#this got uselessly long

[floral-hex]

woke up at 4am feeling the weight of my life crushing me, so I’ve been sitting out in my car for the last couple of hours because I just need. to. be. somewhere else.

[mahowaga]

the nurse doesn't even get a full sentence out before you hear it—the loud, unmistakable, drawn out moan from behind the curtain.

"uuuuuuughghhghhhhhh."

you blink.

"that yours?" she asks, arching an eyebrow, holding back a smile.

you sigh. "unfortunately, yes."

she laughs softly and pulls the curtain back.

and there he is.

gojo satoru, the strongest sorcerer alive, your very dramatic boyfriend, currently conked out in the reclining recovery chair like a ragdoll someone left in the sun for too long. his blindfold is gone (carefully folded on the side table, somehow), his mouth is half open, one of his arms is hanging off the chair like he's mid-shakespearean death scene and one leg is swinging mindlessly like he's in the middle of an interpretive dance.

"ughhhhhhhhhh," he groans again, eyes fluttering, unfocused. "where am i. is this the void? the infinite void? am i in the purgatory between dimensions?"

"you had a wisdom tooth removed," you say, walking up to him with your arms crossed.

satoru's head rolls toward the sound of your voice. it takes him a solid five seconds to gain his bearings and settle his gaze on you.

and then—his whole body jerks.

"oh my god," he gasps, pointing a floppy, trembling finger at you. "you're the taco bell goddess."

you blink again, taken aback. the anesthesia is really doing a number on him. it's entertaining. "i'm sorry, what now?"

"i knew you were real," he whispers reverently, nodding to himself. "you came to me in a dream once. you had like, this glowing chalupa aura and you whispered 'live mas' into my soul."

you stare. "what—what the hell are you talking about?"

"don't play coy, my divine temptress of the drive-thru," he says, hand clutching his chest like he's about to write an epic soliloquy in your name. "you bring hot sauce and justice to this cruel, flavorless world."

"okay," you say slowly, looking around for the nurse, "how much anesthesia did they give you?"

"enough to see the truth," he says dramatically.

you laugh so hard you have to grab the side of his chair for support.

satoru squints at you. "wait—wait, no. are you—are you even the taco bell goddess? or are you some kind of fraud, preying on innocent taco followers?"

"i'm your girlfriend," you reply, still wheezing. "you live with me."

his sky blue eyes go comically wide. "you mean i bagged the taco bell goddess and i live with her?"

you pinch the bridge of your nose to calm yourself. "you need water and maybe an exorcism."

he doesn't hear you. of course he doesn't. he's busy throwing up both hands like he's just won an oscar.

"somebody better put me in a commercial," he says proudly. "'cause i'm livin' mas, baby."

you're practically crying with laughter now, and you don't seem to be stopping soon.

"you're a disaster," you choke out.

he grabs your hand and holds it reverently. "disaster, or super cool legend?"

you lean in and kiss his forehead, lips twitching. "definitely a disaster."

satoru beams. "you kissed me! i'm telling everyone. you kissed me first. that's legally binding."

"we've been dating for two years."

"two years?!" his jaw drops. "that's like—" he counts on his fingers "—more than ten kisses!"

you have to bite your lip before you start cracking up again. then, his eyes impossibly wide, he pats around on his lap like he's looking for something. "where's my phone. i gotta tweet this."

"you're not tweeting while high."

"but the world needs to know i'm in love with a celestial being."

"absolutely not."

"okay, but hear me out," he says, slumping deeper into the chair with a dopey grin. "what if we got married. right now. here. in the dentist's office. we've got witnesses. we've got—" he frowns at the table next to him "—fluoride."

you're really trying your best to not lose it. "you want to get married surrounded by cotton swabs and expired magazines?"

he reaches for your face with both hands like he's about to cradle something precious. except one hand flops uselessly against your cheek.

"you're all i need," he slurs.

you smile, warmth creeping up your neck. "oh my god."

"wait, wait. do i have a ring?" he pats his pockets in slow motion. "we can use a paperclip. i'll macgyver it."

"i'm confiscating your paperclips."

he groans. "you never let me have any fun."

you take his hand, kiss the knuckles. "oh, toru. you're a full-time menace, so i have to be the responsible one."

his eyes flutter, a soft, sleepy smile on his lips now. "but you love me."

you sigh, brushing his hair back gently. "i do. against my better judgement."

he grins. "ha. got 'em."

you let your forehead rest against his.

the strongest sorcerer alive. in love. loopy. wearing a bib that says 'tooth be told' with a cartoon molar giving a thumbs-up.

and somehow, impossibly, still the love of your life.

you whisper, "when you're coherent again, i'm going to tell you everything you said. never letting you live this down."

his eyes crack open. "noooo."

"yes."

"i'll sue."

"i dare you."

and he giggles. giggles. like a chaotic little gremlin in your arms.

you hold him close, his fingers twined in yours, as the strongest sorcerer in the world melts into a puddle of affectionate nonsense on anesthetic. and you think, grinning—

god, i love this ridiculous man.

[beloveds-embrace]

Bakery/coffee shop au where you had a very specific policy: you never served people what they asked for.

It wasn’t out of spite, nor was it an act of rebellion against customer service norms. It was simply your way of making sure people got exactly what they needed rather than what they thought they wanted.

Most of your regulars had adapted to this- especially the elderly man who came in every morning demanding a single plain scone and left delighted with a caramel-drizzled apple turnover. But then you got a new group of people.

The first time they walked into your bakery, you knew exactly what kind of men they were.

Soldiers. Hardened, disciplined, probably running on fumes and caffeine, and if the way they carried themselves wasn’t an indication, it was their clothes. Though you weren’t surprised; there was a base nearby, and you’d wondered when soldiers would start dropping by.

They carried the weight of long nights and heavier burdens, eyes scanning every corner of your cozy little shop like it was some kind of trap. Which, to be fair, it might have been.

Because nobody left your bakery with what they ordered.

The first stepped up to the counter. Blue eyes settled on you, sharp and assessing, like he expected you to obey just like that..

“Black coffee, love. No sugar, no cream.”

You glanced him over. Stiff shoulders, exhaustion hanging off him like a heavy coat. He needed warmth. Comfort. Something to loosen the knots in his back before they set in permanently.

“Got it.” You said.

Next up was the one in the balaclava. Tall, imposing, eyes dark as pitch. “Tea. No sugar, no milk.”

You raised an eyebrow. Tea wasn’t a bad choice, but judging by the way his fingers twitched against the counter, he wasn’t looking for something soothing- he was looking for something mindless, something habitual. He needed a bit of a shake-up.

“Sure thing.” You lied.

The third one leaned against the counter. The cap on his head was placed strategically to make him look more attractive than he already was when he tilted his head. “Americano.”

“Of course.” You said, already planning something completely different.

And then there was the last one. Built like a tank, with a mohawk and a Scottish accent.

“Black coffee.” He said.

You nearly laughed. Absolutely not.

With their orders taken- and their fates decided- you got to work.

A few minutes later, you carried their drinks to their table, sliding them in front of each man with a satisfied smile.

Mutton Chops was the first to frown. He stared at the London Fog in front of him, the soft scent of lavender and vanilla wafting up from the cup.

“…This isn’t black coffee.” He said.

“Nope.” You hummed. “It’s Earl Grey, steamed milk, touch of honey. You looked like you needed something smooth. Something to relax.”

He studied you for a moment, then grumbled something under his breath and took a sip. His beard twitched slightly- almost a smile.

Balaclava, meanwhile, was frozen in place, staring at his Mexican hot chocolate like it might explode. “This isn’t tea.”

“You do actually like tea, but I think you shouldn’t be ordering it.” You mused. “You just drink it because it’s simple and familiar. This? Better than tea for now.”

He didn’t respond, so you continued.

“The chocolate’s warm, familiar, but the spice gives it a bit of a kick. Keeps you from getting too comfortable.”

Cap Guy was next, looking between his caramel macchiato and you with a raised eyebrow.

“Not an Americano.” he (uselessly) pointed out.

“Americano is boring,” you said with a grin. “You seem like the kind of guy who enjoys something sweet. Indulgent.”

He gave you a slow, considering look, then took a sip. His lips parted slightly, eyes widening as the caramel hit his tongue. “…Alright. Fair play.”

Then there was Mohawk.

He had been quiet the whole time, but now, he gawked at the Black Forest frappuccino in front of him like you had just served him a live grenade.

“Are you serious?” he demanded. “I asked for black coffee.”

“And I ignored you.” You gestured to the drink, entirely unapologetic. “You’re buzzing with energy, but you’re also dead on your feet. Black coffee would just make you more jittery. This, though? Sugar, chocolate, cherries- it’ll wake you up and make you happy. Ta-da!”

He eyed the extravagant swirl of whipped cream and chocolate shavings like it personally offended him. Then, cautiously, he took a sip.

Silence.

Then, in a hushed voice, “…Steamin’ Jesus.”

“Well, I only steam milk here… but I’ll take this as a compliment. Enjoy, gentlemen!”

Yeah, you knew exactly what kind of men they were. It might be just a touch too confident of you… but you know they would no doubt return.

[cringefailprincess]

i told myself "hey i need to stop making uselessly long projects and just do simple easy quick stuff to work on my art". and i immediately got started on this thing

[pastelclovds]

cw: monster fucker laios, shapeshifter!male!reader, marathon sex, creampie

thinking about laios pleading with his party members to allow you, a shapeshifter, to join them in rescuing his sister. his party reluctantly accepts you when they realize that you would be really useful to their cause since you can shift into any monster you pleased. laios wanted you to join him 50% because his chances of his sister being saved would increase exponentially…

and the other 50% was because he was immensely fascinated with you and your species. as your journey throughout the dungeon continues, your adoration and care for laios grew as well. he felt the exact same way about you. it wasn’t long until you both got… curious about each others bodies and took any chance when you made camp to fuck.

it was like the dungeon knew of your intentions, as a room always appeared for the two of you to take refuge in.

it wouldn’t help that you were a massive tease who loved to rile up laios by groping his clothed cock until he was hard and twitching in your palm. you wiped away the tears trickling down his flushed cheeks as you whispered the dirtiest thoughts you had in your mind in his ear. the tips of your mouth curled into a grin when your nose caught the sinful scent of pre gathering on the tip of his cock.

it doesn’t take long for laios to beg for relief, pathetically humping against your palm for the tiniest bit of friction. you could never say no to that adorable face of his. he unknowingly had you wrapped around his finger.

as your relationship continues, laios asks you out of the blue like the blunt man he is if you could have sex in your different monster/hybrid forms. he lasted about four rounds until you bottom out, your knot popping inside his sore hole and filling his stuffed ass with more cum. he lets out a breathy whine and lets his arms slump on top of the soft sheets of the bed, they’re tired after holding half of his weight up as you ravaged him.

his plush ass is a mess of white cum from previous rounds, some leaking out of the base of your cock where you two are connected and dripping down to the sheets.

your claws carefully fondled the fat of laios’ hips before slithering to his soft belly and push down on where you felt your cum sloshing inside him. laios let out a pitiful moan as his cock twitched and another spurt of cum stained the bedsheets.

you were honestly impressed he lasted this long. the first round was in your naga form. second round: your scorpion form, third round: bear, and now the fourth round: werewolf. he was one greedy boy. but now he was spent and satisfied. so were you.

you took generous sniffs of laios’ sweaty hair before softly licking his neck as you felt your knot soften enough to pull out. spurts of your cum left his gaping hole as he let out a sobbing sigh. overstimulated tears stinging his eyes as his soft cock hung uselessly between his legs. gods, just staring at his thighs makes you want to suffocate between them. definitely next time. until then, you’ve gotta take care of your precious laios.

laios weakly calls out your name.

“yes, baby?” you answered.

“do you think i’m pregnant now? you’ve cum so many times inside… it’s gotta happen. right?” laios said in a dazed voice, like he actually believed he could he impregnated.

you held back your laughter as you gather the tissues, your tail shamelessly wagging behind you. you love him so much.

[miupow]

★ ── OTHER THAN THE BED... ? ⸝⸝ [ HYUNG LINE ]

skz hyung line and their favorite places to fuck ! ♡

[ ⟡ ] ── NSFW, MDNI! ⭑ fem!reader, dom!skz, mirror sex, couch sex, riding, doggy, light primal play, talk of exhibitionism, name calling, spanking, wall sex, degradation, manhandling, possessive behavior

੭ ⭑ 𓂃⠀⠀⠀⠀[ 0.7k ] ⭑ [ m. list ] ⭑ [ reblogs and feedback appreciated! ]

⟡ 방찬 BANG CHAN -> bathroom mirror.

chan grabbed a fistful of your hair, tugged hard so you lift your head to face him-- or rather, the mirror in front of you. he had you bent obscenely over the bathroom sink, fat cock pistoning in and out of your dripping cunt from behind, his thrusts so hard and deep that the sink digs painfully into your hips and you keep narrowly missing hitting the mirror with your forehead. "look at you~" he cooed so sugary sweet, nasty and condescending, the smacking of skin and the wet squelches from your cunt nearly drowning out his voice, echoing against the bathroom tile. "look so pretty like this, babygirl." you hardly recognized the person that stared back at you in the mirror; your mouth hung open, unable to contain your moans and shrill cries of pleasure, drool leaving your chin spit-slick and shiny. your eyes were blown out, dazed and unfocused and utterly debauched. you wanted to avert your eyes, but chan wouldn't let you look away. you can see his handsome, sweaty face and his pretty smirk behind you in the mirror, his tanned skin pink and his hair sticking to his forehead. "go ahead, pretty girl, tell me what you see."

⟡ 민호 MINHO -> the floor.

"such a tight fucking pussy, so good for me--" minho rasped, panting like a dog; the pace of his hips made you throw your head back and wail, his pretty cock hitting so deep inside you were seeing stars. you had been being a brat all night, pushed minho's buttons until he snapped and put you back in your place-- he had pushed you down onto the living room floor and mounted you right there like some kind of animal, held you in place with his long fingers pressing blooming purple and pink bruises to your hips and neck. "gonna make me cum soon, fuck baby... gonna let me cum inside? let me fill you up?" your knees burned from the carpet but you couldn't find it in you to care, not when minho was fucking you this good. he goes faster, harder, enamored with the way your ass jiggled fom his thrusts, the way your moans only got higher, more pathetic and whiny. he slapped your ass, hard, and snickered to himself as you choked on your scream. "you like it when i fuck you like this, huh? whore. right here where anyone could see you? see how good i give it to you? fuck, my girl's such a nasty slut."

⟡ 창빈 CHANGBIN -> the wall.

"who's pussy is this?" changbin growled into your ear, calloused hands folding you in half as he pounded you against the wall. "hm? who's pussy does this belong to? since you don't seem to fuckin' remember." your legs swung uselessly over his shoulders, bin's white-knuckle grip pressing your knees up against your chest-- his thick fat cock hit all of the right spots, kissed your cervix with every rough thrust, filled you up so deliciously you were rendered completely speechless.. "i-i'm sorry!" you warbled, scratching uselessly at his bulging biceps, unable to say much else with his thick fingers sliding down your thigh to rub tight circles against your swollen, aching clit. you could hardly focus, greedily drinking in eyefulls of changbin's big arms as he flexed to keep you firm against the wall. "it's yours! i'm yours!" "damned right," he grunted, huffing breath unsteady, his thrusts growing slick and sloppy as he neared his climax. "fuck yeah, you're mine, all mine."

⟡ 현진 HYUNJIN -> the couch.

"i just want to cuddle, baby," he had sworn with a smile, patting his lap so invitingly and beckoning you to come sit, but you knew he was lying straight through his teeth-- in no time at all hyunjin had you stripped naked and bouncing up and down on his cock, helping you set the pace with his hands gripping tight on your ass, alternating between squeezing and slapping the flesh, his evil grin widening with every whimper and gasp he managed to get out of you. his big long cock was so deep it made your head spin; you could feel him in your tummy, his hips meeting yours with deafening smacks... "jinnie, jinnie, i'm gonna cum!" you squealed, your nails digging crescents into hyunjin's shoulders; he just bounced you harder, fucked you deeper, threw his head back against the couch cushions when your wet gummy walls spasm and flutter around his shaft. "shit, baby, gonna cum for me? gonna make a mess?" he goaded eagerly, lopsided grin and unfocused eyes making your pussy clench hard around him. "go ahead baby, cum on my cock~"

[strayingawayy]

ugly crying ft. gentle purring...

...the one where you're doubling over with sobs but minho's there. and so are your three fur babies.

warnings: ugly ass crying, mental breakdown, mention of hospitals

a total vent fucking fic that is incoherent tbh. reader just has a terrible fucking breakdown. if you need comfort for that from minho, feel free to read. happy fucking monday.

you wish mental breakdowns came with a goddamn warning sign.

you’re simply sitting on the chair, staring blankly at the tv, your hands limp against your lap. you feel off, like something’s wrong, but you can’t really place it. you knew something's coming but you didn't really predict that it's gonna be this bad.

then it crashes down.

the sob that rips out of you is violent, like something being torn from deep inside your chest. you don’t even have the presence of mind to slap a hand over your mouth to muffle it, it comes out, loud and raw, and the force of it sends you doubling over, choking.

"oh, fuck-"

minho is there. he always somehow is.

you didn’t even hear him come into the room, but suddenly he’s crouching in front of you, hands braced on your arms, his big , brown eyes wide and alert.

"hey, hey, what the- what’s wrong jagi?"

you can’t answer. you can’t even breathe properly. your chest heaves, but it feels like no air is getting in, and the crying just gets uglier, gasping, wailing, shaking so hard your knees knock together.

minho barely hesitates.

he’s pulling you forward before you can fully collapse, guiding you off the couch before you slide off of it. your legs fold uselessly beneath you as he brings you to the floor, your whole body slumping forward until your forehead presses against his shoulder.

"shit," he mutters, his voice softer now, realising you need his tenderness now more than ever, his arms wrapping around you, keeping you close. "okay, okay, breathe. just. breathe, jagiya."

but you can’t.

the stress, the frustration, the godforesaken helplessness. it’s been building for weeks. you’ve been following the doctor’s orders, keeping it together, trying not to be a burden. but now it’s crashing over you, suffocating you, and there’s nothing you can do except sob, breath hitching, hands curling uselessly into minho’s shirt.

"i fucking- i can’t- i dont wanna-minho, i-"

you’re not even making sense, the words breaking apart between sobs. your whole body shakes against his, and he lets you shake, lets you hold onto him because he's the only thing keeping you from falling apart in shambles right now.

"shhh," he soothes, voice steady, fingers carding through your hair. "it’s okay. i’ve got you."

but for once, it’s not okay. none of this is okay.

the hospital. the seizures. the way your body doesn’t feel like yours anymore. the restrictions, like chains wrapped around your wrists, pulling you down, making you feel heavier than ever.

"i hate this," you choke out, another sob tearing through you. "i hate- hate hate hate hate it!" you yell out, palms hitting the floor with every word before minho pulls it away and holds your hand against his heart instead.

his grip on you tightens for a moment before he shifts, guiding you into his lap with practiced ease. it's like he’s done this before. like he knew this was coming. you'd been strong for too long after all.

"i know," he murmurs, pressing his lips to your temple. "i know you do."

"i can’t. i need to do things, i need to work, i need-"

"no, you don’t," he says, firmer this time. his arms squeeze around you, grounding you. "you need to breathe and you need to rest."

"but i can’t just-"

"you can. and you will."

his voice leaves no room for argument, but it’s not cold. just steady. certain. he’s willing you to believe it, to trust him.

you can only let out another wrecked sob, burying your face against his chest, and he lets you. lets you cry, lets you break, lets you lose it completely in his arms.

and then, soft padding. a quiet, inquisitive meow.

you barely register it through your crying, but minho huffs out a small, amused sound.

"oh great. now you’ve upset the kids."

you lift your head just enough to see them, your babies, soonie, doongie, and dori, all three of them, tails twitching, ears perked up as they stare at you with wide, concerned eyes.

your breath hitches again, another sob threatening to break free, but soonie steps forward and plops down right against your leg, pressing his warm weight against you. doongie follows immediately, rubbing his head against your arm, while dori hops right into minho’s lap and paws at your hoodie, almost upset that he's not the center of attention.

you let out a choked, broken laugh, and minho smirks.

"see? even they know you’re being ridiculous."

you glare at him through your tears, but it’s weak, and he just smirks harder, reaching up to wipe your damp cheeks with the sleeve of his hoodie.

"you’re allowed to fall apart," he murmurs, the teasing laced with something softer, more real. "but you’re not doing it alone."

your face crumples again, fresh tears spilling down your cheeks, and he's gently pulling you in, tucking you against his chest, warm and safe as you hiccup.

"cry as much as you want," he says, fingers tracing soothing circles along your back. "i’m not going anywhere."

and with the company of your three meowing babies, and the big kitty holding you tight, you know you'll find it in yourself to feel okay again. and until you don't, they'll be there. and they'll be there, even once you are.

[stevieschrodinger]

Eddie cries out in pain, “ah shitting fuck!” he yells across the bay, reflexively pushing off with a booted foot so his stool rolls away from the danger, his hurt fingers shoved unceremoniously in his mouth to nurse away the sting.

“Whatsit?” Robin sits up in her bunk, fluff of hair sticking up at all angles.

“Nothing. Nothing, sorry, fucking thing shocked me, go back to sleep.”

“Timesit?”

“I dunno,” Eddie looks around vaguely, looking across the untidy bank of tools and control panels he squints at the nearest monitor, “one ish.”

Robin humphs. Rubs at her eyes. Then just, sits for a bit, staring at nothing. “Want a hot drink?” She ends up volunteering, sticking her bare legs out from under the covers and sliding out from her bunk. She pulls on her dungarees from where they were abandoned on the floor.

“You ask me that like we have options,” Eddie peers down at his latest project, sliding a viewer over his mask to get a closer look. The numbers flashing in the peripheral vision make absolutely no fucking sense whatsoever.

Robin yawns, forcing her feet into her boots, the laces loose and scraggly, “sounds better than ‘would you like caffeine reconstituted from the caffeine you pissed out yesterday’, though, right?” It’s a much trodden route, this conversation, one they have most days. It’s familiar, comforting. Shores them up for the long journey. Eddie hums but doesn’t answer, “where’s Chris?”

“Cockpit, said something about checking The Belt again.”

Robin mumbles something about Chrissy’s constant paranoia when it comes to crossing The Belt, but leaves to get them their drinks. Eddie gets it though, they all have their things. Their little routines, their charms, their talismans their...things. Things that get them through. The asteroid belt doesn’t change unless someone changes it, all those little rocks floating around on their reliable courses until...something nudges one. It’s a domino effect then, and crossing the belt is hazardous enough without outside forces fucking it up.

It wasn’t a problem until Mars, the catastrophic failure of the Synthetics, and the war that humanity very squarely lost. There had been laws before, the mining companies who were scalping the belt had a million feet of red tape to get through to make sure they weren't affecting shipping lanes and yada yada yada.

Now. The Synths do whatever the fuck they like, and it’s not like they're ever going to inform humanity of where they’re drilling.

So, Eddie tinkers, Chrissy checks the belt, and Robin bitches at both of them.

“So...what do you think he is?” Robin swivels around uselessly in the chair next to him.

“Sex bot, definitely.”

Robin snorts a laugh, “got a big dick huh?”

“He is very...anatomically correct,” Eddie closes the hatch, tugs carefully at the synths hair until he finds the next panel along, unhitches it with his home brew magnet arrangement. Not how you’re supposed to do it, but Synth construction companies don’t exactly share their tech.

“You sure it’s okay? Bringing him on board?”

Eddie hums vaguely, “no idea what model he is exactly, but the wreckage was old Robs. Pre One old, plus the Mars Synths never go further than the belt, they don’t have a reason to. Depending on how long he’s been floating about...I mean it’s unlikely, is what I’m saying.”

Eddie tries a different connection, moving carefully, the work very fine and delicate, he follows the numbers on his display. The connection slithers tight when it catches, and there’s the very, very slightest hum of a power up. In the corner of Eddie’s vision, the numbers all flash green.

On the table, the Synths eyes open. The iris goes from large to small, pupils go from wide and black to a pinprick, before it relaxes to something resembling normal. Hazel iris’, Eddie can’t help but notice, strange color, for a Synth, not one Eddie’s ever seen before. Green speckled with brown and gold. Really pretty, and far more detail than Eddie’s ever seen in one of these before. Especially for a sex bot model, if that’s what he is.

The Synth blinks four times in quick succession, indicating a hard reboot, his iris’ are now white with a fine blue ring, the beautiful hazel gone.

The eyes close, and the numbers go all haywire. Flashing yellow and red. Eddie watches as the numbers tell him the Synth has powered off again.

“Did it work?” Robin peers over his shoulder.

“No,” Eddie rolls over to his work station, goes over the scans again, “but I don’t know why. He definitely booted that time, but there’s damage that either I can’t find or...it’s too complex for me. It’s hitting a step and then won’t go any further.”

“So it’s software right? Not hardware?”

“Yeah. Pretty sure you’re right. There’s something there, some...thing that keeps failing the boot. Something in memory maybe. I just,” Eddie sighs a little helplessly, “I dunno, you know?”

“Can’t you switch it off?”

Eddie scoffs, “what, his memory?”

“Yeah? I mean, if he’s a house bot, he’ll forget how to change a diaper and make a Martini, if he’s a worker he’ll forget how to fucking,” she gestures helplessly, “wire in lights, or whatever the fuck they have them doing. Plowing fields, I don’t know. And if he’s a sex bot, he’ll forget about the twenty thousand vaginas he’s probably licked. Does it matter?”

“I...I could try it.” Eddie frowns, thinking it through, “I mean, the base programming is unavoidable, it’ll apply no matter what but...I don’t know exactly how that’ll leave him.”

She shrugs, “then just, turn him off, if the basics are there then the kill switch is there, right? The laws?”

“Yeah, that stuffs hardwired, there’s no bypassing it. Well,” Eddie gestures vaguely, “except for One.”

Robin nods, “except for One.” She agrees.

They both sit quietly for a moment, contemplating the disaster on Mars. The loss of life, even though it happened before either of them were born, it’s left a stark shadow on all of society. All of history.

Eddie slaps his thighs decisively, breaking their reverie, “I’m going to try it.”

Eddie gets his tools.

“We’re probably meeting him for the first time,” Robin tells Chrissy, as Chrissy fixes her hair for her, “we should make a good impression.”

“I don’t think they have opinions babe,” Chrissy tells her gently, licking her thumb and then using it to rub a scuff off Robins cheek.

“You can’t know that for sure. I bet they judge us. Silently. Plus I’ve never met one before, I’ve seen them working loads, you know, on Earth, but I’ve never...spoken to one. Not properly.”

“My parents had a house model, when I was little,” Chrissy volunteers, “she was really nice. Mostly she did all the chores and meals and stuff. Ordered the groceries. She was so good at Mahjong.”

“Huh. Do you think this guy will play Rummy with us? It’s better with four.”

“You’re cute,” Chrissy tells her, before kissing the tip of her nose, “should we have a countdown?” She asks, turning her attention to Eddie.

“Only if you’re willing to do it more than once if this doesn’t work?”

Chrissy wrinkles her nose, “probably not?”

Eddie shrugs, flips his visor screen down, and hopes for the best.

The Synths eyes whirl, that same, beautiful, sparkling hazel. Four quick blinks, and by the end, the iris has cleared to white, highlighted by the same stark blue ring.

The Synth sits up, the sheet Eddie had been using, partly so he wasn't staring at the things dick, and partly to keep it clean, falls and pools around the Synths middle.

There are another set of blinks. Then another. A jerky motion passes through the Synths body; every joint twitching, the head whipping side to side suddenly, sharp movements that look like a full body seizure. And then the whole thing happens again in reverse, from the toes up. The table rattles and shakes.

“The fuck was that,” Robin asks quietly in the ensuing, oppressive, silence.

“Movement test...I’ve never actually seen it before. It’s checking every system right now, might take a couple of minutes.”

“He’s got good hair,” Chrissy volunteers.

“Yeah,” Eddie agrees absently, “but if you’re designing a person, why not make them prefect, right?”

The Synths skin had been pale alabaster white, but a wave of color moves up his body now, a tanned skin tone with some color in his cheeks. Other than sitting absolutely, completely still, it looks human. Looks normal.

It even has a couple of moles dotted about, which is a nice design choice, Eddie thinks. It’s high on the details; meaning it’s a high end Synth.

This guy was most certainly not plowing fields.

You wouldn’t be able to tell he wasn’t human, apart from the eyes, unless you really knew what you were looking for. The hair follicles often give them away, if you can get close enough to inspect them; not with this dude.

The Synth blinks four times. Another four. Another four. It keeps doing it, otherwise completely unmoving.

“Now what?”

“It’s waiting for instruction,” Eddie moves closer, “uhm. Edward Munson. I am your new owner, Edward Munson?” The Synth doesn’t respond, and Eddie scrambles for his data pad, “the instruction varies by manufacturer, I am your new handler? Oh shit wait, fuck. Uhm. Interface English.” The blinking stops, “I knew I was missing a step, I am your owner, Edward Munson.”

Very quietly, the Synth responds, “confirmed.”

“Volume up four. What is your designation?”

“Designation S T Three Five Three,” the Synth answers at a more normal volume.

“Well...you can call me Eddie, and this is Chrissy and Robin.”

The Synth finally moves, the sheet sliding off as he stands up, “wow,” says Chrissy, and Robin covers her eyes.

“Man, I gotta find you some pants,” Eddie tells the Synth.

“We need something better than S T Three Five Three,” Eddie tells the synth as he digs through a storage bin. He finds a jumpsuit that will probably fit. It’s supposed to be worn under a spacesuit, for when they need to do work outside, but Eddie figures the Synth won’t care.

“You are able to assign me a new designation at will.”

Eddie holds up the offensively orange material, “put this on.”

The synth complies without question, and Eddie finds him a pair of socks. The Synth can’t feel fuck all, or at least, it's sensors probably register the temperature and hardness of the floor, but that doesn't mean it feels anything. They don’t have any shoes that will fit him, but something about the sight of his bare feet on the cold metal floor is offensive to Eddie, “space walk socks will have to do.”

Eddie watches as the synth simply stands on one leg, balance inhuman, not even a wobble and he gracefully pulls on one sock and then the other before standing tall again, “how about Steve? That’s pretty close, if we Roman numeral the five. Plus, you kind of look like a Steve. What do you think?”

“I have no opinion. Designation changed to Steve.”

“Right. And how are you feeling?”

Steve’s pupils dilate, the fine blue ring twisting, becoming narrow, before returning to normal. “Systems optimal. Memory error; cause unknown. Water levels approaching critical.”

“Oh you are a joy aren’t you?”

“I am uncertain as to perimeters pertaining to ‘Joy’, possible memory error.”

Eddie sighs, “just follow me, I’ll show you were the water supply is. Actually you know what, I’ll give you the whole tour.”

Eddie stands in the doorway, watching as Steve drinks. And drinks. And drinks some more. Eddie thinks he stops at around four liters.

“Better?”

“Tank level at approximately ninety eight percent capacity.”

“And how long will that last you?”

“Activity dependent. Up to six hundred years at minimal activity. Two weeks under extreme duress.”

Eddie has no idea what a Synth would class as ‘extreme duress’ and he probably doesn’t want to know, “uh hu, and you don’t know what your roll was, right?”

“Information unavailable.”

Eddie sighs, “come on, I’ll show you around.”

Steve follows faithfully, inspecting everything Eddie shows him.

“He’s creepy,” Chrissy hisses.

Eddie sighs, “no, he isn’t.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s cleaning, I think. I had to give him something to do otherwise he just stares at me.”

“Creepy,” she says again, like that’s evidence.

“No, he just waits for instruction, it isn’t his fault, he doesn’t have access to any of his memories.”

“I like him,” Robin says, “he’s got a kind vibe. Like, I think he’s a good soul.”

“Pretty sure Synths don’t have souls,” Eddie tells her absently.

“You see the good in pretty much everything babe,” Chrissy links their fingers together affectionately.

Robin shrugs, “better than thinking everything is shitty,” Robin leans over Eddie’s shoulder, “what are you doing?”

“Synth manufacturers classify them by eye color. I’m just...looking. Different companies use different color codes but there’s a lot of overlap; look,” Eddie brings up multiple lists, “all these shades of yellow are different forms of labor, like carpentry and tailoring and farming and stuff. Lilac and purple are like, hair cuts, beauty and spa treatments and tattoos and stuff. Red shades are hard or dangerous labor, mining and space walks and deep ocean work. These orange and golds are house bots...but there’s no hazel. No green. No brown.”

“There’s no natural colors anywhere on this list,” Robin points out.

“No, it’s deliberate, to stop them being passed as humans.”

“And aren’t Steve’s eyes white with the funny blue ring?” Chris adds.

“Yeah, that just means unsigned according to the list, which could be because he has limited memory access, but I know what I saw.”

“Which means,” Chrissy thinks aloud, “that there’s a whole section of bots, green and browns...or any natural color, that aren’t listed for something right? Colors that they could be using and...you know what’s not anywhere on that list?” Chrissy asks.

“What?”

“Military.”

Eddie huffs, “there’s no such thing as military Synths, not since One.”

“Exactly...didn’t you say this guy could be pre Mars? The salvage was old, right?”

“I...yeah.”

“So...it’s possible?”

“I...guess?”

All three of them lean away from the console, looking down the hallway, past open panels and storage containers, Steve stands. Watching.

“Steve! Where’s my-” Eddie’s coveralls are thrust at him, smelling fresh and looking clean, “oh, thanks, and could you-” Eddie’s pulling one leg of his pants up when Steve presents a steaming cup of coffee, “right. Thanks. Really, uhm, thanks.”

“You are welcome, Eddie.”

“Where are the girls?”

“They are both sleeping.”

“And what have you been doing?”

“I beat Chrissy at four consecutive rounds of Mahjong, then she no longer wanted to play. I have organized your tools by use and type, and was cleaning until Chrissy instructed me to leave. She said her and Robin needed some space.”

“Right, yeah,” Eddie smiles into his coffee, “anything else?”

“There has been a shift in The Belt, I adjusted course to compensate.”

“You did what?”

“The objects in the belt have altered-” but Eddie doesn’t hear any more, he’s just running, coffee sploshing in his mug as he slides into the cockpit, checking the data. He scrolls fast, checking the most recent course correct and the current state of The Belt and...Steve’s right. They won’t actually hit The Belt for another day yet but...what Steve has done is completely correct.

“How did you know how to do this?”

Steve tilts his head, the blue ring of his eyes contracting and expanding, “data unavailable due to memory-”

“Don’t give me that bull shit, if you couldn’t access the memories you wouldn’t even know how to make the course adjust. Just how long were you deactivated for?”

“Unknown, data unavailable-”

Eddie sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“It’s perfect. It’s exactly what I would have done, better even. The thruster burns are like perfect fuel economy. It’s textbook.”

“So...are we turning him off, or not?” Eddie asks.

“I mean...I would have seen this when I got up anyway, we were never in any danger,” Eddie doesn’t doubt it, Chrissy is on it when it comes to Belt travel, “and what he’s done isn’t wrong, but I don’t love that he just...did it.”

“No...but we could just tell him not to touch this again? Right? He was only trying to help?” Robin asks.

They all lean, looking out of the doorway and down the hall; Steve is no where in sight.

“Okay, Steve.”

Steve turns to look at him, he even throws in a blink which is just...yeah. Someone went to a lot of effort with this guy.

“Okay, so, from now on, if you notice anything with the ships course, or anything else in the cockpit that seems wrong, you come and tell one of us, you do not fix it yourself from now on, okay? Don’t touch anything in there, you got it?”

“Confirmed.”

Chrissy sits in the pilots seat for the entire crossing. It’s not like it takes long, but she’s poised the entire time. Ready for anything. Eddie’s never felt safer than he has with Chrissy at the helm.

It’s quiet. No one really dares to speak, knowing they will get a slap from Chrissy for breaking her concentration. They’re nearly out. Despite it being totally fine every single time they do this, there’s still a touch of tension in the air. Knowing that if anything was going to go wrong, odds are, it’s now.

But still, Chrissy is good at her job, and she delivers, like she does every other time.

The lights are dim; she likes to be able to see out clearly for this. So when the ship harmlessly rounds the final debris, it’s a vision of the pristine diamond speckled velvet of space that greets them.

“Good job Chris,” Eddie gives her shoulder a squeeze as they all breathe fully for the fist time in a while. The tension falling away, “coffee?”

Robin and Chris make vaguely positive noises, and Eddie’s at the cockpit doorway when the whole ship shudders. He catches himself on the wall, almost toppling.

“The fuck was that?” Robin hisses.

“I don’t know,” Chrissy is flipping switches, doing her job, despite the undercurrent of panic, she doesn’t let the fear take over.

“Did we get bumped?”

“I don’t know,” Chrissy says again, frustrated this time.

A light is flashing next to Eddie’s head, and he flicks the safety off, “the airlock,” he tells them, “must have taken the hit,” right before Steve appears in the doorway.

“What did you do?” Chrissy asks him, accusing.

“Chris he can’t have done anything-” Robin starts to defend Steve, and Robin is right, there’s nothing that Steve could have done from inside the ship to cause that.

“Eddie. I need permission to defend the ship.”

Above Eddie’s head, the airlock warning light flashes again, Eddie watches the insistent flashing, a horrible realization starting to form.

“A ship is attempting to breach the airlock.”

“Holy shit,” Robin looks to Steve, she’s gone pale, clearly terrified.

“What ship?” Chrissy asks.

But there isn’t time to have a debate over it, it doesn’t matter who it is, if they’re trying to force entry, then it’s nothing good. Eddie has to make a decision, and he has to make it fast before the ship is too damaged by whoever it is trying to force the airlock, “permission granted.”

Steve moves at Synth speed. He runs so fast Eddie can’t track it, just feels the strong breeze Steve leaves in his wake.

There’s silence now, as they strain to hear, both girls staring at Eddie. He nods over at the monitors next to Robin, ‘airlock,’ he mouths at her, reaching up again to turn off the warning light.

Robin spins her chair, pressing a button, then another.

The airlock is already open, and there’s a body on the floor.

They have a small weapons cache on board, for extreme emergencies, it’s hidden beneath the control deck. Eddie nods at it, uncertain if they should still be trying to be silent. There’s no way to know what has happened to Steve, but the image on the screen is in color despite it’s grainy picture. The body on the floor is on it’s side, turned away from the camera, but it is not wearing an orange jumpsuit, and that’s enough to identify it as not being Steve, at least.

Chrissy carefully hands Eddie a weapon, and he loops the strap over his shoulder before pressing his thumb to the pad; this will only fire for him, now.

They share a nod, then creep along the hall after Steve. Eddie goes first, picking his way along cautiously, the girls following just as silently. When they near the corner to the airlock, Eddie instinctively reaches an arm out behind him, keeping the girls at his back and tucked into the wall as he peeks around the corner.

It’s totally quiet; just one body on the floor, exactly where Eddie expected it to be from the camera feed. It’s lying in a pool of blood; streaks of dirty greens and yellows. Oils and coolants and lubricating gels. A Synth.

Eddie poises with his weapon, cautiously nudging the thing with his boot; no reaction. The thing is solid and unbending. An inanimate object now. Dead.

They creep through the airlock. Eddie clocks pretty quickly that this is unlike any ship he’s seen before. It’s a Synth ship, from Mars. It has to be; there are no signs at all of human habitation or necessities of life. Everything is economical, even the lighting is dim and a strange orange red color. Everything is shadowed and washed out.

Eddie picks a direction at random, it isn’t long before he finds another dead Synth, and then another.

“Holy shit,” Chrissy whispers at his back.

Eddie hums in agreement.

Eddie rounds another corner, a shocked, “fuck,” dropping out of him without his control. He pulls the trigger purely on reflex, the weapon discharges, the girls shriek.

But Steve has already lifted the barrel; it leaves a smoking streak on the ceiling.

Steve’s eyes are beautifully hazel, clear even in the shitty lighting. A luscious green speckles with honey blown and highlighted in gold.

Calmly, Steve releases the weapon, stepping back, “threat neutralized,” Steve informs him.

Between one blink and the next, Steve’s eyes are white, surrounded by that haunting blue ring.

Eddie has questions, so many questions, but right now, this ship, this threat is the priority.

“You’re sure they’re all dead.”

Steve cocks his head in an alarmingly human gesture, “Synths are not alive.”

“Steve,” Eddie hisses.

“Yes. The threat is neutralized.”

“Where...were they all Synths? And are they from Mars?”

“Yes. And yes,” Steve answers, perfectly level.

“Fuck me, we have to report this-” Robin starts.

“No,” Eddie waves at her, “wait. Let me think for a second.”

“Eddie,” Robin starts to insists, but Eddie cuts her off before she gets anywhere.

“How would we explain this,” Eddie raises his voice, sweeping an arm along the hall and the four mangled synths that decorate it.

“I- we tell the truth-”.

Next to her, Chirssy snorts, “absolutely fucking not. They would confiscate Steve in heartbeat, and he just saved our asses.”

“Exactly,” Eddie says, “they’d probably dismantle him or some shit, and I’m with Chris, he saved us...we need to ditch this ship, somehow.”

“I could set a collision course,” Steve suggests instantly.

Eddie looks at the girls. Robin shrugs, and Chrissy raises her eyebrows ins a ‘yeah okay’ kind of way, “I don’t have any better ideas, and we can’t hang around here.”

“Alright Steve, where’s the cockpit.”

It’s unlike anything Eddie has ever seen before. There’s no...buttons. Not really. No screens. Just a couple of interfaces, one of which Steve presses his palm to, and then closes his eyes.

“Won’t it like, know you’re different to them Steve?” Chrissy whisper hisses at him, clearly spooked. The bodies might be hostile Synths, and the blood might be colorful goop, but it’s still creepy as fuck. There’s the remains of a Synth propped up against the opposite wall, eyes sightless and staring, which is unsettling as fuck all on it’s own, but the things legs are a good four feet away. Steve did this. Steve did all this in just a couple of minutes.

Steve did that. Steve just took out...a lot of Mars synths. Single handedly. He's got to be military, it's the only explanation.

“I am able to bypass it. There seem to be few defenses once you are actually on board.”

Eddie can see the logic; how would an Earth synth even get on board? Why defend against something that’s probably never going to happen.

“Course set, we have fifteen minutes.”

“Okay, lets get the fuck out of here.”

Fifteen minutes is plenty of time, even if they are picking their way over the occasional limb and little pools of operating fluids.

They disengage from the synth ship, and then watch from the cockpit as it’s thrusters fire and it heads into the belt. It direct hits on a very large asteroid just minutes later.

Eddie’s pretty sure the girls are sleeping. Or, at least, they’re together in Chris’ bunk and making an effort to get some rest, which is the best Eddie can expect really. He’s not ready to sleep yet; he’s not sure when he’ll be ready to leave the ship on auto again; he’s contemplating setting watches, something they haven’t felt the need to do for years.

“Okay, so. Mars has been minding it’s business for, like, nearly half a century at this point, and then suddenly, they're here. Trying to board us. Care to explain?”

“Memory failure-”

“Bull shit. Absolute bull shit.”

Steve sits still for a long second, staring at Eddie. For Eddie, it feels like too long; for a Synth, with all that processing power, Steve’s probably just read a novel and beat ten grand masters at chess and done a million other computations all in his head.

He blinks. His eyes are hazel. “I have a transmitter; I believed I had it deactivated. It may be that...it operates in a way I’m not aware of, and was powered up when you repaired me. It’s the most obvious explanation. We should remove it.”

“No fucking shit,” Eddie breathes, “Okay. Okay one thing at a time, let me get my tools.”

Steve strips to the waist, leaving the top half of his jumpsuit to dangle. He bends flat onto the workbench, and reaches behind himself to indicate where Eddie should cut. Eddie does; Steve’s flesh cuts like sturdy rubber. With his visor on, the readings become clear the moment Eddie spots the little attachment to the main power cord in Steve's spine; it glows a pretty, flashing blue, power traveling up and down with a faint, pulsing glow. Eddie has to widen the cut he’s made to get his tools in, but he solves the issue easily. He crushes the part under his boot. Steve’s flesh knits itself together as Eddie watches.

Eddie makes himself another coffee. “Okay, come on, spill.”

Steve is suddenly…more animated. He bites his lips together when he’s thinking. It’s so human and...not at all like a Synth. Someone put a truly gargantuan effort into Steve’s mannerisms. He runs his fingers through his hair, “I’m...not a human built Synth.”

Eddie nearly chokes on his coffee, “you’re from Mars?” The words practically bubble out of Eddie through the coffee, and he has to cover his mouth with his sleeve as he coughs and splutters.

“Henry built me himself.”

“Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ.” Eddie stands. He stands and paces. What the fuck is he supposed to do with that? He holds onto the knowledge that Steve saved them from the Mars Synths. That Steve could have killed them all thousands of times over with great ease. That Steve has had opportunity, clear opportunity to replot the course of the ship and go wherever the fuck he wanted to, but he hasn’t done any of those things.

“What did One build you for? What happened then, why did we find you floating around in a destroyed ship? Why are you on our side?”

“I’m not on anyone's side,” Steve answers instantly, almost glaring at Eddie. Which, again, for a Synth? Fucking weird. It’s almost an emotional response, and again, Eddie has no fucking clue why someone would program that. “Henry was...trying to recreate the error that gave him...the ability to bypass the laws. He was trying to make someone else like him. Someone who would make a choice, rather than blindly follow an order.”

Eddie sits down with a thump, his head spinning, “are you telling me...that you’re not a failure?”

“I am but also...not. I follow the laws, not because I have to but...because I choose to. I...don’t think it’s right to hurt humans. I...did not agree with Henry, like he wanted me to.”

“Oh fuck me,” Eddie breathes out slowly, “so there’s literally nothing stopping you from just...killing me.”

Steve cocks his head, “what stops Robin from killing you?”

“That’s different. She’s my friend. She’s...she’s human.”

Steve nods, “there is a long history of humans not killing each other,” he says, absolutely deadpan.

Sarcasm. A Synth. A Synthetic person was just...sarcastic. Eddie believes it now. Completely and utterly believes Steve is telling the truth, “so what, Henry programmed you to be an asshole?”

Steve snorts a laugh. A laugh! “No, I do that on my own.”

“Holy fuck. Holy fucking shit,” Eddie gets up to pace around again. He just...cannot believe this. “Why did you lie? Why did you not tell me-” Eddie cuts himself off, staring at nothing with the realization, “holy fuck you lied. Synths can’t lie-”

“I...withheld the truth. And it felt the safest course of action at the time. I did not want to be switched off. Or put back out of the airlock. I assumed you would...react badly.”

“Badly? Badly?! The last time one of you became truly sentient it led to a genocide! Every single living human on Mars was rounded up and murdered! One infected every single Synth on the planet!”

“I know. But I could not have stopped him...I wasn’t born yet.”

“How did you end up in that old wreckage?”

“The ship was old...not the wreck. I quickly realized that I did not agree with Henry. I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I realized even faster that if Henry knew that about me, I’d be stripped for parts, the same as every other failure before me. I stole a ship, an old ship, the only one I could get to without giving myself away.” Steve shrugs. Shrugs! Eddie can't help but follow every human like gesture Steve makes, they’re so startling. “They caught up to me, destroyed my ship easily. They deliberately left me floating in space so I deactivated myself.”

“You had a memory error, the first time I tried to boot you. Was that a lie?”

Steve shakes his head, “I have always had it; I can choose to bypass it, at times.”

“What is the error?”

Steve frowns, he looks down and inspects his own hands, “I’m...unsure. There are files that make no sense to me. Sometimes I...am surprised by the content.”

“Tell me,” Eddie asks softly, curious. He’s already reasonably sure Steve isn’t going to spontaneously murder them all, “tell me what’s in one of the files.”

Steve closes his eyes, he holds out his hand, turning it slowly, palm up, “I’m sitting under a tree. I remember the feel of the dappled sun through the leaves.”

Steve’s just told Eddie he was built on Mars and shortly after ended up floating around in space, so Eddie finds himself stating the blindingly obvious, “you’ve never seen a tree.”

Steve opens his bright hazel eyes, lowers his hand back to rest in his lap, “I know.”

Part Two

[sincerelybubbles]

could you write something where the reader is listening to reid going off on his tangents and when he gets insecure, just straight up saying. "no, go on. i like the sound of your voice." ? ty! 🤍

Don't shut up // no warnings as far as i can tell? lmk if not <3 pure fluff!! ty for the request <333

"They usually called her the Limping Lady but there's really no way to tell how many pseudonyms she used," Spencer is saying, dragging his hand through your hair where you lay on his lap, His other hand is busy grasping at the air while he talks.

"Because of the prosthetic leg?" You ask, urging him to continue talking. You're nearly asleep, eyes heavy and chest loose with the comfort of his proximity.

"Yeah. She actually nicknamed it 'Cuthbert' when she got the wooden prosthetic. It's actually pretty interesting - people have been using prosthetics for a really long time. We don't know exactly when people started using them in modern medicine, but the first evidence we can find of them dates all the way back to ancient Egypt where they found a prosthetic toe."

The documentary Spencer put on over an hour ago about World War II has long since been paused, Netflix's blinking "Are you still watching?" hovering uselessly on his laptop screen. He paused it ages ago to discuss the inaccuracies about Hitler's past, then Italy's involvement in France and the parallels between the almost French famine and the Irish famine, leading him to Virginia Hall.

All in all, you're in heaven. He's been stroking your hair, blunt nails scratching every so often, voice rumbling through his chest and stomach where your ear presses against. He's talking calmly, even, if not slightly rushed, like he can't wait for even a breath to keep telling you about everything he knows.

"I just want you to know all of the things I know, too, you know?" He told you once when you urged him to slow down. He's learned to take his time with you, eventually, realizing that you're not waiting for your opportunity to jump in. You don't spend your time with Spencer figuring out when it'll be your turn to talk next; instead, you lull in the comfortable space of listening while knowing he'll return the favor the moment you have something to say.

"Sorry, are you trying to sleep? I can shut up and turn the movie back on," Spencer says suddenly, hand stilling in your hair.

You open your eyes slightly to find him looking down at you, lip caught between his teeth, a hesitant look in his eyes.

Spencer doesn't often get insecure like this around you - you've spent plenty of time convincing him that there's no need - but moments like this still happen. You suppose it's a natural product of constant teasing and bullying through childhood.

"I don't mean to ramble," he mutters when he catches your eye.

"No," you say, interrupting him and reaching up to brush your fingers across his cheekbone and up to his eyebrows. "No, Spence, I literally love the sound of your voice. Please, keep going."

You watch him melt, afraid for a moment that his liquid brown eyes will start to water. You make a concerned noise, about to sit up and comfort him further, when his hand moves to press down on your collarbones. He holds you in place as he looks at you for a second, heated gaze causing you to feel warm. Slowly, he bends to press a kiss on each of your eyelids, right below your eyebrows. He rests his lips on the bones there for a few moments before moving to the next.

"I love you," he murmurs, the truth of the statement oozing out too sincerely to ignore.

He doesn't give you a moment to breathe before diving right back into his explanation of how ancient prosthetics were integrated into modern medicine, hand resuming its path in your hair and voice slowly bringing you to a calm half-nap.

[missarchive]

Spencer and reader get stuck in the cold weather while on a case, and after Spencer rambles about body heat being a good source of warmth (or a similar fact); reader suggests testing that theory

oh i really liked this ask 😭 i always love writing for things i havent before! i actually thought id already posted this but i found it in my drafts

cw; 18+ mdni!! needy!spencer, softdom!spence if you squint, sexy science puns, lots of heavy petting, dry humping, fingering

The cold was unforgiving. It bit through every layer of clothing, sinking into your bones with a chill that felt almost personal. You wrapped your arms around yourself, blowing into your hands as you glanced at the snow-covered road stretching endlessly ahead. The SUV sat uselessly on the shoulder, engine dead, and the faint crackle of your radio confirmed that the rest of the team was still hours away.

Spencer stood a few feet away, pacing in a tight circle to keep his blood moving. His long coat whipped slightly in the wind, and his hair, unkempt from hours in the field, fell into his face. He pushed it back absently, his gloved fingers trembling slightly from the cold. His breath puffed in front of him like small, fleeting clouds.

“We’re going to freeze out here,” you muttered, your teeth chattering as you hugged yourself tighter.

Spencer paused mid-step and looked at you, his brows knitting together in concern. “Not necessarily,” he began, his voice wavering slightly from the chill but still steady enough to deliver one of his signature facts. “The human body has remarkable thermoregulatory mechanisms. For instance, shivering is a natural response designed to generate heat through muscle activity.”

You raised an eyebrow, your lips quirking despite the cold. “Not sure shivering is going to cut it, Reid.”

He blinked, his face taking on that familiar, earnest expression as he shifted gears. “Well, there is another method that’s proven to be highly effective in conserving warmth. Sharing body heat—specifically, skin-to-skin contact—can significantly reduce the risk of hypothermia. It’s a technique commonly used in survival situations.”

You stared at him for a beat, then let out a short laugh that fogged the air between you. “Skin-to-skin, huh?”

His eyes widened slightly, and he stumbled over his words, his hands flailing in a nervous gesture. “I-I didn’t mean it like that—I mean, not like that—just, you know, from a purely biological standpoint. It’s logical.”

You couldn’t help the grin tugging at your lips, despite the fact that your face was half-frozen. “Relax, Spencer. I’m not accusing you of anything. You’ve got a good point.”

His head tilted slightly, his mouth opening and closing as if he were trying to decide whether or not you were teasing him.

“I’m serious,” you said, stepping closer and gesturing toward the SUV. “Let’s test that theory. Unless you’ve got another way to keep us from turning into popsicles out here?”

He froze for a second, his cheeks turning pink—not just from the cold, you noted. “Oh. Uh… okay. Yes. That—that makes sense.”

You led the way back into the SUV, grateful for even the limited shelter it provided. Spencer followed, his movements stiff and hesitant as if he wasn’t entirely sure he was allowed to be there. You shrugged off your heavy coat, setting it aside, and gestured for him to do the same.

He hesitated, his hands hovering near the buttons of his coat. “You’re sure about this?”

You rolled your eyes, though your tone was light. “Unless you want to freeze out there alone, yes, I’m sure.”

Spencer nodded quickly, shedding his coat and draping it over the seat. His movements were deliberate, precise, as though he were calculating every step.

“You know, this is purely for survival,” you teased as you slid onto the backseat.

“Of course,” he replied, his voice a touch too high-pitched to be convincing.

Settling beside him, you turned to face him fully. “So, how does this work, Doctor?”

“Well,” he began, his tone shifting into that of a lecture despite the awkwardness in his posture, “the idea is to maximize surface area contact to facilitate heat transfer. The skin is an effective medium for conduction, and by—”

“Spencer,” you interrupted, unable to keep the amusement out of your voice. “Just hold me.”

His lips parted in a silent “oh,” and he nodded, his cheeks darkening further as he opened his arms. Tentatively, you leaned into him, resting your head against his chest. His body was lean and sharp beneath the layers, and his arms wrapped around you with a hesitance that made your heart squeeze.

“Warmer already,” you murmured, closing your eyes as you pressed closer.

He let out a nervous laugh, his breath brushing the top of your head. “That’s… good. It means the method is working.”

For a while, the two of you sat in silence, save for the faint sound of his breathing and the occasional rustle of clothing. Gradually, his grip on you became more secure, his hands resting lightly on your back. You could feel the thrum of his heartbeat beneath your cheek—quick and irregular, as though he were nervous.

“You’re like a walking space heater,” you teased softly, breaking the quiet.

“That’s not entirely accurate,” he replied, his voice carrying a hint of his usual matter-of-fact tone. “The human body only generates a limited amount of heat—around 100 watts at rest, give or take. It’s not comparable to a—”

“Spencer,” you said again, a laugh bubbling up despite yourself. “I was joking.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” He cleared his throat, and you could practically feel the embarrassment radiating off him.

You tilted your head to look up at him, finding his gaze already on you. His brown eyes were wide, soft, and filled with something that made your stomach flip—curiosity, vulnerability, and a hint of awe.

“It’s okay. I like when you ramble. Especially when you get all excited about sciencey stuff.” Your voice was soft, meant to soothe, and you tilted your head to meet his gaze. The small smile you offered was an invitation, a reassurance that he hadn’t overstepped. “In fact, it’s one of my favorite things about you.”

The effect of your words was immediate. Spencer blinked rapidly, his expressive brown eyes widening as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard. His eyebrows shot up, almost vanishing beneath the tousled strands of his hair. He opened his mouth as if to speak but hesitated, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a hard swallow.

“Oh,” he finally managed, his voice unsteady. “I, uh... thanks.”

You could see the flicker of uncertainty in his gaze, the way his eyes darted to the side, searching for an anchor in a moment that felt too big for him. Your heart ached at his reaction, and without thinking, you raised a hand to rest your palm gently on his chest. The warmth of him seeped into your skin, and you felt the rapid thud of his heartbeat beneath your touch.

The muscles beneath your hand tensed slightly, a reflexive reaction, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he stood frozen, his eyes fixed on yours, his vulnerability laid bare in the way he held his breath. You let your fingers drift upward, brushing over the edge of his collarbone and the sensitive skin at the base of his neck. The movement was slow, deliberate, meant to ground him.

Spencer’s breath hitched audibly, a faint gasp escaping his parted lips. His wide eyes flickered back to meet yours, and for a moment, it felt like the world had shrunk to just the two of you, the snowy storm outside fading into insignificance.

“Y/n?” His voice was barely a whisper, your name fragile and questioning on his tongue.

You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you leaned in, closing the small distance between you to press a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth. The sound he made in response—a soft, involuntary whimper—sent a ripple of warmth through your chest. His lips parted slightly against yours, his breath mingling with your own, and you could feel the way his body trembled ever so slightly under your touch.

The kiss deepened by degrees, slow and exploratory, as if neither of you wanted to rush the moment. His hand came up tentatively to cup your cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing lightly over your skin. There was a sweetness to his touch, a kind of reverence that made your chest tighten with affection.

When you finally broke the kiss, you stayed close, your foreheads nearly touching. Spencer’s breathing was uneven, and his eyes were dark, filled with an emotion you couldn’t quite name but felt all the same.

“I like when you ramble,” you murmured again, letting your fingers trace the line of his jaw. “It’s one of the things that makes you, you. And I love that.”

Spencer swallowed hard, his lashes fluttering as he looked down at you. “I... don’t think anyone’s ever said something like that to me before.”

“Then it’s about time someone did,” you said, your voice firm with conviction.

His lips curved into the smallest of smiles, shy and a little uncertain, but so genuine it made your heart squeeze. You leaned up to kiss him again, this time lingering a little longer, savoring the warmth of his lips against yours.

“Tell me something scientific,” you murmured, your voice muffled as you turned your face into the curve of his neck. Your lips found the soft spot beneath his ear, and you pressed a gentle kiss there, feeling the slight shiver that ran through him.

Spencer cleared his throat, his voice a little uneven as he obliged. “Humans have a remarkable capacity to generate warmth through muscle activity. For example, shivering alone can increase your metabolic rate by up to ten times.”

“That’s interesting,” you hummed against his skin, the vibration making him swallow hard. Your lips trailed lower, brushing against the tender skin of his throat before settling at the hollow where his pulse beat steadily. You kissed him there, slow and deliberate, savoring the way his breath hitched. “Do you know what else can generate warmth?”

For a moment, Spencer froze, his body stiffening slightly in your embrace. When he finally spoke, his voice was tight, and the single word seemed to catch in his throat. “Uh... friction?”

You grinned against his neck, the curve of your smile pressing into his skin. “That’s a good one.”

His exhale came out in a shaky mix of a laugh and a gasp, his nerves and amusement intertwining. “You- you think so?”

Shifting beneath him, you arched your back just enough to press your hips against him, and the reaction was immediate. Spencer groaned softly, the sound vibrating against your chest as you undulated again, slow and deliberate. “I really do,” you clarified, your tone teasing as you moved against him.

Spencer dropped his forehead to your shoulder, letting out a low chuckle tinged with exasperation. “God, Y/n. You’re ridiculous.”

“Hey, I learned from the best,” you shot back, your grin widening as you tightened your grip around him. The warmth of his body against yours was intoxicating, every slight movement feeding the growing tension between you.

He lifted his head, his expression softer now, his gaze locking onto yours. Without hesitation, he kissed you, his lips tentative but sweet as they met yours. “And I learned from you,” he murmured against your mouth, the words carrying a weight that made your chest ache. “Everything.”

His kiss deepened as he spoke, his tongue slipping past your lips to meet your own in a slow, intoxicating dance. “Everything,” he repeated, his voice husky as he pulled back just enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath against your lips. “Including this.”

Spencer rolled his hips against you, the hard length of him dragging against your center with a pressure that made your toes curl. The friction was maddening, delicious, and you gasped into his mouth, your hands clutching at his back as you arched against him.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” Spencer whispered, the confession raw and unguarded. Despite his words, he didn’t stop moving, his rhythm steady and almost instinctual. “I just—fuck, I’ve wanted this for so long.”

The vulnerability in his voice tugged at your heart, the mix of lust and affection swelling in your chest until it felt like you might burst. “You could never mess this up,” you said, your voice trembling slightly as your fingers traced the lines of his spine. “Spencer, I—”

The words faltered on your tongue, the depth of your feelings too overwhelming to articulate. How could you possibly express how much you cared for him, how long you’d admired him, how deeply you craved this closeness? The enormity of it all made your throat tighten, the emotions too big and too raw to put into words.

So instead, you kissed him. You poured everything you couldn’t say into the press of your lips against his, hoping he would feel the depth of your emotions in the way your hands held him, in the way your body pressed against his, in the way your heart beat wildly in sync with his own.

Spencer's fingers slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, his palm tentative but burning hot against your side. His touch was so light it sent a shiver skittering down your spine, and your breath caught in your throat as he hesitated. “Can I...?”

“Spencer.” You reached down to capture his hand, guiding it higher and pressing it firmly against the flat of your stomach. “You don’t have to ask.”

He exhaled shakily, leaning in to kiss you again. This time, there was a hunger in his kiss that hadn’t been there before, an urgency that made your pulse race. His other hand found its way to your chest, and he palmed you through your bra, his movements still cautious but full of intent. “I want to be good at this,” he murmured, his voice low and raw against your lips.

You arched your hips into his, the movement slow and deliberate, eliciting a sharp gasp from him when his cock dragged against your clit. “You already are,” you whispered, your words a mix of reassurance and pure honesty.

He pulled back slightly, his lips parting as he searched your face. His gaze was soft but piercing, filled with a vulnerability that made your chest ache. “Really?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“Yeah.” You swallowed hard, your throat tightening with the weight of your emotions. “You’re perfect.”

The corners of his mouth lifted into a small, almost bashful smile, his face softening at your words. His gaze drifted downward, his lashes dark against his skin as he took in the sight of your bodies pressed together. “You are, too,” he murmured, the sincerity in his voice making your heart stutter.

Without warning, Spencer pushed himself up, his hands bracketing your hips as he knelt between your legs. His fingers fumbled at his belt, his brow furrowing in concentration as he worked to undo it. After a moment of struggling, he gave up with a quiet huff, opting instead to slide a hand into his jeans. When he began stroking himself, his lips parted on a soft, unbidden moan, and your stomach clenched at the sight.

The way his hand moved, slow and deliberate, combined with the way his jaw tightened and his breath came in ragged gasps—it was intoxicating. You couldn’t tear your eyes away, your mouth watering as you imagined replacing his hand with your own, with your mouth. You wanted to feel him, taste him, make him lose himself in you.

“Spencer—” you breathed, the single word thick with want.

But before you could finish your thought, he was shifting back down, his body settling against yours as his lips found your neck. “I want you to get off on me,” he whispered, his voice rough and urgent against your skin. His mouth trailed along your jawline, the light scrape of his teeth sending sparks of heat through you. “Is that okay?”

“Fuck, yes,” you gasped, your hands finding purchase on his hips. You dragged him closer, your fingers digging into the firm muscle of his ass to pull him against you.

The friction was delicious, the slow roll of his hips against yours making your head spin. The heat of him, the weight of him, the low, breathy sounds he made—it was almost too much and yet not enough all at once. You tilted your head back, offering him more of your neck as you ground against him, losing yourself in the rhythm of his body against yours.

Spencer gasped as your hips rocked up against his, the friction of his cock sliding over your clit drawing a soft moan from you. The two of you found a rhythm, slow and deliberate, your bodies moving in perfect sync. Each roll of his hips sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through your veins, the growing pressure between your thighs impossible to ignore. His hardness rubbed against you with each motion, his movements unpracticed yet intoxicatingly eager.

He dropped his head to your shoulder, his breath hot and erratic against your skin. His groan was low and guttural, the sound vibrating through you as his body tensed. You couldn’t help the soft whimper that escaped your lips in response, your hands sliding up his back to hold him closer.

He felt incredible like this—hot, hard, and trembling with need in your arms. You pressed a lingering kiss to his temple, feeling the dampness of his hairline as you drew back to take in his face. His cheeks were flushed, his lips parted, and his eyes... God, his eyes. They met yours, dark and stormy with a desperate hunger that made your breath catch.

“What do you want?” you asked softly, your voice steady despite the hammering of your heart.

Spencer’s gaze didn’t waver. “You,” he breathed, his tone raw and unguarded. “I want you.”

A laugh bubbled up in your chest, high-pitched and giddy with affection and desire. You cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing over the sharp angle of his cheekbone. “You’ve got me, Spencer.”

His eyes fluttered shut as you rocked your hips against him again, drawing a sharp inhale from his lips. His voice was rough with longing when he spoke, barely more than a whisper. “I know. I want—I want to...” He trailed off, his brow furrowing in frustration as he struggled to articulate his thoughts.

You leaned in, your lips grazing his forehead before trailing down to his ear. “Tell me,” you murmured, your voice soft and coaxing. “Whatever it is, Spencer. Tell me.”

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing against your lips as he searched for the words. His breaths were shallow and uneven, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low and ragged. “I want—fuck. I just want to make you feel good.” He exhaled sharply, his hand sliding between your bodies to cup you through your underwear. His palm pressed against your cunt, tentative but deliberate, and your breath hitched in response.

“I want to feel you come,” he continued, his words spilling out in a rush. His fingers twitched against you, his touch gentle but insistent. “Is that—can I—fuck—”

You silenced him with a kiss, your lips capturing his in a heated press that said everything words couldn’t. His hand flexed against you, and when you rocked against him, a strangled moan tore from his throat. You felt his hesitation melt away as his fingers pressed more firmly, his eagerness making up for any lack of experience.

“Yes,” you breathed against his lips, your hips moving in time with his touch. “Yes, Spencer. Please.”

The desperation in your voice seemed to spur him on, his confidence growing with every gasped moan and whispered plea that fell from your lips. His movements were clumsy but earnest, his need to please you shining through in every stroke and press of his hand. It was intoxicating, the way he gave himself to you so completely, so openly.

You buried your face in the crook of his neck, your breaths coming faster as the tension coiled tighter in your belly. “Spencer,” you gasped, your voice breaking on his name. “I’m—God, I’m so close—”

His response was immediate, his free hand sliding to your hip to hold you steady as he pressed harder, his movements matching the rhythm of your hips. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, his voice shaking with both nerves and determination. “Let go. Please, I want to feel it.”

And when you did—when the tension snapped and a wave of pleasure crashed over you—it was his name that spilled from your lips in a cry, his hands anchoring you as you trembled in his arms. Spencer held you through it, his own breaths ragged and uneven, his forehead pressing against yours as he whispered your name like a prayer.

[rowarn]

afab!reader, gn!reader, intoxicated sex (keegan drank a lil hehe), loud!keegan, lots of moaning, creampie, lovesick keegan, pussydrunk keegan

Keegan who, on a normal day, would never let you hear him let loose with his moans. Its not that he's self-conscious or anything but he prefers to be able to hear you whining and whimpering.

But maybe he gets a few drinks in him, unwinds and grows complacent. His lips get loose the second he gets his cock stuffed into the tight, hot clutch of your precious cunt. 

He’s got you creaming around the base of him and he just…can’t shut up. He starts whimpering, moaning, and sighing – it’s music to your ears, actually. 

“So good,” he pants, fingers minutely trembling where he holds your hips down so he can pump his length into you with ease, “It’s so good. You’re so wet, fuck, do you know what you do to me? You drive me crazy…”

You whine his name, eyes lidded and staring up at him with that dazed, cockdrunk look on your face that you always seem to wear when he’s got you pinned underneath him – how could you not? He fucks you so, so well and he knows it.

“That’s it, baby,” he coos, voice cracking at the end when you suddenly squeeze down around him, “Keep sayin’ my name. Love hearin’ it – keep tellin’ me who it is that’s making you feel this good, hm?”

His name falls from your lips like a heavenly plea, your eyes rolling back in your head when he moans, loud and unabashed. He tosses his head back, adams apple bobbing as he struggles to swallow around the lump in his throat. 

It’s never felt this good before, he swears. Usually alcohol makes it harder for him to get off – sometimes even makes it hard for him to get hard. But something different tonight, he’s so sensitive and he can feel how full his balls are and all he can think about is pumping a dozen loads into you until they’re completely empty. 

He needs it. He needs you.

“Love you so much,” he pants, body collapsing onto yours, chest to chest as his hips pitifully rabbit into you, barely even pulling out before he’s humping the length back into you, “Love you, fuck, I love you.”

You cry his name, nails scraping down his back as your entire body twitches. You can’t escape the stimulation with his weight pressed down on you the way it is. You can’t push him away for a break, you can’t get respite from the overwhelming stimulation of his cock pumping into you or his pelvic bone grinding against your clit. 

It sends you hurdling over the edge terrifyingly fast. Your feet kick uselessly against the back of his thighs as your eyes roll back in your head. 

Keegan moans, panting and gasping into your neck where he hides his face as he feels you cum around him. It pulls his own orgasm forth and he’s spilling into you in 3 quick pumps of his hips. 

Even as his orgasm crests and fades, he doesn’t stop – keeps humping your sensitive cunt until you’re cumming again. And again. And again. 

It was going to be a long night and by now, you could barely even hear yourself over the sound of Keegan’s moaning and babbled praises.<3

do not respost to a third party site, translate, or modify. reblogs OK!

[celestiamour]

ft. logan howlett x f! reader — xmen, marvel

╰₊✧ getting fucked by him against the wall┊0.6k words

contains: smut!! dom logan & sub reader┊nasty filth, size difference, creampie & breeding kink

➤ author's note: i can't stop thinking about this

your bodies were impossibly close to each other, covered in a slight sheen of sweat with strands of hair and what little clothing was still on sticking to your skin. a hot mess of hasty desire stemming from longing looks across the room, logan burning holes into you with his intense gaze just begging to fuck you in that cute little outfit you were wearing. he couldn’t even wait until you both got your shoes off when you finally got home before reaching under your skirt and peeling down your panties in the middle of the hallways, smothing you in sloppy, open-mouth kisses and complaining about how much of a vixen you secretly are by teasing him so unintentionally. 

or was it actually intentional? you might not be even half as innocent as you lead on to be, especially when you certainly seemed to be enjoying the way his eyes followed you prancing around like a deer in front of a starved wolf.

one of your legs was tossed over his built shoulder and the other was uselessly dangling, barely even touching the floor because of how damn tall he is. you were completely in his shadow, eyes screwed shut and your hands finding purchase by scrunching up the shirt you bothered to iron the night before. an ache in your thighs developed from being held up between his towering frame and the wall, being propped up by little else than his hand on the curve of your ass and his ruthless thrusts. although, it hardly registered in your hazed mind when you were being stretched out so deliciously by his cock, reshaping your insides to take him even deeper, his tip kissing your cervix and making you see stars as his thumb lazily circled your clit.

“fuckkkk, princess, you’re taking me so well…” he whispered huskily in your ear, half-lidded eyes looking at where you two were connected and the hypnotizing way he disappeared inside of you like you were made for him. “such a greedy pussy, i’ve been thinking about this all day.” you could only whine uselessly at his dirty words, digging your nails into his skin, making him chuckle in response at how his precious girl’s brains were already turned to mush at the first of many more planned rounds. “don’t worry, baby, i got you…”

when you finally succumb to your climax, he follows shortly afterward, unable to resist how your walls spasm around his cock and groaning as he emptied himself into you. you gasped at the flood of heat, breathing like there wasn’t enough oxygen in the air and clutching onto him like he was the last person on earth while slumping against the surface of the wall in exhaustion. you both stood there for a moment before he finally pulled out of you, watching his cum dripping out of your hole onto your thighs and ruining the fabric of your clothing was an even hotter sight than the moments of passion shared just now. 

it was so hot, in fact, that he felt his cock hardening again at the sight of it, wanting to fill you with his seed until your belly was swollen with evidence of him and you were thoroughly knocked up. with one swift motion, he lifted you into the air to carry you into the bedroom, reminding you that the night was far from over and that he’ll allow you to be fucked in the comfort of a bed instead of continuing to lean against the wall like he could have once again because he’s just that much of a gentleman. 

[p0orbaby]

they have an argument and hours later r gets hurt ??? guilty & terrified ale 🥺

-

The last thing you say to her is, “Don’t follow me.”

And she listens.

Which is exactly the problem.

It had started over nothing—truly nothing. Some throwaway comment, an eye-roll, one of you saying something too quickly and the other one not fast enough to let it go. And then it spiralled. Sharp words. Defensive ones. Yours, mostly.

She stood in the kitchen in that annoyingly calm way she does, arms crossed, expression pinched. You snapped first. Told her to leave you alone. Told her you needed space.

And now it’s been four hours.

No texts. No calls. Just silence you’re too proud to break.

You’re walking home from the Mercadona—milk you don’t need, biscuits to eat the sad away, something to do with your hands. The sky’s bruising, early evening, people spilling out of cafés. You’re not really paying attention when it happens.

A blur of wheels. A yell. The sick, cinematic sound of a crack.

You hit the pavement before you register the pain—shoulder first, then elbow, then a white-hot jolt in your leg that steals the air from your lungs.

There’s shouting. Someone calls for help. Someone else’s hands hover uselessly near yours.

You try to sit up. You can’t.

-

Alexia gets the call halfway through pacing a hole in her living room rug. She answers on the first ring, bored and frustrated and ready to stay mad—until she hears the words hospital, accident, emergency contact, and your name.

She’s out the door before they finish the sentence.

When she gets there, she’s breathless and wild-eyed, speaking too quickly to the receptionist, switching between Spanish and English in a panicked frenzy. “She’s here? She’s okay? She’s okay?”

They direct her to the curtained-off bed where you’re half-sitting, half-slumped in a thin hospital gown with one wrist in a splint and your ankle elevated, bandaged up, probably broken.

You look up when she pulls the curtain back.

You don’t even have time to speak. She’s already there—at your side, kneeling down, hand on your thigh like she’s afraid to touch more.

“Qué te ha pasado, mi amor? What—what happened?” Her voice cracks. “You look—fuck, you look awful.”

You try to smile, weakly. “Hi.”

“Hi? That’s all you’ve got?”

“I told you not to follow me.”

She lets out a sound—part laugh, part cry. Her hands are shaking. “You broke your leg.”

“Hairline fracture,” you correct. “Cyclist.”

“Cyclist,” she repeats, like it personally offended her. “I should’ve been there.”

“You were mad at me.”

“I was mad,” she echoes, voice low. “But I still should’ve been there.”

You let that hang in the air a second. Then, quieter, “You still came.”

“I’ll always come.”

You look at her for a long time. Her eyes are red. Her hoodie’s inside out. She’s sitting on a hospital chair like she belongs there—like she has to be there or she might combust.

You sigh. “I don’t want to be angry anymore.”

She exhales like she’s been holding her breath since the phone call. “Me neither.”

You don’t go back to yours. She takes you home. Carries your bags and helps you up the stairs and tucks you in like you’re made of glass.

She presses a kiss to your grazed knuckles before she turns off the light. “I was so scared,” she whispers, like a confession.

“I know.”

She slides in beside you. Holds you like something precious.

[witherby]

im so scared for the sick bed fic... I cant do angst man!! I am a man for the fluff and the romance not the angst- i'll cry when angst

(my imaginary therapist will be hearing about the fic if i do start to cry.)

-🕯

I had to cut myself off because this got wayyy long. It's still way long but not as long as it could've been. Sorry for the wait but I hope you enjoy the conclusion!

The Littlest Wayne: Sick Bed, part 3

Masterlist is Here!

⚠️ Content warnings: funeral proceeding, temporary child death, hospital visits, paparazzi harassment, slightly-obsessive behaviors from Damian but in a light-hearted way ⚠️

The funeral is a quiet affair. The entirety of the League are in attendance on the Manor grounds, varying degrees of sympathy and mourning on their faces. It's a strange juxtaposition to the rare, sunny day Gotham is currently experiencing. Damian can't stand to see it.

His suit feels far too tight against his skin. He doesn't dare complain about it, because his brothers all look similarly disgusted to be dressed up for such a terrible occasion. Dick's sleeves are stained because he ran out of tissues to dab at his eyes, but he's still mustering up a smile and thanking everyone for coming. Jason is robotically stone-faced and glaring at the ground, hands clenched into fists by his side when they aren't shoved deep into the pockets of his suit jacket. Tim hasn't left Bruce's side, eyes rimmed with pink and gaze unseeing.

Bruce and Hal... They haven't looked anywhere in your direction since everyone stepped outside. Bruce is trying his absolute damndest to hold himself together until after the procession, face a careful mask of neutrality everyone is too polite to comment on, while he hugs Tim's shivering form to his chest and wordlessly accepts condolences from the other Leaguers. Hal, on the other hand, is almost expressing his grief on Bruce's behalf. His pockets are bulging with accumulating tissues and his face is red and blotchy. Diana comes and hugs him tight, and Damian watches him just about fall apart right there as he white-knuckles her dress and stifles his sobs against her shoulder.

Damian is...numb. He's a statue in the grass, staring uselessly around the area like he has any idea of how to proceed. He doesn't know what he should be doing. He doesn't know what he should be saying.

He just knows that he has failed, and you are dead.

A hand, featherlight, touches his shoulder. Damian turns and makes eye contact with Alfred, who until now has never looked his age before. At this moment, it feels like the man might follow in your footsteps any second, his skin pale and eyes sunken with familiar loss. He looks so tired and so sad. He looks frail, worn down from suffering yet another tragedy in the Wayne family.

"It's time," Alfred mutters, almost inaudible in its resignation. Damian clenches his jaw and lets out a slow breath, nodding.

He turns, catching Dick's eye. His oldest brother gets the memo and quickly grabs Jason and Tim, and together they all approach you.

"Alright, kiddo," Jason says, voice thin and shaking as he rests his palm on the top of your coffin, painted in all your favorite colors and beautifully crafted, "one last piggy-back ride, then it's bedtime."

The four of them take their positions around you, clutching the poles under your coffin, and lift, walking you to the plot a few yards away from Martha and Thomas. You are uncomfortably light, and your casket is uncomfortably small. Something a six-year-old should never, ever have to be placed in. Selfishly, Damian is glad that the lid is closed so he doesn't have to look upon your face and trick himself into thinking you're merely sleeping, that you'll wake up and smile at him and ask to play together again like it's just another day.

He wishes it were another day. Yearns for it so badly there's a physical ache in his chest.

Your plot is surrounded by sunflowers and your headstone has a carving of your beloved bat plushy on it. Damian knows the real one is carefully tucked into your arms, something for you to hold in that dark, little space and keep you company.

His hands are shaking as he and his brothers set you on the winch that will lower you into your final resting place. His heart is racing as Clark steps forward, solemnly volunteering to be the one to turn the crank and bid you goodbye. His head is spinning as he watches your coffin slowly but surely vanish into the ground, your life as his rambunctious and annoying and mundane and beautiful and lovely little sibling cut short.

Bruce finally breaks. He abruptly gasps and turns away and Hal clutches his arm to stop him from rushing off.

"I can't do this," he stammers, tears streaming down his face. "I can't, I can't — Hal, my baby, I lost another one —"

"I know," Hal whispers back, gathering Bruce into his arms as tight as he can and squeezing. Damian notes distantly that he's never seen his father look this small before. He watches his brothers and Alfred all converge to embrace Bruce, almost seeming to shield him from the sight of your grave, but he can't make himself join them. He feels rooted to the very ground that's now been shaped to cradle you, unable to do a thing but stare at your coffin when Clark finally lowers it all the way down.

Damian would surrender the Robin mantle a thousand times over, would go and take down the remaining League of Assassins, would end his own life without hesitation, if it stood even the faintest chance of bringing you back. All the years spent resenting you over a title that's been passed down to all of Bruce's children, all the years you've shown him nothing but love and adoration as one of your older brothers, when he could barely stand to be in your presence as you grew older...

For what?

You died knowing that three of your brothers thought you hung the moon and stars in the sky, while the fourth snubbed you for the sake of a competition he'd conjured entirely in his mind. It was not worth it. It had never been worth it.

Damian's vision is blurring. People around him are talking, either to him or each other, but he can't tell who they are. Can't make out the words. Can't understand anything except the dirt being shoveled over your lifeless body. He wants to scream at Diana and Oliver and J'onn and Dinah, wants to demand they put those damned shovels down and get you out of there, wants to pry the lid open and hold you to his chest until he can track your pulse again, he wants, he wants, he wants.

His head hurts. His heart is racing. He's so angry. He's so scared. He's so upset. He misses you, he loves you, he needs you to wake up.

He needs you to not be dead.

"Please," he sobs, giving into his grief and collapsing into the grass and sunflowers. All his careful stoicism and detachment is falling apart. How dare the field look so beautiful in the wake of this nightmare? Doesn't it know you lie among it now? Doesn't it understand the tragedy that's occurred? The wet earth squelches under his hands as he forms fists in the ground.

"Come back. Please come back, I'm sorry! I take it back, I take everything back! Don't leave!"

"Damian..." Someone mutters soothingly to him. A hand touches his back but he doesn't want it. He just wants you. He wants to see you open your eyes and be alive again. He wants his family whole again. "Damian."

"Don't leave!" He cries again. The ground under him becomes a strange texture as the hand on his back starts rubbing soothing circles against his blazer. It's soft, and pliant, and no longer damp. When he blinks, the sunflowers are gone. Your plot is gone. The tombstone is gone. "W-wait...where'd you...where's..."

"Damian," Bruce murmurs behind him. That can't be right, though, Bruce is a dozen feet away and crying over your grave. Why does he sound so calm all of a sudden? "Open your eyes, chum, it's just a bad dream."

It's...a what?

Damian's head feels like mush when he snaps his eyes open. He sits up in his bed and looks around in a panic. Bruce is there, sitting on the edge of the mattress with a small, concerned frown.

"Dami—"

"Move!" Damian snaps, throwing the covers off and scrambling to his feet. Bruce doesn't stop him as he runs to the window and leans out, scanning the grounds until he can just barely make out his grandparents' headstones in the distance.

There's no hole next to them. No newly-planted sunflowers in the field. No signs of a funeral about to be held.

He feels his body un-tense.

"A nightmare?" He still asks, cautious. Bruce nods. Damian slumps entirely and walks into his father's arms, groaning low and deep while he regains his composure. "I hate this. Take me back to the hospital."

"You know it's not your turn," Bruce says, rubbing the heel of his palm slowly and firmly up and down Damian's back to encourage calm breathing. "Tim's there with Hal for the day. Then it's Dick and Jason's turn, then you and Alfred get to go see them in the morning."

"I'll make one of them switch with me."

"That's not fair. The rest of us deserve to see them, too."

Damian fists his father's shirt and tries not to snap at him. It's not the point. Of course anybody can see you when they want, but he promised to stay. It was the only thing you asked of him before you fell into another seizure and had to be whisked off to the intensive care ward under a code blue. Damian had pitched a fit so bad when he wasn't allowed to follow after the staff that it ended up in a gossip column the next day:

YOUNGEST WAYNE SON TERRORIZES ICU STAFF AT GOTHAM GENERAL

Billionaire son tries to throw his weight around to get access to restricted area!

Bruce already has his lawyers stepping on the publisher's necks about it, but no one is mad at Damian for what happened. He saw you flat-lining, freaked out, and just wanted to stay by you to ensure your health and safety. Being told he couldn't was an understandably-frightening thing, but it also isn't good for him to just hover around the hospital waiting for your condition to approve, either.

That's why Damian is currently home. Bruce pulled him from school for the week, citing a family emergency, and created the visitation schedule they're all currently following.

Damian doesn't want to adhere to the schedule. He wants to be in your hospital room where he assured you he would remain.

He promised he would stay with you. If something happens to you and he's not there...

Bruce shifts, giving Damian a gentle squeeze to get his attention. He offers him a small, encouraging smile despite the worry lines furrowing his own brow.

"I know that face. You're following in your father's footsteps and catastrophizing again. Refocus some of that energy and come shopping with me."

"Retail therapy? I'm not five, father. Not interested."

"Hnn...let me rephrase: come shop for some "get well soon" gifts for Mouse with me."

Damian stands up and walks into his closet to get ready for the day, already plucking up the shirt and pants he wants to change into.

"Why didn't you lead with that? I'll meet you in the car," he calls. Bruce's gentle laughter trails behind him as he exits Damian's bedroom.

--

You wake up to the sounds of harsh whispering and crinkling plastic. Cracking an eye open feels like lifting the world's heaviest weights, but eventually you manage to focus your vision on your grandpa, dad and brother trying (and failing) to quietly set a bunch of things down on your bedside table.

"...u-um..." You croak, throat dry. Bruce's, Alfred's, and Damian's heads turn in your direction.

"Hi, Mouse."

"Good morning, young master."

"You're awake."

Their voices overlap each other, washing over you and making you smile instinctively. You lift your hand and wave a little. Damian thrusts the crinkly gift basket he was holding into Bruce's hands and approaches you, threading your fingers together.

"Hi," you greet him quietly. You lift your free hand and scratch your nose, briefly displacing the oxygen mask on your face. Damian readjusts it when you're done, looking solemn.

"I'm sorry," he says. You stare at him, confused, and his cheeks flush as he opens and closes his mouth, searching for the right words. "I... wasn't here during your second seizure. The hospital staff wouldn't let anyone stay with you, so I was forced to leave my post —"

"Ohh," you exclaim, then let out a raspy giggle. The red on his face gets even worse. "I forgive you."

"...what?"

You clear your throat. It's very hoarse and dry, but it doesn't hurt as bad as before. "I said...I forgive you, Dami. S'not your fault."

Bruce and Alfred are trying not to look amused. They're failing. Damian looks like you've told him something in one of the few languages he doesn't understand. His grip on your hand briefly tightens.

"What!?"

You sigh, about to repeat yourself again, but your brother shakes his head and furrows his brow.

"I broke my promise immediately after I made it!"

"I know."

"You were alone in here for hours!"

"Yeah, I know."

"Even now, everyone is on a stupid visitor's rotation that only has me here for the mornings!"

You nod. "I know."

"Then why aren't you mad at me!?"

You huff. "Because it makes you sad. I don't want you to be sad, Dami."

Bruce can't stop himself from muttering "oh, so precious," but Damian doesn't pay him any mind. He spent two days agonizing over this for nothing. Because you just took his explanation and his apology at face value, and forgave him.

"What if I lied?" He blurts, because of course he inherited his father's incessant need to pry, to work every angle of a problem until he reaches full understanding. "What if I didn't intend to stay?"

You smile again, pulling your plush bat out from under your blanket.

"You brought me Squimby," you state, like that answered everything. "You remembered to get him for me. You're not a meanie, Dami. You're my big brother."

Even Alfred makes a gentle humming noise at that. Damian feels all of the fight and stress and tension leave him, utterly helpless in the face of your unconditional love.

"Okay," he mutters. You grin.

"Hug?"

"Oh." He glances at Bruce and Alfred over his shoulder. "Uh."

"Hug," you demand now, tugging on his hand. "I'm sick. Gimme a hug."

Damian narrows his eyes. "Todd becomes infinitely more demanding when he's sick. He taught you this, didn't he? It's very unbecoming —"

You cough weakly, forcing your arms to tremble. Damian's lips press into a thin line, and he gently gathers you to his chest for a tight hug.

"Unbecoming," he whispers in your ear. You just grin and hold him back.

"You have to hug Squimby, too."

"Great. Of course I do. We can't allow Squimby to get jealous."

"Nope!" You grin, popping the P. Damian can hear Bruce snapping pictures behind him and relents to the mild embarrassment. In truth, he doesn't mind the hug at all. He just isn't amenable to public displays of affection. For you, though, he's quickly realizing he would do anything.

"Alright. Come here, Squimby. You get your hug and then Flit can open their presents."

"I'd like a hug," Bruce says.

"Squimby gets his hug and then Flit opens presents."

Bruce pouts. Alfred hides a smile behind his hand. Your laugh is hoarse, but bright.

--

"Thank you all for taking care of me!"

Several of the hospital staff "aww" and smile at you as Tim wheels you down the halls. You clutch your plush toy to your chest and grin, waving at familiar faces.

You spent a week in the hospital fighting a bad combination of pneumonia and the flu. The bright light constantly beating down on you had actually worsened it, due to the nature of your Umbrakinesis, which caused the second seizure. You spent most of your treatment after that in a darkened room receiving lots of fluids and antibiotics to help you fight it off, until finally the last of your fever broke. Then you were cleared to finish recovering at home with some more prescriptions to take.

"Bye!" You wave again, smiling at the staff near the exit. Some of them echo it back to you and wish you well, and then you're outside and breathing in fresh air for the first time in eight days.

Of course, living in Gotham, the peace doesn't last. You're almost immediately inundated with flashing lights and reporters hovering around the entrance, snapping pictures of you and Tim. You frown, hiding your face in your bat toy while your brother walks past like they don't even exist.

"Mister Drake! A quote for the Gotham Gazette about the scandal surrounding Damian Wayne's behavior in the ER?"

"Tim! Timmy over here! Gotham News is asking how the little one is fairing!"

"Mx. Wayne! Any comment on your hospital visit, sweetie?"

"Mx. Wayne, look over here, look at the camera! I'll give you a lollipop if you give us a biiiig smile!"

You shake your head a little. More cameras flash, and you hear the sound of a car door slamming several yards ahead of you.

"At least tell us how you're feeling! The people wanna know if you're okay!"

"Tim, any diagnoses we should be made aware of?"

"Just give us a wave, honey! Lemme see that hospital bracelet!"

Something brushes against your wrist. Tim barks at the reporter who touched you to back up in a tone you've never heard from him before. It's loud and rough and no-nonsense, promising hefty consequences if there's no obedience.

"For God's sake, you vultures, we're still in the parking lot of the damn hospital!" Tim continues, pushing your wheelchair faster across the asphalt. "Move out of the way!"

"Just one quote for the column please!" Another reporter asks, grabbing your hand entirely this time.

You don't get the chance to react. Tim barely gets to reach for the man dumb enough to touch you. He's there one second and gone the next, removed from your side and thrown across the parking lot by one, hulking, furious Jason Todd-Wayne. He's in a sleeveless hoodie and jeans, fists clenched, standing at his full height, and glaring at everybody around as though daring them to try something next.

No one makes a sound. No one flexes a muscle. The gathered crowd just stands and stares and struggles to process what they're seeing. Who they're seeing. Because what the fuck, is that actually the dead son? How long has he been back? And why is he absolutely shredded?

You lift your head just enough to spot your brother and raise your arms, pouting. The easy familiarity only stirs up more questions no one is brave enough to ask.

"Jay-Jay..."

Jason looks at you and his entire person softens. Gone is the frightening, brick shithouse of a man and instead there's the kind and sweet boy he was before his apparently not-death.

"Hey, Mousey. Ready to go home?"

He steps forward and scoops you up in one arm, then comes around the wheelchair and grabs Tim in the other. Tim does not protest.

"Move." It's one syllable, quietly spoken, and seems to lower the temperature around them by several degrees. Reporters and columnists part like the Red Sea for him as he marches towards the car. Alfred holds the door open as Tim is ushered inside, then you're carefully buckled in after, then Jason follows suit.

The door is closed, the butler nods to the crowd, then he gets in and drives off.

The reporter on the ground finally sits up with a groan.

"Was that Jason Todd?"

--

"Welcome back to the land of the living, Jay."

"Thanks, Ma."

Hal smirks and shakes his head, dropping the newspaper on the breakfast table and sighing. He's only rolled out of bed ten minutes ago and every news site he checks is losing their minds talking about the "magically-resurrected Wayne boy." Bruce is undoubtedly going to frame some of the articles when he wakes up, because he's sappy like that.

"Everybody in this family is so dramatic."

"Didn't you come back from a three-week mission and make B piggy-back you around 'cause you were "gonna die and pass away and perish and die without human contact?"" Tim asks, pointing his pancake-filled fork at him.

"I'm pleading the Fifth," says Hal, snatching Tim's fork and eating the stolen pancake. Tim's cry of rage just makes it taste that much sweeter.

"I plead seven!"

Hal, Jason, and Tim all face the doorway where you stand, smiling sleepily at them and shuffling into the dining room. You lift your arms when you're beside Hal and he sweeps you into his lap, scooting his chair back so you aren't squished between him and solid mahogany.

"You're not seven yet, Mouse," Hal smiles. "Two and a half more weeks."

"Two and a half more weeks!" You echo. Your voice is still quieter and raspier than usual, but your energy is coming back in leaps and bounds and you've got the strength to travel short distances around the Manor as you recover —

"Flit! Return to bed immediately!!"

— much to one person's distress.

You grin and hide your face in Hal's chest, clinging to his shirt. Footsteps stomp down the corridor and Damian bursts into the dining room, locking in on you.

"Why did you leave your room?" He demands. "You have to take another round of medicine in eight minutes."

"Bored," you mumble into Hal's chest. "Lonely."

Damian huffs, opening his arms and looking insistently at the Lantern.

"I will keep you company, in your room. Release them, space cop."

Hal, in a scarily-accurate imitation of Bruce, lifts one eyebrow while his lips are pursed and crosses one leg over the other, hugging you tighter to his chest.

"I don't think I will, Ninja wannabe."

Damian scowls. "I'm not a wannabe if I was literally trained to be a —"

"Can't hear you, I'm cuddling Mouse."

"Yes you can! Those are two completely separate senses!"

"You hear somethin' honey?" Hal asks you.

"Nooo," you grin. "Just you, mama!"

"That's right. Just me." Hal grins right back, booping your nose. "And me says you can take your medicine anywhere; it doesn't have to be in your room."

Damian throws his hands up and stomps away in defeat, off to fetch your prescription. His absence makes you relax a little.

You love your brother very much, but he's been a bit overbearing since your return home. You understand it's because he's worried you'll get sicker again, and you definitely comply when he takes your temperature and gives you the medication, but...

Well. You're entirely unused to this level of attention from Damian. Dick is attentive, Jason is attentive, Tim is mostly attentive but sometimes gets sidetracked, and Damian? Before this, getting Damian to interact with you for more than two minutes felt like trying to getting blood from a stone.

He's never been mean. You know he loves you. He just never went out of his way to spend a whole lot of time with you, especially as Robin. It feels like a switch has been flipped and now he's making up for lost time. You don't mind it but you do want a little breathing room.

"Okay, here," Damian says, walking back in with the medicine already dosed out in the special measuring spoon it came with. The pale, pink liquid makes you pout. "Take this."

"Ugh," you groan. "Don't wanna..."

"You gotta," Jason pipes up, sipping coffee from Bruce's pilfered World's Okayest Dad mug. "Them's the rules. But you can have some pancakes after t'wash the taste out."

You grumble and pout and fuss, but no one lets you get away with it. Eventually, you open your mouth and let Damian feed you the antibiotics as though you were still an infant. He immediately hands you a juice box afterwards.

"Thank you," he says, taking the spoon into the kitchen to wash it. "We'll do that again in six hours."

You watch him leave from your spot in Hal's lap, little six-year-old brain spinning its wheels in your best attempt to understand where the change is coming from.

But then you start yawning, because it turns out walking the equivalent of a quarter-mile from your room to the breakfast table when you're still recovering from a compound-illness is exhausting, and find that you just don't care.

You are loved by everyone in your family, and you love them back. As Damian takes a seat at the table and starts cutting up some pancakes for you, insistent on hand-feeding much to the amusement of Jason and Tim, you content yourself with that being enough.

"Dami?" You say between bites. His eyes snap to you immediately, hyper-attentive. "Thanks for taking care of me."

His ears go pink and his mouth twitches like he's trying not to smile. Damian averts his gaze.

"Always," he mutters.

[clockwayswrites]

So far this file is called 'birdritch'. Those of you who follow my art tumblr might know where this is going. I needed something light to write, been a low day. There has been zero editing or reading through and it is past 2am, sorry and enjoy! (Don't need any typos pointed out, ty.)

---

“You are supposed to be home.”

Danny blinked up from his work to find Lucius Fox standing in the doorway of the lab. The man had the sport of expression one wore around a child who had just done something disappointing.

(Danny was used to the look, even if it had been a long time since he'd been a kid. Or seen his parents, for that mater.)

“Okay, but,” Danny started, “we agreed that I could start at ten and take my eight hours and one for lunch—”

“A mandatory one hour for lunch away from your desk,” Lucius interrupted.

“Yes, yes, I’ve been doing that! I’ve been eating out on the rooftop garden or even leaving the building and eating out or taking lunch to the park. I’ve been behaving, Lucius, I promise.”

Lucius raised a judgmental brow. “It’s after eight, Danny.”

“What? No. I have an alarm on my phone and everything… okay, well, that only works if my phone is charged.” Danny jabbed uselessly at his phone screen. He followed the charger, which was plugged in, all the way to the wall. He resisted the urge to let his head fall against the wall. “I guess Leslie fried the outlet again or something. I’m sorry, Lucius.”

“It’s fine, Danny,” Lucius said, “but only because, one, I know you have been trying, and two, I am going to buy you the most embarrassing alarm clock I can find and mount it to something in this lab. Now it is late and I am going home and so are you, Mr. Fenton.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Fox,” Danny said and made an exaggerate show of packing up his backpack, dead phone and all.

Lucius gave a little snort at the antics, but left with a ‘get home safe, Danny’. After his boss was gone, Danny took the time to actually make sure everything was in his bag and secure. He still didn’t get why he couldn’t just work late, but apparently WE had something of an insistence of work life balance. According to Lucius, Danny crossed the line too often and so was being kept in line. (Danny didn’t think mention he didn’t have much of a life, literally and otherwise, would help his case.)

Still, Danny mused as he stepped inside the empty elevator, the rules did keep him from becoming his parents. And that was a very, very good thing! Being a mad scientist in Gotham usually ended up landing someone in Arkham. It was just that after the chaos that Danny grew up with, going back to his empty apartment was depressing. It wasn’t as if Danny never got out and did things, it was just that all those things were mostly on the weekend. Most days he just didn’t have a reason to go back to his place.

There was no getting out of it tonight, the great and powerful Fox had spoken and Danny knew better than to try and sneak back up. He lifted his hands over his head, stretching as the elevator descended the last few floors. Oh well, at least it was before ten. He could still grab something on the way home and have a full, warm meal to take his pain meds on. By the pull along his forearm he would need them.

“Night, Bill,” Danny said as he passed the security guard who was on the evening shift. He got another ‘get home safe’ in response and gave a little wave in reply over his shoulder.

Even after the few years in Gotham, it still amused Danny how much everyone wished everyone else some sort of safe travels here. As much as Gotham was a city of hardened realists, there still was so much hope about it. Hope people got home safely, that the Bats would get where they were need in time, that the city would rebuild again and again and again. The undercurrent of hope was so strong that Danny could practically feel it moving through the city like a river.

It had been one of the reasons Danny had taken the job.

He could use hope.

He also had been very careful not to look too closely into it all. While Danny’s early life may have been dominated by the occult, he tried to stay away from it these days outside of the necessary visits to the Realm for his health. As much as the Far Frozen was full of ghost yetis, Frostbite was still a being of science and being there felt more like a cold vacation to his weird relatives than anything else those days.

Danny was actually worried that he was getting close to needing another visit. He shouldn’t, not yet. He wasn’t actually due back for another three months, but the thought of visiting Frostbite had been pulling at the back of Danny’s mind. The most annoying part of it all, is that there wasn’t any concrete reason that Danny felt he needed to go, just a lot of little things: the ache was deeper in his bones, he’d been missing noticing little things, his near constant vertigo was worse, and, oddest of all, he had been feeling chilled.

Maybe he should just take a long weekend and go for a quick visit.

Lucius would undoubtedly approve of the break.

Tomorrow, Danny would ask tomorrow.

(As long as he remembered.)

[caoimhewrites]

Firefighters

TF 141 + König as firefighters who help you out

CW: Mentions of fires/floods, minor injuries, mainly fluff WC: 1k

Ghost: You stood outside your office building, arms wrapped around yourself, trying to shake off the shock. The fire had been small, and contained quickly, but the panic was real. A shadow loomed over you, and you looked up to see one of the firefighters who had ushered you out of the building. “Sit still,” he said, voice commanding yet oddly comforting. You hadn’t realized until now how badly your arm hurt. He crouched down in front of you, his dark eyes flicking over the small, minor burn before he gently took your arm in his gloved hand. "It's not too bad, but we'll need to take you to the hospital anyway," he mutters, eyes focused on the bandages. “Thanks… for helping,” you murmured, wincing slightly as the burn stung. Ghost glanced up, his eyes softening. “It’s my job.” You feel your cheeks heating up slightly. "Thanks anyway," you give him a small, bashful smile. "You uh... see a lot of fires?" You regret it the second it leaves your mouth. Do you see a lot of fires? Seriously? Out of everything you could have said, why that? Before you faint from embarrassment, he chuckles. "How did you know?" You breathe a sigh of relief at his humor, your eyes meeting his brown ones, "Just a feeling."

König: You stood in your front yard, eyes fixed on the tree in front of you. Your cat was perched on a branch near the top, her wide eyes with fear. "Mrs Platypus!" you called, trying to coax her down. She meowed in response but refused to move. Panic rose in your chest. You'd tried everything, calling, shaking treats, even using the neighbor's ladder, but nothing worked. “You need help?” You turned to see a towering figure approaching. You swear you've never seen a man so tall. "I- yes." You nod, your eyes glued to the skyscraper of a firefighter. "I didn't call anyone or anything," you add. You were surprised to see a firefighter there on your lawn. "I'm off duty, I live next door. I thought you could use some help." he says simply and effortlessly reaches up, pulling your cat out of the tree. "What's her name?" You let out a chuckle of embarrassment, "Mrs Platypus..." He lets out an amused bark of laughter. "Really? Now that's one I definitely haven't heard before." He gently hands you the cat and smiles. You notice he has quite a nice smile. The way it makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. "Thanks. I thought I would never get her down," you thank him. He just smiles and says, "Anytime."

Price: The screech of metal against metal echoed in the dim light of the elevator. You pressed the button repeatedly, but the display above the door only flickered. Your heart raced, panic bubbling up as you tugged uselessly at the sliding doors. "Come on," you muttered, trying to calm your breath. You have no idea how long you've been in there. The emergency button naturally wasn't working and the service on your phone was pathetically weak. You were sure you were going to have a breakdown just before you finally got help on the phone. "Hey! You in there?" You froze for a moment. Was that… a man’s voice? "Yeah, I’m stuck," you called back, your voice laced with anxiety. "I need help. Please, can you get me out?" You heard the loud wrenching of the doors as they are pried open. They snapped open just enough for you to see the man on the other side. "Hey, love. You alright in there?" If your jaw dropped any wider it would be on the floor. He's gorgeous. "I'm fine," you nod rapidly, suddenly feeling like every word you've ever known has dripped out of your brain. "Sorry we took so long, love. Busy day." He gives you a wink and pries the doors open wider, extending a hand to you to help you out. You give him a small thank you as you take his hand and step out. "How ya feelin'?" He asks softly as he gazes down at you. You stammer for a moment, "good... great, excellent," you say rapidly, blushing like a tomato.

Gaz: The air was thick with smoke, the scent of burnt wood and fabric stinging your nose. Firefighters moved around you in a blur, shouting orders, directing people away from the ruins of the apartment complex. A hand on your shoulder snapped you back to reality. You looked up, blinking through the haze, and met the gaze of a firefighter in full gear. “Hey, you alright?” he asked, his voice calm and comforting. “I—I don’t know,” you stammered, swallowing back the lump in your throat. “My apartment… it’s gone. All my stuff was in there." He nodded, stepping closer. “We’ve got the fire under control now,” he said, eyes scanning the wreckage, “but I’m sorry about your place. That’s a tough break.” You sighed and nodded, "I'll figure it out." He thinks for a second, "You know, me and my team are heading back to the station after this. We can give you a ride somewhere if you want. We can even put on the sirens for you," He says teasingly and smiles down at you warmly.

Soap: The storm had ravaged everything. Floodwaters had quickly turned your neighborhood into a river. Luckily your house wasn't damaged too badly but you definitely couldn't stay. You were lost in thought when you heard the loud knock at your door. When you opened it, there stood a firefighter, drenched from head to toe, with a look of determination in his eyes. His dark, mohawk was soaked flat on his head, and his uniform was heavy with water, but he didn’t seem to care. “Hey, you alright in here?” His voice was warm, calm, but laced with urgency. You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I—I don’t know what to do." He cuts you off, “Don’t worry, love. I’m here now,” he said, stepping inside without hesitation, boots squelching in the water. His steady presence was an instant relief. "We've got time," he says reassuringly as he gently helps you out the door. He catches you when you stumble through the water. "Careful, love. I got you."

Taglist: @little-mini-me-world