush your hair back. "Come to think of it, I think that was the first time you had to see something like that, huh?"

It always astounds you how quickly she can disarm the guard you put up for her. You know she's dangerous, you know you should be cautious. But a few sweet words from her and you're putty in her hands, completely at her mercy. You wonder if it's normal to love and fear someone at the same time.

"We'll be okay." She presses her forehead against yours. "I've got you, like you've got me." You nod.

"You can handle helping me with one more thing, right?" There it is. "We just need to do this one teeny thing, and then we can chill out."

You put in active effort to keep your breathing steady. Your stomach still in knots. "What thing?"

She grins. "A dinner party. You're my co-host." She pulls you up with her as she stands, leading you over to where she was working, where Fishbones was seemingly complete. "Wanna see something cool?"

You nod, and she fishes out the HexTech gemstone she had stolen during Progress Day. She opens up a slot near the handle and inserts the gemstone, Fishbones immediately lighting up, a blue hue illuminating her dark room. You contemplate asking her about her new weapon, weighing out the pros and cons. But the fact that her hand was still holding yours, her thumb idly grazing your knuckles was enough to encourage you.

"What are you gonna do with this?"

She runs her free hand above the clear panel where the gemstone is. "We're gonna go make a point."

The rational part of your brain is telling you to stay behind, that whatever this was, being in the vicinity of a HexTech-powered weapon was not a good idea. But this was Jinx, and she had already decided that you were coming with her. Incurring her wrath now, also in the vicinity of the HexTech-powered weapon, was not a good idea either.

So you do what you do best, and go along with it.

[catcze]

Wriothesley can hear your loud stomps from a mile away as you furiously speed-walk to his office door like a bloodhound trailing a scent. Even if not for that, the way that you bang your fist on the door is enough to grab his attention.

"WRIOTHESLEY." Comes booming in from the other side of the door. It's thick wood. He wonders how deaf he would have gone if the door hadn't protected him. The door (the thick, supposedly impenetrable door) rattles on its hinges like a screen in a hurricane when you try to kick it again. "DID YOU EAT MY DONUTS."

It's not even an accusation at that point. It's practically a declaration of war.

"WRIOTHESLEY!" You yell so loudly a group of guards turning the corner down the hall scramble back the way they came. "Open up, jackass!"

Wriothesley, knowing he cannot escape the consequences of his actions, merely settles deeper into his chair as he drinks his tea. His last meal. Drink. Similar thing.

The door keeps rattling as you yell profanities at him, until one of his traitorous guards approaches you hesitantly, saying not a single word but offering up the spare key to his office with shaky hands, head low and aggressively avoiding eye contact.

"Oh!" you say, demeanor switching immediately, losing the intimidating glint in your eye as you gingerly take the key. You smile kindly. "Thank you very much!"

Then you turn back to the door, the threat of violence in your eye as you wield the key like a weapon of war, inserting it into the keyhole and twisting it with a dark finality. The guard wonders if they should fear for their superior's wellbeing.

Wriothesley looks up from his newspaper as you close the door ominously behind you, somehow maintaining a blasé facadé even while staring down certain death.

"Well?" you prompt him, eye twitching like a stressed villain from a kid's cartoon show. You round on him in an instant, too quick for him to escape. Somehow, he keeps up his poker face. "Care to explain where my donuts went, Duke of Meropide?"

"I didn't eat them," He deadpans, staring you right in the eye. He pointedly does not acknowledge the white powdered sugar on his face.

"There's white powdered sugar on your face."

"Ah. So there is."

Another cartoony villain eye twitch. "Want to try that again?"

"...I love you?"

"And I love you. Last chance, though."

And he folds like a lawn chair. Wriothesley knows this is a fight he can't win. Even Neuvillette would tell him it's best to just kick the bucket and plead guilty at this point. He sighs breaking eye contact first like a wolf with its tail between its legs.

"Okay, I'll buy you another dozen of them."

You cross your arms, staring at him. He sighs.

"Another two dozen."

You soften just the slightest bit, coming close to perch on his lap and lean into his space. Instinctively, his arms come to wrap around your middle, pulling you against him.

"And?"

Wriothesley leans forward too, enough for your foreheads to touch. You can feel the breath of his sigh against your lips.

"And you have my sincerest apologies for taking your things. In my defense, I thought they were mine at first.”

“Apology accepted,” you say, satisfied, and peck him quickly on the lips. Before it can turn into anything else though, you’re springing up from his lap. Ignoring the disappointed furrow in his brow and the way his arms have still not moved from their position holding you earlier, you take his hand and pull him up from his chair with such startling enthusiasm and surprising strength that it has him stumbling for a second. You pull him towards the door regardless.

“C’mon, you’re making good on that apology right now, Wrio! Hope you finished your work!”

And no, technically he hasn’t finished his work. But he already knows that you’ve got him wrapped around your finger, and that pushing that work to tomorrow wouldn’t hurt. Probably. Whatever— it’d be worth it.

So he just sighs and gives the palm resting in his a squeeze and let’s himself be pulled along. You squeeze back.

“As long as you let me have a few. Those were pretty good.”

[niallerspayno]

About Last Night (Louis Tomlinson x reader) - Fic Request

Masterlist

Anonymous request: Hi!! I was wondering if you could do Louis Tomlinson x fem! Reader who is in the band, her and Louis always had a flirty relationship but always told people it was a joke until one night during one of their tours things get heated between them and they hook up, a few weeks later reader finds out she’s pregnant and doesn’t know how to tell Louis so she goes to her best friend Niall Horan for advice and Louis ends up over hearing them? Smut and fluff please!!

Tags: Louis x reader, friends to lovers, smut, pregnancy, fluff, angst

Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

…

The arena hums softly with the buzz of amps and muffled conversations, but your focus is already on Louis, who stands near the drum kit, spinning a drumstick between his fingers with that familiar mischievous glint in his eye. This is how it’s always been with the two of you—partners in chaos, constantly toeing the line of what you can get away with, but never crossing it. The harmless flirting, the relentless teasing—it’s your thing.

“Don’t even think about it,” you call out, a grin tugging at your lips.

Louis turns to you, all innocence and dimples. “Think about what, love?”

“Oh, you know exactly what,” you say, stepping closer. “Put the stick down before you get us all in trouble.”

“Trouble?” he echoes, mock-offended. “I am the very definition of responsibility.”

“You’re the definition of a menace,” you retort, grabbing the other drumstick off the snare. You twirl it between your fingers and smirk at him. “If you’re going to cause chaos, at least make it entertaining.”

His eyes light up at your challenge. “I knew I could count on you, partner.”

Before anyone can stop you, Louis taps the microphone stand with his drumstick, and you follow suit, matching his rhythm with the snare drum. The resulting cacophony blares through the speakers, earning a collective groan from Liam and the sound crew.

“Really?!” Liam barks from center stage, throwing his hands up. “Do you two have to do this every time?”

“Yes,” you and Louis say in unison, both grinning like kids caught raiding the cookie jar.

“Unbelievable,” Liam mutters, shaking his head.

“Oh, lighten up, Payno,” Louis says, slinging an arm around your shoulders. “We’re just making things more fun.”

“Fun is subjective,” Liam replies, deadpan.

Louis doesn’t even acknowledge him, already pulling you toward the piano at the corner of the stage. “Come on, let’s give them a real show.”

You follow without hesitation, laughing as you plop down on the bench beside him. “Alright, Mozart, let’s hear it.”

“Watch and learn, darling,” he says, cracking his knuckles dramatically before slamming his fingers onto the keys.

The result is an aggressively off-key rendition of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, and you immediately burst into laughter, doubling over as he continues his “masterpiece.”

“Wow,” you say between giggles, clapping along. “Move over, Beethoven. Louis Tomlinson has arrived.”

“I know,” he says smugly, tossing you a wink. “Don’t be jealous of my talent.”

“Talent?” you tease, leaning closer. “This is more like a crime against music.”

“Oh, you wound me,” he says, clutching his chest in mock pain. “But I’ll forgive you because you look cute when you’re pretending to be unimpressed.”

You arch an eyebrow, leaning in just enough to close the space between you. “Who says I’m pretending?”

He falters for a split second, just enough for you to notice, before recovering with a smirk. “I knew you couldn’t resist me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you reply, but the playful tone in your voice makes it clear you’re enjoying every second.

The moment lingers, his eyes locked on yours, the air between you buzzing with unspoken tension. But before anything can happen, Liam’s voice cuts through like a bucket of cold water.

“Enough!” he shouts. “Can we please get back to work?”

Louis groans dramatically, standing up and offering you a hand. “Fine, Payno. We’ll behave. For now.”

“Behaving’s overrated anyway,” you say, letting him pull you to your feet.

He grins, leaning in just enough to make your heart race. “Spoken like a true partner in crime.”

You smirk back, the flush creeping up your neck impossible to hide. “You couldn’t handle this partnership without me.”

“Oh, don’t I know it,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing, before finally letting you go.

As you return to your spot on stage, his laughter still ringing in your ears, you can’t help but feel the familiar thrill that comes with being Louis’s partner in crime. This is just how it’s always been—safe, playful, and light. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

…

The club is alive with pulsing music, flashing lights, and the hum of conversation. The six of you—plus a few crew members—have commandeered a booth near the dance floor, a place to regroup between rounds of drinks and bursts of reckless fun. The night is supposed to be lighthearted, a rare break in the chaos of touring. But your attention keeps drifting toward the bar, where Louis leans casually against the counter, chatting up a pair of girls who can’t stop giggling at whatever he’s saying.

You take another sip of your drink, the sharp burn of tequila doing little to distract you. It shouldn’t bother you. This is Louis, after all—flirty, charming, and always ready to make someone’s night with a cheeky grin. It’s harmless. Always harmless. Just like it’s always been with you and him.

But tonight, it stings.

“You alright there, love?”

Niall’s voice pulls you from your thoughts, and you turn to find him sliding into the booth beside you, a fresh pint in hand. His blue eyes are sharper than they should be after three rounds, catching onto your mood immediately.

“Fine,” you say quickly, forcing a smile. “Just enjoying the view.”

Niall snorts, following your gaze toward Louis. “Ah. Him.”

“Him what?” you ask, though your tone is defensive even to your own ears.

“You’re watching him like he owes you money,” Niall says, smirking, but his voice softens when he adds, “What’s going on?”

You hesitate, swirling your drink in your hand. Niall’s always been the one you confide in, the one who listens without judgment. But this—whatever this is—feels like dangerous territory.

“It’s nothing,” you lie.

“Sure it is,” he says, leaning closer. “Come on. You’re never this quiet.”

You glance at Louis again, just in time to see him lean in to whisper something in one of the girls’ ears. Your chest tightens, and before you can stop yourself, the words spill out.

“It’s stupid,” you say, setting your glass down with more force than necessary. “I just… I don’t get how he can be like that. Flirting with everyone, acting like it’s all a game.”

Niall raises an eyebrow. “That’s just Louis, though. You know that.”

“Yeah,” you mutter, staring at the condensation on your glass. “But sometimes I wonder if it’s ever not a game for him. If he ever actually means it.”

Niall doesn’t answer right away, his gaze steady and thoughtful. Finally, he says, “And what if he does? Would that change things?”

You laugh, though it’s bitter and hollow. “Not for him. He’d still be Louis, and I’d still be the idiot who gets worked up over it.”

“Hey,” Niall says gently, nudging your shoulder. “You’re not an idiot. You care about him. That’s not stupid.”

You look at him, startled by how easily he’s put words to something you’ve been trying to deny. “I didn’t say I care about him.”

“You didn’t have to.”

His voice is kind, but it hits you like a punch to the gut. You reach for your drink again, draining the rest of it in one go.

“Okay,” you say, standing up abruptly. “I need another one.”

“Hang on,” Niall says, grabbing your wrist before you can escape. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? You’re already—”

“Drinking?” you interrupt, flashing him a wry smile. “Yeah, I know. That’s kind of the point.”

Niall lets you go, watching as you make your way to the bar. You don’t look at Louis as you order another round, but you can feel his presence—his laughter, his charm—like a static charge in the air.

When you return to the booth, Niall’s still waiting, his expression unreadable. “You don’t have to tell him, you know,” he says quietly.

“Tell him what?”

“Whatever it is you’re feeling. If you’re not ready, that’s okay.”

You sit down, your drink clutched tightly in your hands. “What if I never am?”

Niall shrugs, his usual easygoing demeanor softening. “Then that’s okay, too. But just… don’t beat yourself up over it, alright? He’s an idiot, but he’d be even more of one not to see how great you are.”

You manage a small smile, but the ache in your chest doesn’t fade. Across the room, Louis throws his head back in laughter, and you drain your drink, trying not to think about what it would mean if Niall was right.

...

You’re halfway through your drink, the alcohol starting to make the room blur at the edges, when you feel someone slide into the booth beside you. It’s not Niall this time—he’s gone to the bar for another round.

“Having fun, partner?”

You don’t need to look to know it’s Louis. His voice, low and warm, cuts through the haze like a match striking in the dark.

“Loads,” you reply, your tone sharper than you intended. You focus on your glass, not him.

There’s a pause, and then he leans closer, so close you can feel the heat of him against your arm. “What’s got you in a mood, then?”

You scoff, finally turning to meet his gaze. “Why would I be in a mood?”

Louis’s brow furrows, and he studies you with a mixture of curiosity and concern. “Dunno. That’s why I’m asking.”

You shrug, trying to brush him off. “It’s nothing. Go back to your fans.”

Realization dawns in his expression, and his lips curve into a small smirk. “Ah, so that’s what this is about.”

You roll your eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t,” he says, his tone light but his eyes sharp. He tilts his head toward the bar, where the girls he’d been chatting with have moved on. “They’re just fans, love. Took a couple photos, had a laugh. That’s all.”

“Doesn’t matter,” you say quickly, taking another sip of your drink.

“Clearly, it does,” he counters, his voice dipping lower.

You glance at him, and the teasing edge in his expression is gone, replaced by something quieter. More serious. It makes your stomach flip, and you hate how easily he gets under your skin.

“I just don’t get how you can do it,” you murmur, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “Turn it on and off like it’s nothing.”

Louis stares at you for a moment, his blue eyes searching yours. Then he leans back slightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You think it’s nothing?”

You don’t answer, and he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not. I just… I don’t know. It’s easier sometimes to keep it light, you know? Keeps people from expecting too much.”

Your chest tightens at his words, and you look away, focusing on the dance floor instead. It feels safer than looking at him when he’s being like this—honest and raw in a way that catches you off guard.

Louis follows your gaze, then nudges you with his shoulder. “Come on.”

“What?”

“Dance with me.”

You blink at him. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious,” he says, standing up and holding a hand out to you. “Unless you’re scared you can’t keep up.”

It’s a challenge, one you’d normally accept without hesitation. But tonight, there’s something heavier in the air between you, something that makes you hesitate.

“Louis…” you start, but he cuts you off.

“Just one dance, love. For old time’s sake.”

You sigh, finishing the last of your drink before placing your hand in his. His grip is warm and steady as he pulls you to your feet, leading you toward the dance floor.

The music is loud and fast, but Louis doesn’t seem to care. He spins you around dramatically, earning a laugh despite yourself, and when he pulls you close, his grin is infectious.

“There she is,” he says, his voice just loud enough for you to hear over the music. “I knew you couldn’t stay mad at me.”

“I’m not mad,” you reply, though you’re not sure it’s true.

“No?” he asks, leaning in until his lips are just inches from your ear. “Then what are you?”

The question lingers, hanging between you as the beat of the music thrums in your chest. You glance up at him, your breath catching at the way he’s looking at you—like you’re the only thing in the room that matters.

And then, as if drawn by some invisible force, your fingers tighten around his, and you let him pull you closer.

The music is deafening, the bass vibrating through your chest as Louis pulls you closer. The heat of the crowd presses in around you—sweaty bodies moving together in time with the pulsing beat—but all you can feel is him. His hand rests lightly on your waist, fingers brushing against the bare skin where your top has ridden up, and the touch sends a jolt of electricity through you.

You match his rhythm, your bodies swaying together as the lights flash and the room spins in a blur of color and sound. He leans down, his breath warm against your ear as he murmurs something you can’t hear over the music. But it doesn’t matter, because the low rasp of his voice alone makes your pulse race.

Your hands find their way to his shoulders, then slide down to his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath your fingertips. His eyes lock onto yours, dark and intense, and for a moment, it’s as if the entire club has faded away.

He’s looking at you like he’s never seen you before, like he’s trying to memorize every detail. And you can’t look away.

“Louis,” you manage to say, but your voice is swallowed by the music.

He doesn’t answer, just pulls you even closer, his forehead resting lightly against yours. His hand tightens on your waist, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin, and it’s almost too much.

The air between you is charged, thick with something you can’t quite name but can’t ignore either. And when his lips brush against your temple—soft, almost tentative—it sends a shiver down your spine.

Your resolve snaps.

Without thinking, you grab his hand and tug him toward the edge of the dance floor, weaving through the crowd until you find a dark hallway leading toward the bathrooms.

“Here?” he asks, his voice rough and breathless as you pull him into the dimly lit space.

“Unless you’ve got a better idea,” you reply, your back pressing against the wall as he steps closer, crowding into your space.

He doesn’t hesitate. His hands are on your hips in an instant, his lips crashing against yours with a force that makes your head spin. It’s all heat and desperation, months of tension unraveling in a single, searing kiss.

You fist your hands in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he groans softly against your lips. The sound sends a thrill through you, and you arch into him, gasping when his mouth moves to your neck, leaving a trail of kisses down your skin.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs against your throat, his voice low and strained.

But stopping is the last thing on your mind. “Don’t,” you whisper.

The noise of the club fades into a dull throb, your pulse pounding in your ears as Louis pulls you deeper into the hallway. His grip is unrelenting, his hand firm around your wrist as he guides you toward the dimly lit bathroom, the air thick with the sharp scent of alcohol and sweat. When you step inside, he doesn’t hesitate. He closes the door behind you with a soft thud, and before you can even process what’s happening, he’s already pulling you toward him, his hands sliding to the curve of your waist.

"Fuck," he breathes, his voice low, gravelly, as he looks you over. His eyes darken with something primal, raw. "I need you."

The way he says it—like there’s no choice in the matter, like he’s been waiting for this—makes your stomach flutter with anticipation. Your heart races as he lifts you effortlessly, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. His body presses flush against yours, the heat radiating off of him like a furnace.

You’re suddenly aware of everything—his breath against your skin, the brush of his chest against yours, the sensation of his hands sliding down to grip your thighs as he carries you toward one of the stalls. The door bangs against the wall as he kicks it open with a force that leaves you breathless. You barely register it, too caught up in the way he’s looking at you—so intensely, so urgently—that it’s like the entire world outside has ceased to exist.

Louis doesn’t give you a moment to breathe. He presses you back against the door, and the sharp click of the lock echoes in the small space. His hands move to the hem of your shirt, lifting it slowly, deliberately, until the cool air hits your skin. The contrast of the cold on your warm body makes you gasp, but it’s nothing compared to the feeling of him against you.

"God, you're perfect," he mutters under his breath, his eyes raking over you like he can’t quite believe you’re here. His mouth finds the curve of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin in a way that makes your pulse spike. He’s everywhere at once—his lips, his hands, his body—leaving no space between the two of you.

His lips trail lower, his breath hot as it brushes against your collarbone, and you can’t help but shiver, arching into him as his hands slip lower, tracing the curve of your waist and hips. “Louis,” you breathe, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

“You want this,” he says, his voice rough with hunger as he presses his body into yours. His hands slide under your skirt, gripping your thighs, his thumbs brushing the inside of your legs. The sensation sends a shock of desire through you, and you tighten your legs around his waist, pulling him even closer.

You’re both moving instinctively now—his body surging into yours, your hands tearing at his jeans, pushing them down just enough so you can feel the hard line of him pressing into you. You’re both breathless, desperate, as your bodies start moving together, finding a rhythm born from nothing but pure need.

The heat between you is overwhelming, suffocating. You can feel every inch of him against you, your bodies grinding together with a desperation that feels like it's been building for weeks, months even. His lips find yours again, more forcefully this time, his tongue slipping between your lips as your hands roam over his chest, feeling the hard planes of his body.

“You feel so fucking good,” he groans against your mouth, his hands moving to the zipper of your skirt, tugging it down, leaving you exposed to him in the dim light.

You gasp as the cold air hits your skin, but the shock of it only fuels the fire between you. You push him back slightly, giving yourself enough room to pull off your panties, tossing them carelessly to the side. His eyes darken at the sight, and he groans again, his hands trembling slightly as they slide down your body.

“God, you’re killing me,” he mutters as he presses his body into yours again, the door rattling against the force of it. His lips trail down your neck, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin, and you can’t help the moan that slips from your mouth.

“You want me?” he asks, his voice low, dangerous, as his hands slide between your bodies, his fingers brushing against you, making you gasp.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Yes, I need you.”

And just like that, he’s pulling you closer, his hands gripping your hips with bruising force as he positions himself against you. The first thrust is slow, deliberate, but it doesn’t take long for the urgency to take over, for both of you to lose control.

Your bodies move together with a frantic rhythm, the pressure building, tightening, until you feel like you’re going to explode. The sensation is overwhelming, dizzying, and you cling to him, feeling his hands grip your skin like he’s afraid to let go. His breath comes in ragged gasps against your ear as he buries his face in your neck, his body pressing into yours with every thrust.

The world outside the stall is forgotten—there’s nothing but the sound of your breathing, the rhythm of your bodies, the urgent need to feel more.

When it happens, it’s all at once—the sharp pull of release, the sensation of your body shuddering as he groans your name, the feeling of him inside you. You lose yourself in him completely, and for a moment, the entire world falls away, leaving nothing but the raw, pulsing connection between the two of you.

For a long time, neither of you speaks. You’re both panting, trying to catch your breath as you stand there, still tangled together in the small, dimly lit stall. The air is thick, heavy with the aftermath, and the sound of the club’s music feels distant now, like it belongs to someone else’s world.

Louis rests his forehead against yours, his hands still cradling your hips as if he’s afraid to let you go. His breathing slows, but his grip on you doesn’t loosen.

“Are you okay?” he murmurs, his voice soft, the intensity from moments ago replaced with something else. Something almost tender.

You nod, your hands tracing the lines of his back, still feeling the echo of his touch. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I’m more than okay.”

And for a brief, fleeting moment, it feels like everything has shifted.

...

The morning light seeps through the curtains, casting pale slivers across the room, and you wake with a pounding headache that has everything to do with last night. As you sit up, stretching stiff muscles, your fingers graze your neck, and you freeze.

You already know what you’ll find. Your stomach flips as you rush to the mirror, pulling your hair away to reveal dark, circular marks. Hickeys. Louis’s hickeys.

Heat floods your face as the memories from last night rush back—his hands on your body, the rasp of his voice in your ear, the way he kissed you like he was starving for it. A shiver runs through you, not from regret, but from how damn good it all was.

Still, the marks are a problem. You grab your makeup bag and get to work, layering concealer and powder until they’re faint enough to be hidden by your hair. It’s not perfect, but it’ll have to do. You can’t let the others see. You can’t let anyone see.

Your phone buzzes on the counter, pulling you from your thoughts. It’s a message from Louis: "You good?"

Your heart hammers as you type back: "We need to talk."

A few minutes later, you’re knocking on his door. When it swings open, Louis is there—hair tousled, barefoot, still half-asleep, but the way he looks at you makes it clear he knows why you’re here.

“Hey,” you say, stepping inside. Your voice feels thin, unsure, but you force yourself to keep going. “About last night...”

Louis closes the door behind you and leans against it, crossing his arms. “Yeah,” he says slowly, watching you with that sharp, unreadable gaze of his.

“I woke up with... these,” you continue, gesturing toward your neck. His eyes follow the motion, a smirk twitching at his lips as he realizes what you’re talking about.

“Didn’t think I went that hard,” he teases, but there’s something softer underneath his usual playfulness. “Sorry about that.”

You let out a shaky laugh, your fingers brushing over the covered marks. “It’s fine. I covered them up, but, Louis... no one can know about this. The others would never let us live it down.”

Louis straightens, the smirk slipping into something more serious. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s probably best if we keep it between us.”

The weight of that decision settles over the room, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. Then, Louis lets out a low laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “I mean, for what it’s worth... it was a really fucking good time.”

Your breath catches, your heart flipping at the sincerity in his tone. A small, involuntary smile tugs at your lips. “Yeah,” you admit softly, meeting his gaze. “It really was.”

The tension in the room shifts—heavier, but warmer. There’s something unspoken between you, something lingering from last night, but you force yourself to push it aside.

“But it was... a one-time thing,” you say, your voice firmer now. “We were drunk, caught up in the moment. It doesn’t mean anything. Right?”

Louis hesitates, his jaw tightening ever so slightly before he nods. “Right,” he agrees, though his voice doesn’t carry the same conviction. “Just a one-time thing. We go back to normal. Friends. Bandmates. No weirdness.”

You nod, the words hanging heavy in the air. “Alright,” you say, standing and smoothing your shirt. “I’ll see you at soundcheck.”

Louis follows you to the door, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary. “Yeah,” he says softly. “See you there.”

You step out into the hallway, feeling the weight of everything unspoken between you. The memory of last night burns in your mind, and as much as you tell yourself it was a mistake, a small, stubborn part of you knows it wasn’t.

And as you walk away, you know the secret you’re both keeping won’t be the hardest part. The hardest part will be pretending that you don’t want more.

...

The hotel bathroom feels impossibly small, its tiled walls closing in on you as you stare down at the pregnancy test in your trembling hands. The instructions are simple, straightforward, but they feel like a foreign language as you reread them for the third time.

Niall is waiting just outside, sitting on the edge of your hotel bed. You hadn’t planned to involve him this much, but when you decided to sneak out and buy the test earlier, he’d been the one person you trusted enough to call. Now, as the reality of what you’re about to do looms over you, you’re beyond grateful he’s here.

“Everything okay in there?” Niall’s voice drifts through the door, steady and calm.

“Yeah,” you call back, though your voice wavers. “I’m doing it now.”

“Take your time,” he replies, his tone gentle.

You follow the instructions mechanically, your heart pounding louder with every step. When it’s done, you set the test on the counter, face down, and set the timer on your phone. For a moment, you just stand there, gripping the edge of the sink to steady yourself.

When the timer buzzes, you hesitate, your hand hovering over the test.

“You good?” Niall asks from the other side of the door, the concern in his voice unmistakable.

You take a deep breath and pick up the test. The result is instant.

Pregnant.

The air rushes out of your lungs, and you open the bathroom door without even thinking. Niall is on his feet in an instant, his eyes scanning your face.

“What does it say?” he asks, his voice soft but urgent.

You hold up the test, your hand shaking. “It’s positive,” you whisper. “I’m pregnant.”

For a moment, Niall just stares, processing the words. Then, he crosses the room in two quick steps and pulls you into a hug. “It’s okay,” he murmurs. “It’s gonna be okay. I’ve got you.”

You cling to him, tears spilling over as the weight of the situation crashes down on you. After a moment, he pulls back, his hands resting on your shoulders as he studies your face.

“Do you… know who the father is?” he asks carefully.

You nod, wiping your eyes. “It’s Louis.”

Niall’s eyebrows shoot up, and his mouth falls open slightly. “Louis?”

You laugh, a short, incredulous sound that bubbles out of you before you can stop it. “Yeah. It was that night we all went out to the bar.”

Realization dawns in his eyes, and he stares at you like he’s trying to piece it together. “Wait—so… the bathroom stall?”

You groan, covering your face with your hands. “Yes, the bathroom stall,” you say, your voice muffled.

For a moment, there’s silence. Then, to your surprise, Niall starts to laugh—a low chuckle that quickly turns into full-on laughter. It’s contagious, and soon you’re laughing too, tears streaming down your face as the absurdity of it all sinks in.

“I can’t believe I’m having a baby that was conceived in a bathroom stall,” you manage to choke out, shaking your head.

Niall grins, his laughter fading into a warm smile. “Hey, at least you’ll have a good story for the kid someday.”

You snort, wiping your cheeks. “Yeah, I’m sure that’ll go over great.”

As the laughter subsides, Niall’s expression grows serious again. “You're going to have to tell Louis.”

You shake your head, the weight of that reality settling over you. “Not yet. I don’t even know how to tell him.”

Niall squeezes your shoulder reassuringly. “You don’t have to figure it out alone. I’m here, alright? Whatever you need.”

His support steadies you, and you nod, a small spark of determination flickering to life. “Thanks, Niall,” you say softly.

He smiles, giving your shoulder a final squeeze. “We’ll figure it out. One step at a time.”

...

The hotel dining room buzzes with the usual morning energy: clinking cutlery, muted conversation, and the aroma of coffee filling the air. You sit with the boys, doing your best to seem normal as you pick at a piece of toast. The nausea has become a constant companion, and exhaustion drags at you more with each passing day.

“Still not feeling well?” Liam asks, glancing at your plate with a worried frown.

You force a smile. “It’s just a bug. I’ll be fine.”

“You’ve been saying that for weeks,” Zayn points out, his tone sharper than Liam’s, though there’s concern in his dark eyes.

Harry leans back in his chair, studying you closely. “You need to see a doctor. You’re barely eating, and you look knackered.”

“Thanks, Harry,” you say dryly, hoping humor will deflect their growing concern.

Louis, who’s been uncharacteristically quiet throughout breakfast, lifts his coffee cup to his lips but says nothing. His eyes linger on you, though, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze.

“I’ll be fine,” you insist again, grabbing your mug and taking a sip even though the coffee turns your stomach. “Just need some rest.”

The boys don’t look convinced, but they eventually let it drop as the conversation shifts to tour logistics. When breakfast wraps up, everyone begins dispersing to their rooms.

As you step into the hallway, Niall gently catches your arm. “Hey, can we talk for a sec?”

“Sure,” you say, letting him steer you toward a quieter section of the corridor.

Unbeknownst to either of you, Louis lingers just out of sight around the corner, pretending to check his phone.

Niall keeps his voice low as he speaks. “How are you holding up? Really.”

You glance around nervously, making sure no one is nearby. “I’m okay,” you lie, though your voice wavers. “Just... trying to figure things out.”

He frowns, clearly not buying it. “You’ve got to stop pushing yourself so hard. This isn’t just about you anymore.”

“I know,” you whisper, crossing your arms over your chest. “It’s just... it’s a lot, Niall.”

“Have you thought more about telling Louis?”

The question hangs in the air, and your heart sinks. “I don’t even know where to start,” you admit. “How do I tell him that I’m pregnant and it’s his baby? That it happened in a bloody bathroom stall?”

Niall snorts, though his expression quickly turns serious again. “You’re going to have to tell him eventually. He deserves to know, and you deserve to have his support.”

“I know,” you say quietly. “I just… I’m scared, Niall. What if he freaks out? What if it changes everything between us?”

“He might freak out,” Niall says honestly. “But he’s Louis. He’ll step up. You’ve got to trust him—and yourself.”

Neither of you notice the shadow around the corner or the way Louis freezes in place, his breath catching as he processes what he just overheard.

“I’ll tell him,” you say finally, your voice shaky but resolute. “I just need to figure out how.”

Niall nods, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “Whenever you’re ready, I’ve got your back.”

You manage a small, grateful smile. “Thanks, Niall. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

As the two of you part ways, Louis remains rooted to his spot, his mind racing. He had only stopped to grab his jacket, not to eavesdrop—but now, he can’t unhear what’s just been revealed.

Pregnant. His baby.

The words loop in his mind, crashing over him in waves of shock and disbelief. He grips the wall for support, his heart pounding as he tries to process what this means—for you, for him, for everything.

...

The hotel suite is unusually quiet, the remnants of breakfast scattered across the coffee table as the boys lounge around. You’re absent, having slipped away earlier, and the rest of the group assumes you’re just taking some much-needed time to yourself.

Louis, however, can’t sit still. He paces the room, his jaw tight and his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. His thoughts are a jumbled mess, but one thing is clear: he needs answers.

Niall, sitting on the armrest of a couch, notices the tension radiating off Louis. “Mate, you alright?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

That’s all it takes for Louis to stop pacing and whirl around to face him. “No, Niall, I’m not alright,” he snaps, his voice sharp enough to make everyone else in the room sit up straighter.

“What’s going on?” Liam asks, frowning.

Louis ignores him, his blue eyes locked on Niall. “How long were you planning on keeping it from me?” he demands, his voice rising.

“Keeping what from you?” Niall replies carefully, though his face pales slightly.

“Don’t play dumb with me!” Louis shouts, taking a step closer. “I know. I heard you talking to her this morning.”

The room falls into stunned silence, and Zayn and Harry exchange wide-eyed looks.

“What are you talking about?” Harry finally asks, his tone laced with confusion.

Louis doesn’t even glance at him. His focus is still entirely on Niall. “She’s pregnant, isn’t she? And it’s mine.”

Niall’s mouth opens and closes a few times, but no sound comes out. The rest of the boys look utterly shell-shocked, their eyes darting between Louis and Niall.

“Is it true?” Liam asks, his voice quieter now, though no less serious.

Niall lets out a long breath, running a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t my place to tell you, Louis,” he says, his voice firm despite the guilt flickering in his eyes. “She needed time to figure out how to say it herself.”

Louis’s laugh is bitter, almost disbelieving. “Time? You don’t think I deserved to know right away? That I deserved to hear it from her—or at least someone—before overhearing you whispering about it in a bloody hallway?”

“I was just trying to be there for her,” Niall says defensively, standing now to meet Louis’s glare. “She’s scared out of her mind, Louis. This isn’t easy for her.”

“You think this is easy for me?” Louis shoots back, his voice cracking slightly. “Finding out I’m going to be a dad like this?”

The words hang in the air, heavy and raw.

Zayn leans forward, his brow furrowed. “Wait. Are you saying Y/N’s pregnant, and it’s yours?”

“Yes,” Louis snaps, throwing his arms out in frustration. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Harry sits back, his jaw slack as he processes the revelation. “Bloody hell.”

“Look, I get that you’re upset,” Niall says, his tone softer now. “But she needed time to figure things out. I was just trying to support her until she was ready to talk to you.”

“She should’ve come to me,” Louis mutters, his anger ebbing slightly but still palpable. “I deserved to know.”

“And she knows that,” Niall replies. “But she’s been scared, Louis. She didn’t want to mess everything up. She didn’t know how you’d react.”

Louis takes a deep breath, his hands raking through his hair as he processes Niall’s words. “I don’t know how to react,” he admits, his voice quieter now. “This is... massive.”

“It is,” Liam says, speaking up for the first time since the confrontation started. “But it’s not something you have to figure out alone. We’re all here for both of you.”

Louis looks around the room, his frustration slowly giving way to uncertainty. “I need to talk to her,” he says finally, more to himself than anyone else.

“Then do that,” Niall says gently. “But give her some grace, mate. She’s dealing with a lot.”

Louis nods, his expression still tense but less combative. Without another word, he turns and walks out of the room, leaving the rest of the boys in stunned silence.

...

You’re standing at the sink in your hotel bathroom, clutching the edge of the counter to steady yourself as another wave of nausea passes. The fluorescent lights buzz faintly, adding to the headache pounding at your temples.

Splashing cold water on your face, you glance at your reflection, pale and drawn. You’d thought you could keep things under control, at least for a little while longer. But the toll on your body is becoming harder and harder to hide.

A knock at the bathroom door startles you. Before you can answer, Louis’s voice cuts through.

“Y/N, it’s me. Open up.”

Your stomach twists for an entirely different reason now. His tone is firm, no trace of his usual teasing lilt. You grab a towel to pat your face dry, stalling for time.

“I’m fine, Louis,” you call back, trying to sound normal.

“I’m not leaving,” he says, and you can hear the resolve in his voice. “We need to talk.”

With a resigned sigh, you open the door. Louis is standing there, arms crossed and a look of determination on his face. The blue of his eyes is intense, searching yours for answers you’re not ready to give.

“Can we do this later?” you ask weakly.

“No,” he says, stepping into the bathroom and closing the door behind him. “I know.”

Your breath catches. “You know what?”

“I know you’re pregnant,” he says, his voice quieter now but no less firm. “And I know it’s mine.”

The air feels sucked out of the room, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him.

“How—” you start, but he cuts you off.

“I heard you and Niall talking this morning,” he admits. “I wasn’t eavesdropping—it just happened. And now I need to hear it from you. Is it true?”

You look down at your feet, your hands trembling. “Yes,” you whisper.

Louis exhales sharply, leaning back against the door as he runs a hand through his hair. “How long have you known?”

“About a week,” you admit, your voice barely audible. “I wasn’t sure at first, but I took a test. Niall’s the only one I told.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, his voice cracking slightly. “Why did I have to find out like this?”

Tears prick at your eyes, and you sink onto the closed toilet lid. “I didn’t know how to, Louis,” you confess. “It’s not exactly an easy thing to bring up. And I didn’t know how you’d react. I was scared.”

“Scared of me?” he asks, his brows knitting together.

“No,” you say quickly. “Not of you. Just... of everything. What this means for us, for the band. I didn’t want to ruin everything.”

Louis crouches down in front of you, his hands resting on your knees. The unexpected tenderness in the gesture makes your chest tighten.

“You’re not ruining anything,” he says softly, his voice steadier now. “But you can’t shut me out of this. I deserve to know what’s going on, Y/N. This is my baby too.”

The weight of his words hits you, and you nod, wiping at your eyes. “I know. I’m sorry, Louis. I was just... trying to figure it all out.”

“Well, you don’t have to do it alone anymore,” he says, his hands squeezing your knees gently. “We’ll figure it out together.”

You look up at him, surprised by the conviction in his voice. “You mean that?”

“Of course I do,” he says, a small, reassuring smile tugging at his lips. “We might not have planned this, but it’s happening. And I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time in days, a flicker of hope sparks in your chest. “Thank you,” you whisper.

Louis stands, offering you his hand. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get out of this bathroom. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

You take his hand, letting him pull you to your feet. And for the first time, you feel like maybe, just maybe, you won’t have to face this alone.

Louis doesn’t let go of your hand as he leads you out of the bathroom, guiding you to sit on the edge of the bed. He stays standing for a moment, running a hand through his hair as if trying to gather his thoughts. When he finally sits beside you, he turns to face you fully, his expression serious but gentle.

“I know this probably feels overwhelming,” he starts, his voice softer now. “But I need you to know something. I’m not going anywhere, Y/N. Not now, not ever.”

Tears prick your eyes again, and you bite your lip, overwhelmed by the sincerity in his words. “Louis, you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he interrupts firmly. “This isn’t about what I have to do. This is my baby, and you... you’re everything to me.”

Your breath catches, and you stare at him, unsure if you heard him correctly. “What do you mean?”

He exhales deeply, a small, nervous smile tugging at his lips. “I mean I’ve been in love with you for ages, Y/N. I’ve just been too much of a coward to say it.”

“Louis...”

He laughs softly, though there’s a trace of vulnerability in his eyes. “It’s true. I’ve hidden behind all the jokes and the flirting because I was terrified you didn’t feel the same. I thought if I said something, I’d ruin what we have. And then that night at the club happened, and I thought maybe... but you said it was a mistake, and I didn’t want to push.”

You shake your head, a tear slipping down your cheek. “It wasn’t a mistake,” you admit, your voice trembling. “I only said that because I was scared. Scared of ruining what we have, just like you were. But I’ve been in love with you too, Louis. For so long.”

His eyes widen, and for a moment, he looks utterly stunned. “You mean that?”

“Yes,” you whisper, reaching for his hand. “I mean it.”

He lets out a soft, incredulous laugh, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “All this time, we’ve been dancing around each other like idiots.”

You laugh too, though it’s choked with emotion. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

The two of you sit there for a moment, letting the weight of the truth settle between you. Then Louis’s grin turns mischievous, his blue eyes sparkling.

“Can you believe our kid’s going to have the most ridiculous conception story ever?” he says, his voice teasing.

You can’t help but laugh, the tension breaking slightly. “Conceived in a bathroom stall at a nightclub,” you say, shaking your head. “That’s not exactly the romantic story you tell at family gatherings.”

Louis chuckles, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. “No, but it’s our story,” he says, his tone softening again. “And I wouldn’t change it for anything.”

The warmth in his gaze makes your heart swell, and before you can overthink it, you lean in. Louis meets you halfway, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that’s nothing like the heated, impulsive one from that night. This one is slow, deliberate, and full of everything you’ve both been holding back.

When you finally pull apart, he rests his forehead against yours, his hand still cradling your face. “I’m all in, Y/N,” he says quietly. “For you, for this baby. For everything.”

A tear slips down your cheek, but this time it’s one of relief, not fear. “Me too,” you whisper.

The two of you sit there in the quiet, holding each other as the enormity of the moment settles in. For the first time in weeks, you feel like everything might just be okay.

...

Part 2

[arts-bloody-rose]

Blood of A Rose - Bait and Switch (Art the Clown x Fem!Reader)

Masterlist

Summary - A series of unfortunate events leads to (Y/n) turning on her favorite clown.

Notes - Based on a request to show reader snapping on Art 🫢 I originally wanted to take a smutty approach, but I didn’t feel that it was realistic to his character and behavior in this scenario so decided not to for this one.

Word Count - 1,926

Warning(s) - Acts of aggression, minor argument/tension, angst

Song Inspiration -

Ice Nine Kills - Ex-Mørtis

The rain started the week. It wasn’t the soft, misty kind (Y/n) usually enjoyed during her peaceful walks through the cemetery, finding time for herself to recoup.

No, it was a downpour that began when she was still a good distance from home. An unrelenting, soaking storm that had her sprinting back, camera now ruined despite her best efforts to shield it. 

When she entered the building, anyone who even glanced at her would steer clear. She stood stiff in front of the door that closed behind her, clothes drenched and dripping wet along with her hair that stuck to her face. Her eyes held a heavy glare, filled with hatred for the universe that defied her. 

As she shuffled into the work area that Art occupied in front of his desk, she made her way over and took the camera from around her neck, nearly slamming it onto the empty stool beside him. 

Art jumped, items dropping from his hands and snapped his head to look over at her. He took in her disheveled appearance and emotionless expression, then suddenly started to hunch over in laughter. He motioned at her during his fit and held a hand over his stomach as she crossed her arms, giving him a pointed look. 

“I don’t suppose you know how to fix a water-damaged camera?”

He then gasped, laughter coming to a halt. He pointed to the soaking camera and her eyebrow twitched in confirmation. Art pouted and solemnly shook his head. 

She rolled her eyes and went on to spend the next few hours trying to salvage what she could, praying the water hadn’t seeped into the lens she so loved, but no amount of drying or tinkering helped. The final death blow came when the shutter jammed with a soft click. Silent, but devastating.

The tone was set for what she now declared a dreadful week. 

(Y/n) woke up the next night to find her latest series submission, Memento Mori, was shredded by protestors through the local newspaper. She had come to expect the harsh criticism, but something about this particular review clawed at her. It was brutal, dismissive, and worst of all, physically destroyed her work.  

Tasteless, is what they called it. As if her entire soul, spilled across her paintings and photos, could be reduced to a single word. (Y/n), who had always been quiet and careful about how she handled criticism, could barely stop her hands from trembling as she lowered the paper with an incredulous chuckle.

It stung in a way it hadn’t in a long time. And that sting stayed with her as her hand came up to press against her forehead in disbelief. 

“I don’t get it. These same people go out and watch people get slaughtered for fun in the movies, dress up all bloody and disfigured for some holiday, yet when I put it on a canvas it’s morbid?” (Y/n) ranted and ripped the newspaper in half, tossing it into a steel bucket and beginning to pace. 

Sensing the rising tension, Art put down his tools and spun on his stool to face her, one leg crossed over the other with his hands folded over his knee as he gave her his full attention. 

She whipped to face him, hand on her hip as she continued. “Am I really that fucking messed up? Am I wrong? Just because I don’t follow their status quo?” 

Art shook his head with a snobbish expression, pointing his nose up, hand shooing at the space beside him. 

“Trust me, I wish I could brush it off, but when someone tears up my work, that’s an entirely different story.” His face twisted into an offended countenance, nearly breaking his neck with how quickly he looked at her. 

He then stood and grabbed the ripped newspaper from the bucket, holding the two pieces together to read the article. He analyzed the photos provided showing security cam footage of the perpetrators, taking in every detail of the individuals involved. 

Art then dropped it back into the bucket, stalking past her to grab his bag and throwing it over his shoulder. He turned to look at (Y/n) who simply watched indifferently and nodded his head towards the door for her to follow him. 

As the rest of the week piled on with a series of small mishaps, it seemed as if she was only inching closer to her breaking point. The littlest inconveniences chipped away at her already weaker state of mind given what had happened already. 

Packages arriving late, leaving her without the materials she needed for her next gallery submission. Tripping over a piece of wood laying around in the work area to which she casually flipped off. Her shirt getting caught on a doorknob as she walked past it in an already irritated state of mind. 

(Y/n) tried to push it all aside to maintain her usually calm demeanor, but it all inevitably added to the growing pit of frustration in her chest. She felt it slowly spreading, a storm forming just beneath her skin.

By Friday, her patience was thinner than spider silk.

She painted the canvas on her easel, limited to such mediums as her new camera had yet to be delivered. She felt the metal piece connecting the bristles to the handle wiggle as it loosened over time, teetering on the edge of falling off as she painted in the finer details of her work. 

As per usual, Art sat at his desk beside her, tinkering away. He then paused with a thoughtful expression, tapping the screwdriver in his hand against a nearby empty jar. 

(Y/n) sighed, trying to keep calm as she thought the sound wouldn’t last too long and he would go back to working. When it didn’t, she took a deep breath to compose herself. 

“Please stop.” She asked politely, but he caught her irritated undertone and his eyes glimmered. 

He held up the hand that was tapping in an apology, nodding before looking back at what was in front of him. As (Y/n) continued to paint through the interaction, he grinned mischievously. 

The tapping resumed and (Y/n) poked her tongue at the inside of her cheek, dropping her arm that was painting and tapped her foot. She closed her eyes to calm herself once she felt the familiar sense of anger begin to bubble, taking another deep breath. “Art, stop.” She asked a second time, her voice now firm. 

He pouted and put his hands in his lap, looking down at it in disappointment. She paused for a moment, waiting for him to start back up. When she deemed it clear, she lifted her arm again and resumed painting. 

For the third time, the tapping resumed, this time in a rhythm. Her heart began to race as the frustration continued to build, nearly spilling over. It felt as if the sound was only getting louder, the high-pitched sound of the glass nearly painful. 

Just as she thought it couldn’t get any worse, the tip of the brush finally fell off and paint smeared onto the canvas as it fell. 

Without hesitation, she dropped the handle and snatched the jar from Art’s desk, chucking it against the wall nearby and shattering it to pieces. 

She stared at Art furiously, nose flaring slightly. His hands were up in defense, mouth creating an ‘o’ of surprise with eyebrows raised. He then smiled deviously, setting down his tools without breaking eye contact and rising from his chair intimidatingly. 

Her head tilted up to look at him, standing her ground and expression unchanging as he stepped in front of her. His hand then snatched her jaw, almost painfully as he forced her to hold his gaze. His nose twitched before he suddenly let go, turning away from her with a frown and walking towards his bag. 

He picked it up, slinging it over his shoulder and looked at her one last time before walking out of the building. 

(Y/n) stared at the door as it closed behind him, taking a deep breath. She turned to look at the shards of glass on the floor, biting her lip in thought. One of her hands covered her eyes, then ran down her face before she grabbed a broom sitting against a corner and began to sweep up the mess. 

Guilt began to set in as she finished, deciding to wind down in her room before anything else had happened. She sank into the edge of her bed, elbows on her knees as her hands held her head.

(Y/n) tried to defend him, telling herself that he was just trying to cheer her up. But that couldn’t have been true. He knew she was irritated and went ahead and continued to annoy her anyways. But that still didn’t mean she had to lash out at him of all people. 

He had his own personal oddities and behaviors that were out of the norm, but he still had her best interest in mind. He just didn’t know how to properly show it and she should have been more understanding. 

(Y/n) eventually laid down on the bed, closing her eyes as her music played softly in the background. 

She wasn’t sure how long it had been before she heard the front door open again, a couple of hours at the least. She shot up from her bed, taking a deep breath and stood to open her door. She looked to her left, seeing Art’s now bloodied form dropping his bag in the workroom and she immediately walked over to him. 

Art jumped when he felt arms wrap around his torso from behind, face twisted into confusion before he realized what was happening. His shoulders relaxed, expression neutral as his dirtied hands came up to rest over (Y/n)’s arms. 

Her breath seeped through his suit as she sighed and he patted her arm, turning around in her grasp to face her. She looked up at him with apologetic eyes, lips frowning and his head tilted endearingly. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you…” She mumbled in shame, gnawing at her lip anxiously as he stared down at her with a level of intensity that was almost too much to bear. 

Art patted her cheek, his usual smile popping onto his face when he pulled away from her and motioned for her to wait a second. He turned to his bag and began to dig through it, picking out a few things before turning back to her. 

In his hands were new brushes. From the looks of it, they seemed to be of higher quality and her eyes lit up. 

The smile now on (Y/n)’s face nearly rivaled his own as she gently took the brushes from him, eyeing them in appreciation. She giggled excitedly and hugged him tightly, cheek squished against his chest. He patted her back, tipping his hat when she pulled away. 

“But why? I snapped at you?” She asked genuinely. 

He simply shrugged with a sheepish look and she giggled and shook her head, stepping up to kiss him on his cheek. He blinked rapidly at her, swinging abashedly. 

“Why are they bloody?” (Y/n) asked him with a smirk when he started to turn to make his way to his desk.

Art froze, lips downturned as if he was caught in the act with wide eyes, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. 

Tag list: @callsignwidow @hoe-for-daddywise

[multiheadcanons]

MERCS WITH A FEVER BC IM DYING.

scout: it’s kinda heartbreaking. he won’t wake up on time, and when one of the team goes to figure out what’s wrong he’s hacking his lungs up, shivering in bed. he’s tried at least three times to actually get up, and he hasn’t succeeded at all. they tell him to take the day off, and he almost gets pissy. he insists he’s fine, and he’s good to fight; but as he struggles to his feet the body aches shock him back onto the bed. he’ll take the day off.

soldier: nobody will get near him if he’s feverish. he’s delusional, and increasingly aggressive. but he’ll take a moment to hide in an alley, wiping off the sweat from his brow and letting out a shaky breath. he’s getting through it, but he’s gonna pay for it later.

pyro: up all night, feet slamming against the floor as they trudge from the bathroom to their bedroom back to the bathroom. more prone to vomit when they’re feverish. eventually soldier or scout will walk them to the infirmary; knowing the doctor is probably up, and can care for pyro properly.

demo: he’s taking the day off. he doesn’t care if he’s at 99.1, that’s a fever and he’s taking the day off. truthfully he’s fine. he could probably fight and be fine. but guess where he is anyway. asleep in bed, that’s right. he’ll whine to the doctor about how he doesn’t feel good, he feels a chill, he’s sweating a lot, until a note gets written.

heavy: asleep. almost dead. you would be a little worried that he is actually dead until you approach him and you feel that he is overheating. and he groans. his eyes barely open, and his face is scrunched up in an attempt to not show that he is in pain. “i don’t feel good. get out.” continues to sleep until he feels marginally better. takes a couple days. pyro will drop off a stuffed animal, and if you go in there to check on him he’s clutching it like a lifeline. but his face doesn’t relax. even in sleep.

engineer: he’ll continue to work until he’s actively stumbling and shaking and rubbing his temples. then he’s gotta stop. medic is begging these men to take their physical health seriously. engie will ask why he won’t just heal them from a fever, and medic has to be the bearer of bad news that the medigun doesn’t work that way. come back when your guts are actively necrosing and then he might be able to heal the fever as well.

medic: nobody except heavy is brave enough to go into the infirmary if the doctor is sick. he’s kind of dramatic. the cold of the infirmary is not doing his any favors. he’ll sleep in his little closet bedroom, door closed, shaking and groaning. god, he’s so cold. he knows he isn’t, in fact he’s feverish and overheating, but he’s so cold. appreciates a little back rub. he’ll sleep a little better.

sniper: hides in his van and doesn’t come out. locks the doors. if one of the team goes to find what’s going on you can hear the wretching about twenty feet from the door. “go away.” is the only thing he’s able to groan out before you hear his head back in a bucket. poor guy.

spy: dead in his smoking room. like eyes open, staring at the ceiling. he’s breathing but very shallowly, the coughs hurt so much he doesn’t even want to move around too much in case he starts coughing again. he looks like he’s actively dying or dead. a hesitant “you good…?” gets a very weak thumbs up. he’s okay, just give him a day or so to recover.

[owlcomics101]

Task force 141 dog hybrid AU?

OKAY HEAR ME OUT-

but what if the task force were dog hybrids 🤔

(I think I ate too much chocolate cake when thinking about this-)

Price would definitely be a bulldog hybrid no doubt-

(GIF belongs to the Bored Dog Show)

Aaaa it would be so cute! He’d have this slight underbite like bulldogs normally do with a tooth or two sticking out. Oh god it would be so derpy! He would always try to hide his ears with his bucket hat or beanie and if you find him in a deep sleep (Which is very rare) his tongue pokes out and yes, he runs in his sleep. He doesn’t like being pet (Or at least he makes you think he doesn’t). He’s completely touch starved but never wants to admit to wanting such affection. The only time you get to pet him is in his sleep and when you do he lets out a low groan and starts kicking in his sleep.

Beagle Gaz YESSS!

GIF by: nala-thebeagle

(Okay so I went to my aunts house and she had two cute beagle puppies! And they were the sweetest Damm thing. One was definitely a cuddler but the other one not as much. The other one liked to be pet sometimes but not always and let out a growl if you pet him too much and I guess it kinda reminds me of Gaz?)

So beagle hybrid Gaz’s tail would definitely wag every time he sees you, but he tries his hardest not to show it. He tends to bury things and ‘save them for later’ only for you to find whatever he buried outside weeks or months later and show it to him. Of course he always blames it on Soap to try and make himself look less like a fool, but you know he did it and yes, he hunts rabbits and brings them to you even though there’s no need for that….but he just looks so happy bringing them to you.

look….I don’t wanna be basic but….Scottish Terrier Soap-

GIF by: animals-in-old-films

Scottish terriers are known for their independence, aggression, loudness, and even playfulness and that checks all the boxes for Soap also the fact that they are short like Soap-

Soap is….very loud to say the least. Whenever someone new comes by or someone he doesn’t like he kinda just starts yelling (Mostly swears) at them in hopes his yelling will scare them off and if he sees you pull up he immediately goes to the door or window and starts yelling out for you awhile the others try to stop him from completely tackling you.

Soap: *Bangs on the window* “Y/n tis me-soap! keek! loook at meeee!-wait how come urr ye traivelin awa'?! come back-“

Blood Hound Ghost

GIF by: Laff

This might be a strange one but I think blood hound hybrid Ghost works. Ghost’s father hunted animals and even tormented Ghost with them. With this in mind I thought a tracker doggo should do the trick. All Ghost needs is to find you once and there’s no where you could hide from him. His smell is impeccable but also very sensitive to certain smells. Yes he has the long floppy bloodhound ears but like Price he tries his dammest to hide them and same with his tail. He hates it when anyone touches or attempts to pet him. He’s a light sleeper so even tiniest change in air movement sets him off. The most affection you ever got from him was a gently brush of his hands against yours, almost wanting to hold your hand before pulling away again. Poor Ghost :(

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1968 Dodge Charger R/T

Introduction

The 1968 Dodge Charger R/T stands as an enduring symbol of American muscle car history. With its distinctive design, powerful engine options, and thrilling performance, this legendary vehicle has captured the hearts of car enthusiasts for generations. In this article, we’ll take a closer look at the 1968 Dodge Charger R/T, exploring its history, specifications, and the enduring appeal that makes it a true automotive icon.

The Birth of a Legend

The story of the 1968 Dodge Charger R/T begins with its debut during the golden age of American muscle cars. Dodge, a brand known for its commitment to performance, introduced this model to compete with other muscle car giants of its time. The Charger R/T was an instant hit, thanks to its sleek, aerodynamic design and powerful engine options.

Design and Styling

Striking Exterior

1968 Dodge Charger R/T

One of the most distinctive features of the 1968 Dodge Charger R/T is its unforgettable exterior design. The fastback roofline, hidden headlights, and full-width grille give it an aggressive and unmistakable presence on the road. It was a design ahead of its time, setting trends that would influence future generations of muscle cars.

Luxurious Interior

While the Charger R/T was known for its performance, it didn’t compromise on comfort and luxury. The interior featured high-quality materials, bucket seats, and a driver-oriented cockpit. This combination of style and comfort made it a versatile car, equally suitable for daily driving and spirited weekend getaways.

Heart-Pounding Performance

Engine Options

1968 Dodge Charger R/T

Under the hood, the 1968 Dodge Charger R/T offered a range of powerful engines. The most iconic choice was the 440 Magnum V8, producing a whopping 375 horsepower. For those seeking even more power, the legendary 426 Hemi V8 was available, delivering an astonishing 425 horsepower. These engines ensured that the Charger R/T lived up to its reputation as a high-performance machine.

Thrilling Performance

With its potent engines and well-tuned suspension, the Charger R/T delivered an exhilarating driving experience. It could accelerate from 0 to 60 mph in under 7 seconds, a remarkable feat for its time. The combination of raw power and precise handling made it a favorite among drag racers and car enthusiasts.

1968 Dodge Charger R/T

Enduring Popularity

Cultural Impact

The 1968 Dodge Charger R/T wasn’t just a car; it became a cultural icon. Its appearances in movies and television shows, most notably in “Bullitt” and “The Dukes of Hazzard,” cemented its status as a symbol of American automotive excellence. Even today, the Charger R/T continues to inspire filmmakers and car enthusiasts alike.

Collector’s Item

1968 Dodge Charger R/T

In the world of classic cars, the Charger R/T holds a special place. Its limited production numbers and timeless design have made it a sought-after collector’s item. Restored and well-maintained models can fetch impressive prices at auctions, reflecting the enduring demand for this iconic muscle car.

Conclusion

In conclusion, the 1968 Dodge Charger R/T remains a timeless classic in the world of American muscle cars. Its bold design, powerful engines, and cultural significance have ensured its place in automotive history. Whether you’re a car enthusiast or simply appreciate the beauty of a well-crafted automobile, the Charger R/T is a vehicle that continues to captivate and inspire.

1968 Dodge Charger R/T

FAQs

Is the 1968 Dodge Charger R/T still in production? No, the 1968 Dodge Charger R/T is not in production today. It is a classic car from the late 1960s.

What is the price range for a well-maintained Charger R/T from 1968? The price of a well-maintained 1968 Dodge Charger R/T can vary widely, but it often falls within the range of $50,000 to $100,000 or more, depending on the model’s condition and rarity.

How fast can the Charger R/T accelerate from 0 to 60 mph? The Charger R/T could accelerate from 0 to 60 mph in under 7 seconds, thanks to its powerful engine options.

What are some notable appearances of the 1968 Dodge Charger R/T in pop culture? The Charger R/T is famous for its appearances in movies like “Bullitt” and “The Dukes of Hazzard,” where it played iconic roles.

Were there any special editions of the 1968 Charger R/T? Yes, Dodge offered special editions and performance packages for the Charger R/T, including the 426 Hemi engine option, which was a favorite among enthusiasts.

[cheeseatlantic]

price hcs! (fluff)

hi dont shoot me for not posting today… my son is being naughty after eating chocolate 😡 I SPENT FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS BECAUSE HE ATE CHOCOLATE. hes cute so it cancels out <3

- probably signs his texts off. for example!!

Dear, Y/N

Hello, love. I hope you are well at home, I have the shampoo you wanted. Which bottle is it? Have a great day. 😄👋

With love,

Captain John Price

- if you guys had kids, the kids would have the most stereotypical dad. as in the hawk tuah noises when he wakes up, cream abuse (aggressively applying lotion to the child, specifically those tubs of nivea) and the hand thing whenever their in the backseat with snacks

- the guys call him peepaw as a joke and he holds that title with pride!! gaz gave him a peepaw name tag and he wears it religiously

- went to the apple store for the ‘how to use a phone’ classes once, got the hang of it and now uses his phone like a boss! (accidentally set his keyboard to mandarin once, didn’t know how to change it back so took the phone back to the store and exchanged it)

- doesnt let anyone else touch his hair or beard, only you!! so your his barber and he pays you handsomely in praises and kisses

- has your intials sewn into his bucket hat and a polaroid of you in his tactical vest pocket, the one closest to his heart

- has reading glasses

- shows you off to the guys, extremely proud of snagging such a pretty thing

- would never let you feel insecure about yourself

- sends you flowers weekly when he’s deployed

- listens to any gossip you have, doesnt get it but nods along

- gaz taught him slang, so occasionally he says for example. “What’s good, huzz!” (doesnt know what it means)

- gets you to tie all his ties, and he helps you with your shoes, dress, suit and such.

- every single time he senses the slightest bit of tension on you he runs you the most extravagant bath ever, and it gets better every single time

- secretly has a wig in his office, watches youtube tutorials and does hairstyles on it so he can do them on you

- snores, unfortunately.

- thinks skibidi toilet is from folklore from your culture

- sends you random stuff from stuffed animals to love letters, for no reason. at all.