#but i also got a whiff of what my life used to be. and that was incredible | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

augustwinesworld · 3 months ago

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𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞'𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬—𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞

What if your eyes looked up and met mine one more time?

description:

pairing: dr. michael robinavitch x female ob/gyn attending! reader

genre: hidden pregnancy…maybe? smut.

warning: explicit smut (p in v), oral (f! receiving), DRY HUMPING (sooo hot), unprotected sex (never do this in real life, ever—couldn’t help myself lmao), age gap relationship (present time! robby late 40s, reader mid 30s—flashback! robby late 30s, reader mid 20s), problematic power dynamics (in the flashback reader is an intern, robby is a junior attending), inappropriate use of hospital property (?), female reader.

notes: idk what happened. this wasn’t in my outline. I started fleshing out the chapter and BOOM, the smut just appeared. Also, I am so sorry to any filipino people reading this, if I butchered the tagalog please lmk. THIS WAS NOT BETA READ.

word count: 10.3 k.

extra: moodboard | playlist | ☆:**:. 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐞 .:**:.☆ (ko-fi)

Feel free to #𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 (◕‿◕✿) *:･ﾟ✧ if you have any scenarios in mind! I might not write everything but I’ll respond to everyone.

series masterlist: 𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞'𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬

12 years ago...

The vibe was off.

It wasn’t the usual exhaustion from a tough shift or hospital malaise—it was sharper. The kind of wrong you could taste in the back of your throat.

Robby could feel it the second he stepped onto the floor.

Felt it when his gaze skimmed across the nurses’ station, caught your pink-scrubbed form bent over a chart—and you didn’t look up.

Didn’t flash him the usual quick smile. Didn’t so much as acknowledge him.

Good, he thought viciously. Better that way.

He knew he was being short—clipped orders, tight jaw, no eye contact—but he couldn’t seem to stop it. It was either that or let something uglier bleed through.

You weren’t any better.

You charted like the pen was a weapon, avoided him like a live wire. No smart remarks, no quick glances. Just silence and a careful, perfectly crafted space between them.

Which made it worse. Somehow.

He stayed terse, barking out orders with a little more edge than necessary.

You stayed busy, answering questions without once meeting his eyes.

They orbited each other in a strange, broken rhythm—like magnets flipped the wrong way, close enough to feel the pull but fighting it every step of the way.

When the call came over the PA—Trauma incoming. OB consult needed. ETA four minutes—he felt it like a crack down his spine.

Of course.

Of course it had to be you on consult rotation today. Of course it had to be on his case.

He reached the trauma bay first, pulling on gloves with brisk, jerky motions. You arrived seconds later, steps light but purposeful, pink sneakers squeaking faintly against the tile.

You caught sight of him and flinched so subtly most people would’ve missed it.

He didn’t.

You hovered at the door like you considered staying back.

But then you squared your shoulders, locked it all away behind that bright, professional mask he hated so much, and stepped in beside him.

A nurse at the desk, watching them assemble, snickered under her breath, teasing, “uh oh. Dream team’s back together.”

There was a ripple of laughter from behind the desk—not cruel, exactly, but knowing. Like the whole fucking hospital had gotten a whiff of whatever was simmering between them lately.

Robby forced a half-smirk, the kind he used to disarm patients’ families in bad news consults.

“All part of the service,” he said dryly, snapping on a pair of gloves. “Premium package: expertise and entertainment.”

It got the intended effect—a few more chuckles, a little of the tension bleeding off the room.

But when he glanced sideways, you were already moving toward the gurney bay, chart in hand, shoulder brushing past him.

Over your shoulder, syrup-sweet, you chirped, "Just smile and nod—it’s easier that way.”

The nurses chuckled, thinking you were just poking fun at yourself.

Someone called after you, “Ain’t that the truth!”

“Lucky you. You get to watch us work our effortless magic."

The nurses cracked up, tossing you good-natured jabs. But Robby felt the gut punch underneath it.

Effortless.

Right.

The bitterness laced through honey.

But he caught the way your fingers tightened around the edges of the chart you held. Caught the way you shifted a fraction farther from him—no closer than you absolutely had to be, not even to grab a sterile gown.

He almost said something.

Almost reached for you.

Instead, he turned toward the incoming gurney and bit down hard on whatever reckless thing was clawing up his throat.

When they reached the trauma bay, the patient was already there—a woman in her late twenties, panting through a contraction, one hand braced under her swollen belly, eyes wide and terrified.

"Name's Emily," the nurse called quickly. "Third baby. History of a ventricular septal defect follow-up, but no set delivery plan. Presented in active labor about an hour ago. No prenatal records on file yet. No beds upstairs, so she’s ours for now."

"Vitals?" He asked, already snapping on gloves.

"Stable for now. Cervix was seven on arrival. Labor’s progressing fast."

He flicked a glance toward you, and caught the tight nod you gave, all business.

Still so damn new, scrubs just slightly too crisp, name badge gleaming, but already standing your ground like you’d been born for this.

No panic. No dramatics. Just pure focus.

"We’ll need NICU on standby when the baby’s out," you said, voice steady. "And page Cardiology for a newborn ECHO, stat."

"On it," a nurse answered, jogging off.

Meanwhile, you stepped closer to the bed, voice softening as you addressed the laboring woman directly.

"Emily, you’re doing great," you said, one gloved hand resting lightly against the patient's shaking thigh. "I know it hurts, but you're not alone, okay? We’re right here with you. We’re gonna take care of both of you."

"My husband—" Emily gasped between breaths. "Where's—"

One of the nurses answered quickly, squeezing her shoulder. "He's on his way, sweetheart. There was a pileup on the bridge—traffic’s slow, but he’s coming."

Emily nodded shakily, biting down on a cry as another contraction tore through her.

The intern immediately stepped in, resting a reassuring hand on Emily’s arm. "You're doing so good, Emily. Breathe with me."

You turned to a nearby nurse. "Page Dr. Levin. Let them know labor's progressing quickly."

The nurse nodded and hustled away.

Robby hovered close, not interfering, just...watching. Ready. His hands itched to help, but he knew better. This was her case to lead. And hell, if he wasn’t a little awed.

When the nurse returned, slightly breathless, she reported, "Dr. Levin's tied up with another delivery. They said you're clear to manage—hold steady."

For half a heartbeat, something flickered across your face—the barest tremor of uncertainty.

He saw it. Of course he did.

But then you lifted your chin, took a deep breath, and turned back to Emily with firm hands and a gentler voice.

"Okay, Emily. Looks like I'm here with you for now. You're not alone. We're right here."

Emily’s eyes—wild with fear—locked onto yours. "Is my baby okay?"

"She's strong," the intern said firmly. "She's a fighter, just like you."

Emily squeezed her hand—a desperate, sweaty grip—and nodded, teeth clenched against the next contraction.

There it was. That thing you had. That quiet, steel-threaded kindness no textbook could teach. You just had it, in every fiber of your being.

The next hour blurred.

Emily’s labor accelerated at a breathtaking pace. There was barely enough time to pull together a sterile field. Barely enough time for you to snap on gloves and don a gown before the baby crowned.

"Almost there, Emily," you murmured, voice low and encouraging. "You’re doing beautifully. Just breathe."

The patient whimpered through another contraction.

"It hurts," she gasped, panicked.

"I know," you said—gentle, but firm. "It means you’re close. When you feel the next urge, I want you to push right through it. You can do this. We’ve got you."

Robby was there at her shoulder, mirroring her calm, matching her rhythm. He coached the patient through each final push while you supported Emily with both words and hands, working seamlessly together.

You moved in perfect tandem without needing a single word.

"Big breath, Emily—now!"

The baby slid free, slick and furious, and Robby caught her deftly, heart thudding—clamping and cutting the cord.

"Female, vigorous, crying," he called out.

"Taking her for ECHO! Mom informed!" a NICU nurse shouted, rushing the newborn away, tiny fists punching the air.

Emily sobbed, half in relief, half in terror.

"They’re checking her heart," you reassured, leaning close. "That's all. She's strong."

One last glimpse of tiny fists and furious wails—then gone.

Emily clutched at her gown with a trembling hand. "My husband—"

"Still on his way," Robby said quietly from her side. "He knows you're both okay. He’s getting here as fast as he can."

Emily squeezed her eyes shut, another broken little sob escaping, but she nodded, trusting them because she had no choice. Collapsing back onto the bed, half-sobbing, half-laughing.

Robby exhaled slowly, swiping a forearm across his forehead as he watched you work. Gentle hands palpating the uterus, checking for bleeding, even whispering reassurances too low for him to catch.

Emily cracked a watery smile at them.

And he saw it hit. The way you blinked hard, throat working around whatever emotion you were swallowing down.

God, you cared. You cared so much it made him ache.

He turned to find you stripping off your gloves.

"You good?"

You didn’t even look up.

"Fine," you said, too quickly. Your brows furrowed briefly—just a flicker—as your hands moved lower, more deliberate now.

"Uterus firm?" he asked under his breath.

"Borderline," you murmured, careful to keep your tone light, soothing the patient with your free hand. "Placenta delivered intact. No tears. Mild vaginal bleeding—expected. Nothing alarming, yet."

Before he could say anything else—before he could betray how hard he was trying not to reach for you—the charge nurse leaned in.

"Still no beds upstairs," she said. "Mother's stable. She can stay put for now."

He nodded. You nodded.

And just like that, the moment disappeared—tucked away like something too dangerous to look at directly.

You turned back to work.

The current pulling you both under, once again.

It wasn’t until nearly an hour later—after two more traumas and a screaming match in a back hallway neither of you would even remember the details of—that the call came.

"Your patient, Emily" a nurse said, tugging at her sleeve. "She says something hurts. Down there."

Your forehead furrowed. Instinct snapped into place.

"Vitals?" you asked sharply.

"Stable for now. She's pale, though."

Without thinking, you gestured for Robby to follow—habit, muscle memory—but he hesitated. Watched you.

Still, he stepped in behind you.

When they got to the room, Emily’s husband was already there, sitting at her bedside, hunched over her hand like it was a lifeline. He looked like he was about to cry.

“She said it hurts," he said immediately, desperate. "She said it feels wrong—please, can you—?"

“We’ll take care of her," you said, already pulling on gloves.

At Emily’s bedside, it took seconds to see it: a deep, dark bulge along the right labia, swollen and angry under the skin.

You pressed gently. Emily cried out.

"Hematoma," you muttered.

"Expanding," Robby confirmed, grim.

Your eyes met, just for a moment, over the patient’s trembling body.

Then you moved. Hands colliding, breath held, adrenaline buzzing through every shouted word.

"Type and cross two units. I want blood at bedside!" Robby snapped.

"Two large-bore IVs, wide open," you called to the nurse. "Start fluids—ringers, fast."

"Ready the sterile tray. Lidocaine. Scalpel. Suction!"

The portable scanner whined to life as they prepped the site. One nurse darted in with meds, another with a sealed tray.

"Ready?" he said.

"Ready."

The blade kissed skin, and a flood of blood spilled out, hot and dark and wrong. Way too much blood, too fast. Way deeper than a simple hematoma.

The suction whirred to life as they worked, fighting to keep up with the flood of blood.

But your gut twisted. Something was off.

“Emily,” you said, clamly, “I know it hurts, but stay with us, okay? Just breathe. You’re safe.”

Emily let out a broken moan, almost animal. Suddenly her blood pressure monitor started to shriek.

"Ultrasound, now," you snapped.

The tech swung the wand over Emily’s belly—and there it was: fluid pooling deep in the abdomen. Liver involvement. Bleeding into the cavity.

Recognition hit like a gut punch.

“Fuck. It’s not just the hematoma. It’s systemic.”

"HELLP?" Robby asked tightly.

"Or DIC, probably both," you answered, voice flat. "Page Dr. Levin—911."

No simple fix. No easy out. A fucking bloodbath.

One of the nurses bolted from the room.

“Pressure's tanking,” a nurse called. “Sats dropping!”

“Keep packing! Give a bolus now—what’s the status on the blood?”

“Almost here!”

“We need to move now,” you said under your breath, voice slicing through the rising disarray.

“I’m aware,” Robby snapped, harsher than intended.

You recoiled, just for a second, then planted your feet and met his eyes again.

Emily cried out, this time weaker.

"Prep for surgery!" He barked.

Gloves snapped on. Tray rattled. He grabbed a line. You grabbed suction. You complemented each other seamlessly. The fucking dream team.

Everything was chaos.

Gurneys squealed. Monitors howled. Gloves snapped on in a dozen frantic beats.

Dr. Levin stormed through the door, barking orders—body already covered in a half-tied surgical gown.

"Vitals?" she demanded. "Blood loss? Labs? Is the OR ready?"

Robby stepped back instinctively, clearing the way. He was there to help if it were needed, but he knew it wasn’t his fight anymore.

He caught a glimpse of you across the chaos—bloodied, but still beautiful—as you followed your attendings' lead, and it kicked something vicious inside him.

Dr. Levin snapped a glance toward you. "You scrub or you step out," she said, curt but not cruel, simply expecting a quick answer.

But he saw you hesitate—just for a second.

You turned and saw him. The husband. Still there. Still clinging to the bedside, white-knuckled and weeping quietly now, his hand shaking as he tried to hold onto Emily’s fingers through all the tubes and wires.

In that instant, your mind was made up.

"I’ll stay with him," you said, quiet but certain.

The words knocked the breath out of him, almost leaving him stupid.

Without another word, you peeled off her bloody gloves, yanked on clean ones, and crossed to the husband. Soft hands guiding him out of the blast zone.

Robby stayed where he was, frozen. Watching and wanting.

He had no right to feel this. No excuse. And still—it was there, scorching him from the inside out.

The husband crumpled halfway into the hallway, sliding down the wall, burying his face in his hands. You went with him, unflinching. Dropped into a crouch beside him, your hand bracing lightly between his shoulder blades, anchoring him when the rest of the world was spinning out.

You murmured something, words Robby couldn’t catch over the shriek of monitors and boots pounding past.

But he knew the cadence. Knew the shape of it.

You were praying with him.

Not loudly, or taking the lead. Just quietly, like it was the only thing you had left to offer. The only thing that mattered.

God, it wrecked him.

Don't do this, he thought. Don't you dare go to her. Don't you dare make this worse.

But he was already drifting—helplessly, blindly—toward you like a man leaning into a fire without noticing the heat until it was too late.

You shouldn't be able to gut him like this. Not yet. Not like this.

But you did.

He turned toward the door without waiting for orders. Not because he wanted to leave. But because if he stayed another second, he was going to lose the last thread of control he had left.

Because some reckless, broken part of him already knew: you didn’t even have to touch him to own him.

You already did.

He stayed longer than he should have. Long after the OB team left the ER. Long after the adrenaline bled out of the room, leaving only the wreckage behind.

He found himself leaning against the wall across from the trauma bay, pretending to review his chart, pretending not to watch you.

You were still sitting with the husband. No gloves now, no sterile gown, just you and your pink scrubs. He could see your face was calm, but your voice was still too soft to hear from where he stood.

Then a nurse approached, murmuring something in your ear.

Robby’s gut twisted before he even heard the words. He could see it in the nurse's face, in the way she shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

The patient hadn't made it.

He watched—couldn't not watch—as you rose to your feet, moving carefully toward the husband.

Watched the way your hands hovered for a second, wanting to reach for him, not sure if you should.

Watched the moment the words hit.

The husband reeled back from her like you'd slapped him. A choked, animalistic sound tore out of him, and for a second Robby thought he might hit you.

He moved instantly, stepping forward, already halfway between you. He was ready to use himself as a barrier—no hesitation, no second thought. But the man didn’t strike.

He didn't. He just broke. Collapsed into your arms like a man whose world had ended—because for him it had.

You held him without flinching. Held him like you’d been built for this, for carrying other people's grief when it got too heavy for them to bear alone.

Robby’s throat burned.

He turned his head, couldn't look anymore.

By the time he looked back, the damage was done. The husband was crumpled on the floor, sobbing. And you sat with him—shoulder to shoulder—saying nothing.

After a while, someone from NICU came and talked to the husband. Something about the baby.

A chance to go meet his daughter. A chance at something salvageable.

The husband staggered away, still weeping.

And finally, finally, you were alone.

You sat there for a moment longer, head bowed, hands limp in your lap. Then you stood, moving like someone twice your age, and started toward the back hallway.

Robby followed without thinking.

"Hey," he called after you, low.

You didn’t stop.

He caught up easily, staying at your shoulder.

"You did good," he said, rough. "You stayed."

Nothing. Not a glance. Not a breath.

You barged into an empty on-call room without slowing. He followed.

"You could’ve scrubbed in," he said, almost defensive now. "That was a big case. A huge learning opportunity. You let it go."

You stripped off her bloody scrub top and threw it into the bin with a vicious flick. The sound of it hitting the mattress was louder than it should’ve been.

He edged closer.

"It was...decent," he fumbled, hating himself for not being able to say what he meant without faltering. "Uhh—selfless. You did the right thing."

Still nothing. An awful fucking silence.

Something in him twisted sharp and stupid. "You should be more careful about getting attached," he said before he could stop himself.

God why the fuck did he say that? How is that the only thing that came to mind? What a fucking idiot.

Now that made her come back. You turned slowly and leveled him with a look so furious it made his mouth go dry.

He’d never seen her so angry. Furious, yes. But something deeper too. Something that had his gut clenching before you even opened your mouth.

"That's rich," you said, voice shaking with rage. "Coming from you."

He opened his mouth—tried to speak even.

Too slow.

"You think this is about getting attached?" you asked, stalking toward him. "You think I stayed because I’m green? Because I don’t know any better?"

He took a step back, but you followed, relentless.

"Maybe because I’m soft? A little bit stupid?"

He shook his head, but it didn’t matter.

"No, Robby. I stayed because someone fucking had to," you hissed. He swallowed hard, jaw flexing.

"You think I don’t know what’s going on?" you said, voice raw now. "You think I don’t feel it too?"

You jabbed a finger into his chest, not hard, but enough to make him flinch. "You think I don’t know what this job costs? You think I don’t know exactly what this does to us?" Your voice was going hoarse now, brittle from all the things you hadn’t said for weeks. “What it does to you?”

"You’re not the only one scared, Robby. You’re not the only one who knows this is dangerous. I get it." Her voice cracked, fury burning through it. "But you don't get to use that as an excuse to punish me for something we both feel."

He swallowed hard and opened his mouth, but you cut him off—you weren’t done.

“You kissed me. And then you disappeared. For whole goddamn week. Not a fucking word.”

Your eyes were wild, glassy. “You think I didn’t notice? You think I didn’t feel it too?”

You stepped in, close enough that he could smell blood mixed in with whatever coconut-vanilla soap you’d used that morning.

"You act like we’re fine one second and then you treat me like a fucking stranger the next. You pretend none of it’s happening—and when it does, you shove it all onto me like it’s my fault."

You took a shaking breath, close enough now that he could feel the heat rolling off you.

"I see it in your face," you whispered, furious and gutted all at once. "You don’t look at me unless I’m fucking up. You don’t talk to me unless you’re trying not to want me."

He said your name, wrecked, a broken apology without words.

You flinched like it physically hurt to hear it.

"Don’t," you said. "Don’t you dare say my name like that."

And for a second, just a second, you stood there, breathing hard. Rage and things said undone, bubbling between them.

He reached for you without meaning to. You didn’t stop him.

When your bodies crashed together, it wasn’t soft. It was rough, and messy, and inevitable, and everything you’d been avoiding.

His hands landed on your waist like he'd needed something to hold on to—like you were the only solid thing left in a world he no longer trusted. You grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, hauled him closer with a force that was almost violent.

He was fucked.

You were fucked.

You were both fucked.

Everything you’d buried under sharp words and longing glances and the unbearable weight of being near each other for so long without touching.

A mix of harsh breaths, spit, heat. Your nails scraped down his arms. His hand found the back of your neck, pulling your mouth harder and harder against his like he could climb inside you and disappear.

God, you were warm. Warm and trembling and there, finally there.

He broke the kiss just long enough to look at you—lips swollen, eyes glassy, breathing uneven like you’d run miles just to get to this moment.

“I hate you,” you whispered, voice cracking once again.

“I know,” he said. It tore him open.

You grabbed the collar of his shirt and yanked him back in.

Your bodies locked like puzzle pieces that never should’ve fit, but somehow did. You pushed him until his back hit the door and then kissed him again, deeper, slower now, like you needed to make sure this wasn’t a dream.

He let you take control for a second, hands hovering at your waist, not sure where to touch, afraid of pushing too far. Thinking that maybe he didn’t deserve to.

But sensing his hesitation, you took his hand and placed it flat over your heart.

“Feel that?” you asked.

His fingers curled instinctively, as if to shield it.

“I feel it,” he whispered. “I feel all of it.”

And maybe it was the sincerity in his voice, or the way his eyes looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that had ever made sense—but something shifted.

His fingers skimmed the curve of your jaw, then lower—groping at your thighs as he lifted you, effortless, like he'd done it so a hundred times in a hundred other lives. You gasped into his mouth but didn't pull away.

Your legs tightened instinctively around his waist, the heat between you sparking sharp and immediate.

He didn’t break the kiss as he carried you to the cot, lowering you onto it with aching care. Your spine hit the mattress, and your breath caught, but he was already there again, bracing above you, forehead still brushing yours, waiting.

Always waiting—for you.

You breathed like that for a beat, into each other’s mouths. You clutched at his waist, your anger still burning low in your gut, but your mouth was soft now when it met his again.

His hands came up to your face, tentative. Fingers stroking the wet curve of your jaw, tracing the outline of your cheekbone, brushing damp hair back from your forehead. He kissed you like you were breakable. Like you’d splinter if he pushed too hard.

But you were breaking already.

Leaving your mouth, his lips kissed your wet cheeks. Trailing down to the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your throat. One kiss at a time. Slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing you.

Your fingers curled into the hem of his shirt and slowly pulled it up. He let you. Raised his arms. Let you see him. Not just the body, but him. The man you’d seen come apart over the course of a hundred sleepless shifts, who’d touched you once and vanished into the walls after. The man who looked at you now like he was terrified and in love and trying not to drown.

His hands found you again, sliding under your soaked top, touching skin like it was a secret. You shivered at the contact, the warmth of his palms.

“Say stop,” he whispered.

But you didn’t. You didn’t even hesitate.

Instead, you leaned into his touch like it was the first real thing you’d felt in weeks.

He smiled—barely, just a flicker—and it broke you a little more. Because underneath everything, the storm of them, he was still gentle. Still him.

“I’m scared,” you admitted against his neck.

His arms came around you fully now, pressing you to his chest. “Me too.”

And that truth, soft and wrecked and shared between them, was what made this real.

You pulled back just far enough to cup his face in both hands. Her thumbs brushed the edge of his cheekbones. Her eyes searched his—like you were daring yourself to believe him.

This wasn’t just lust.

This was every moment you hadn’t touched.

Every glance across the trauma bay. Every almost. Every held breath. Every second of wanting that had turned into hurt.

It spilled over now, like it couldn’t be contained.

He kissed you again, slow, like a vow. His hands cradled your hips, not to take, not yet—but just to hold. Just to be close.

When you rested your forehead to his, you were trembling.

“Don’t let go,” you said.

He didn’t answer. Just kissed you once more, softer than any kiss that came before it.

He’d never let go.

His palms skimmed your waist, memorizing the soft give of your body. The subtle rise and fall of your breath. His thumbs circled the skin just beneath your ribs—bare now, exposed by the thin hem of your top riding up.

Your pulse beat fast at your throat. He kissed it. Then lower.

You shivered.

You wouldn’t meet his eyes, but you didn’t pull away. Not even when his hands slid under your top and flattened against your back, not even when his mouth brushed the hinge of your jaw.

“Hey,” he whispered. His voice had gone gravel-soft. “Look at me.”

You did. Slowly. Like it cost you something. So he kissed you again, slower, so he wouldn’t have to face the hurt gazing back.

Like he meant to prove something.

You let him undress you like you were giving permission for something you didn’t quite understand. He stripped your slowly, like the unraveling of a secret. Your top first. Then the bra beneath it.

His fingers trembled as he touched you, like the mere touch of him would corrupt you.

When you tried to cover yourself with your hands, he caught your wrists gently.

“Don’t hide from me,” he said. “Please”.

So you let him. You let him see you. All of you.

And Robby just—stared.

You were completly undone, mouth kiss-bruised, your chest rising fast, like you hadn’t taken a full breath in weeks. Your skin was balmy, a little salty with sweat. You were trembling. But you didn’t hide. Not from him.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, reverent. Like he wasn’t sure if he was swearing or praying. “You’re—”

But no words came to mind. Instead, he just dropped to his knees.

You gasped. One hand flew to his shoulder like you needed to steady yourself, like the sight of him there—kneeling, breath heavy, lips parted—was almost too much.

His mouth went directly to that sweet spot, where he could feel your pulse racing. He sucked gently, feeling the thrum of your heartbeat echo against his lips.

The scent of your bodywash—sweet and golden—rose up around him like steam.

It clouded his senses, made his head spin. He felt drunk on it, on you, on the fact that this was real. That you were letting him close. That he had your skin under his mouth and your hands in his hair had your breath catching just for him.

God.

He blinked—like he had to make sure this was real, like he didn’t trust what his eyes were seeing.

What had he done to deserve this? to deserve her?

He cupped one breast gently, reverently, and kissed the curve with a kind of aching awe. Your skin was hot here—almost scorching to the touch, like the heat was rising from somewhere deep inside you.

His fingers traced delicate paths along your ribs, brushing the swell of your breast, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps that bloomed under his touch. He could feel the hitch in your breath, and even the way your body leaned into his hands like it had been waiting for this

“Fuck,” he murmured, voice thick. “You’re so beautiful.”

He circled her nipple with his thumb, slow and lazy, watching it tighten under his touch. Then he bent to take it into his mouth, sucking softly, then deeper. You gasped—high-pitched and raw—and grabbed fistfuls of his hair like you’d needed something to anchor you.

“Robby—”

He groaned at the sound of his name. God, that did something to him. Something deep and helpless and animalistic.

He switched breasts. Licked the sensitive skin before drawing it into his mouth. Your back arched against the thin mattress, hips shifting restlessly beneath him, like your body couldn’t decide whether to rise into him or melt into the sheets.

“You okay?” he murmured against her skin, still panting. “I can stop. Say the word and I’ll stop.”

“No,” You breathed. “Don’t stop.”

And thank fuck, because he couldn’t have even if he tried.

He dropped back to his knees, hands sliding up your thighs until they met the waistband of your scrubs. He looked up.

“Can I?”

You didn’t speak—just nodded again, hard.

He hooked his fingers in the waistband and peeled everything down. Scrubs. Panties. All the way to your ankles.

When he looked up again, he had to pause.

Because you were bare in front of him now. Completely. Sweat beading lightly at your sternum. Breathing so hard he could hear it—ragged and real.

His mouth went dry.

He swallowed.

His hands were shaking, but he didn’t even care.

He ran them down the outside of your thighs, slow and sure, until they found the bend of your knees. He gripped them, spread her open just enough, like he needed to feel the shape of you there, the trembling tension of your body under his hands.

Your skin was silky under his palms, your thigh muscles fluttering like they weren’t sure whether to resist or give in.

His breath caught in his throat, and he sank lower, drawn in by the scent of your skin, the impossible softness of it, the way you let him take his time.

He kissed your hipbone. Your lower belly. Tasting salt and skin and the ghost of your perfume—sweet and dizzying. Dragged his cheek along the soft inside of your thigh, inhaling the heat of you. Behind that bodywash, he could smell the faintest edge of something else—something completely yours.

It filled his lungs, made his head foggy, like he’d walked into a heatwave and couldn’t find the exit. Until the only thing in the world was you.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

“So are you,” you whispered back, fingers slipping into his hair.

He let out a breath, forehead pressed to your stomach. Your nails scraped lightly against his scalp—just enough to sting. He liked it. He wanted more of it.

“I’ve never wanted something so badly,” he said it so quietly, he was surprised you heard him.

Your hand slid into his hair. “Me neither.”

Then your grip in his hair tightened, not guiding—just holding.

So he knelt lower, shoulders between your knees, hands still on your thighs.

He kissed the tender skin at the crease, where thigh met pelvis, and felt you twitch beneath him. His heart was pounding. His mouth dry. And when his mouth finally touched you—just a slow, deliberate drag of his tongue, truly tasting you for the first time—you whimpered.

You whimpered.

A tiny, involuntary sound—high and helpless and half-ashamed—but it cracked something in him. He moaned into you, deep and guttural, and started again. Licking you slowly. Carefully. Like you were something sacred, and this was a prayer.

The taste of you. The smell of you. The feel of your thighs tensing under his palms.

You were gasping now, uneven little breaths, and he could feel every sound you made in the flex of your thighs, the clench of your fingers in his hair. When you tugged—hard enough to sting—he groaned again, sharper this time, and pushed his tongue deeper, tracing circles, lines, little teasing patterns.

It was too much and not enough all at once.

Your other hand reached down blindly, landing on his shoulder, digging in as you rocked against him. He let you. He wanted you wild. He wanted you wrecked. Unraveled. Every breath a surrender.

“Robby—” you gasped. Not a request. Not a protest. Just his name stripped bare.

He slid a finger inside you, slow and careful, groaning at the sudden wet heat gripping him tight.

“God, baby,” he whispered. “You feel... fuck.”

You clenched around him, your back arching slightly, your breath catching on a sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob. He paused, eyes flicking up.

“You okay?”

“Don’t stop.”

So he didn’t. He added another finger, curling them just enough, angling until—

“Oh,” you breathed out. “Oh my God—”

That. That.

He latched his mouth to your clit, and sucked. Slow at first, almost tentative, then faster, more confident. Catching the rhythm of your hips and matching it, feeling you get closer with every broken whisper of his name, every helpless whine.

Your hand in his hair twisted hard, and he didn’t care. It only drove him harder, deeper, hungrier.

You came with a cry—his name falling from your lips like a sob—and he stayed right there, holding you through it, licking and kissing you softly through the aftershocks.

You trembled beneath him, gasping, hips jerking involuntarily every time he brushed you again.

He didn’t stop until you whimpered something like “please,” all airy and ruined.

You were panting when he rose again, chest heaving. Your skin was scorching hot. Eyes glassy and unfocused. Lips bruised and parted.

He kissed your stomach again. Your ribs. The underside of your jaw.

When your mouths met again, it was nothing like the first time.

You kissed him like you needed him to know. Like everything you hadn’t said was being poured into him through her lips. Like you were burning—and somehow, he was both the match and the water.

Your mouth opened against his, tongue slick and hungry, and he tasted you—really tasted you now. The sweetness of your skin. The heat of your breath. The faint echo of your own release still on his tongue.

You moaned into him, and his whole body tensed. Every muscle tight, every nerve ending screaming. He’d never felt this kind of hunger before. Not even close. It was overwhelming, terrifying. Addictive.

Your hands fumbled at his waistband, fingers clumsy with urgency. You were shaking, breathing like you’d run a mile, and your mouth never left his for more than a second.

“Please,” you whispered, voice wrecked. “I need you.”

The word nearly brought him to his knees.

He pressed his forehead against yours, closed his eyes, and tried to breathe.

Because this was happening. You were asking for him. And there wasn’t a part of him—body or soul—that didn’t already belong to you.

“I need you too,” he said. And this time, it cracked.

You pulled him in again, and he kissed you like he meant it.

Like he was starving.

Like he'd been drowning for years, and you were the first breath of air.

Because he had. He had wanted this—you—for so long it had carved itself into him. And now you were here, under him, around him, letting him in.

Your legs tightened around his hips. Arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him closer, closer, until your chests pressed together, skin to skin, heart to heart.

All he could hear was your breath hitching.

All he could feel was your nails digging into his back, dragging him down like you couldn’t bear a single inch of space between you.

All he could taste was your name, unspoken but alive in his mouth.

He doesn’t let you go.

Not after you cum, not after the trembling quiet that settles over you like fog. His face stays buried in your stomach, the heat of his breath still spreading over damp skin, his hands still firm around your thighs like he’s anchoring you in place. Like he’s not ready to surface. Like he might never be.

You’re shaking. Slowly, silently, in that post-release unraveling. And he holds you through it—like he’s the only thing that can keep you from dissolving entirely.

You thread your fingers through his hair, not gently, not just affection. It’s grounding. A silent I’m still here. A don’t stop touching me.

But then he shifts.

Your chest was still rising fast when his eyes meet yours—blown pupils, damp cheeks—and you look at him like you can’t believe he’s still there.

And he is. He’s not moving. Not pulling away or deflecting or pretending any of it meant less than it did. He stays above you, arms braced, heart hammering, caught in between whatever feelings you’re not ready to speak out loud.

He watches you trying to catch your breath and thinks: I did that. I got to do that. And it should scare him. It should make him bolt. But instead, it roots him in place. Makes him feel something terrifyingly close to home.

“I—” he starts, voice low and hoarse, but you don’t let him finish.

You pull him up to you. Fist your hands in the collar of his shirt and drag him up until your mouths meet. Kisses him open-mouthed, tasting yourself on him, swallowing the sound he makes into your throat. And when he groans—low, guttural, reverent—it vibrates through you like a second climax.

He breaks the kiss only to mouth at your jaw, your cheekbone, the soft, sensitive skin beneath your ear. Your body arches instinctively into the drag of his weight—hips tilting, thighs parting again, already needing more.

He’s not asking questions anymore, he’s moving on instinct.

When he shifts his hips, the front of his scrubs drags along your thigh—and her gasp punches straight through him.

You lift into it, chasing the contact like it isn’t just friction—it’s relief, a damn finally breaking open. Your legs tighten around him, and you grind against the hardness still trapped between you. It’s clumsy and frantic, but you want him, and he can feel it.

His breath shudders as you grind up again, the soft heat of you dragging against his hard, aching length through far too many layers. It’s clumsy, maddening, perfect. He clutches at your hips like he can’t bear to let you move without him.

And God, you’re killing him—rubbing yourself over him like you’re trying to carve the shape of him into you. Every movement makes him sink deeper into it. He buries his face in your shoulder and lets out a low groan, hips instinctively answering yours.

If they stay like this much longer, he’s not going to make it. He’s going to cum just from the feeling of you writhing against him. Clothes in between or not.

“Robby,” you whisper, almost a warning, almost a plea.

He hears it. Feels it. Freezes for half a second like he needs permission to keep going.

Your hands fumble between them—fingers unsteady and impatient—and he realizes you’re trying to undo his scrubs. The drawstring catches, knots. You curse softly, and he feels himself smile.

“Here,” he whispers, his voice gone rough, and he helps you. Together, you tear through the last of the barriers—cotton and a little hesitation and whatever thin line you’ve been pretending still exists.

And then he’s bare—finally—his scrubs kicked off, forgotten, the cold air licking over his flushed skin as he covers you again.

Your eyes drag over him—his chest, the line of his stomach, the flush across his throat, and that downright sinful happy trail resting a top his navel.

No more barriers. No more restraint. He chokes on the sound it drags out of him, the way your thighs fall open to cradle him, so ready for him.

He’s not calm anymore. Not careful. His control’s gone. He fits himself between your legs, shaking with it, dizzy from wanting you for so long. His hands frame your waist like he’s afraid he’ll fall through the moment if he doesn’t hold tight.

You’re everything he’s never let himself take. And now—God help him—he’s about to.

Your damp skin. The way your eyes darken as you drag them over him. He shudders under the weight of it. Not just desire—reverence.

He touches you again. Slowly, trying to memorize you. Trying not to lose his mind.

And when he settles between your legs, it's not dominance. It's gravity. It’s surrender.

And for a moment, you just look at each other.

Then he reaches down—between you—and touches you again, runs his fingers through the wetness there, swears under his breath when he finds you still open, still aching.

“I don’t—” His voice cracks. “I don’t have anything.”

“I’m on the pill,” you whisper. “And I trust you. Just—”

You break off. Her voice fails under the weight of the moment.

But your hands say it for you. The way you pull him down. The way you guide him.

The way your whole body opens.

He’s shaking as he lines himself up. Not from fear. From restraint. But also from something softer.

He has to breathe through it just to hold himself still.

You’re slick and hot and open beneath him, and when he lines himself up, it takes everything in him not to just take.

But this is you.

This is you.

He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, and the sound you make—sharp, helpless, real—almost breaks him. Your back arches, nails dig into his skin, and he feels you take him in like you were made for this.

Like he’s not an intruder. Like he belongs.

Your fingers curl around his shoulder blades, your back arches, and you gasp—a sharp, involuntary sound that drags straight from your lungs.

He groans, deep and raw, like he’s trying not to collapse.

You’re hot and tight and soaking, and he slides, trying not to rush, trying to make this last. But it’s overwhelming—you’re overwhelming—and his whole body is tense with the effort of not falling apart the moment he’s fully inside you.

When your hips finally meet—when he’s there, all of him—you exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for ten years.

He doesn’t move.

Just rests his forehead against yours. Your noses brush. Your eyes open at the same time. And there’s nothing guarded left between them.

“This…” he says, barely audible. “God. This feels like…”

He never finishes. But you know what he means.

It feels like everything.

And then he starts to move.

Not fast. Not frenzied. Just deep. Slow. Like he’s building something, not just chasing release. His hips roll into yours with purpose, with rhythm, with care. Every thrust stretches something inside you that hadn’t been touched in quite some time—something you didn’t realize you’d been starving.

You wrap your legs around him, thighs cradling his waist, trying to bring him closer, deeper. He answers with a groan, thrusts harder, presses a kiss to your cheek, your temple, your lips.

It’s not just sex. Not to him.

You moan his name—quiet, almost shocked—and it wrecks him. Because he wants to answer it with everything.

So he holds your hand. Laces your fingers tight and pins it above your head—not to trap you, but to stay connected. To prove he’s still there.

He doesn’t say what he’s thinking.

That you’re undoing him.

That he might never recover.

That this is the beginning of the end, and he’d do it all the same.

He moves inside you like he’s afraid to wake from this—like each thrust might break the spell. Slow at first, reverent, then deeper, as your body rises to meet him, to welcome him in like it’s been waiting.

And maybe it has. Maybe you both have.

Your hips lift, chasing him. Your fingers press into your shoulders, then his hair, pulling him closer. Your mouth parts on a breathless sound, and it undoes him. Everything about you undoes him.

He’s not thinking anymore.

He’s feeling—with every inch of her wrapped around him, every soft gasp, every whispered plea. His heart pounds like it’s trying to speak for him. Like it’s trying to climb up his throat.

Every slick slide of your hips is a plea, every arch of your spine a surrender he wasn’t sure he was ready for. It overwhelms him—how much you give, how much he wants. It’s too much and still not enough.

He buries his face in your neck and lets himself break there, lets himself believe this is real, just for a second. That he gets to be here. That he gets to love you like this—without shame, without hiding.

Even if he’s never said the words. Even if it’s only here, in the silence between your bodies, that he ever could.

And somewhere in the middle of it—sweat-slick skin and shaking limbs and your name on a loop in his head—he chokes out, “God…” he pants. “You feel so good, I can’t—”

He thrusts deeper, slower. Shuddering. “I don’t wanna stop.”

It slips out without thought, raw and hoarse and truer than anything he’s ever said. “I don’t know how.”

His voice cracks on it.

You go still for a second, your breath caught between you.

Then your hand finds his jaw, trembling slightly as you coax him to look at you. And when he does—eyes blown, lips parted, ruined in the most beautiful way—you whisper, “Then don’t.”

Your other hand moves through his hair, cradling the back of his head as he rocks into you.

“Stay here,” you breathe, forehead against yours. “Just like this—with me.”

He stills for a breath.

God, you’re soft even now—sweet in a way he doesn’t deserve. And the way you say with me like you actually believes he belongs there—like you’re offering him something permanent—he can’t bear it. He won’t let himself believe in it, not really. But fuck it, does he want to.

He presses his mouth to your shoulder to keep from saying something too honest. To keep from telling you he’s never felt more home than right here, skin to skin, heart to heart.

“I’m here,” he mumbles against your skin. “I’m not going anywhere.” A lie. A wish. A prayer.

And maybe you hear the crack in it, or maybe you’re too far gone to notice because then you’re falling apart beneath him, and the sounds you make aren’t words at first—just broken, breathy sounds punched out with every thrust.

“Oh—God—Robby…” you gasp, almost whines. “Please—don’t stop—don’t ever stop—”

Then your voice breaks into soft, helpless babble.

You shudder beneath him, thighs trembling around his waist, and when you fall over the edge, you clutched him and let your nails leave marks down his back.

“Michael,” you breathe.

Then again—broken, urgent. “Oh, michael.”

And he’s gone. Gone.

As he hears his real name fall from her lips, he knows he’s falling. Knows he’s already too far gone.

He stutters out a sound like a sob. And then it hits him.

Your body tightens around him, gripping him like you never want to let him go. Like you won’t. The way you pulse around him—hot, frantic, relentless—undoes him completely. It’s not just the friction, not just the pleasure, it’s you—all of you—wrapped around him, crying his name like a prayer.

His breath catches in his throat. He tries to hold on, tries to stop, but it’s no use.

He spills into you with a groan, low and wrecked, his face buried in the curve of your neck, one arm locked tight around your waist. His whole body shudders with it. Like he’s giving something back he didn’t know he still had.

He keeps his eyes clenched shut. Like if he doesn’t look, the world can’t take this from him.

They lie there like that, both of them shaking, breathing into each other. Your hand still in his, fingers sticky with sweat. Her chest pressed to his, rising and falling as their pulses slowly begin to settle.

Then—quietly—you let go.

Your fingers move to his hair, soft, reverent, stroking through the damp strands.

He stays buried in her neck, doesn’t want to lift his head. Doesn’t want to ruin this by speaking aloud, by naming it, by asking for something he knows he can’t keep.

But your touch undoes him all over again.

No one's touched him like this in years—maybe ever. Like he's not just wanted, but known. Like he could stay.

He swallows hard against the burn in his throat, his hand still gripping yours, like if he lets go, the moment will slip through his fingers and vanish.

“Robby,” you whisper.

God, he loves that. How you sabor his name whenever he says it out loud. Trying to feel every syllable and how they roll on her lips.

A little louder: “Robby…”

His breath stutters. He clings to the moment like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered.

And then you say it again, louder, almost sharp now—“ROBBY.”

His eyes snaped open.

Bright light. Cold air.

The sound of his name—still echoing. But it’s not your voice anymore.

He’s standing just outside Trauma Room Two, a clipboard in his hand, with Dana waving her hand in front of his face like she’s been doing it for a while.

“Jesus, Earth to Michael,” she says. “You good?”

He blinks. His throat feels raw. “Yeah. I—I’m fine.”

Dana doesn’t look convinced, but she lets it slide—for now.

He pivots away before she can press further, walking down the hall like the fluorescent lights might burn him alive. His heartbeat still hasn't evened out. Every breath scrapes. Every step is a reminder that the past is bleeding straight into the present, and there’s nowhere in this goddamn hospital to hide from it.

He passes the nurses’ station, trying not to limp through the ache still in his chest, and that’s when he hears them.

Perlah and Princess, whispering in Tagalog, throwing glances in his direction like he can’t feel them.

“‘Yung reaction niya kanina? Sobrang weird,” Princess murmurs.

“Alam mo, baka may history sila nung babae,” Perlah whispers back.

He doesn’t know what they’re saying. Not exactly. But he knows what it feels like.

He knows the sound of people talking around him—about him. He can feel the weight of their stares, the way they try to glance without being obvious.

He catches Princess miming a fainting motion and Perlah responding with a wide-eyed shake of her head.

“Ang drama, ‘di ba?” one of them breathes. “Parang teleserye.”

They laugh, restrained but not unkindly. He knows it isn’t malicious. It’s curiosity. Speculation. The kind that blooms in places like this, where drama is the norm and gossip moves faster than blood through a vein.

Still, it grates.

Not because they’re wrong—but because they might be right.

Because he doesn’t have the language to explain it, even if he tried. Because there’s nothing he could say that would make this feel any less insane. Because some part of him—the part still stuck in that flashback—is screaming that he deserves to be talked about like this.

He keeps walking.

He doesn’t look back.

The files are digital now, stored on hospital tablets and synced between departments. He finds one, signs in, and scrolls until he lands on what he shouldn’t be looking for.

Noah. Age: Nine years, three months.

Sex: Male.

Arrival: cyanotic and unconscious after blunt trauma from an SUV. Brief cardiac arrest in transit. Bleeding from a head laceration. Resuscitation successful.

Blood type: AB positive. A rare enough match—compatible with his. And yours.

There’s no last name listed. Just “Mother: information withheld at patient request.”

His thumb freezes above the screen.

Noah.

He stares at the name for too long.

The word blurs and sharpens, then blurs again.

Noah, from the Hebrew—nuach—rest, comfort.

It’s almost funny. Or cruel. Or divine.

He doesn’t know which.

Because it’s not just a name. Not to him. Not now.

It’s a prayer.

It’s a mercy he’s long forgotten how to believe in.

It’s the kind of name whispered into linen blankets after a war. The kind spoken over sleeping children in stories passed down like blood. The kind rabbis preach about during parsha Noach, reminding congregations that even in destruction, there’s survival. That even in floods, there’s mercy. That one man, alone and chosen, can carry a future in the bow of a boat.

A name that carried the future in its hands. A name that meant someone made it through.

Noach matza chen b’eynei Adonai—Noah found grace in the eyes of God.

He swallows hard.

He hasn't thought about that in years.

Not since he stopped showing up to temple. Not since he stopped believing God had anything left to say to him.

This isn’t about loss. Not yet. This is about the possibility of something that lived.

The irony isn’t lost on him. He hasn’t known peace in years, not the kind that stays. Not the kind that sinks into your bones and says, you can stop running now.

He thinks of the Shema. The words that still curled around his ribs when he can’t sleep. Not a shield, exactly—more like a thread. A thread he pulls when the world spins too fast, when grief makes the ground tilt.

Shema Yisrael, Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Echad.

He closes his eyes.

He doesn’t know what he’s praying for. He just knows it feels like a prayer.

A boy named Noah. Nine years old. Hit by a car and still breathing. And his blood type—compatible with Robby’s. And hers. No listed father. No last name that gives anything away. Just—

Noah.

A name that shouldn’t mean anything, but feels like it knows him.

Like it’s been waiting.

His mouth goes dry.

He tries to focus on the chart again. On the vitals, the scans. Anything to keep the rising panic from pushing through his ribs. But he hears footsteps behind him and doesn’t even need to turn around.

Dana.

“I’ve been looking for you,” she says. Half-pissed, half-worried.

“I’m fine.”

“Bullshit,” she snaps, tugging his arm. “Come with me.”

He doesn’t resist.

They step outside through the staff doors, onto the ambulance bay. Dana lights a cigarette, doesn’t offer him one. Just waits, arms crossed and her gaze burning through him.

He stands beside her in silence. Watches as rain starts pouring in. The once sunny sky now a dull gray.

He doesn’t know where to start. Or maybe he does.

“There was a girl,” he says finally, voice raw. “Before I came here.”

Dana raises her brows but says nothing.

“We We were together,” he says quietly. “A year and a half. She wasn’t just some girl—I loved her. Like, deeply. Fully. The way people only do once.”

Dana squints at him through the smoke. “And you left her?”

He nods. Once. Like the motion itself hurts.

A pause. The words come slower now, heavier. “Didn’t say goodbye,” he admits, voice breaking on it. “Didn’t give her a fucking word. I didn’t even tell her where I was going. I just disappeared. She woke up and I was gone.”

Dana doesn’t blink. “Jesus, Robby.”

“Yeah,” he snaps, his voice sharp with guilt. “Yeah. I know. You don’t have to say it—I say it to myself every goddamn day.”

He looks away, toward the street, where red lights blur in the rain. “She loved me. I know she did. And I—God, Dana. She was everything to me.”

Silence stretches between them. The rain hisses around them like static.

“I thought I was doing her a favor," he says. "I thought if I left… I don’t even fucking know. Maybe she'd be better off without me."

Dana lets the silence linger, smoke curling from her lips. Then she exhales sharply through her nose. "You’re an idiot."

He flinches, but she’s not done.

“You think you saved her? That wasn’t mercy, Robby. That was cowardice."

He bows his head soaking it all in. The taste of the word coward still burning on his tongue because it’s true. It's what he’s called himself every day since. Not in passing. Not just once. But like penance.

Dana watches him for a beat, then steps forward—barely a shift, but enough to make the air between them feel tighter. She speaks quieter now, but it still lands like a blow.

"You didn’t just disappear, Robby. You broke something. Something real."

That’s when it hits him. All at once.

His chest caves in on itself, his throat locking up around something sharp and guttural. The rain feels like needles now, every drop stinging against skin that suddenly feels too thin.

He steps back like her words were physical. Shakes his head once, hard, like trying to dislodge the thought before it roots.

“No—don’t—” he rasps. He tries to look away, but even the shadows feel too loud. His hand grips the railing behind him, white-knuckled.

“She—fuck.” He drags a hand down his face. His voice goes lower, fraying at the edges. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t lie awake every night trying to rewire it—trying to un-ruin it?”

And then quieter.

“I haven’t let anyone close since.”

Dana doesn’t move. Doesn’t rush in. She just lets him crash against the weight of his own words.

“You loved her,” she says, softer this time. “And you punished her for it.”

“I punished myself,” he snaps—but even he knows it’s not the whole truth. “I thought if I buried it deep enough, maybe it wouldn’t rot everything else.”

A pause. His breath shakes. Then he goes still, like he’s finally flatlined.

Dana takes one last drag from her cigarette, flicks it away into the rain.

“So what happened today?”

He presses the heel of his palm to his eyes. “I saw her. With a fucking kid”

There’s a pause—too quiet, too long.

Then: “How long ago was this?”

“Ten years.”

Dana stiffens. Her mouth parts like she’s about to say something, then closes again.

“The kid is…”

“Nine,” he says.

And that’s it. That’s the moment.

The math doesn’t just hang there—it detonates, slow and sharp, slicing straight through the humid silence.

Dana lets out a long, quiet, “Shit,” but there’s no real surprise behind it. Just gravity. Just confirmation.

Robby’s expression doesn’t shift, but something inside him buckles. His throat works like he’s trying to swallow glass.

“She looked exactly the same,” he murmurs, barely audible. “Like time skipped her. But then I saw the kid. And he had eyes like—”

He cuts himself off.

Dana’s voice is gentler now, but steady. “Like yours.”

For the first time all day, he doesn’t try to outrun it. He doesn’t shift the blame or dodge the truth or bury it under sarcasm. He just lets it hit him. Full-force.

The ache of it, the finality—the years lost, the silence, the what-ifs.

He might’ve left her.

But he didn’t just leave her.

He left them.

And now, the cost of that choice stands in front of him with wide brown eyes and a crooked smile—one he might’ve passed on without even knowing.

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presentmacandcheese · 5 months ago

Text

(softer than your) favorite t-shirt

plus size gn reader x jason todd

summary: reader is used to being too big for their partner's clothes. this concern arises in their relationship with jason too. luckily, he's got a solution.

or 4.2k of how i derailed from that plot to write a love letter to jason todd

a/n: first time writing DC, please be nice! Keep in mind this was written with WFA Jason in my brain. Also note that reader does not know about the vigilantism. With all that said, please enjoy!

also on my ao3!

The first night you ever spent at Jason’s apartment was lovely. Well. It was emotional, but it was lovely.

You’d been seeing each other for a few months, most always going out for meals and activities together or cuddled up in your apartment. It was nice enough, having him in your space, surrounded by your cozy blankets and soft atmosphere. It couldn’t be denied that he looked beautiful in the glow of the fairy lights you’d strung up, delicate in a way the harshness of Gotham rarely allowed him to be.

You’d gotten to fall in love over the gentle hum of your broken refrigerator and the finespun threads of your favorite blanket wrapped snuggly around you both. Your apartment felt intimate in relation to your connection, somewhere safe. for you to exist together, to learn each other, to love each other. Not that you’d said the words aloud yet.

Jason’s apartment felt... Unfamiliar. It was a place you’d yet to be invited, a hidden tomb where it felt like all his secrets had been buried.

It was clear he valued his privacy though, his space. You’d never wanted to rush him into having you over or step on his boundaries, being endlessly patient and understanding while also curious. There’s a lot to be learned about someone based on their home and you realized that was exactly why Jason had yet to show you. He wasn’t ready for the vulnerability.

Until he was.

You’d been out at a diner.

“No, you did not!” You laughed, picking a fry from your plate and popping it into your mouth.

“Swear it, I was a borderline magician back in my street days.” Jason smirked, shrugging as he leaned back on the booth, his elbows raising to rest on the seat’s back. It made his muscles flex, the outline of his arms drawing your attention.

You wanted to bite his bicep like an apple. He raised a smug brow at you.

You cleared your throat, eyes returning to his face. “I think they go by “pickpockets” based off what you’re describing.” Your teasing came out much breathier than intended, eyes trailing back to his arms and the confident posture. His strength was displayed so casually like this, the implication of raw power sending a tingle up your spine.

“You seem a little distracted there, sweetheart.”

“I have never been more focused.” Your eyes slowly followed the hem of his shirt bulging around his muscles as his arms remained propped up.

You could make out a few scars from here, a couple you knew the stories of and a few you didn’t but wanted to. You wanted to know the stories to all his scars, his memories, his life. You wanted to know him.

“That so?” He shifted positions, leaning over the table with his arms crossed now. You caught a whiff of him, musky and smoky with an almost hidden note of vanilla. The essence of mahogany surrounding every one of your senses. Like an old beloved book ready to be cherished after decades tucked away.

You reached out a hand for your milkshake, something to physically cool you down and make you relax before you jumped across the table at him or declared your love, probably both.

Your hand promptly landed in the milkshake, fingers now coated with the semi-frozen delicacy.

“Never been more focused.” You repeated, smiling stubbornly as you stared into his eyes, hand still nestled in ice cream.

His responding laugh was better than your favorite song.

It wasn’t much longer before you were back out on the street, fingers intertwined as you held hands and began to walk.

The night air was brisk, nipping at your nose and making you shiver as you leaned closer into Jason’s side.

“Let me give you my jacket.” Jason moved to let go of your hand and take his jacket off.

There it was, the ever chivalrous offer that made your stomach drop.

It was a sweet gesture, as it was each time he’d made it, but your heart felt like it was trying to claw its way out of your throat.

“Oh, that’s okay! I’m just fine, baby! Thank you, though. Not that much further ‘til my apartment.” You smiled reassuringly, the fire pit of insecurity in your mind sparking up.

“I was uhh, actually thinking we’d go back to mine?” Jason suggested, rubbing at the back of his neck. It was a nervous tell, one you found hopelessly endearing.

“If you’re sure, I’d love to. Lead the way.” You squeezed his hand gently, leaning in so your arms pressed as you walked, ignoring the flames beginning to stoke.

Caught up in the task, your hesitance to wear his jacket fell aside.

Crossing the threshold into his apartment set you off-kilter, so many aspects of the new environment demanding your attention.

The living room seemed a hodge podge of bookshelves and simple furniture. The wooden coffee table had a slightly askew stack of coasters on it, one separated from the rest with a Wonder Woman mug on it that made you smile. Your smile growing wider as your eyes flicked to the couch and found a blanket you thought you’d lost.

“When’d you steal that? How didn’t I notice you leaving with an entire blanket?” You laughed, confused and impressed.

“Master magician remember?” He locked the front door, turning around to step up closely behind you and wrap his arms around your waist.

His hands settled on your stomach and some of the amusement died on your lips. You couldn’t let him linger like this too long, didn’t want this much attention on your belly or your body right now, not with the insecurities dancing around your mind.

“You can’t pickpocket a blanket, Jay.” You stepped out of his hold, taking one of his hands in yours and pulling him further into the apartment.

“You can’t.” He laughed, letting himself be dragged along as you toured his belongings.

The kitchen was lived in, well used and well loved. You could see signs of his time in there; dishes in the drying rack, water stains on the backsplash, a small scorch mark on the wall just behind the stove.

“Who tried to burn the place down?” You joked, leaning closer to look at it.

“I asked Dick to keep an eye on pasta for the one minute it took to go to the bathroom.” Jason shrugged, his tone holding the fond indignation that was always there when it came to his siblings.

“It’s a special skill how bad he seems in a kitchen.” You laughed.

“You have no idea.”

You wanted to though. Wanted to know Dick well enough to have your own stories of kitchen mayhem, wanted to know Tim and his dry wit that Jason continued to laugh about after the fact (not that he’d oft admit so), wanted to know the names of Damian’s animals and the reasoning behind his choosing of them. You wanted to know Bruce’s smile around his children, the exasperated wrinkle of his eyes and to know what Alfred’s famous cookies tasted like.

You wanted to know Jason’s family, the extension of the man you love that he’d worked to find his way back to, yet another aspect of his life you found yourself desperate to learn about.

There was so much about Jason your heart ached to know, as if your soul was begging to absorb his and become one.

Somehow standing in his apartment for the first time; feet on the tile of his kitchen floor and admiring a classy “no bitchin’ in the kitchen” fridge magnet, didn’t feel like the right time.

Instead you turned to offer him a smile, one that Jason could realize held far deeper emotion than either of you were willing to say quite yet.

He smiled back.

The candle on the bookcase. The shampoo in the bathroom. The matchbook on his nightstand. Only a handful of the items around his apartment that you noticed and inquired about.

Jason’s posture seemed to relax as he answered. The candle was a gift, the shampoo smelled of nostalgia, the matchbook from a hotel full of fond memories. Everything about him dripped ‘relief’ as he spoke, as though all he’d ever needed was your validation.

Standing among the belongings that bared his soul, it was all too easy to give.

Gently running your fingers along the spine of the book on his nightstand you sat down on his bed.

“You have a beautiful home, Jay.” Your tone achingly sincere.

He sat beside you, leaning his forehead into your shoulder.

“Thank you.” You couldn’t see his expression, but if you listened right you could hear the relief in his voice as the last of his worries were calmed.

Sincerity and affection flooded your veins, thrumming deep throughout your body. This man, this beautiful man had let you into his home. His soul. The trust needed for him to do so you knew was massive.

Instead of voicing the all encompassing emotions you felt and spooking him, you placed a kiss to the top of his head.

“Of course.” Like there’d ever been a doubt you’d love his home any less than you love him.

You’d sat snuggled together awhile longer, peacefully enjoying one another’s presence. Your hand found its way into Jason’s, a decision no longer conscious but a result of being magnetized to him. One day it switched from a decision to touch him to sheer instinct, a mindless need to be near him.

His head raised from your shoulder, your thumb stilling where it rubbed soothingly at his hand as you turned your gaze to give him full attention.

“I’m gonna get changed. Want to borrow some clothes?” He looked sleepy, voice just as calm and soft.

Your heart panged uncomfortably, the edge you’d been feeling when he offered his jacket returning.

“I’m okay, baby. Thank you.” Your smile doesn’t quite meet your eyes. Jason holds your gaze a beat longer than feels necessary before nodding and getting up.

Part of you wants to cry. Because you want. So badly you want to wear his clothes. Nothing sounds better than being wrapped in his favorite t-shirt, the well worn threads soft against your skin and his scent surrounding you, the safety of having him pressed to your skin from all angles. You want to be the cute partner who looks hot in their boyfriend’s sweats, the material falling low on your hips, enticing until he can’t keep his hands off you.

But you can’t.

Because Jason’s a smaller size than you.

Because his clothes would make you look like biscuits popping out of their tube.

Because there’s not an ounce of comfort to be found squeezed into an item you wouldn’t feel secure in. The constant worry of him deciding he wants someone smaller, someone more “delicate”, it’d loom over your every action, thought, breath.

So you can’t. For the sake of your mental health and your relationship you can’t and don’t want him to see you in that light. The light a majority of the world tends to see you in.

It crushes your soul to consistently turn down his offers. The gestures always thoughtful and kind. You can see that he wants to question it and it’s only a matter of time before he does, but for now he leaves you be. A gentle kiss pressed to your forehead as he walks away to change into pajamas, unknowingly leaving you to wallow in a wish you can’t be granted.

Sunlight peeking in through the blinds coaxes Jason awake in the morning, eyes cracking open to briefly check that all is calm and safe. The room is empty, no other sounds in the apartment beyond the faint hums of electricity and your steady breathing.

You.

Jason’s focus latches onto your sleeping form with the confirmation all is safe. You’re tucked into his arms, face nuzzled into his chest as you drool on him. He knows it embarrasses you when you wake up, but he finds himself endeared that you feel so comfortable, that your subconscious is able to rest that deeply around him.

He wishes it would translate to your conscious mind.

Jason has noticed your hesitance over the past weeks. When the relationship was new he thought possibly you were being some form of polite? But as time passed and your reluctance only grew he began to wonder if turning down his chivalry was a deeper problem.

He could see it in your eyes when you rejected his jacket on cold nights. The slight furrow in your brow when offered a change of clothes. It left a sinking feeling in his gut. Was it that you didn’t want to wear his clothes? Did you hate how he smelled? Jason tried to smell nice, a leftover paranoia from living on the streets when he so rarely had access to proper hygiene.

Or was it worse? Did you not want what wearing his jacket represented... Did you not want him? He’d yet to work the courage to ask, but each time it happened the fear rooted deeper within him.

A soft hum and the shuffle of sheets interrupted his spiral.

“Five more minu’es.” You mumbled, smothering your face further into him.

Jason laughs, the storm in his mind easier to weather under your adorability. “No one was waking you up.”

“Shhh, sleep time.” It comes out muffled, your hand lightly smacking against his face in an attempt to scold.

“How are you supposed to sleep if you’re talking to me?”

He swears he can feel your responding eye roll.

When you wake it’s to an empty bed, the sight makes you equally pouty at losing Jason’s warmth and impressed he managed to escape your koala-esque cuddles.

You lay back against the pillows, spreading out into a starfish as you stretch your limbs. You allow yourself one more moment in the comfort of Jason’s bed before standing up, casting a longing look as you make your way out of the bedroom.

Your senses, both sound and smell, lead you to the kitchen. You step closer watching Jason at the stove, he’s concentrated but at ease. His simple confidence and overall competence are wildly attractive.

“Good morning,” He looks over his shoulder, cocky, like he’s amused to catch you staring. He definitely is.

“Mornin’, handsome.” You approach him. “Am I okay to touch?” Your hands hover at your sides, itching to wrap around him and properly greet him.

You learned rather quickly that Jason isn’t always the biggest fan of touch first thing in the day. The nightmares that plague him occasionally leave him startled by ghosts you’ve yet to see.

You woke briefly earlier still in his arms so it’s likely fine, but you still prefer to check in.

“You’re okay. I’m okay.” There’s a sparkle of appreciation in his eyes as he leans in for a kiss, your arms wrapping around his waist and sinking into the affection.

You hum into the kiss, content filling your body as you stand with him.

“You should focus on breakfast, your kitchen doesn’t need any more scorch marks.” You tease, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

Jason reaches out and turns off the burner, removing the skillet from the source of heat before directing his full attention to you.

“Problem solved.”

Your laughter fills the kitchen for a moment, cut off by his lips meeting yours once more.

One make out session later (okay, maybe it was two and a half), but who’s counting you sit down to your meal together.

Jason has a dining table. It’s clearly old, weathering the scuffs and damage from a family well-loved. The chairs are mismatched, not a set but each blending together to create a unique harmony.

“This is a cozy set up, very homey. Was it yours growing up?” Your eyes hold curiosity, patience. You don’t imagine Bruce Wayne would’ve had something like this in his mansion, but you can’t know certainly without asking.

“No. It’s what I wished I had, though.”

You continue to look at Jason, encouragement for him to continue written all over your face.

“Before being taken in by Bruce, I... didn’t have the best life. I used to imagine one day I would. I wanted a home. A place that felt like me, even when I wasn’t sure who I was. I’d spend hours thinking about what my dream home would look like, the furniture, the knick-knacks, the character of it all. Some of that dream died a long time ago, but... I always wanted a table like the ones I saw happy sitcom families sitting at. Someone to share that table with.” Jason looked down at the table, his fingers running over one of the small notches brought on by time, he seemed shy and wistful.

It made your eyes water.

“You are such a beautiful man, Jason Todd.” It slipped out reverently, a secret spoken from your soul.

Jason’s gaze met yours.

“Sweetheart, are you crying?” His voice was full of surprise and confusion.

“Almost. I can’t help it! I’m sitting next to the kindest soul I’ve ever encountered. That’s enough to make even Batman emotional I’m sure!” You missed the twitch in his eye at the mention of “Batman,” too busy wiping at your own.

Jason’s hand met yours, thumb soothing both you and himself with comforting swipes over your skin.

He was speechless, words unable to form as his heart sat in his throat.

You thought he was the kindest soul? That he was a beautiful man? He was choked up on how delicately you saw him. No one had ever seen him like this, maybe they’d gotten close before, but since he died? Not a chance.

He was used to being perceived brashly, harshly, dangerously. Watched, but rarely seen. Somehow always too much, yet never enough. Constantly chasing the flashes of normalcy he was treated with in an attempt to feel whole again.

But then there was you.

You, who held him through the nights and checked on him in the mornings (patrol permitting.)

You, who laughed and teased and made him smile like he hadn’t in years.

You, who saw a sweet but suffering soul and cupped it in your hands as gently as a wounded bird.

You, who picked up a long wounded Robin and truly saw him.

He brought your hand to his lips, kissing softly and looking into your eyes.

He may not have the words to say it yet, but Jason knew his actions would speak the truth of his love as loudly as he felt it.

Shortly after cleaning up breakfast, you sighed.

“I should probably get going soon. I’m starting to feel icky in this outfit.” You’d been feeling gross in it for awhile, but voicing it was bound to bring up--

“You want to borrow something and stay longer? I’m not sure I’m ready to give you up yet.” His playful tone and charming smirk made your heart preemptively break, knowing you’d be dampening it with your next words.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. After his vulnerability of letting you into his safe space and sharing himself with you, you felt the least you could do was offer your own vulnerability.

“Jay, I can’t. I can’t borrow your clothes.” His crestfallen expression gave you pause. It was all the opening Jason needed.

“Do you not, um, want to?” His eyes trailed away from you, insecurity clear in his tone.

“I want to, gods I want to so badly you don’t even know.” You stepped closer, putting a hand on his arm, sensing he needed touch to ground him in this moment.

“Then why?”

“Because I’m fat, Jay. I’m not going to fit into your clothes and I don’t want you to see that struggle. I don’t want to feel that struggle and feel like my body, like I’m not good enough for you. I know it probably sounds stupid, but I don’t want me failing to fit into your clothes to change the way you see me.”

You focused on the floor, wiggling your toes in your socks and locking in on the sensation. You couldn’t look him in the eyes, not when your anxiety was trying to convince you that you were about to lose him.

“Hey.” A firm, but gentle hand had your head tilting back up to meet his gaze. “Your size will never change the way I see you. The way I feel about you. I’m sorry you’ve been dealing with this insecurity. Does it come up every time I offer my clothes?”

You hazard a nod, trying to take his kind validation at face value.

“No wonder you like to change the subject when that happens. That’s a shitty way to feel.” His hand cups your cheek, concern swimming in his eyes.

“Thank you. For telling me.” The appreciation in his voice lifts most of the weight off your shoulders.

“Sorry I kept turning down your chivalry.” The attempted levity falls flat with the shake in your voice.

“I’m just glad it’s not for the reason I thought.” He pulls you into a hug, cradling the back of your head with his hand.

“What was the reason you thought?”

“That maybe I smell bad. Or that you didn’t want to be representing me like that because you were ashamed of me or something.”

The speed in which you raise your head to look at him knocks his hand away.

“What? Jason, I could never be ashamed of you. You’re the best thing in my life. I am so proud to call you mine and if I could fit into them I’d have pickpocketed all of your hoodies by now.”

Jason laughs at the inside joke, but it’s easy to see how serious you are. As he pulls you back into his chest, a simple solution comes to mind.

You walk through Jason’s front door, pulling off your jacket as you enter and toeing off your shoes.

Being back in his place for the first time in a week makes you smile, fingers adoringly tracing the dining table as you walk past it.

You feel Jason’s eyes on you.

“Watching me, weirdo?” You chuckle, turning your gaze to him.

“Just appreciating how gentle you are with my things.” With me goes unsaid, but the implication of it lingers like electricity in the air.

Stepping closer you lay your palms on his chest, his heart beats beneath your skin and it’s easy to imagine it’s beating only for you in this moment. Your eyes lock, a promise of always lingering in yours. You tap a finger over his heart three times, breathing a sigh of contentment, the taps scratching the itch you have to confess your love.

You linger in the moment for a few more seconds, gazing into his eyes and letting yourself find comfort and belonging in his company. Finally you press a peck to his lips, taking a step back and breaking the bubble.

“Come on, you big sap.” Taking Jason’s hand you guide him over to the couch, plopping down and pulling him into a cuddle.

Your hand strokes through his hair as you hold him, asking him to tell you about the books he loves. You let him talk late into the night, listening and adding comments and questions that set him on new tangents. You get the feeling his passions are not often met with such sincerity, something you’re more than happy to remedy.

When Jason’s voice tires and he releases a yawn you nod.

“I should probably head out, this outfit isn’t necessarily sleepover comfortable and I didn’t think to grab something else.” You smile apologetically, shifting to let him out of your hold so you can stand.

“Wait! I- I have something for you.” He stumbles getting off the couch, body lax from the calm affection. It’s cute, warming your heart as you giggle at him.

When he comes back it’s with a piece of cloth. Your brows furrow curiously.

“Jay? We talked about this-”

“No, no, I know! But trust me, okay?” He waits for you to nod before stretching out the fabric he’s holding to reveal a t-shirt.

A t-shirt that definitely looks too large for him.

“What is this?” It comes out as a whisper, not quite daring to have enough hope to be excited.

“After our conversation I got an idea. I figured if the only thing stopping you from being able to wear my clothes was them being too small... I’d just get some bigger clothes. I’ve been wearing this one all week so it’d be softer and smell like me.” His tone gets shyer at the end, smile unsure as he waits for your reaction.

You could cry. It’s such a glaringly simple solution that you’d never thought of, but here was Jason, having enacted it immediately.

Here was Jason, caring enough about your comfort and desires to ensure you could have this moment and this joy.

Here was Jason, seeing you.

“It’s perfect.” You met him where he stood, voice breaking on the emotion of the gesture.

As you took the t-shirt from his hands, fingers smoothing over the softened threads, you’d never felt more loved.

Next part in the series!

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highonmarvel · 7 months ago

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Heyy love your work. I wanted to make a request for Bucky Barne was thinking something like reader goes to his house for Christmas but then he forcefully drugs her with a syringe and she's held captive. But he's overal nice enough. He'd let her kick or scream or fight back. But then one day he lets her out of the basement or wherever he keeps her and she tries to escape and succeeds to some degree He manages to catch her and he snaps, gets angry and punishes her and she's scared cuz he snapped.

Winter

i love this! i’m sorry this isn’t proofread—i’m late as is and needed to get this out into the world so at least some people can read this as they lie in bed and have it be relevant. also, i’m so sorry, i left out the syringe bit because i got too into the plot i conjured up with the food coma here, sorry, sweetheart, but please, send another request if you really want to see it get done. let me know your thoughts, also to my sister @thehydraethereal. with that out of the way:

Bucky Barnes: A Christmas dinner opens your eyes to a new type of Winter.

additional content warnings here!

CONTENT WARNING, PLEASE READ: This piece includes graphic depictions of torture. Seriously, this is really dark; do not proceed if you are not comfortable with explicit descriptions of physical violence. This is your warning. This is fucking dark. I can not stress this enough. I am fucked up.

It wasn’t that you were technically averse to relationships or had commitment issues, you just feel like at this point in your life a solid relationship wasn’t really going to work. You had been travelling to the other side of the country quite a bit to take care of your sister, but this Christmas, your parents went down, so you didn’t really have an excuse to bail when Bucky invited you to dinner.

You don’t think you’re technically dating him–you don’t ever recall you or him asking the other to be their partner–but you’ve at least been going out with him for a few months. Guess you’d have to face him at some point; it’s been nearly three weeks since he had suggested you live together, which had caught you completely off-guard. You had managed to side-step the conversation at the time before making up some bullshit excuse to leave, and you haven’t had the courage to face him since.

Pulling into Bucky’s driveway always makes you feel a little uneasy; he doesn’t live like a hermit or overly secluded, but for some reason the houses in this suburb seem just a little too far apart for comfort–no one really has ‘neighbours.’

The scent of a very well-cooked meal carries right up to the front door, making you take a deep whiff before knocking.

“Hi, honey,” Bucky answers the door, leaning down to give you a kiss on the cheek.

“God, I’m practically drooling out here,” you say, and Bucky laughs as he steps out of the way and allows you in. “How long have you been standing?”

“Ah, a few hours,” he admits, sheepishly, watching you hang your coat up and rubbing the back of his neck when you raise your eyebrows at him.

“But it’s just the two of us, no?” you question as you lead him into the kitchen (maybe you being so casual in his home gave him the impression you’d like to move in with him).

“Yeah,” he replies, tailing you. “But I realised I don’t really know what you like and I panicked a bit.”

You giggle and that seems to ease his apparent embarrassment, allowing him to let out a breathless laugh as he moves into the kitchen, standing on the other side of the island as you settle on a stool.

“How have you been?” he inquires as he pours you a glass of wine, not making eye contact.

“Alright,” you reply, watching the red liquid slosh into the glass. “Glad to have some time off.”

“How’s your sister?”

You sigh and mouth a thank you to him as he slides the glass towards you. After a sip, you look up at him. “Better, I think, and she’s only allowed two visitors at a time–my parents really wanted to see her so I let them for Christmas, they don’t really get a chance otherwise.”

He hums in understanding as he puts on pink oven mitts and crouches down.

“Are you disappointed?” he asks loudly as he pulls a dish out of the oven.

You shrug. “I’d have liked to go, but I’m not all that sad about it. I don’t have much going for me in New York, so I was worried I’d be bored, but I’m having a good time.

“You just got here!” He laughs as he rises with a turkey.

“I know, but wine.” You raise your glass to him and peer into the ceramic dish. “Turkey?” you ask, which he responds to with a hum of affirmation.

“I don’t really like it, not sure if you do.”

“I like it. I would have thought you patriots like Thanksgiving stuff, though.”

You help him set up a few dishes across a small dining table and sit down.

“This was really sweet, Bucky.” You smile, tone sincere and nearly sappy as he cuts you a large leg of turkey. “Doesn’t this stuff make you sleepy?” you joke, and it takes him just a beat too long to chuckle.

“I think that’s a myth, actually,” he responds as he sits back down across from you.

“Really?” you raise your eyebrows as you dig your knife and fork into the leg. “I could have sworn...”

“Is it good?” he asks, watching you carefully, and with a kind of interest that makes you slightly uneasy, but you can’t deny it’s heavenly. You nod enthusiastically and point to the meat.

“God, this is great! You’d swear there was cocaine in here or something.”

Something lights in his eyes for a second, a spark you mistake for happiness. Bucky has always loved nothing more than to see you happy and relaxed: one of the reasons you were so drawn to him was his genuine desire to not only make you as happy as possible, but to appreciate that joy. Sometimes you got the impression making you happy pleased him almost as much as it pleased you, if not more. And it was times like these you felt bad you weren’t really able to make a commitment to him. He never seemed to mind it all too much, but you can tell it’s something he wants, and you almost feel like you’re taking advantage of his affection–but he knows, and you know, and if he isn’t happy with this arrangement, surely he’d say something.

But Bucky has to bite back the retort, “Well, not that drug.”

After a hearty meal you only put down when you feel you’re genuinely on the verge of passing out, you push away your plate. “Woo! I don’t know how I’m ever gonna work that off. I think I’ve gained, like, 10.”

“You're perfect the way you are,” Bucky says, leaning down to press his lips to your cheek as he clears the table.

You close your eyes and hum in delight, but you find it a little hard to open them again. When you manage to pry your eyes open again, it’s not much, still looking at the table through droopy lids. You stand and sway, rattling your chair as you grapple the table for support.

“Are you okay?” Bucky asks as he reappears in your line of sight, brows furrowed in concern.

“Yeah,” you respond, squeezing your eyes shut and ripping them open again. “But I really should get going.”

“Get going?” he repeats, moving to your side for support as you stumble forward. “I don’t think you should drive right now.”

But you dismiss him with a wave of your hand, pushing off of him to stand up straight. You think you say, “I’m fine. I’ll call you.” but you can’t really make out the words through the slight slurring.

“Lie down,” he offers gently, taking a step towards his bedroom.

“No…” you tear your arm free of his grasp. You had spent the night with him before, but for a reason you can’t figure out, this time, something is screaming at you to decline.

“Really, darling, you need to,” he insists, his voice having dropped to a low murmur. He takes a step forward and you instinctively take a step back, feeling a little guilty when he stops dead in his tracks and something like hurt flashes across his features. You know something that makes Bucky wince is when he feels someone is afraid of him, and you can only imagine how he must feel now if you’re the one displaying apprehension.

You shake your head and turn away from him to the doorway.

“Hey...” You startle as you feel his grip on your forearm, gentle, but firm. “You’re not leaving.” The words are said in a sincerely concerned way, but the fact the statement came off as more of a command than a suggestion really triggers something in you.

“Bucky...” you groan as you uselessly try to pull away, feeling weaker than you otherwise would, even against him.

He doesn’t have to give too sharp of a tug to make you stumble into his arms, his hold on you steady, and, at any other time, safe, but now it feels more certain, somehow, almost possessive. You try to protest but you’re practically babbling incoherently under him, head lolled to the side as he adjusts his grip from under your arms to pick you up bridal style.

“Just lie down for a second...”

And you’re too out of it to notice he’s passed his bedroom door.

***

It’s difficult to open your eyes again, your lashes stuck together as you turn your head over. When vision slowly comes back to you, you’re met with a midcentury wooden bedside table you don’t recognise. You prop yourself up on your forearm and squint into the room, looking for any signs of familiarity, and the only thing you recognise is the thing you dread.

“What…” you begin to mutter, and Bucky looks up from the book he’s reading with a smile.

“You’re up.” He stands from the chair positioned by ‘your’ (this isn’t your bed) beside and moves to sit on the edge, placing a hand to your forehead. “How’re you feeling?”

You weakly slap his hand away as you start to really wake up and realise what’s going on.

“I’m not… this isn’t… what…” you can’t really find the words to ask the questions you need answers to.

“It’s your Christmas present!” he says with a grin, standing to make a grand gesture with his arms, out to the room. I’ve got your favourite books here, I remember you telling me you used to want a four poster princess bed.” He points to the ceiling and sure enough, pretty curtains hang over your head. “But if you don’t like it I can change it.” He shrugs and stands somewhat nervously as he waits for you to react.

“What… the fuck.”

He tsks and swings his arms back and forth, rocking on his heels.

“I set it up for you a few weeks ago, I didn’t know if you’d be comfortable sleeping with me every night, I know you like your space.”

“Are you out of your mind!?” You throw the sheets off of you and manage to stand, even though your head feels a little heavy.

He sighs and steps forward. “I know it feels like–”

“Oh, you know what it feels like? You know what it feels like to be ostensibly kidnapped by your boyfriend?”

He blushes. “So I am your boyfriend.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you!?” You throw a pillow at him (ineffective but it was the nearest thing) which he catches with ease and turns over to reveal an embroidered flower. “I made this,” he says, proudly.

“What the fuck!?” you shriek as you throw another pillow at him, this one he dodges easily.

You’ve never seen him like this, nearly giddy and, in this context, borderline delusional. It makes you grip onto your hair and bunch your fingers into the locks. “Oh, my god, you’re insane!”

“I’m not the one yelling and throwing things,” he mutters, and your eyes snap up to his.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you begin, exasperated. “I’m so fucking sorry I don’t react well to crimes committed against me.”

“You came into my house.”

“Yes, but I didn’t come into this room! Do you really expect me to believe I can just leave anytime? That that door isn’t locked. You think I’m fucking stupid?”

He gently tosses the pillow back onto the bed and winces. “I was hoping you wouldn’t.”

“Bucky,” you begin, carefully, voice dangerously low as you step up to him. “I don’t know what in god’s name has gotten into you, but I’m not having it. I’m leaving.”

“Sweetheart, you really don’t intimidate me.” And the way he says it with such sincere pity makes you shove at his chest. He doesn’t stumble, but he takes a step back for your benefit.

You match his step and poke your finger in his chest, glaring up at him with more fury than you thought you had and trying your hardest not to wrap your hand around his throat. What really pisses you off is his patronising speech; you can tell he genuinely thinks he’s doing good, and that he honestly feels bad that you can’t appreciate it, that you’re weaker than him, and it boils your blood. Apathy or even mockery would be better than this condescending way he’s deluded himself into believing this is for your benefit.

“Don’t call me sweetheart, you piece of shit. If that door is locked, you’re gonna unlock it, and you’re going to leave me the fuck alone.” You practically spit the words at him through gritted teeth, seething to the point you can feel heat radiating from your body and wouldn’t be surprised if there was literal steam coming out of your ears.

“Sit down, angel.”

“Talk to me like that again and there will be nothing angelic about what I do to you.”

“Your mother called.”

That gets your attention and your anger dissipates for a moment. “Really? What did she say?”

When he guides you to sit down, you’re not really in the space to fight him off, waiting to hear any news from your family.

“They’re coming down in a few days, for New Year’s, and, they’re bringing your sister–they say she’s stable enough for travel.”

You feel your eyes begin to water at the thought of your sister being that strong, of being able to talk to her like you used to, before she got sick. But you snap out of it, and that swelling in your heart turns to something close to anxiety, but closer to suspicion. “Why are you telling me this?”

He scoffs as if you’re asking him if the sky is blue. “Because I know you want to see them. I told them they could stay with us for a few days.”

“With us?”

He just blinks. “Yes, with us.”

“You must be out of your fucking mind if you think…” And the next few hours are spent with you screaming in his face, swinging punches which he easily dodges, but sometimes he humours you and allows you a hit–not like it hurts anyway. His calm demeanour and ‘care’ makes you infuriated beyond belief, and by the end of the night the room has been trashed, there are scratches on the door from your desperate clawing and pounding, your voice is hoarse from all the yelling, and you’re exhausted while Bucky is no more beaten than when you first woke up.

Eventually, you’ve physically exhausted yourself so much you can’t even push him away when he climbs into bed next to you and holds you in his arms, placing your head against his chest and caressing your hair, which he knows always relaxes you and helps you fall asleep.

***

You only know it’s morning when you wake up because Bucky greets you with it, but it doesn’t take long for your attention to fall to the walls, noticing there aren’t any windows.

“We’re in the basement, you know.” Bucky comments, watching your eyes dart around the room and catching on to what you’re doing. “I don’t have a spare room, you know that.”

You’re nearly tired of glaring daggers at him seeing as he doesn’t really feel it–if anything, it seems to spur him on, like he doesn’t really care what you do as long as he gets some kind of reaction out of you. If you remained as stoic as he did, maybe that would give him pause for thought, but you really can’t resist the urge to attack him, and he somehow sees it as endearing, like any attention you give him makes his heart swell.

Initially, you refuse his invitation for breakfast upstairs, but when that morning grumpiness subsides, you let your stubbornness fall away in favour of opportunity. This really solidifies in your mind Bucky is so convinced you’ll stay that he doesn’t really worry about turning his back on you as he flips an egg.

“Where’re you going?”

You stop dead in your tracks, shocked he had heard you get up when you were practically sneaking like a cartoonish villain.

“To the bathroom,” you lie, to which he responds with a simple, “Okay.”

It’s too easy, but you’d rather take your chances than wonder if this is some kind of setup. You have to get out of here as soon as possible, so you don’t have time to look for your car keys, but you hesitate at the door. It’s beginning to snow, and you’re not dressed anywhere near enough to make it to a neighbour–the only thing that had kept you warm before coming up to see him was that nice coat, but it’s not on the rack anymore.

There’re only a few locks you have to turn to quietly open the door, your teeth chattering as a cold breeze hits you so hard it’s painful, like your skin is literally freezing onto your bones. You’re barefoot, no less. You can’t kid yourself into thinking you won’t lose a toe or some extremities in the process, but you can not stay. It really has only been one night, but something you’ve never liked in your life is being trapped, makes your skin crawl to the point you’d rather shed it than be deprived of freedom, especially when you’ve got the chance to see your family soon. And besides, it’s really not that long of a walk to the next house, you won’t die out there, but you can only vaguely make it out through the snow, and if you scream, it’ll surely be drowned by the harsh winds. With one last glance behind you, you step into the snow, and instantly regret it, your feet set close to frozen in just a few seconds, and goosebumps rising so quickly across your skin it feels like you’ve suddenly broken out in hives. And just as you consider turning back, you’re shoved forward, and you shriek as you land face first in the snow, afraid of crying at the impact lest your tears turn to ice right on your cheeks.

You’re gripped by the arm and pulled upright, before being again pushed further away from the house you can feel radiating warmth just through the open door. You gasp for air as you manage to bring yourself to your hands and knees, fingers curling into the snow and slowly becoming numb. A harsh gust blows, nearly knocking you off balance, and you squint to look up at the door, Bucky standing before you in little more than a long-sleeved t-shirt (he’s more underdressed than you) and sweatpants, hair still a little messy with sleep, but the look in his eyes, it’s a look you’ve never been on the receiving end of–in fact, you’ve never even seen it, but you can recognise it immediately.

“You forget I’m the Winter Soldier.” You’re not sure how his deep growl manages to carry across the howling of the winds, but you don’t have time to figure it out before a metal hand grips a fistful of your hair and you’re dragged through the snow, instinctively trying to plant your feet in the ground to stop him but even if you could match his strength, the cold is unbearable, and your legs are starting to feel numb, yet still stiff.

You don’t have time to be grateful that you’ve been thrown back into warmth as you slide across the floor and Bucky kicks the door shut behind him. From a hallway table, he pulls out a wrench, and you struggle to get your arms and legs to move away from him as he approaches you, menacingly.

You don’t know how such slow and heavy footsteps manage to catch up to you so quickly, but soon he’s got his boot pressing down on your ankle, preventing you from doing more than thrashing around. He leans down and grips your face roughly, forcibly pulling you up to meet him, and his eyes are so void of emotion he nearly looks dead. He doesn’t look angry, he looks like he just can’t feel.

“I do all this for you, and you can’t even offer me a pretty little smile.” His large fingers reach into your mouth, pulling your lips and teeth apart wide, wide enough for him to shove the wrench into your mouth and attach it to one of your teeth. “You don’t know what you have until it’s gone. Maybe you’ll appreciate it more if it just wasn’t the same.” You feel your gum twist and let out a cry, gurgling through your throat. Your frail fingers grasp onto his wrist as you desperately try to shake your head, but his strong hold prevents you from it. He twists a little more and you squeeze your eyes shut, holding your breath, before he eventually pulls out and you gasp for dear life, tears stinging your vision.

He roughly tugs you up and practically throws you into a nearby chair, before taking your hand with surprising gentleness, caressing your hurting fingers with the back of his for a moment before adjusting his grip to bring the wrench back forward.

“Now this is no good…” he remarks, moving his head to see more of your frostbitten marks you’re sure will leave scars. “You know what happens to these?” The wrench attacks itself to your index finger and Bucky adjusts its width so it’s threatening to chop your finger right off.

You scream at him to let go, kicking at his legs gets no reaction out of him, but don’t dare to move the hand he’s still holding.

“What if I just…” He twists only slightly and your skin breaks, blood seeping down from your frayed skin and dripping onto your thigh.

Just as you’re about to let out an unstoppable shriek of pain, Bucky’s metal hand presses to your mouth, stopping the sound going any further than echoing off his palm for only you to hear again. He twists more and you move your wrist with it, trying anything to stop him from twisting your finger off. He notices this and removes his other hand from your mouth to hold your wrist firmly in place.

“Bucky, please–”

“Shut up!” he shouts, his hold on you tightening even further. He lowers his face to yours with wide eyes, jaw clenched impossibly tight, and speaks in a dangerously low register, his voice trembling with fury as he tries to hold it together, at least in demeanour if not in action. “You really fucked up, and if you don’t have any fingers, you won’t be able to open my door ever again.”

✪

[my beloved taglist: @cowboysnbugs, @keito-123, @vogueprincess, @cjand10, @mybabygirllove]

#dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes x reader #dark!bucky barnes x reader #dark!bucky x reader #dark bucky x reader #dark!bucky #dark bucky #dark!bucky x you #dark bucky x you #dark!bucky barnes x you #dark bucky barnes x you #dark!bucky barnes x y/n #dark bucky barnes x y/n #dark avengers #dark!avengers #yandere bucky barnes #request

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rainrot4me · 2 months ago

Note

HAIII RAINYYYY!! i luv your new style its so cutesy!! anyway i wanted to ask you what you think all the creeps/proxies smell like?? like do you have a certain cologne or something reminds you of them? pls reply my beautiful queen 🙏🙏

Thank you!! I loved doing this, it was so fun!!!

── .✦

✦ . jeff the killer

Metal, spice, and rusted nails.

When he doesn’t reek of blood and rotted entrails, he smells like burnt matches, iron, cheap leather jackets, and Armani Code Absolu (the kind of cologne you steal off someone else’s bathroom counter after you’ve mutilated their body). Gives the vibe of stale air, the kind that gets trapped in a broom closet that’s been shut for too long.

“Tch. You like it? Thought so, sweetheart.”

He’s got blood and cigarette smoke on him constantly. You hug him and suddenly your hoodie smells like him for days.

He couldn’t care less how he smells, but when you harp about how you don’t want blood all over your fresh bedsheets, he rolls his eyes and shuffles to the shower.

✦ . ticci toby

Warm earth and cinnamon, but in a sweaty way.

Think woodsmoke, gasoline, pine sap, and a weirdly comforting warmth like a cinnamon bun that exploded in a forest fire, but layer that all on top of an overworked, sweaty body.

He tries to smell clean, really. Uses Old Spice Swagger when he remembers. But when you’re constantly on the move in a truck cabin and dragging dead bodies around like grocery bags, your smell kind of falls to the back-burner.

“Stop sniffin’ me, weirdo…” (blushes like an idiot.)

If you swipe his hoodie, it’ll smell like cedar and whatever the last thing Masky smoked when they were on the ride home.

✦ . eyeless jack

Tense, cold, and addictively like night time.

Smells like sterilization wipes, rain-soaked forest, old books, and a bit of Tom Ford Oud Wood (naturally, without even really trying *eyeroll*).

His skin has this dark, earthy tone like moss in a cave. Somehow it’s comforting and terrifying at once. It’s like the same feeling you get when you smell rain on pavement, but put it on a warm body.

“Fascinating how your body responds to scent, isn’t it?”

He leaves behind that cologne-on-your-pillow scent… plus the faintest metallic hint of blood. He always makes sure to clean himself up though, he has the preciseness of a cat grooming itself, he won’t stop until he feels spotless again.

✦ . masky (tim wright)

Hard, masculine, and distinctively like marlboro reds.

He’s a sandalwood, tobacco, and musk man. He doesn’t wear cologne often but when he does it’s Bleu de Chanel or nothing. In the words of Ethel Cain, “He looks like he words with his hands, and smells like marlboro reds.”

“If you like how it smells so much, then just take the whole bottle. Damn.”

Don’t tease, but he definitely smells like coffee that’s been spilt on t-shirts and ashtray ashes he accidentally spilled onto his lap. Everything about him screams working man, both comforting and nauseating.

✦ . hoody (brian thomas)

Warm vanilla, but like for real.

Leather-bound journals, firewood, vanilla bourbon, and one-too-many fights in the dirt. He’s definitely the best smelling out of everyone because he values that, his still-normal smell is the only tying him to his old life. But also just because he hates how he feels when he’s dirty.

He wears Replica’s By the Fireplace and smirks when you take deeper inhales near him without thinking. Unlike Masky, the cigarette smell sometimes makes him snurl, so he likes to keep the smoke-smell away from his things.

“You miss me already? Hah. Cute.”

Has this comforting scent that sticks to your sheets and makes you ache when he’s gone. Definitely the kind of smell you’ll randomly get whiffs of in the grocery store or library and wonder if he’s nearby.

✦ . ben drowned

Sourness with sugar, better than you’d think.

Smells like Sprite, dusty electronics, Red Bull, and oddly enough? Abercrombie Fierce. Kind of gives the vibe of a men’s section of American Eagle if it was housed in an abandoned RV. It’s not horrible though.

That sweet, boyish scent with energy drink stains and static on old television screens. If he wants to, he can change his code receptors and alter his scent, but he likes to keep it simple.

“Wanna smell something better? I hid an old suck under Jeff’s pillow. Go give that a whiff.”

You don’t even dare.

✦ . clockwork

Steel, lavender, and oddly like early morning air.

Mix of machine oil, lavender lotion, peppermint, and YSL Libre. She gives the vibe of spilling something on the carpet and trying to cover up the smell with perfume, but you just know there was something there before. It’s unmistakably her.

Axel grease, gasoline, and rusted work tools all wrapped together in a nice little bow of whatever fragrance she can swipe from the H&M clearance section.

“Do you always cuddle me this much? Or just after I take a shower?”

She kind of just smells like a working woman. No point in trying to mask a scent that lets others know she’s not one to mess around with.

✦ . laughing jack

Candy shops, old antique stores, and thick smog.

Cotton candy, carnival smoke, sharp peppermint. Hints of Demeter’s Funeral Home perfume for unsettling flair when he’s feeling frisky. The only way to really put your finger on it is all the colorful smells of the fairgrounds, but also the gas-powered generators that sit next to them.

Smells fake and perfect simultaneously, like nostalgia you get from looking at old photographs and remembering what your childhood bedroom smelled like.

“Do like the new perfume I got? Addictive, right?”

You’re not sure if it’s him or the hallucinations, but either way, you’re hooked.

✦ . slenderman

All the complexity of the woods, the earth, and the air that surrounds it.

Doesn’t wear cologne, his presence is the scent.

Think fresh black ink on paper, petrichor, white tea, and that weird smell dew has on grass. Like walking through a forest that exists deep underground, rich and cold and wet.

“You are… intoxicated by me. Aren’t you?”

It’s clean, chilling, and overwhelming. His scent dominates a room without effort. If you don’t pay attention, the smells could blend together and you’d never even know it was there. It takes a couple of times before you realize it’s not the air, but him.

꩜ .ᐟ

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the-soliloquies-of-sadists · 2 years ago

Text

#382

“Oh, sorry to startle you there. You must be Robby Anderson. Coach Thomas said that I could use the Away Team locker room for the privacy in showering and cleaning up. He also said that you might be lurking in here. No, no. You don’t have to leave or even cover up. I have been in many locker rooms and around naked young men all my life. You have nothing I haven’t seen before. In fact, I’m about to take a shower. Join me….

“I’m Doug Mason. I’m a scouting for local high school football talent. I’ve been watching a number of your school’s players in the heat. I am really in need of this shower.

“Damn these socks have my stinky foot sweat. Hoo-wee! They are nasty. Wanna take a sniff?... Sure you do. Take them…. I said ‘Take them!’ Hold them up to your nose and inhale deeply…. You like that smell hunh?... Of course you do. You are tenting in your shorts.

“Take them off. Let me see your pecker…. Look it’s just us. And I already know you are a sperm burper. Coach Thomas told me…. What? You didn’t know he knew? Well…

“Shorts! Off!…

“See that wasn’t hard. Well, the decision wasn’t hard, but your tiny pecker sure as hell is. No, don’t hide it. I like the look of it. It’s small, but so are you. You are what? 5’3” and 120 pounds?... Yeah, I’m pretty good at sizing men up. I was off by only a few pounds. That pecker is what four inches? For a small guy like you, it’s perfect.

“Now me, I got a foot on you, and I’m more than double your weight. And as you can see by my bulge I my jock, I’m more than double your dick size. Wanna see it?... Of course you do. Kneel in front of me. Reach up and pull my jock down…. Slowly.

“Smell that? That’s all-natural man sweat. No. No. Not yet. You’ll taste it in a bit. I know you like the smell of men sweating. But above all, I know you love to sniff ass. Here’s mine.

“Hairy, just the way you like it. Reach up and pull my meaty cheeks apart. Take a deep whiff. Smells nasty hunh? That’s what we are going to start with—you cleaning my shithole.

“But let’s do it where you normally clean Erich sweaty shithole, in the shower area. Go.

“I’m really surprised that you haven’t asked me how I know so much about you. I mean you are known to clean out rank shitholes and then take a pile driving in your cunt. For a plain looking 18-year old senior in high school, that’s pretty amazing. And you kept it quiet, even better.

“Lay wherever you normally do. Get that tongue out, cause my ass is coming down to sit on your face…. It’s been a while since I played in a shower. Stay still…. Oh man. You are wasting no time; that tongue is going in deep.

“Coach Thomas doesn’t know that you are a world class pig under that meek, math nerd, submissive exterior. I don’t know what it is about guys into math, but they are pretty much twisted as fuck.

“Coach only knows that you hook up with quarterback Erich Schneider before and after each game, as part of some superstition thing that Erich has. I talked with him... Erich. You know he’s the reason why I’m out here. Nobody else on the team is of the caliber that he is.

“I took him to lunch and I point blank asked him if he had a fag on the side. He asked me how I found out. I told him Coach Thomas. He was panicked. I said he’s known for a year or so, and that he’s not to worry as nobody has said anything. His job is to make each player the best he can be. And to do that he needs to know what a player is sticking in his stomach and what a player is sticking his dick into at all times.

“Get up. Let’s get the shower going. I want you to take this washcloth and wash me down. Spend some time washing my cock. I know you want to play with it. But while you are doing that listen up.

“I’m a lot like your Coach. If I’m going to offer a scholarship to a player, I need to know everything going on in that player’s life. Having a faggot on the side can be a problem, but that depends on the faggot. Having an ass eater faggot to improve one’s game performance is understandable. Erich is ready to ditch you, but I have an idea.

“After talking with Coach Thomas, he says that you got into the university, but didn’t get in on scholarship. He also said that your family can’t afford it, and yet make too much money for financial aid. I’m going to make you an offer.

“As I said, I want Erich to come play for us. If I can offer you as an incentive, he won’t be able to turn us down. If you want to be one of our students, I can arrange to help you out. But your primary purpose is to provide Erich whatever he needs: eat his ass before a game, fuck you after a win, or beat the fuck out of you after a loss. Your holes are his to use as he sees fit. You would still need to get a job to help support yourself. And if anything should happen to break it off with you, the assistance I am offering would dry up in an instant.

“That’s option one. Option two has all the same service to Erich, but you live with me and possibly one other fag on my ranch. I live on six acres outside the county line about ten minutes from the main campus. You would be servicing me as well. I know you can take a face sitting. I have seats made for that for you to lay under. And you will take a mean fuck every day.

“I love tiny fag boys like you. Just look at my cock right now. I am hard just thinking about it. If the shower wasn’t going you would see my leak. I wasn’t planning on fucking you, but you are too much for me not to. Lather me up.

“If you live with me, I can arrange to get your schooling paid for. I just need to whore you out to one of the administrators, actually two of them. They can set it up so that all your tuition and fees are paid for. You will need to get good grades. I will control your study times as well. You will be whored out to whoever I choose. And I know a lot of men. Someone with your size, cute looks, and demeanor will be in demand. The fact that you are barely legal alone will have the men asking me. And they will pay.

“Now reach behind you and lube up that cunt. I need to take it for a ride. If it’s not to my liking—kinda hard to believe—the second option is off the table. At the end, when I pull my deflating cock out of your gaping cunt, you will let me know which option you want.

“I can’t take it anymore. Get on the floor, face down. Don’t reach for your pecker. In fact let me see your hands at all time. There is only one dick that matters here, and it sure as fuck ain’t yours.

“I can fuck for hours, but this needs to be quick. I need to get back to Erich and Coach Thomas. You ready for some pile driving? If not, I don’t care.

“…Am I crushing you? Aww. Well you need to adapt to the cock in your cunt. And this hole is definitely a cunt. Men will use it for their pleasure. Men will use you for their convenience. That makes you a faggot. Everyone else will think of you as gay, but you know that you are different. You know that you need to be controlled and used by real men.

“Your cries echo in this shower, and it sounds like music. I’m getting close. Your guts are going to be flooded. I’m gonna knock you up, knock you up real good. Here it comes! Here it comes baby! Here it fucking cums. Here it cuuuuuuummmms! Fuck yeah! Uh, Uh!

“Fuck. Fag. Your cunt is gold. You may be a small fag, but your cunt is deep. Mmmm. I could lay here all day on top of you. But I need to pull out, and you need to clean off my cock.

“Get on your knees. No, you are not cleaning me up with soap. Open your mouth and take me in. Clean up services are required of all faggots I’m control over. It’s a courtesy to the men who just gave their loads.

“Don’t think about it. Just do…. Atta boy. Did you think any further about my offers? You want to be Erich’s ass eater on campus? Or you want to be one of my boys?

“Don’t talk with your mouth full. I can see it in your eyes you want this life. Good. I’m going to transform you into one hell of a faggot cunt boy.

“You can tell your parents that you got a math scholarship, or whatever. This starts next August. That’s nine months away. Until then, you will not pursue other men, at least ones I have not pre-approved of. That does not apply to Erich, who you will never say no to.

“You will report to Coach Thomas at the end of each school day. You have gym as your last class. That will make it easy. He will provide any further instructions. And he doesn’t require any pre-approval either. Although I don’t think he will do anything; he doesn’t use current students. He’ll watch out for you though. I will guarantee, once you graduate in June, he will make a move on you.

“He and I have a long history together. We both like the same type of fag boys, like you. He and I belong to a group of men who like to share barely legal boys.

“There’s a bunch of us meeting tomorrow night for hood night. Everyone wears a hood, both faggots and men. The only difference is the faggots are blindfolded. I will take you there. And you will be open to any man there. They are not going to ask permission to use you. But what will most likely happen is that you will be taken and used all night by one man to service his beercan dick. That will be Coach Thomas. Even with you hooded, he will still know it’s you, but if anything ever came out about it, he can plausibly deny that he didn’t know.

“I can tell by how rock hard your pecker that you like the idea.

“Erich doesn’t need to know anything about this network of men, including Coach Thomas. I have yet to fully figure him out. You will let me and Coach Thomas know if he does anything different.

“Your tongue bath on my dick feels so good. But I need to get dressed. Here take my socks. They are yours. When you are jacking off, I want you to inhale their rank smell. I want you to think of me. My jock is for another boy. I’ll get you one of Coach Thomas’s jocks to enjoy as well.

“As of right now, you can jerk off as much as you want. Use my socks or his jock to focus your thoughts and fantasies on us. For the next nine months before you move in with me, you are going to spend a lot of time by yourself. Jerking off and thinking of servicing us will keep you in the right head space.

“Oh look Erich is coming in….

“Erich! I have some good news! I have been authorized to offer you a full scholarship to come play with us, with your own private room in our dorm, and a stipend for meals. That’s officially. Unofficial, you were telling me that you are going to miss your ass eater here. Well, he’s agreed to start the same time as you. He’ll be staying with me. I’ll make sure he will be available for you to use any time you need him throughout your time with us. You could come by my place for privacy. Or, if it’s close to game time, I have access to a private spot for you to use right by the field.

“I told you that I could get him for you. I’m quite known for getting the unspoken perks for my players.

“I know you have a ripe ass in need of some deep cleaning. And you are right, the fag most definitely knows how to do it. Thanks for letting me use him. If I didn’t experience his talents, I would not have made him that offer. I think this is a good situation for all. I’ll be in touch later so we can celebrate over dinner. Bring your family, your girlfriend, whoever you want.

“Fag, I will be in touch tomorrow about arranging that meeting.

“You two have fun. I have to go talk to Coach Thomas about a coaching event he should attend tomorrow night.”

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weirdsht · 12 days ago

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More Than Palatable - Vampire!Cale/Reader

a/n: I tried so hard to try and think of a premise to make this a oneshot, but I can't think of any that would be finished in less than 3k words TT. Also, I think I made this so suggestive, and I wasn't even going for that. The amount of innuendos here are... yeah...

tags: yandere cale if you squint, i accidentally made it sensual oops, cale is a lil sadist even if he doesn't know it

Pls don't repost my work anywhere without my permission

Navigation Masterlist

anon said: Hii can you do vampire Cale with reader that has blood thats really rare kind of like Sanemi from Demon Slayer where demons go crazy for his blood ANYWAYS LOVE YOUR WORKK

You appeared in his life just right when Cale thinks that he was getting used to living his life as a vampire.

He thought he had his impulses controlled, his alternatives secured. However, everything shattered the moment he got a whiff of your scent.

Normally, he would be disgusted at the thought of sinking his teeth into a living, breathing being unless he was super hungry. It's because, before transmigrating, he was just a normal human, so the thought of drinking someone's blood directly feels off.

But you?

You smell so delicious. He needs to have a taste. Sure, he still doesn't bode well with the idea of sucking your blood, but he needs to have a taste.

And by some miracle, he somehow managed to not only make you join him, but also allow him to give your blood.

Man is in paradise every time he gets a taste.

Later, he finds out from Hans that he acts like that towards you because you were born with a special type of blood that tastes sweeter than normal blood.

Despite that, who is Cale if not a man of absolute control?

His intake of your blood is so carefully controlled. He doesn't want you to pass out. He takes such good care of you so that you won't think of backing out (not that he'd allow you).

The only time he loses control is during the time he would overwork his ancient powers and feel super starved afterwards.

During those times, they try to let Cale eat his normal supply.

Because if not? Prepare to lie down unconscious with him for the next few days.

Cale has to admit that at first, he just wanted you because of your unique blood. He treated you well, yes, but you were nothing but a mere sweet treat.

However, spending time with you changed that quickly.

Not only did he discover your talents, but he also found out that the two of you get along so well.

Cale went from not even entertaining the thought of biting someone to constantly wanting to bite your nape or wrist to leave his mark on you.

Because what if someone else sees how delightful you are and tries to take you for themselves?

He simply has to show everyone that you're his.

Sometimes he would even bite just for the sake of leaving his mark.

This is probably something he'd take to his grave, but Cale absolutely loves the way you look whenever he feeds directly from you.

The way you writhe... your eyes squeezing shut... the way you pant as you feel your blood being drained from your veins... your eyes tearing up and those tears eventually rolling down your cheeks...

It's why he loves biting your wrist.

Sometimes, the two of you would just be lounging around, you'd be sitting on his lap as he does whatever, and then he'd suddenly bite you.

May or may not be because he loves the way you bury your face in his chest when you're in this position.

Of course, his favourite is still the classic nape bite.

It's because your scent is the strongest there.

He also likes how he can smell the process of his scent mixing with yours as he bites into you.

Also, this position allows him to hold your hand while he feeds.

He LOVES the way you squeeze his hands, especially when it starts to feel too much.

But of course, those things are only for him. Cale refuses to disclose to anyone else. That side of you and his enjoyment are for him and only him.

Cale would strike anyone who finds out with fire of destruction ^^

#le asks #trash of the count's family #lout of the count’s family #tcf #lcf #cale henituse #lotcf #totcf #tcf x reader #cale x reader #cale henituse x reader #lcf x reader #totcf x reader #lotcf x reader #x reader

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olailamajnoon · 8 months ago

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Random criminal: so, B-Man.

Batman turns and glares.

Random Criminal: you ever think of us after you go home at night?

Batman: ...

Red Hood and Robin: ...

Random Criminal: you break our legs, sometimes shove a batarang through our soft squishy torsos.

Red Hood: I recommend you stop speaking very fucking quickly.

Batman, approaching, looming over: what is your name.

Random Criminal: Steve, and you know, my mother had plans for me, you know!

Batman, dry: uh huh

Steve: I wore diapers. I had a father. I played with rattles, and I went to school. I graduated third in my entire class!

Batman: and yet here you are, helping Penguin move shipments of heroin.

Steve: I have a very expensive girlfriend. Well, she's not so much my girlfriend as a...sometimes thing. The girlfriend title is aspirational.

Batman: she's taking advantage of you.

Steve: don't you think I know that? But she has these abso-fucking-lutely gorgeous pair of—

Batman covers Robin's ears.

Steve: —eyes.

Batman gruffly: I have places to be, Steve. And—*cocking his head listening to the approaching police sirens*—so do you.

Steve: I joined a rock band, in high school. But the shmucks wouldn't let me play lead guitar.

Red Hood: while your attempts to humanize yourself have been fun, and mildly entertaining, we do have places to be.

Steve, throws himself on the ground, begging: Please. Please, mister Batman, please. I don't wanna go to Blackgate. I'm sorry, I've learned my lesson! I don't—*starts crying with snot*—please don't. Don't do this. I will be a productive member of society, I swear. From now on. You have my fucking word.

Batman, unmoved: I let you go, why shouldn't I let them go? *points at the other trussed up goons*

Steve, considering: Well....

Batman:

Steve: I got nothin'

He's silent.

Batman: *sighs* give me your social security number, your phone number and your home address.

Steve: oh my god. Oh my god yes. Okay yes.

Batman: also I'm putting a tracker on you, Steve. If I ever get so much as a whiff of trouble, I will make you—

Steve: yes yes

Batman: —sheesh kebab.

Steve: oh my god thank you, thank you. *Robin undoes his restraints*

Batman: I'll get you an entry level job with one of my corporate partners. You will be given work suitable to your capacity. Needless to say, you'll need to trim expenses.

Steve: yes, yes, anything yes.

Batman: also...

Steve: ....?

Batman: you will be at the mercy of my children whenever they want to play pranks on each other.

Steve, raising his eyebrows: really? That's all?

Red Hood, singsong: oh you sweet summer child...

Batman: trust me. You'll regret the day you signed up for a life of crime.

Steve, laughing in relief: you know, you're like a good hearted grinch. You're scary on top, but then, burrow inside and you'll find, like, marshmallow

Batman: ...

Steve: I'll shut up now.

Part 2

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slavicnoodle · 2 months ago

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Yandere!Werewolf!Duke x fem!reader Part 1

Warning: slight description of injuries, violence, manipulation, coercion(?), gaslighting, power imbalance, mediaval times, slight sadism, just yandere being a yandere

My first post! <3

English is not my first language ^^

Werewolf!Duke who is a good aristocrat in his own not humble opinion. Exemplary even if you add the fact he is a werewolf and can still act better than most human aristocrats. He abides by the proper etiquette, doesn't extort his subjects, doesn't lash out on his servants and maids (even during full moon(!)) and is generally merciful. He doesn't even have trysts with other married aristocrats or uses his title to have secret relationships with lower class. He is a bit of a bachelor and doesn't mind at all.

He has one quirk though. A simple rule. No visits to his castle. Under no circumstances. The only person allowed to freely roam his land is his gardener. Other servants must strictly follow paths. You see, after he got turned, the new wolf instincs made him a territorial bastard. He patrols his property diligently every night. He enjoys those quiet walks and runs in wolf from with wind blowing through his fur, feeling the soft soil, tickly grass and smelling the nature. When he catches a whiff of a living being on it... he goes for the kill. Humans are no different.

Although lately their is an increase of humans. After a little investigation he scraped together that after people went missing on his land, his subjects ascribed it to the increase of wolves around. Heh. And a new trend emerged. If you stop liking your suitor or plainly want to get rid of them, promise to meet them at night at a location near his manor. Problem solved.

And he always diligently got rid of them. Not that he had to. He liked to. He liked the way they screamed and thrashed as they were torn to shreds. Not today tho. Today's victim was lying under him frozen in fear like a deer, not moving, just crying withnout any sound, not even a whimper as his claws pierced your arms and pinned you to the muddy ground. He hated to admit it but you looked adorable. He decided to play with his food a little.

"What is the reason you decided to cut your life short? Foolishness? Naivety? Dare?" He looks over the commoner human under him. Very pretty outfit for their status. He can see your top is not buttoned up all the way up. He feels his breath hitching for some reason. Must have been quite an occasion to be wearing one's best clothes in such a seductive manner. You even have your hair let down. And... is that a basket with... sweets?

He laughs dryly. Another undesired lover. Hmm... It would be a pity to kill you. He unstucks his claws from your flesh and reaches to twirl a strand of your hair. So pretty and soft... A long bath, better dress and some makeup and he would think twice about remaining a bachelor. His inner wolf agrees. You are very quiet. He likes that. But... If your voice is also acceptable, he'll help you. He tugged at the strand harshly and the bloodied woman squealed in shaky voice. He tugged again but less harshly. A whimper. His ears pinned down to his head. Now he got frozen. From arousal. That's it. No helping, he's going to take care of you for the of your life. If your suitor wants you gone, he'll take the beauty off of his hands.

"I apologize, dear, for my behaviour. I must have terribly scared you. Oh, I even accidentally hurt you. Let me make it up to you." He hauled you to your feet, dusting you off. His werewolf characteristics slowly dissapeared while he did that. "I'll replace them. Come with me." He offers his arm and smiles softly. When he sees you're still standing there with eyes full of terror, he simply scoops you up. "What are you waiting for, woman? A noble is offering you his goodwill." Hr smiles down at you.

In his castle he let his doctor clean your wounds and bandage you. Then maids changed you to a silky nightgown while you lost consciousness. Poor thing. His wolf form does that to people. When you woke up, he found any excuse in the book to keep you at his estate, ordering the doctor to play the charade with him. The tales of your love who sent you to your death were repeated every day, painting him in a great light as your saviour and admirer who wants you to reach his heights and status. When you still tried to go back home, he went cold.

"I house your for weeks, clothe you, feed you and you want to leave?" His voice is not loud but it feels like it is booming innyour eardrums. "No, Your Grace, I only-," you started but he talked over you, keeping on guilttripping you. Like he minded he was fussing over his mate.

"If you really want to leave, I'll let you." He let out a sigh, faking giving up.

"Thank you, I-"

"Under one condition." His eyes flicked. He pulled out one hand from his pocket and stood on one knee. "Marry me." Opened the little box, revealing a ring.

"I have went out of my way to find something that would suit you. It would be improper for you and me to be seen apart after you spent such a long time here. Rumour would start, tarnishing mine and your reputation. Don't you agree?" Your voice felt shaky when you said "Yes". Not because you didn't want it. He was more than good choice for a husband, aside from his lycantrophy. But because even after alll, part of you still loved your old love that lured you to the deadly embrace of the werewolf duke.

And the duke knows it.

#teratophillia #werewolf x reader #monster x reader #yandere x reader #yandere werewolf #yandere #monster lover

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nnight-dances · 5 months ago

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THIS LOVE

PAIRING: kwon hoshi x fem!reader

GENRE: angst, hurt comfort, some fluff

TROPES: best friends to lovers, hoshi's w someone else, mentions and descriptions of a toxic/abusive relationship but nothing extreme or graphic.

Loving Hoshi was wrong. You know this. But you gravitate toward him nevertheless like a cliche in a love story. Except this couldn't be love. Love was pure and love healed. What you felt was rotten. Morbid. Disgusting.

Still, when you see him entering the cafe that morning, your heart speeds up, your feelings like clockwork whenever you caught sight of his blonde head. His smile was ultra-sweet as always, your name on his lips like a forbidden curse. You should go to hell for your feelings.

"Hey, Hosh," you greet him back as he sits across from you, pulling his book bag of his shoulder with a heave. You're working on a project for your boss together, something that involves interviewing the owner of this cafe together and putting the notes after, also together. All of which is only worse when it's you with him because you should not be in love with him.

"I had a chance to meet the owner before you got here," you inform him, rifling through the browned pages of your notebook for a distraction away from Hoshi's glorious face, "And he said he'd be ready for us in ten."

"Perfect," Hoshi responds, pulling out his laptop along with some other writing equipment. "I love working with you, Y/N, you make things a lot easier for me."

You laugh without meeting his eyes, shifting uncomfortably. "You're being nice this morning," you comment.

Hoshi shrugs, "You're right. Just. I'm just tired of fighting all the time."

You raise a brow at his ominous comment. "I don't think we fight all that often, Hosh? Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, sorry, I didn't mean us," he grows quieter and you already know what's coming. "It's just… I had a fight with Chloe this morning. Again." There it was. The reason why you couldn't possibly continue to harbour, let alone foster your feelings for Hoshi. He was in love with someone else, Chloe, a sharp but charming woman he'd been dating for nearly 2 years now.

They'd met in college– In fact, you'd all met in college; you, Hoshi, Chloe. A big happy friendship with its share of a love triangle, except it was always clear who Hoshi was going to end up with. Not to mention you'd never let anyone catch a whiff of your shameful feelings for him. It was almost already too late when you'd realized them: Chloe had already confessed to and asked Hoshi out. It all happened so fast, the beginning of their happy dating life and the end of your first love.

"Again?" you echo Hoshi's words. "I'm sorry, Hosh. What was it this time?"

Hoshi averts his gaze, never a good sign for you. "She got mad I was coming here with you."

You don't mask the scoff that escapes you, "But it's for work. Why is she…" You trail off, knowing the answer to your question. Let's retract your earlier statement. Hoshi and Chloe didn't have the happiest dating life, just as your feelings for Hoshi never truly died down. To be completely clear though, the latter didn't cause the former. You were delusional, sickening at worst, but you were still a honorable person.

No, their troubles were their own. Well, the troubles were mostly Chloe's if you're being completely candid. She had a way of being overprotective of Hoshi and perhaps, slightly manipulative at times.

"I know, that's what I told her," Hoshi has his head in his hands. His soft curls crushed against the strong hold of his palms. God, did his shoulders look tense today. "She just thinks I prefer hanging out with my friends over her, or that I come up with excuses to be late to our dates. A lot of the times, you just happen to be the friend I'm hanging out with, which leads me to being late."

You swallow the outrage trying to spill out of your veins. You had lost count of how many times you had this conversation with Hoshi. You'd tried to make him see what he was blind to: Chloe didn't trust him when he hadn't given her any reason to distrust him. She was trying to control his life and it all came down to her own insecurity. She'd never had friends outside of Hoshi and you in college. She kept to herself thanks to her skeptical assumptions about everyone else. It infuriated you, watching Hoshi lose the spark in his friendships and passions all because he was worried about the argument with Chloe it would inevitable lead to.

There's so much you want to say. But you can't. So instead you shut up, ending the conversation with Hoshi abruptly. You feel him stare at the top of your head as you check the time. "It's time. We should go find the owner."

The interview goes swimmingly. The owner is a sweet man named Seokmin and has a humor almsot greater than his heart. You lose all sense of time, wrapped up in a more than natural conversation between the three of you.

"Well, I think that's all the questions we had for you. Thanks for your time, Seokmin."

Seokmin grins back at you, "Of course! Feel free to come by and ring for me anytime. Both of you. It was lovely meeting you."

You stand up with Hoshi following suit and as you gather your stuff, you look at Seokmin's retreating back. "He's nice. I feel like he'd hit it off with our friend group."

Hoshi nods thought his enthusiasm is amiss, looking down at his bag the whole time.

"You good?"

He doesn't say anything for a second and you start to wonder if he didn't hear you.

And then, "I didn't think you were so easy."

The comment is so out of the blue it has you speechless for a full minute. "...Excuse me?"

Hoshi's eyes widen as he hears his own words, "Sorry, that was rude. I just mean, I didn't think you'd mix professional life with personal." You stare Hoshi down, trying to figure out what the fuck he was getting at. "I mean about the owner."

"Hoshi, I suggested he'd be a good friend," you snap, "I don't recall expressing my desire to bone him right here in full daylight for everyone to see." Hoshi flushes at your crude statement and he stumbles over his words.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he rushes to cover, "I didn't think before I spoke. And I didn't mean it. I don't know, I think I'm just in a weird mood."

"Might be all the fighting with Chloe," you comment flatly, chest feeling heavy.

"Are you mad?" his tone is inflated with guilt and you have to dig your nails into your palm to keep from looking up at—and undoubtedly giving in to—Hoshi's face. "Listen, I'm really sorry, I shouldn't have taken it out on you like that. I think I just got jealous."

That's one way to get you to look up. "Jealous?" your breath catches, knowing there's any explanation other than the one your mind immediately jumps to.

"Yeah, just the way you got along so well with him back there," he admits, "It reminded me of us in college. How we were always laughing and joking. Before I got all moody and shit."

You laugh weakly, "Right. Before everything."

"Anyway, let me make it up to you?" he pleads, his hand finding yours in the carefree way that had both intrigued and eventually trapped you into Hoshi's charms. "Dinner?"

You know the right answer to his question, you know because there's a storm inside of you and it's made of nothing good: shame, guilt, self-loathing. You hate yourself around Hoshi. You should stay away for your own sake, to find something better.

"Sure, Hosh," you smile, "I'd love dinner."

—

Dinner with Hoshi is a bad idea for the myriad of reasons already listed and hinted at above. But perhaps, the worst one of them all is how much of a lightweight Hoshi is. His declarations of his love for beer be damned, once he was three glasses in, he was already too tipsy to tell his right from his left. And at five glasses, he's lost all control over his inhibitions, which is just a nicer way to say that he gets touchy.

It didn't help that you'd chosen bar seats that evening. You'd thought avoiding sitting across from him and forcing yourself to look at his face all evening would limit your imagination. But this is worse: Hoshi's arm is slotted right against you the entire evening because the man has a distorted understanding of personal space to begin with. Fifth beer later, he's pulling your bar stool closer and spinning you to face him.

"Hosh, you're drunk," you mutter, ignoring the way your voice gives away your nerves, "Let's get you home—"

Hoshi catches the hand you reach toward your phone, pulling it into his lap. "No! No, no, no. I don't go home. Don't wanna."

His cheeks are flushed as he begs you not to send him home and you smile wistfully, wondering how many times you'd seen this sight before.

"Hosh, you have to go home," you tell him, speaking loud and clear. You place your free hand atop his, brushing his knuckles gently. "You're gonna want to be in bed soon, right?"

Hoshi shakes his head, eyes closing despite what he says, "Not sleepy. 'M not sleepy. Not sleepy."

You chuckle at his antics, rushing to place your forearm on the counter as his head swings dangerously low. "Geez, Hosh, you need to be careful." You pull your hand out of his grip to rest his head on your arm carefully. "You're gonna hurt yourself."

He mumbles something but it's too incoherent for you to hear. So you shift closer, running a finger through his bangs to move them out of his eyes. "What'd you say, buddy?"

His voice is muffled with drowsiness but you barely make out a name. Your heart sinks. Of course, what the fuck else had you expected? "You wanna see Chloe?" you call out, hoping if you voiced the desire out loud he'd finally deny it.

What you don't expect is for him to actually deny it. "No, no, no," his voice is small and your heart lurches when you make out tears forming in his eyes.

"Wait, Hosh, are you crying?" you pull his head off your arm, "Hey, hey, look at me. What's wrong?"

He blinks, unshed tears dissolving as he opens them wider. "Oh. It's you. Y/N." You're trying to decipher the mixed emotions in his tone—relief, gladness, something more—when he's pulling you infinitely closer. Closer until you crash into his chest, feeling his hot breath hit your bare back.

"Hosh– Hoshi, you're—"

"You're always so gentle with me," Hoshi mumbles, his hand finding your scalp with a thud against your skull. You want to pull away, to shake sense into him but this feels so nice and it feels honest, to feel Hoshi's voice reverbrating through your organs like this.

"Of course I am," you mutter back, knowing you shouldn't be indulging him, "You're a softie. A sweet boy. You deserve to be treated carefully." You felt your voice shake with the sincerity of the emotions that rush through you. You'd kept this side of you locked away for so long, it physically hurt to let anyone see it, let alone Hoshi of all people.

"Hmm, you really think that?" Hoshi's voice is dampened with doubt, "You think I deserve care?"

"Okay, this is getting me worried," you pull away with a start, grabbing a hold of Hoshi's face to force him to look into your eyes. "What's wrong with you? Why are you saying these stupid things?" Hoshi's cheeks are warm against your cold palms but you try not to think about it. Just like how you try not to think about the way his gaze lingers over you, taking you in like he'd never before. Raking your features like he was just a guy admiring a girl.

"Chloe doesn't love me anymore."

Hoshi's statement snaps you out of your selfish dream like a slap. "What?"

"She… doesn't like me that much anymore. I think. She's always annoyed. Mad. Angry."

"Hosh," you groan, thumbing at his tears as they start to spill, "It pains me to see you like this."

"Like– Like what?"

"Like this. She's hurting you, Hosh," you say, "and you're letting her."

"How'd you know? I hid it so well though," his voice breaks and so do you, eyes watering and overflowing almost instantly. "Well, some things you can't hide from me, idiot. I'm your best friend. I know everything about you."

"Really?" His tears have ceased and you sigh, letting go of his face to wipe your own salty mess. "Can I just stay at your place tonight? I don't feel like going home just to fight. I want to be with you. It's easier."

His words rip through you and he doesn't even know it. It gladdens you that you're a safe place for him but it absolutely kills you that you're just that: a place to run away from the world. It wasn't so bad but it didn't compare to be his first choice, which is what he'd always been for you.

"Of course, Hosh. C'mon, I'll take you to mine."

—

You sense that something's different the next morning. You know it was partially a bad call on your part to let Hoshi stay over at your place, what with Chloe's already unreasonably convinced misconceptions of his relationship with you. But it was also right: as Hoshi's friend, you don't think you could've let him go home like that. Sobbing, begging to stay.

So you don't expect the cold shoulder Hoshi gives you that morning, strolling into your kitchen without a single smile your way. You're about to call out the breakfast spread you prepared to help nurse both your hangovers but before you can open your mouth, Hoshi snatches his phone off the counter.

He looks panicked as he turns it on. You can hear the notification go ham and his frustrated groans as he rapidly types something into a textbox.

"Hoshi, is everything—"

"Fuck!" The outburst surprises you and you jump away a little. "Fuck, fuck. Motherfucker."

"So I'm guessing you're…not okay?"

"No, Y/N!" You didn't think it was possible for Hoshi to be angry but wow, the look he trains on you in that moment has you chilled. "I'm fucked, Y/N. I never told Chloe I was getting dinner with you and then I— I blacked out and forgot to let her know. And then, I slept over here, at your place without letting her know. I think it's pretty fucking clear how not okay I am, Y/N."

You're taken aback at the way he says your name– like you were somehow at fault for this. "Oh, okay, so I'm the bad guy right now?"

Hoshi has the audacity to roll his eyes, "God, you know that's not what I meant."

"Okay, well, whenever you're done just using my services as a friend and then blaming me for being a friend, I can let you out of my apartment because it sounds like I held you against your will."

"Y/N," Hoshi says. "I'm sorry." He sounds defeated. His phone is still blowing up. You know the last thing he needs is yet another argument but you can't help it. You dislike confrontation but it feels like it's high time you protected yourself for once.

"Do you wanna talk about last night?" you ask, hand on your hip as you glare at him.

"Last night?" he sounds hesitant, definitely not remembering much, "Did I do something?"

"Hoshi, you begged me to not send you home. You said Chloe didn't love you anymore. You said that you doubted that you deserved care. You, finally, for once, admitted that she's hurting you, Hoshi—"

"Y/N, not this again—"

"No, Hoshi. I need you to listen to me. I'm have it up to here standing by your side while you let Chloe treat you like shit! You–! You're scared to go home, Hoshi, do you even realize what that means?"

"I know it sounds bad but all couples have their rough patches. And Chloe and I will–"

"You've been in this rough patch for over a year, Hoshi, give me a fucking break– Or better yet, give yourself a fucking break."

"What did you say?" Hoshi's red eyes widen at your outburst."

"I said you should break up with her, Hoshi," you deadpan, a challenge in your eyes.

"Y/N, that is just crossing the line– You can't—"

"Why? I'm your friend, Hoshi, and I'm sick of watching this bullshit happen over and over again," your voice breaks, "You deserve so much better."

Hoshi walks away from the kitchen, as if unable to stomach hearing your words without flinching. You follow him, determined to see this through. "Hoshi, you–"

"You can't do this, Y/N. You know I love her–"

"You can love other people, Hoshi, she's not the only woman in the world you know. She's definitely not the first to love you."

"What?" Hoshi slowly turns to face you, sensing there was something more to your statement.

You take a deep breath and decide to bite the bullet. Go big or go home, right?

"She wasn't even the first one to love you, you know? I loved you first. She just beat me to the asking you out part, and I guess that's the real important step, no?"

Hoshi freezes, eyes going blank at your confession. Your confession. God, how truly fucked you are to have confessed your feelings for your best friend who was dating someone else. The someone else, not to mention, who was your friend, too.

"Well, I didn't mean to say all that out loud," you cough, looking away from Hoshi, "It's wrong, I know, for me to love you. But the heart wants what it wants and whatnot. And more than anything, I want you to be happy, Hoshi. And she doesn't make you happy. I'd even say she's making you miserable."

You cut your monologue short when Hoshi continues to be frozen in his shock. "Well, who am I to give you any advice, right? It's up to you. Do what the fuck you want. Don't let me stand in the way–"

Hoshi's lips are on yours. You don't even remember blinking between one moment and this one but this is it: he's kissing you. He's holding you like a lover, fingers splayed along the column of your neck as he keeps you close to him. He steals your breath and leaves you with the taste of peppermint toothpaste. You gasp when you pull away.

"Hoshi–" He doesn't let you talk though, his lips are busy devouring you. Your jaw, your pulsing neck, your collarbones. You feel Hoshi like you've always wanted to. His lips leave a wet trail of desire and your head is too clouded with the pleasure of getting something you'd even shuddered to dream of to think straight. It's only when your hands find their way into his hair— God, his hair, it was as silky as it looked— when his phone rings like a cry in the other room and you both spring apart. You both pant, looking around like you'd been caught red-handed.

"Hoshi," you start, reeling with the meaning—and the meaninglessness—of this, of everything, but he doesn't look at you. He leaves, rushing to his phone and you let yourself hope that he'd come back only to hear him pick up, Chloe's name on his lips like a prayer.

Fucking great.

—

You don't see Hoshi for a week after that. Sorry, let's rephrase that: you don't meet Hoshi all week after. You see Hoshi everywhere because that's how little restraint you've left after the undoing known as his kiss. You have a soul-rotting combination of nightmares about Chloe killing and harvesting your heart in a variety of ways and wet dreams where Hoshi never stops kissing you and his trail of kisses only grows greater and greater—

Needless to say, you're a mess. You don't wish to think about it and reaching out to Hoshi is out of the question. He texts you on Thursday, asking you if you have time to meet on Friday for a work thing and you have the grace to left him on read. You text your boss to let him know you'd be taking the last day of the week to work from home.

please yn can we talk?

i am so sorry about everything.

can we please talk?

i understand that you might not want to but please

im doing a dinner party this saturday for friends if youre avoiding seeing me alone

You close your eyes. The texts haunt you on your phone, the little time tag counting how long you'd been agonizing over his words. 12m, 37m, 58m. Finally, you decide to get over yourself and text back.

sure hoshi i'll be there

—

You don't know what you expect to get out of the dinner at Hoshi's place but the last of it is Chloe greeting you when you ring the bell. You greet her, swallowing against her dry acknowledgement of your existence and you truly contemplate turning on your heels to leave. But—who didn't see it coming—Hoshi stops you, his voice calling your name steeling your nerves.

You step in, thankful there are a handful of your friends scattered around the room, nursing drinks in little glasses. You're about to make a beeline for Yuji when Hoshi intercepts you, hand on your arm. You stare at him and then his hand. He takes his hand off, cheeks reddening at your demeanor.

"Hey, thanks for coming."

"Right," you mumble. "I'm gonna go catch up with Yuji if you don't mind–"

"Y/N, listen, I know I–" Hoshi stops himself, glancing over his shoulder and continuing when he spots Chloe across the room, "I know I fucked up but I promise it'll never happen again. I'm so incredibly sorry. I'll make it up to you, I promise–" Hoshi's in the middle of digging himself into a hole when you hear a vaguely familiar voice calling out.

It startles you when you realize who it is.

"Seokmin?" you ask, spotting the cafe-owner making his way to you. He grins brightly, "Hey, it's me! Hoshi was nice enough to invite me over tonight! Said you'd be here so I should definitely make time."

"Oh, really?" you're looking at Hoshi, heart impossibly strained against your chest. You couldn't believe the audacity. "Um, actually, I think I have to head out." You pull out your phone as a lame excuse. To be fair, you hardly cared at this point.

"Y/N, let me explain and–"

"Sorry, Hoshi. I don't think I have time tonight. See you around some other time, 'kay?"

You take off to the door, forcing your tears back with a firm cough. You can hear the clamor behind you as Hoshi rushes after you, fingers brushing against your arm in an attempt to halt your movements. You shove him away and for once, you run away from Hoshi.

You'd made it down the stairs and a few steps on the pavement outside his house when you hear his footsteps slapping against the stairs. Your name. A trail of pleas. You can barely hear it.

He catches up, Hoshi always does, his arm seizing yours in an iron grip. Idiot man.

"Hoshi, if you don't let go of me right this fucking second. I'm going to throw myself at incoming traffic."

"Y/N, don't go," his voice is strained and for once, you don't analyze the emotions that make it so.

You turn around to scream at him instead. "Why don't you fuck off, Hoshi?"

"Please," his lip quivers, "I don't want to lose you, I–"

"I think it was a little too late when you kissed me—right after I confessed to you—and then proceeded to try and set me up with the same guy you were jealous I hit it off with— Wow, when I say it out loud, you really do sound like a maniac. Honestly, you know what, I was wrong! You and Chloe are made for each other!"

"Don't say that, Y/N, please, I wasn't thinking straight."

"You're right. You weren't. You kissed me, you acted shocked that I love you, and you still asked me to come over knowing I could never fucking say no– No, I couldn't, not to you, Hoshi. Why'd you do this to me? How could you be so fucking cruel?"

"I'm sick, Y/N, you're right," Hoshi's crying now and you match his shining tears with your own unshed ones. "I'm evil. I'm– I'm in love with you, too."

"What the fuck did you just say?"

The words echo, but they don't come from you. "Chloe," you breathe, watching as she closes in on the two of you. "Hey, we're just—"

But she's not looking at you. Her eyes are fixed on Hoshi, daring him to repeat himself, "What did just say?"

Hoshi's gaze falls and his shoulder slump. You move uneasily, "Listen, let's just–"

"I'm not talking to you!" Chloe screams, but she directs it toward Hoshi and the man, you swear you see him flinch. Something like a chill settles into your veins as a possibility begins to creep in on you… Surely not?

"You," Chloe continues, stepping closer until she was a breath's distance from Hoshi, "What did you say."

"Chloe, I think we should go inside–" You make the mistake of reaching for her shoulder. She's seething and slaps your hand away, stinging your palm and you stare at her in confusion. Chloe, however estranged you'd grown over the years, this wasn't like her. She had her moments of rage but she'd never been aggresive like this. Physical.

Your eyes land on Hoshi and he's already looking at you, unspoken concern shining back. The possibility solidifies into realization.

"I was just telling Hoshi how much I'm worried–" Hoshi tries to cut you off in a hushed tone but you continue, "And how much I think he should break up with you."

Chloe's finally looking at you and you smile at the fire in her gaze. "Dear God, you're so much worse than I thought," you tell her and then turn to Hoshi. "I told you she was insane but this–? Hoshi, let me ask you something." You step closer to him and feel his breath hitch at your question, "Does she get physical with you?"

"Who the fuck do you think you are–"

"I'm not talking to you!" You echo her earlier words, a hand trained on Hoshi's elbow protectively. "Hoshi, please, I need you to be honest with him. Did she ever–?"

Hoshi's eyes are unreadable. They meet yours hesitantly before travelling away and to Chloe. You stop him, "Hoshi. Look at me. Please."

"It happened once but it wasn't that bad and–"

"Okay, that's all I needed. We're getting you out of there," you grab Hoshi's hand, tugging him away from Chloe and toward your car. "I hope you're not attached to any of your stuff because we're–"

"Hoshi! Kwon Hoshi! Stop, right there!"

Chloe's voice is thin with how high-pitched it's gotten and your mind reels with this newfound understanding. She wasn't just a manipulative bitch, she was also abusive. God, what exactly had Hoshi tolerated? He'd said it happened once but the fact that it even got to the point–

"Y/N, we– are you sure?" Hoshi's question barely cuts through the noise in your head. You're already in your car by the time he finds his voice.

"Did she hit you, Hoshi?'

"She didn't exactly hit– It was more like she threw something at me–"

"Threw what?"

"It's not that important and I don't really care–"

"What did she throw at you, Hoshi?" you ask him again, quieter this time. "Can you tell me? You don't have to. I'm still getting you out of here."

"It was just a glass. She got mad– I don't even remember what exactly happened but one minute I was making her a drink and the next, she—It didn't even hit me so it–"

"Hoshi, I'm so sorry," you breathe, "You don't deserve that– You could've been really hurt, you know? I don't care that it was a glass and it didn't hit you. The fact that she felt the need to physically hurt you— God, Hoshi, do you see? She is a physical threat to you."

"I'm– I don't know what to think, Y/N," Hoshi sighs, settling into the passenger seat. "It wasn't even that what got to me. I know she doesn't actually want me dead. It's when she talks about you—"

"Me?"

"Yes. I don't know when it all went downhill, but she began to speak really badly of you. Just the meanest things. Completely untrue things. I didn't like it and I tried to get her to stop. I told her I couldn't stand to hear it and once, I even told her I'd break up with her if she kept it up– That's when it really got out of hand."

"I'm sorry, Hoshi, I had no idea."

"Well, it's not your fault. You were nothing but a good friend to me. You never even let me onto your feelings."

You sigh, "Right. Those."

"I wish you had," he breathes out, head lolling over to look at you, "I know it's selfish of me, but I wish I'd known sooner. I would've come to my senses."

"How come?" you ask, heart in your throat, his confession from earlier looping in your mind.

"Well, because you weren't the only one with the wrong kind of feelings. I developed my own share of feelings for you. Even though I was dating Chloe. It's pretty fucked up, huh?"

You focus on keeping your breath steady. Chloe's figure was still visible in the night. You couldn't tell what she was doing but honestly, after all you'd found out, she could really just go to hell for all you cared.

"I don't know if it is fucked up," you shrug. "With how she treated you and all."

"I guess. I think that's why I held on longer though, knowing it was wrong to love you," he continues, "I thought if I faced my feelings, I'd lose Chloe and you in one fell sweep. I was too big of an idiot to see that I'd lost Chloe a long time ago. And I would've lost you too if you hadn't told me how you felt."

"You're one selfish bastard," you murmur, looking at his shadowed face. "You couldn't just break up with her when she got crazy? Why'd you let her keep hurting you? Why'd you keep hurting me?"

"Once again, idiot things. It was easier being where I was, however unpleasant that inertia was. I wanted to keep pretending things were normal with us."

You sigh again. "Idiot. I'm taking you home."

—

Things are hard for a while after that.

As much as you want to just sit back and enjoy loving Hoshi openly, you resist.

He faces his broken relationship with Chloe first, going back to his shared home with her to break things off in person, for once and for all. You don't ask him how it went, simply offer him a hug when he comes back later that night, eyes rimmed with red.

You face your own guilt over Hoshi's broken relationship and then cry a little more because you realize what your friends, what other people must think of you. The kinds of words they'd use.

"You know it's not your fault, right?" Hoshi reminds you one night when he's over. He's over a lot lately.

"Which part?" you call back with a chuckle. He shifts beside you, hitting pause on the movie playing to face you.

"I'm serious, Y/N. Me and Chloe. Or me and you now."

"Yeah, maybe slightly not my fault. But that's not how it looks, you know?" you heave a sigh, tilting your head away from him so he doesn't have to see your downcast eyes. "I'm still a homewrecker."

"Dude, look at me, what the fuck are you saying?" Hoshi forces you closer to him. "If anything, it should be me that's ridiculed. Not only did I stay in a toxic relationship despite all the red flags, I led you on. Heck, I kissed you when I was officially still dating her. Plus, it's not homewrecking when it's barely a home you're wrecking."

"That's not fair to you, Hoshi. I know I blamed you earlier but it's not the easiest thing to walk out of an abusive–" You cut yourself off, containing a laugh at his insistence. He looks troubled by your behavior, "Y/N. I'm serious. I can't have this."

"What?"

"I want to be with you for real, Y/N. I want to take you out without it feeling wrong. It's not wrong. Okay?"

You close your eyes, letting his words sink into your veins. You feel his palms curling around your face and you smile against his touch. "I think it's gonna take me a bit before I'm not uneasy about it."

"That's fine," you open your eyes to find a loving grin on his face, "I'll wait." His love was pure and bright, and for once, you let that light bloom within yourself.

—

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