#so... maybe it's a little mean of him sometimes

[wendichester]

⋆˚⊱ the talk,

summary. dean, your boyfriend, gives you the talk.

pairing. dean winchester x reader genre. weird fluff

wordcount. 748

notes / warnings. mild language, mentions of supernatural violence, protective/jealous dean winchester, pop culture references, a tense confession scene, slight crack energy

You’re not really mad, per se. More like… Yeah, confused as hell.

Because your boyfriend just told you monsters are real—like, capital-M Monsters. Vampires, werewolves, demons, the whole horror movie roster. Except this isn’t a movie. You’re not on your couch, halfway through a sleepover marathon with a bowl of popcorn in your lap. You’re at your kitchen table, and Dean is sitting across from you looking like someone just kicked his puppy. Which is kind of hilarious considering he just confessed to stabbing a werewolf with a silver blade last week.

You haven’t said a word in maybe… five minutes.

Dean’s knee is bouncing. He keeps glancing toward the door like he’s expecting you to run for it.

“I didn’t tell you ‘cause I didn’t want you to freak out,” he mutters, voice low. “It’s not exactly first date kinda stuff, y’know?”

You blink slowly. “…You said you were a mechanic.”

He flinches. “I can fix cars.”

“Dean.”

“Alright, part-time mechanic, full-time monster-hunter. Happy?”

You lean back in your chair, arms crossed. You should be more panicked. Any reasonable person would be. But the weird thing is—you’re not. Not really. Maybe it’s because Dean doesn’t feel dangerous to you. He feels safe. Has since the night you met him in that parking lot, laughing and talking you through your flat tire like he didn’t have somewhere better to be.

You’ve seen the way he handles a wrench. The way he walks you to your door. The way he keeps a loaded gun at yours and how he sometimes feels the need to sleep with a knife under his pillow.

You should’ve figured this out.

Dean's still talking, trying to explain himself.

“I just—look, I never wanted to lie to you, but this life? It’s dark. I didn’t want to drag you into it unless I had to. But the longer we were together, the more I felt like... you should know. You deserve to know. I promise you, Y/N, I'm not cheating on you. I just have a shitty day-job.”

You stare at him a moment. Really look at him. His hands are clasped together on the table, knuckles scraped. There's a little blood on the edge of his sleeve. His jaw’s tight, shoulders hunched like he’s bracing for a slap.

You tilt your head.

“So… when you said you’d kill Damon Salvatore if he ever tried anything with me,” you say slowly, “you meant that?”

Dean’s whole face twists. “What—of course I meant it! That dude’s a vampire. He eats people, baby. I don’t care how nice his car is.”

You blink. Then blink again.

And then, god help you, you start laughing. Not a little giggle—like, full-body, stomach-aching, shoulders-shaking laughter. Dean just stares at you, caught somewhere between horrified and offended.

“I’m serious!” he says, eyebrows yanking together. “That guy’s a psycho! He compels people and drinks his weight in blood! I don’t care how many redemption arcs he’s got or what moody indie soundtrack they put under his scenes—he so much as sniffs in your direction, he’s toast.”

“Oh my god,” you wheeze, wiping your eyes. “You were jealous of a fictional vampire.”

Dean scowls. “He’s not fictional to me.”

You lean forward, resting your chin on your hand, eyes sparkling. “Okay, hunter-boy. So what is fictional to you?”

He pauses. “Uh… Harry Potter, probably.”

“That explains so much.”

Dean’s still tense, like he’s not totally convinced you aren’t about to kick him out.

You reach across the table and cover his hand with yours.

“I’m not running,” you say softly. “I’m weirded out, yeah. I mean, you basically just told me Buffy was a documentary. But I’m not scared of you, Dean.”

His shoulders drop about two inches. “Yeah?”

You nod. “You’re still the guy who brings me diner pie and gets pissy when I leave the window cracked at night.”

“That’s because it’s not safe,” he mutters.

“Uh-huh. You know I’m just gonna make more vampire jokes now, right?”

Dean groans. “Great. I’ve created a monster.”

You grin, leaning across the table to kiss him—quick and sweet, your fingers curling around his wrist.

He kisses you back like he’s exhaling for the first time in days.

When you pull away, you squint at him.

“…You still haven’t explained why you carry holy water in your jacket pocket.”

“Emergency exorcisms,” he says, deadpan.

You nod slowly. “Cool. Cool. Totally normal boyfriend things.”

Dean smiles, wide and shameless. “Welcome to the family business, sweetheart.”

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[butyoudidthis4what]

She's Here

Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x F!Reader

21.2k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: I know there’s not a supply closet on the floor plan but we’re pretending; took what I needed for the set up of PittFest from the show, storyline diverges once PittFest patients start arriving; angst; active suicide risk Robby; Robby has not been to therapy; miscommunications; Robby cries; Reader cries; suicidal ideation/suicide planning; allusions to PIV sex and oral (m. rec) sex; dry humping kind of; alcohol; joking use of daddy; mentions of blood; mentions of guns and shootings; breaking up; making up after argument; Robby puts his foot in his mouth; reader has some insecurities; grief; mentions of death/dying/coding; seizures; CPR; anxiety about partner's safety; mentions of compartmentalization; age gap kind of implied with Robby but not explicitly referenced (he's an attending when Reader starts as an intern); no use of y/n or related

Summary: The day of PittFest becomes unbearably worse for Robby. A little over four months into the relationship you've both been waiting years for, you find Robby on the floor of pedes. When Langdon throws it in his face, Robby assumes you betrayed and doesn't react well.

AN: Based on this ask sent in by @loveyhoneydovey. First Robby fic!!!!! I don't know how I feel about it!! I'm very nervous about his voice and characterization here and if it feels like him. I'm always very nervous though. We get some development of your relationship through vignettes of the past like I've done before. Dividers made by the amazing @saradika-graphics. I would love to hear your thoughts and comments and as always thank you so much for reading!!

“We’re doing it.” Robby’s voice is just above a whisper as he walks in with Jack.

“That could mean one of several thousand things, Robby.” Jack glances at him. He keeps his voice hushed like Robby’s. “You’re going to have to be a bit more specific than ‘we’re doing it.’” 

“Her and I,” Robby clarifies. “We’re together. It happened today. I’m taking her out tomorrow night.” 

“About fucking time,” Jack mutters lowly. He claps Robby on the shoulder as they keep walking. “I’m really happy for you brother. For you both.”

“Really? That’s all you have to say?” Jack looks at Robby and raises his eyebrows while squinting a little, asking what Robby wanted instead. “I don’t know,” Robby shrugs, “I thought you’d have some more enthusiasm.” 

“I do,” Jack nods, “but given your near whispering, I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to express it right here in, you know, the middle of the entire fucking ED,” Jack’s dropped his voice even lower the further they’ve walked in, “because it seemed like maybe not everyone knew yet and I wasn’t sure if you really wanted me to be the one to tell them or make them starting asking even more questions.” He gives Robby a look for a second before softening it into a small smile and nodding at Robby.

You grin to yourself when you see Jack. You and Robby agreed that Dana and Jack had to know right away but that you wouldn’t tell Dana until Jack was here. You could tell that Dana knew something was up, though. 

You walk by Robby and Jack on your way to Dana, smirk at them. “Boys.” You nod. 

Robby lets out a long breath and shakes his head a little. He has no idea what to do with you sometimes, in the best way. Jack just smirks back at you a little, but softens it out just a bit at the end and nods to silently tell you he’s very happy for you. 

You smile as you walk up to Dana, standing next to her as she looks up at the board. “We’re together,” you whisper, just loud enough for her to hear. “He’s taking me out tomorrow night.”

“About fucking time,” Dana whispers back. She gives you a sly smile and bumps your hip with hers. “I’m very happy for you, both of you.”

“Thank you,” you nod, making eye contact with Robby across the floor, “I am too.” 

You stand up when you hear someone else enter the supply closet. You think it might be Dana coming to lovingly corner you and get info on how your date was. But it’s not her. It’s Robby. “Hey,” you call out to him. 

“Hi.” His response is a little short and confuses you but you just let it go. He walks over so that he’s standing next to you. A respectable distance apart. Robby starts looking through the shelves but as you watch him it’s clear he’s not really actually looking for anything. “Heard you had a date last night.” His voice is strained, he sounds like he’s trying to hide some simmering anger. But you recognize it for what it really is. Jealousy.

You stop pulling the tubing you need from the shelf but don’t turn to look at him. How did he even know about that and why does he fucking care are the only two things you can really think about. He has no right to be mad. You and Robby have been dancing around each other for years now. At his behest. And at a certain point it felt like his reasoning for that changed. 

After a couple of seconds you sigh. “I did yeah.” 

You can see him nod out of the corner of your eye, mouth in a line. You have to roll your eyes at him as you pull out the tubing. “You sleep with him?” 

You scoff and finally look over at him, but he’s still looking at the shelves. “I’m sorry, please tell me how the fuck that is even close to your business.” 

Robby just pulls his lips down. Not sad per se but thinking. “So you did.”

You just want this conversation to be over at this point. Because it hurts. Because Robby has been and it seems always will be right there but unwilling or unable or not wanting to try being with you. “Yeah. Sorry I needed to get laid and actually went out and got it. You should fucking try it, Michael.” It’s not even a conscious decision, deciding to push him away first in this conversation, to try and act unaffected by the thought of him being with someone else. 

He ignores your jabs, but the confirmation that you were with someone else makes his blood boil, jealousy ripping through him and clouding his thoughts. “You let him touch you. Touch what’s mine.” 

“Ha!” you laugh. Then there’s ten or so seconds of silence as you gape at him while his words fully process because you’re so struck by his fucking audacity. “What’s yours? What’s fucking yours? Are you out of your fucking mind Michael? Please, since fucking when have I been yours?” He still doesn’t look at you. “Hey! Look at me, asshole!” You throw the tubing in your hand at him. 

That gets him to turn and look at you with a scowl on his stupid handsome face. He knows that you’re not at all his. He can’t bring himself to admit it though. “Thought we were going to do this. Do us. When you’re an attending. Guess not.”

You have to laugh at his words again, exasperatedly this time. “No Michael. You don’t get to do this. I’ve wanted to do this. Do us. You are the one who hasn’t. And for a while I understood why, and even when I didn’t, I have always respected your feelings. It was you’re under me and ‘I don’t want to mess up your career or give you a reputation and have that impact us’ and ‘when you’re an attending’ that slowly seemed to turn into ‘I’m not sure if I want you anymore’ and ‘maybe when you’re an attending’ and I’ve spent the better part of a year trying to decide if you really didn’t want to do this, didn’t want me anymore, or if you were just trying to protect yourself or something. Because it went from when you’re an attending to maybe when. So why would I be waiting around anymore, Michael? I waited for years. And if it was just about me being under you and my career and people knowing I earned everything I got then why didn’t you come ask me out and say you were ready to do this the second I got offered and accepted an attending position?”

You swallow hard and have to look away from Robby. You’re so confused by him but still down so bad. Deep down you know him calling you his hit you so hard because you are. You have been. Even if he didn’t know and didn’t want you. You’d given yourself to him. But you won’t cry for him. Not here. Not at work. Not where everyone would know regardless of your explanation. 

And Robby hates it. How sad you look. How you could ever possibly think he didn’t want to be with you. That he didn’t want you. He never realized at some point he’d said maybe. It was never maybe for him. But your last question floors him. 

“When you what?” Robby whispers, face furrowed in confusion, lips pulled down even more. 

You scoff at him again. “Don’t even try Robby. Don’t even try to pretend you didn’t fucking know that in fucking August of last year I got offered an attending spot.” You look back over at him. Robby’s still facing you but his head is dropped slightly, eyes looking left and flicking around a little. He looks half confused and half devastated. “Holy shit, you really didn’t know. How the hell did you not know, Michael?”

He shakes his head slowly, still thinking. “Gloria and I were at each other’s throats particularly bad last August. Things were crazy here and she kept harping me about needing to interview and pick an attending and I snapped one day and told her that I didn’t even fucking care, that she could pick one for all I cared.” He looks up at you again. “I never thought she actually would. And she never told me that she actually did.”

You stare at him. It’s a plausible story and you can always tell when he’s lying to you or giving you a half truth or omitting something. And it’s not like you’ve told anyone. You’re one of those people who are afraid to announce it like it’ll jinx it somehow since it’s something that will start in the future. Your one exception to not saying anything was if you got with Robby. You’d tell people and let it be known because you figured it would appease some of his worries about it seeming like you got your job only because you were sleeping with him or in a relationship with him. But he never came to you after you signed. It broke your heart more than you wanted to admit. 

You’re not sure how to respond and Robby’s not sure what else to say. “Well, she did. And it was me. So hopefully that’s not disappointing news to you, I guess.” 

“Disappointing ne-” He decides part way through to not even finish the thought. Because the meaning of it all catches up with him. You have an attending position. And honestly, kind of even better, you have an attending position and Robby can honestly say he had absolutely no input into the decision. So while you’re not quite an attending yet, you’re pretty damn close. And that means Robby doesn’t have to break his own heart and tell you that you guys can’t. Doesn’t have to say when you’re an attending. For all intents and purposes you are one. “You can be mine now, Kid?” It’s almost a statement but not quite. 

You nod a little, look down at your shoes. “If you want me, yeah.” Robby doesn’t think he’s ever heard your voice this small and the fact that you think he could possibly not want you kills him. 

“If I want you? If?” He’s quick to close the distance between you, hands at your waist and pulling you to him as he stops walking. Both of you are breathing heavier and after your eyes flit down to look at each other’s lips the tension between the two of you finally snaps. 

You kiss each other hard, sliding right into tongue and sucking. Your arms wrap around Robby’s neck, hands finding his hair and running through it, tugging at it when he kisses you in a way you particularly like. Robby pulls away so you can see each other and you make a noise of protest. “There was never a maybe. And I’m sorry if I said that. There’s no if. Never has been, Kid. Never will be. So will you go out with me? Be mine?” 

You smile at him, steal another kiss before nodding. “I’ll go out with you. And I’ll be yours as long as you’ll be mine.”

Robby laughs. The two of you are finally together. “Oh, I’m yours. I’m all fucking yours.” 

You and Robby have been together a little over four months now. You’re pretty much living with him, you just haven’t made it quite official yet. It still feels a bit soon, even for you. Your lease will be up around ten months of dating so you think that’s when you’ll make it official and completely move in. If he wants. You’re pretty sure he will. You always hear about it the next day if you don’t sleep in the same bed the previous night.

You’re not surprised when you wake up and the bed is empty, even if you are a little disappointed. You know this is a bad day for him. A hard day. You’ve never actually been with him or around him on this day before because until now he took it off and you always inevitably ended up working it. You’re not sure what changed for him and why he feels like he’s ready to be there and work today and you’re not sure if it’s truly what’s best for him at this point, but you’ll support him, be there for him, let him lean on you, whatever he needs. You won’t give him a hard time about his decision to work. 

Robby’s in the kitchen making coffee when you pad in. You’re dressed only in one of his oversized shirts. He’s not entirely certain about working today. But he’s tired of letting the day have control over him. It feels wrong. And when Jake asked for Robby’s PittFest ticket so he could take his girlfriend Leah instead of Robby it felt like a sign.

“Morning,” you say softly as you walk over to him and wrap your arms around him from behind. You press your cheek against his broad back and rest your hands on his tummy. 

“Morning, Kid.” Robby squeezes one of your hands before continuing to make the coffee. 

He’s been up long enough for the sleep to disappear from his voice and to shower. His hair is wet. “Sleep well?”

“I always sleep well when you’re in bed with me.” You can hear the smirk in his voice.

“Michael.” You press a kiss to his back. “Seriously.”

“I slept well, yes. I meant it.” There’s a hint of exasperation in his tone and you get it. You do. But you ask because you care about him and worry about him. 

“Good.” You close your eyes and just breathe him in for a couple of moments. “You sure about working today?”

He knew it was coming. And he knows you mean well and are asking because you care about him and he loves it. He really does. Because he doesn’t remember the last time he’s had someone care about him the way you do. Because you’re in love with him and he’s in love with you even if you haven’t said it to each other yet. You both can tell the other is. But for some reason he doesn’t really understand, he just falters right before he can say it, can’t bring himself to as though that’ll somehow be what makes it more real, like it isn’t already. And he knows you haven’t told him because you don’t want him to feel pressured to return those three words.

But at the same time, you asking multiple times just in different words is going to be annoying today. That level of checking in on him. It is already. Because he just wants it to be a normal day. He doesn’t want everyone treating him like he’s made of glass just because one bad thing happened on this day. It’s suffocating. He knows it’s out of love and concern but it gets suffocating. 

Just like all the PPE was on this day when Adamson died. Maybe that’s part of why it hits such a nerve. 

Robby takes a second to breathe so that the mild irritation and frustration doesn’t seep into his tone. He doesn’t, however, explain or communicate that he can’t deal with the constant checking in, that it suffocates him. “Yes, I’m sure. I’ll be okay. I’ll have you there with me if I need anything.” He’s hoping that last part tells you that he’ll come find you if he needs you and so you don’t have to ask. It understandably doesn’t. 

“I will, yes.” You’re quiet as you listen to the coffee percolate. You can feel how tense he is. You know you’ll never really be able to understand how hard this day is for him or in what ways it is. So you just want to be there for him, make sure he’s okay. You think maybe a distraction will help. Robby pours himself a cup of coffee as you speak. “Wanna shower with me?” you ask with a seductive lilt so he knows exactly what you mean. 

He laughs softly, takes a sip of his coffee and starts to turn in your arms. You relax your arms and let him, greet him with a sweet smile. “Come here,” he whispers, sticking his lips out. 

You shake your head. “I have morning breath.” 

He clicks his tongue at you. “When have I ever cared about that before?” 

You shrug. “It’s different when we both do.” 

“Come here,” he says again, more stern this time as he makes eye contact with you. You consider it for a moment but eventually give in. You want to kiss him. You always want to kiss him. But you keep it chaste and short. There will be time for more after you brush your teeth, you’re sure.

“Shower?” You raise your eyebrows at him, a little smirk on your face, nails scratching gently at his back. 

He smirks at you. “My coffee will get cold.” He holds the cup up and tilts it just slightly before taking another sip.

You breathe out a slightly incredulous and hurt laugh, take your arms from around him as you speak. First he dodges the question and then that. You tell yourself it’s just because of the day and that he’s not in the mood or mentally there and that’s okay. That it makes sense. But coffee? He couldn’t just say no? “Wow, coffee’s better than my mouth or pussy, ouch.”

Michael rolls his eyes at you. That’s not at all what he meant. “Stop. And I’ve also already showered, which I know you know.” 

This time you just scoff and shake your head at him a little. “Yeah, because neither of us have ever gotten back in the shower with each other after we already showered. But okay,” you laugh quietly as you step back. Robby tilts his head at you as you walk away, he knows you have more to say. You stop and turn around to look at him before turning to go back to the bedroom and en suite to shower. “You know, Michael, you can just say no. You’re allowed to say no. I’m not going to force you to shower or have sex with me. Saying no is okay. Not being in the mood is okay, especially on a day like today. I suggested it to try and help distract you and maybe make you feel good.” The maybe is a little slip of insecurity. “You don’t even need a reason and you never have to explain why, but just, the way you communicate that no. The shitty excuses hurt. And they make me wonder about myself far more than ‘no I’m not in the mood’ does.” You turn and walk away. 

Robby sets his mug down and you hear it, shake your head to yourself. “Kid!” he calls after you, pushing off the kitchen counter. He never meant to hurt you or make you doubt yourself. He never meant to make it feel like this was a you thing. Because it’s not. It’s him. It’s the day. It’s his mood. 

You’re really not in the mood at this point. For sex of any kind or to have a conversation with him right now, honestly. You keep telling yourself that it’s just a really bad day for him. It has nothing to do with you or the two of you. It’s the day. You know Robby doesn’t see it well and you don’t point it out more because he has so much of his own shit going on, but you still have so much insecurity. About yourself. About the two of you. You worry you’re not good enough for him or aren’t what he expected and thought you’d be. 

You walk in the bathroom quickly and uncharacteristically lock the door behind you. Usually both you and Robby leave the door unlocked or even partially open when you shower. You turn the shower on and take his shirt off quickly, wanting to just be in the shower and have it as an excuse for not hearing him. If he even tries to talk to you. 

Robby almost slams into the door when it doesn’t open. He hadn’t expected it not to open. For you to have locked it. “Kid, please,” he calls loudly, hoping you’ll hear him over the water. He knocks on the door, with the middle knuckle of his index finger. “Please!” You can hear him. You just don’t feel like shouting, and again. You don’t really want to talk. 

You stand under the stream of hot water and zone out a bit. Ruminate. You know that you and Robby are fine. That you’re great. You know he’s attracted to you. That he loves having sex with you. You had incredible sex last night for god’s sake. It’s the day. It’s the emotions it brings up for him. The grief. You shouldn’t have even brought sex up. He’s sad and grieving and triggered today. Why would you do that? 

“Kid!” Robby calls again, still knocking. “I didn’t mean to hurt you or insinuate coffee was better than you or anything like that.” When you don’t answer Robby goes and sits on the edge of the bed and lets out a long sigh. He lets his head fall back and presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. He really could do without you doing this. Without this added thing and stress. The day is hard enough as it is. 

His voice brings you back and you start to do all of your normal shower things. You’re surprised when Robby’s not immediately knocking and calling for you again once he hears the shower turn off. You figure he’s probably gone back to his coffee and the thought sends a little pang through your heart. 

You wrap your towel around yourself and open the bathroom door. You almost jump a little when you see him sitting on the edge of the bed with his head tilted at you. You look at him for a moment and then walk to his dresser and open your drawer, pull out a set of scrubs, an undershirt and some underwear. You grab your bra off the floor where Robby threw it last night. You can feel his eyes on you, the way he’s tracked you across the room and is watching you. 

When you turn back around and see him he’s smiling to himself, it’s almost anticipatory. His eyes run up and down your towel covered body. He looks like he’s eager to see you naked when you get dressed. And he is. He abso-fucking-lutely is. It melts you a little bit. But you’re hurt still and he hasn’t offered an apology to your face. So you take your clothes and walk towards the bathroom. 

Robby draws out a scoff, but the disappointment rings through more than his irritation. “So what, I don’t even get to admire you as you get dressed anymore?”

You turn at the threshold of the bathroom door to look back at him, capture his gaze. You drag your eyes from him to the open bedroom door and then back to him. You’re stoic as you shrug. “Your coffee’s getting cold out there.”  

You just catch Robby’s shoulders and face fall as you turn back and step in the bathroom before shutting and locking the door. You already regret it. Wish you could take it back. You shouldn’t have hurt him just because he hurt you.

Your words sting, they hurt and sadden him. But he can at least understand why you said it. Robby lets out a long sigh and rubs his face but doesn’t get up. He doesn’t care about the fucking coffee. He doesn’t even want it anymore. He wants you. He wants to hold you close and kiss you. He wants to apologize. He wants your forgiveness. He needs all of that. Needs you.

You get dressed and finish getting ready in the bathroom quickly. You know you need to apologize to Robby and you want to, you really do feel awful. You just kind of hope he’ll also apologize to you. This is not the start to this day that either of you needed. 

Seeing Robby still sitting on the bed when you open the bathroom door is unexpected. You figured he’d go get his coffee and wait for you in the living room. 

You look at each other for a moment and then you break the silence. Robby wants to be the one to but the words just get caught in his throat before he can even open his mouth. “I’m sorry for being passive aggressive and saying that. I shouldn’t have. I should’ve just talked to you and worked it out.”

Robby gives you a small smile. “I accept your apology, and I’m sorry too.” He beckons you with two fingers and you walk over to him, stand between his legs when he opens them for you and rest your hands on his shoulders. He waits for you to look down at him before he continues. “I never meant to make you doubt yourself or feel unwanted. In any way. I didn’t think any of it through before I said it. Didn’t think about how it would make you feel.”

You squeeze his shoulders gently. “I accept your apology.” You’re not sure what else to say.

“You know I want you. I always want you, Kid. I did this morning, I just…” He shakes his head and sighs. “My brain, you know? The thoughts and all that shit.” 

“I know, yeah,” you murmur, running a hand through his hair. “I thought sex might be a good distraction. I should’ve thought a little harder about it before I offered.” 

“It usually is.” He tilts his head at you. “Can I kiss you for real now? Not whatever that was that you gave me in the kitchen.”

You laugh softly and nod. “I’d like that.” Robby wraps his arms around you as he stands up, stopping at the right height to kiss you instead of standing straight. It’s a kiss that at just about any other time would lead to far more. It certainly leads to another kiss and then another, and before you realize it you and Robby have been standing there making out for a solid couple of minutes. 

He groans as he pulls away from you. “I don’t want to stop but I do want to have time to treat you to breakfast burritos and your choice of caffeine from that place down the street. Eat as we walk to work.”

“Treat me or yourself?” You smirk at him. 

“You.” He shakes his head at you a little as he says it. “The fact that it’s also a treat for me is just a fun coincidental bonus.” 

“Yeah, coincidental my ass, Robinavitch.” You try to keep your smirk up but it turns into a smile the more you stare at those big brown eyes you love so much. It almost slips out but you catch yourself, turn to walk to the entryway to get your shoes on. I love you. 

The two of you get breakfast burritos and coffee on the way in. Neither of you say anything but you both think it’s ironic that the coffee was a whole thing and then he just left his mug and the carafe of it sitting there at home. Once you get to work you get your stuff in your lockers, stethoscopes around your neck and head to the hub. 

The day passes relatively quickly. For you at least. From what you’ve gathered from others and what Robby has said when you’ve talked to him, things have not been as smooth for him as they have been for you. You make sure he has some semblance of a lunch, drinks some water. 

Towards the end of the shift he comes and finds you. It’s the first time he’s really purposefully sought you out all day. You wouldn’t say he was avoiding you but a little bit you felt like that. After you asked him if he was okay when you saw him for the second time while at work and got an exasperated answer you realized he was tired of being asked. You knew he was probably getting it from Dana too. So you stopped directly asking, figuring it out subtly through other means. And he’d appreciated it when you backed off. He’d recognized when you’d done so. It had made him feel a little less suffocated and a lot loved even without exchange of the words. Because it was clear how well you knew him and how easily you picked up on what he needed. 

That’s why him seeking you out has you so concerned. It has to be bad. 

“Can I talk to you for a second?” Robby’s voice is strained as he grabs your elbow and starts walking you towards an empty room. 

Your face furrows as you let him lead you into the room. “Everything okay?” You wonder if this is about Dana and what happened to her.

He doesn’t answer, just closes the door as you walk in the room and stands with his back to the window. “I’m gonna tell you something but you have to keep your reaction really controlled, okay? And obviously you can’t tell anyone.” You nod. “Langdon’s addicted to pain meds and has been stealing meds.” 

The furrows smooth out of your face and you have no real facial reaction other than in your eyes which only Robby can see. They widen just slightly with shock. “What the fuck?”

“I know. I fucking know. I sent him home but I fucking,” Robby’s shaking his head hard. His eyes are a little glassy. You know Langdon is kind of Robby’s protégé. Everyone does. Just like everyone knows you kind of are too. “I let a drug addict practice medicine and treat patients. I fucking let him.”

You tilt your head and shake it at him. “Michael, you didn’t let him do anything. This isn’t your fault. I understand you feeling like it is, and that’s valid of course, but I promise you it’s not your fault.”

He shrugs at you, looks so incredibly helpless and at a loss. It breaks your heart. You walk towards him and pull him further in the room a little bit, drawing the curtain to give the two of you a little privacy. You walk back so that you’re standing right in front of him, just enough space between the two of you that you can see each other. 

You don’t say anything as you reach up and start rubbing at his shoulders and the back of his neck before he can. You feel him relax and he drops his head, eyes fluttering close while his hands come to settle on your hips. 

He doesn’t understand how you always seem to know what he needs. When he needs you to talk to him. When he just needs quiet acceptance and to just be in your presence like this. How you’ve picked up on him rubbing his neck. It’s more comforting and soothing when you do it, the circles he rubs on your hips over your scrubs keeping his hands busy. 

You’re a little surprised by it honestly. You thought he might reject this little bit of comfort you’re offering him. Not because of you but because he rarely accepts it at work even in private like this. You’re pretty sure his brain constantly tells him he doesn’t deserve the comfort here. 

“We need to get back out there,” he finally mumbles, bringing his head back up and opening his eyes. 

“Probably, yeah,” you agree. You stop rubbing his neck and loosen your arms but keep them where they are for a moment to see if he’ll hug you. You’re not going to push it on him, not going to make him feel bad when it’s too much for him right now. 

Robby’s hands squeeze your hips one last time. “Thanks, Kid.” He pulls away and you drop your arms, stepping out of the room with him once he pushes the curtain back. 

You both get sucked back into work and you don’t see much of Robby until him racing in from the ambulance bay catches your attention. Dana comes walking in quickly behind him and you catch her gaze, tilt your head as you walk over. 

A frown and worried brows are etched deep into her face. “There’s a shooter at PittFest. MCI protocol.” 

Everything freezes for a second as you hit fight or flight, limbs going cold and nausea creeping up on you. You say nothing to Dana, immediately turning and following after Robby because you know he put his phone in his locker earlier and is going to get it. 

“Don’t!” you yell at him as he opens his locker. “Michael, do not call or text him!”

He doesn’t stop, grabbing his phone and starting to unlock it. “Are you out of your fucking mind-”

“If he’s hiding and doesn’t have his phone on silent it could give him away,” you rush out before Robby can hit send or call. 

He freezes and looks up at you finally. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck!” That one is yelled. “Why the fuck didn’t I think of that?”

You walk over to him and cover one of his hands with yours. “Because you’re effectively his dad in a lot of ways, Michael, and so you’re too close to it, of course your first instinct was to call him to see if he was okay. I love him too and it’s not that I don’t want to know if he’s okay, and I know it’s very unlikely there’s really anywhere to hide and that it’s probably so loud his phone ringing would barely be audible, but I just think it’s better to be safe right now. He’ll know to call or text you or his mom. He’ll know. And if Janey hears from him she will call you. I know she will.”

He’s breathing hard as he looks at you before finally look away as he shuts his locker. “What if it’s David, Kid?” he whispers. Robby looks back at you and his lip trembles just slightly. The implication is clear. Robby had told you about David and everything that was going on there. You know his worry is valid. “What if I just got Jake killed? Killed another person on this fucking day.”

You let out a long breath as you shake your head. There’s a lot to unpack there. “Okay. Everything you just said, and all of your feelings make sense and are real and valid and I’m acknowledging them. I’m not trying to brush anything off. And I will be there for you whatever happens. But we don’t have a lot of time here so we’re going to have to come back and explore this all more if you want. For right now though, you didn’t kill Adamson, Michael. Covid did. You had to make a terrible decision nobody should ever have to make, but that wasn’t you killing him. And you can’t do this to yourself Robby. If and I mean if it was David, it would still be a random act of violence. You can’t control that. And right now the patients about to come in and Jake and Leah need you to focus on getting everyone ready for this and then handling this MCI and you cannot do that and be focusing on the what ifs, okay?” 

Robby wants to believe you. He wants to believe what you just said but he can’t. He just fucking can’t. He did kill Adamson. He will have killed Jake. He knows you’re right about the end bit though. He has to shove all of this in a box so that he can focus on what’s about to happen and patients. 

You can tell Robby wants to fight you about it but decides not to in favor of very uncharacteristically hugging and kissing you publicly at work before walking away to start implementing protocol with Dana. It leaves you standing there blinking at the wall for a second before you’re able to turn and walk back towards the hub to help. 

Robby’s hugging Jack as you walk up. You and Jack exchange a look. You know that Jack knows that Jake’s at PittFest. You know Jack knows how bad the day is for Robby. 

When Jack starts unpacking supplies you go in to help him. 

“How is he?” Jack asks. 

You can’t help the way you huff. “How do you fucking think Jack?”

When he doesn’t reply you look up at him. Jack’s looking at you with his eyebrows raised and mouth set, edges up just a tiny bit to show he’s not mad, asking excuse me? and how did you just speak to me? without a word. 

You sigh. “I’m sorry.” You set down what you’re holding and rub at the back of your neck. You see Jack’s smile pull up a little more as he recognizes what you’re doing, what you’ve learned from Robby. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gotten snippy. It’s just Jake, you know?” The breath you let out is shuddery. “I don’t know if even I could save Robby if something happened to him and Robby couldn’t save him, Jack.”

Jack’s face softens and he squeezes your shoulder. “I know. I wish there was more I could say, but I know. I’m worried about him and that possibility too.”

The two of you start to unpack again. “I just need him to call or text Michael or his mom and say he’s okay and on his way home. I need this to not happen to him today. I mean or ever, but you know. He doesn’t need to feel more grief and loss that he thinks he’s responsible for today.” 

“All we can do is be there for him,” Jack murmurs. 

“Yeah. I guess,” you murmur back. 

Once you finish unpacking and arranging supplies Jack faces you before the two of you walk out to where Robby is starting to gather everyone. 

“I need you to promise me that if something happens with Jake, if, god forbid, he ends up here and is critical, you will let me run it with Robby. We won’t get him to not work on him, we won’t have time to argue about it with him. We both know that.” Jack nods at you. “So you need to let me be the one to work with him. You need to let me be the one to convince him we’re not getting Jake back and he has to let Jake go. Because you’re the best thing in his life. You keep him going. So I don’t want him associating being unable to save Jake with you. He might work through the emotions it brings up, he might not. But if he doesn’t… Robby’s only going to survive something like that with you by his side. He could survive it without me, he could cut me out and lose me and survive. He couldn’t survive it without you. So I need you to promise me if Jake ends up here, you’re going to let me be with Robby until TOD is called. Same with Jake’s girlfriend.”

You swallow hard as you look at Jack. It will be hard for you to stay away. You worry Robby will wonder why you’re not there, why you didn’t drop everything to come help him. But you also know that he’s not really going to be worried about that in the moment. He’ll be too focused on Jake. And Jack’s words make your heart ache. Yes, because it’s sweet that Jack knows what you mean to Robby, that he can see it and that Robby has talked to him about it. But it’s more because you recognize the sacrifice Jack’s volunteering to make for Robby and Robby’s happiness and ability to get through this. The sacrifice in running the risk of losing his best friend, because Jack doesn’t have anyone else. He doesn’t have a significant other. He has Dana but that friendship isn’t like his and Robby’s. 

“I think you’re selling yourself quite short there, Jack,” you whisper. 

He shakes his head to say he doesn’t care. “Promise me.” 

You hold his gaze for another few seconds before you look away. “Okay,” you nod, “I promise.” 

“Good. Let’s go.” 

“Jack?” He turns at the threshold and looks back at you. “Thank you.” 

He simply nods and the two of you walk out. You stand by Shen while Jack stands by Robby, the two of them talking things through with the group, explaining how a lot of this is going to work, who’s going to be where, what to do when different things happen. 

“Communicate,” Robby tells the group. “Ask for help if you need it.” 

You look at Dana when he says that. Which was the wrong move because you both end up having to stifle laughs. You know it’s inappropriate. You know it’s not funny. And you know that Robby’s really good at the whole ‘do as I say not as I do’ thing, and if what he just said isn’t a textbook example you don’t know what is. So in the moment his words just strike you as funny, in part because all of this is a situation where if you don’t laugh you’re going to cry. Dark humor becomes a coping mechanism. You at least do a good job of stifling it and covering your mouth, can tell you hid it enough and everyone was so focused on Robby and Jack they didn’t see anything. 

Everyone disperses and patients start rolling in. Time loses any real meaning. It could have been forty minutes or four hours. You have no idea. You just know that patients keep rolling in. Never Jake or Leah. 

Neither of you can decide in your heads whether that’s a good or bad thing. Whether it means they’re dead on the scene or that they escaped and are okay and lost their phones in the chaos and are trying to get further away from the scene before they ask to borrow someone’s phone to call people or are just trying to get home.

Robby and you both glance at Dana every chance you get. She has Robby’s phone so she’ll know if Jake or Janey get in touch with him. The patients in front of him at least help distract Robby somewhat. That anxiety about Jake never goes away. The feeling of responsibility never goes away. But it goes to the back enough that he can focus and be a good doctor. 

Patients continue to arrive. In ambulances and cop cars and civilian cars and business vans. 

But never Jake and Leah. 

You’ve been at the Pitt a year and a month now. You’ve been an R2 for a month. You’ve already learned a lot. You’ve already had devastating losses and incredible saves. You’ve already thought about staying here past your residency. You’ve already grown close with a number of people. You’ve already grown very close with one person. 

Michael Robinavitch. Robby. 

You know how bad it could seem. How bad it might already seem. But you and Robby both know it’s there. Something far beyond platonic. You both feel it. And it only grew over your intern year and is continuing to. 

You haven’t discussed it outright but the energy and attraction between the two of you is so clearly there and you’ve seen it in his eyes. When he’s leaning in close to you to help teach you something and his pupils are a bit more dilated than they should be in the lighting. When he sees another man flirt with you and they blaze with what seems like anger but is really jealousy. When you’ve just pulled a double together and have hit silly and are laughing so hard you’re both crying at something so incredibly stupid and his eyes crinkle with affection that never appears for anyone else. 

And Robby’s seen it in your eyes. When something horrible happens and your eyes find his before anybody else’s and a little spirit comes back into them just from making eye contact with him. When he’s hiding how badly something with a patient or family has shaken him and turns to find you and you’re already looking at him with soft eyes full of recognition and understanding that make him feel so seen in a way he hasn’t felt before. When you bring him some sort of treat, sweet or savory, and pass him a post-it note that you pretend is a note about a patient but really says it’s in the fridge with his name on it and your eyes sparkle with an adoration he’s yet to see you look at anyone else with. 

Robby knows he cannot do anything, there cannot be anything between the two of you, not even some semblance of anything until you’re an attending or maybe an R4 if you’ve already accepted an attending position. Being with you before you’re an attending wouldn’t look professionally great for him, but that’s not what he worries about. He worries how it would look for you, like a young woman sleeping with her boss, how people would at the very least have in the back of their minds that you were sleeping your way to the top or you got given things because you were sleeping with your boss or were eventually offered an attending position because you were sleeping with your boss. 

Robby knows not everyone would think that. And he knows it absolutely would not be that. But he doesn’t even want you to risk it. Not for him. He knows your career and reputation have to be your first priority. 

Dana and Jack have both asked him about you after observing the two of you together. He assures them that while, yeah, he has some feelings for you, it is strictly platonic between the two of you, him mentoring just like he does everyone else. 

And so neither of you have ever made any really overt move. Because you both know you can’t.

So there’s been no real discussion about ‘one day’ or if there ever could be a future for the two of you. 

But now that you're a month and a bit into being an R2 and don’t have the label of ‘intern’ and feel like you have a better handle on being a doctor you’ve grown more confident. Not over-confident or cocky. Not even close. Just a bit more sure of yourself. Professionally and personally. And so your joking around with and screwing with and flirting with Robby has intensified a little. It’ll continue to do so your entire residency. 

And while Robby is a bit more reserved, particularly when it comes to flirting and anything vaguely sexual, he still gives it back in his own way. It is overwhelmingly not one sided. 

It’s not just sexual. You and Robby are close. You go to each other with problems and to vent. You seek each other out for comfort. And it’s comfort that forces you both to acknowledge it and discuss it, this thing between you. 

You find yourself sitting on the roof, back pressed up against the wall and legs out in front of you. You’re technically off. You want to be anywhere other than this fucking hospital. And yet you can’t bring yourself to move. 

You stay quiet and still when you hear the door to the roof open, hope whoever is up here won’t notice you before they leave. 

Unfortunately for you the person who walks onto the roof has spent the last thirty minutes looking for you. And Robby’s slightly panicked about it. You’ve seemed off all day. Sad. Overwhelmingly sad. In particular the last time he saw you he felt like you looked… done. With everything. With the world. 

The sigh he lets out when he sees you sitting there on the roof is of relief. You can tell that it’s not irritation or annoyance. 

“Go away,” you call half-heartedly when he starts to walk over. 

“Go away? I don’t think you’ve ever told me to go away before.” Robby tries to keep it light. 

“First time for everything,” you mutter. 

That pulls a small laugh from him. He comes and sits next to you against the wall. He’s close, your sides pressing against each other. Closer than the average mentor-mentee would be sitting for sure. 

You don’t say anything and so for a few minutes the two of you sit in silence, each of you focused on the way the other feels pressed up against you. But Robby wants, maybe needs if he’s honest with himself, to know what’s wrong so he can help you. 

“Talk to me Kid.” And there it is. That name he only calls you. 

You shake your head a little and sigh. Robby hates how sad it sounds. He doesn’t even really think about his next move. He just reaches out and slips his hand into yours where it rests on your thigh, laces your fingers together.

With the setting and context of why you’re both up here together it’s an incredibly intimate gesture. 

You’re not quite sure what to make of it but he initiated it and it feels good. Makes you feel safe and cared for. You look down at your intertwined hands for a moment. His hand engulfs yours with how much bigger it is and it’s so warm. He always runs so warm. 

“I don’t know,” you finally force yourself to say. “I really don’t know.” 

Robby nods slowly. “Just one of those days?” he offers. 

“I guess.” You shrug. It might seem like the silence is purposeful but in reality it’s Robby trying to think of what to say. “I’m just tired, I think.” You sniffle and it’s then you realize that you’re kind of teary. “Fuck,” you mutter. 

“It’s okay, Kid. I’ve had these days too. Some days you’re just tired and so it all hits harder, even shit that normally wouldn’t make you blink.” Robby rubs what he hopes are soothing circles on the back of your hand with his thumb. 

“Yeah,” you take in a choked breath, “I’m just really fucking tired.” The tears start to fall freely then and you squeeze Robby’s hand hard like it’ll make them stop. They’re at least mercifully silent, it’s not like you’re totally sobbing in front of him. 

But then Robby really notices how much you’re crying and lets go of your hand to raise his arm so you can lean into him as he pulls you to him, your legs shifting automatically to get in a more comfortable position as you lean into his chest. “It’s okay,” he whispers, tilts his head so that his cheek rests on the top of your head.

You shake your head but hold onto him as you cry, relish in the circles his big hand rubs on your back. You don’t cry for long. A few minutes. And it’s not loud or even sobbing, it’s just crying. Just blinking out tears that end up wetting his scrub top, the occasional shuddery or hiccupped breath. 

You don’t move once you stop though and Robby doesn’t ask you to. Doesn’t shift his body to suggest you move. His cheek remains on your head and his hand continues to rub circles on your back. “I’m sorry,” you eventually whisper. 

“Never be sorry for needing to let something out. It accumulates in this job.” Robby goes to turn his head so that he can kiss the top of yours but he catches himself and stops before he can. “And if you don’t let it out somehow it can become debilitating.” 

You can feel the vibrations of him speaking and it soothes you further. “Everything just felt so shit today. All of the backstories of what brought my patients in today. All crime and abuse. Every single patient.”

“That’s one of the worst kind of days here,” Robby sympathizes. 

“I hate that it’s one kind.”

That makes him laugh which makes you smile. “Yeah there’s a lot of kinds of worst days in this job unfortunately.” 

You sigh and finally pull away from him. But his hand on your back doesn’t let you go particularly far. And when you both lean in a little your faces are close enough to feel each other’s breaths. “Does it ever get better?” you whisper. 

Robby shakes his head slightly. “No.”

You both watch each other’s eyes glance down at the other’s lips. You both lean into each other even more. You both tilt your heads in the opposite direction of the other. You both let your eyes flutter closed. 

But the second you truly feel the heat of Robby’s breath against your lips he pulls away. “Fuck,” he mutters. 

You look down, embarrassed and disappointed and guilty. But despite the almost kiss and Robby pulling away neither of you have otherwise moved. You’re still close together. 

“I’m sorry.” You murmur. 

“No!” Robby laughs, a heavy dose of self-exasperation in it. “Don’t be. God, fucking don’t be. And don’t think I don’t want to. That I don’t want… that. With you. But your name and reputation and career… we can’t. We can’t.” Robby moves his head back so he’s looking at you, uses his free hand to guide your chin up so you’re looking at him. “When you’re an attending, okay?” You nod at him and he repeats it. “When you’re an attending.” 

The sinking feeling in your and Robby’s stomachs intensifies as more patients come in who aren’t Jake or Leah and at the lack of phone call or text. You get your patient in Walsh’s hands to be taken up to surgery and change into a fresh trauma gown and step outside, checking on triage but also getting some air. 

“You good?” Robby asks, walking up behind you. He doesn’t really wait for your answer, continuing to walk towards Shen and Ellis. But the quick press of his ungloved hand against your lower back as he walks by makes up for it a little. 

You don’t bother voicing an answer, nor do you follow him to ask him the same question. You already know the answer. 

As Robby’s talking about getting gurneys to the right angle and helping fix them a truck comes squealing in. Shen and Ellis jump up and start yelling out colors. You put on a pair of gloves pulled from your pocket and wait nearby to see if there’s a red coming. But then you hear it and are hopping up on the tire of the truck to look in the bed. “Michael!”

You yell his name. And Robby immediately knows it has to be Jake. He has never heard you yell his name before and there’s only a handful of reasons why you would today. He tells himself there’s a tint of hope to your tone. “Jake?” Robby yells as he runs over. But he hears Jake’s voice and a wave of relief passes through him now that he at least knows where he is and that he’s okay enough for right now to speak. 

“Red zone. GSW left chest,” Ellis assesses Leah. 

“Jake, are you shot?” you ask him as Robby arrives. 

“I don’t know my, my leg maybe, it’s Leah. It’s Leah’s blood, she was shot, was shot in the chest and I’ve been putting pressure on it the whole time, and I don’t know-”

“That’s good,” Robby cuts him off, “you did good, okay?” 

You get Leah onto a gurney and Jake out of the truck. He walks in holding onto the side of Leah’s gurney opposite Robby. “Get him a wheelchair!” Robby calls. He notices you walking away while he argues with Jake about getting in the wheelchair and staying there and out of the way. He finds it odd, is a little miffed that you’re abandoning him with Leah and Jake. 

But you’re speedwalking to Jack. “Leah. GSW left chest. I don’t think there’s any way. It had to have shredded her heart,” you say just loudly enough for Jack to hear as you take the bag of blood he’s squeezing into his patient from him. He nods at you, gives you a rundown on the patient in front of you as he walks backwards towards Robby, turning when he’s finished. 

“Samira!” you call out to her when you see her look around. “Jake.” You flick your head at him. “Probable GSW to the leg. But head to toe. I’m concerned he’s in shock and it’s masking another injury.” 

“Got it.” She nods and is off to Jake, finding a gurney for him to get on. 

Robby glances at Samira with Jake. “What the fuck?” It’s loud enough for you to hear. 

“Me, Michael!” you call over to him. “I sent her to do a head to toe. I’m concerned he’s in shock and not feeling another injury.”

“Fuck,” he mutters, giving you a vague nod as he turns back to Leah. He can’t believe he didn’t think about that either. That’s twice now you might’ve saved Jake. First telling him not to call just in case. Now this. He’s lucky. He’s beyond lucky to have you. “Jake you do whatever the fuck Samira tells you without a fucking word of argument!” 

You get the patient you took from Jack stable and up to surgery, start working on the next red to roll in. They stabilize relatively fast and you find yourself squeezing in blood again. But this time your eyes are flicking between the patient and Robby and Jack and the way Jack is having to talk Robby into accepting that Leah is gone. You can’t hear any of it but you know that’s what’s happening based on the expression on Jack’s face and how he keeps chasing Robby’s eye contact.

After a minute everyone stills and you watch Robby write on Leah’s card and circle around it. You know he called it. Jack’s back over to you quickly, taking the blood from you this time as you give him the rundown on this patient. “Michael!” you call as you walk over to him quickly. 

“I have to go tell Jake,” he mutters, shaking his head and turning to look in your direction but not at you. He’d been watching them wheel Leah into pedes. 

“Do you want me to go with-”

“No. No it’s fine, thanks, I got it. Santos was looking for an attending, go find her.” He walks away without looking at you. He can’t bring himself to. The shame he’s feeling at not being able to save her, at failing Jake a little too heavy to let him lift his head to look at you. 

You watch him for a second as he walks away. Your heart aches for him, for the man you love and the news he has to go deliver to a teenager he considers his son in a way. You can’t ruminate though. Too many other people need you. 

So you do what Robby said and go to find Santos. You get involved with her and by the time you’re done you look around but you can’t spot Robby. “Dana, have you seen Robby?” you ask her as she walks by. 

“I think I saw him taking Jake to pedes.” She grimaces at you. 

You nod and make your way there, opening the door and stopping short. “Michael?”

Robby’s on the floor, knees up to his chest and holding onto his necklace while reciting a prayer through tears. He doesn’t acknowledge you. It hurts to see him like this. It’s physically painful. But he needs you so you set it aside. 

“Michael,” you say softly as you sit down next to him so that your sides are pressing against each other’s. “I’m here.” You grab one of his hands, hold onto it harder when he tries to pull it away. 

“You need to go back out there,” he sniffles. “They need you.” He flicks his eyes up at you. 

There’s truth in his words. But there’s also truth in yours. “Not as much as you do right now.” 

“I can’t,” he whimpers. “I, I…” He shrugs at you before breaking down in tears again, but this time letting himself fall into your gownless lap. 

“Okay,” you whisper, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve got you.”

“I couldn’t save her,” he chokes out, “another person I couldn’t fucking save. Another I killed. Another I let down. It’s two because Jake. I let him down too and he knows it.” You curl around him as much as you can, move his gown and kiss at his shoulder. You let him have a moment and get it out. Because you both know you don’t have much longer than that. “And the worst,” he sobs, “the worst part is it should’ve been me, Kid. It should be me on that gurney. It was my pass that I gave him for her.”

That last sentence is hard to hear. Because you can’t imagine a world without Robby in it. A world where you have to bury him. You want to tell him not to say shit like that, but you swallow down your upset because he doesn’t need that right now. You know there’s very little he needs right now in a sense. He doesn’t need a lot of words or you trying to make this better and discuss his feelings and emotions. He just needs to let some of this out.

Robby knows that’s all he needs right now, too. To let some of what’s eating away at him out in the one place he feels safe. 

You. 

You’re his safe place. He didn’t realize just how much he needed you here with him until you walked in and sat next to him and took his hand. You make it better. You make it hurt less. Just by being here for him. 

“You didn’t kill Adamson or Leah,” you murmur after a minute. “And you haven’t let them or Jake down. Your feelings are valid Michael, and I know I can’t begin to understand on multiple levels but the way you are feeling makes sense. We can work through your feelings. You can work through them. You can get through this. No matter how hopeless and impossible it feels right now.” You pause, have to swallow hard and blink away some tears. “And I wish that nobody was on that gurney. I don’t want anyone on that gurney. I wish none of this had ever happened. For you and Jake and Leah and everyone involved. And maybe saying this is wrong of me. It’s probably selfish. Maybe I’m a terrible person for it. You can hate me for it if you need to and like I said I truly wish none of this happened and nobody was on that gurney. But I am really fucking glad it’s not you on that gurney Michael because I have no fucking idea what I would do.” You let out a shuddery breath. “And I wish we had more time and that I could say more and hold you more and that all of this was over but it’s not.” You scratch at his scalp a little. “They need us.” He nods and sits up, looks over at you. “They need you.”

“Yeah,” he whispers. He’s let himself grow numb. Because right now that’s what he needs to be to get through this right now. 

“I need you,” you whisper back. He knows what you mean. He knows what you’re worried about. Him taking a walk off the roof or something.

“I’m not going anywhere, Kid.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.” He nods.

“Good.” You nod and stand up, hold out your hand to him. He lets out a soft laugh as he takes your hand and lets you help him up. 

You both take a second to wipe your faces a bit. “Find me if you need me, okay?”

“I will,” Robby promises again. 

You nod and open the door, both of you walking out. Within seconds both of your names are called.  

“Hey.” He grabs your wrist gently before you can go. You look at him with raised brows. He wants to say it. He wants to say it so badly. But he can’t. “Thank you.” I love you.

Robby slips off his stool at the high top a group of you are sitting at and follows you up to the side of the bar, takes his drink with him. You were sitting across from him at the end of the table and the rest of the group was so focused on their conversation he doesn’t think anyone even realized he followed you. A little bit he doesn’t care if they did. 

You’re down near the last two stools at the bar, waiting for the bartender to get you your drink. It’s busy so you’re sitting while you wait, wanting to be off your feet after a long shift. Robby setting his beer down startles you for just a second. But you can quickly tell it’s him. 

By the sweatshirt sleeve rolled up. By the smell of his cologne lingering just enough under all the hibiclens you can appreciate it since you know what it smells like very well by now. By the hand that sets down the beer. By his fingers. 

You look over at him with raised brows. His glass is still over half full. He came to talk to you. 

“You’ve been calling me Michael lately.” He keeps his face pretty stoic, for him at least. But you can see the slight crinkles at the corners of his eyes and his beard shift just slightly as the corners of his lips twitch up. 

“What an astute observation, Dr. Robinavitch.” You keep your smirk to a minimum. “I don’t have a gold star sticker on me to give you but I can buy you another drink.” Very little in life gives you as much pleasure as screwing with Robby. If you were together like you wanted you could think of at least three body parts that would be added to that list. 

Your words earn you the slightest raise of his eyebrows. “Why?”

“Why what?” Your eyes sparkle with mirth as your drink gets dropped off and you take a sip. They’re beautiful sparkling like this. They always are but Robby finds them particularly beautiful like this, when you’re happy and light-hearted and teasing. 

And it’s just like you to make him say it. Be specific. “Why do you call me Michael? Why’d you start?”

“Makes me feel special.” You smirk fully this time. “It makes me feel special because there’s a handful of people you let call you it, especially at the hospital, and you actively try and make people not call you it. I wasn’t actually sure you were gonna let me call you it at first. Guess being an R3 has privileges. But then again, I’m the only R3 you let call you it.”

“You’re the only R3 who has ever called me it. None of the others have tried. And you didn’t answer the second question,” he points out. 

“I mean  yeah, I kind of did. I started because it makes me feel special.” He gives you a look and you sigh. “In part because I wanted to see if you’d let me. In part because, I don’t know,” you smile softly to yourself and look down, “I like it. Calling you Michael. It makes me feel close to you.” Robby’s never seen you look so shy and it rocks him a little. But the shyness fades quickly for you as you look back up at him. “And in part because some of the new interns got comfortable a couple of months in and were getting a little too flirty with you for my taste. So you can imagine how smug and pleased with myself I was every time I called you Michael in front of them and you said nothing and every time one of them called you Michael and you had to correct them and tell them it was Robby or Dr. Robinavitch until they finally got the picture.”

“So jealousy?” He smirks. It makes him feel good in a way, knowing that you were jealous of attention he was getting. That you care about him and want him enough to be jealous. To feel a little possessive. “And that’s why you needed to feel special? A little petty of a response, no?”

“Oh Michael,” you chuckle, take a sip of your drink. “You and I both know you are so not the one to talk about being petty as a response to jealousy. Should I start listing things you’ve done in response to me being flirted with?”

“You really shouldn’t call me it.” He’s grown a bit more serious again. 

“Are you telling me to stop?” 

“No.” He shakes his head. “And I don’t want you to. Just… You shouldn’t.”

“Why?” Your brows furrow a little in confusion. You don’t get why it matters unless he doesn’t want you calling him it for a personal reason.

“People will wonder why you’re allowed to. It makes,” he gestures between the two of you as you take a sip of your drink but doesn’t name anything, “obvious. People will start thinking and seeing it.”

You choke on your drink, coming close to spitting it out all over him. The coughs you get out once you’ve managed to swallow turn into laughter. “Michael.” You cock your head at him and give him an incredulous smile. “You cannot actually believe that me calling you Michael is what’s going to give this thing between us away. Because it’s been given away. It was given away for sure by the end of my intern year. Nobody asked me anything during my intern year I’m guessing because I was an intern, but a couple weeks into being an R2 I was getting questions. Dana and Jack never asked you or talked to you about it? Because they’ve certainly asked and talked to me.”

Robby blushes at the realization. Deep down he probably always knew that everyone could see it and he’d just managed to convince himself otherwise. “Of course they did,” he answers your question, not sure how to respond to everything before it. “I just thought it was because they were more… perceptive. That they knew me better and could see it in me.”

You have to laugh a little and bite your lip. “You know, you’re sitting here pointing out that halfway through my third year of residency I’ve just started calling you Michael, your first name, and it’s almost like you’ve forgotten you always call me Kid. Only me. Since my first fucking day here. I don’t remember the last time I heard you say my first or last name for something other than introducing me to someone, in front of a patient or in some very formal situation. And I’d like to point out that not a single god damned person has ever heard you call me Kid and then tried to call me Kid unlike with me calling you Michael. I wonder why that is? It’s almost like it comes across as a little more than a nickname to people.”

He looks at you for a second. “I…”

You hold your hand up and half wave him off. “It’s okay. I’ll stop calling you it, Robby.” It’s half teasing and half serious. 

You slide off your stool and grab your drink intending to walk back to the table. Robby’s quick to slide off his stool and stand in front of you though, blocking your path. He looks at the stool you were sitting on pointedly and then back at you. You follow his silent order and sit and set your drink back down.

He leans in a little closer to you than he was. “I never asked you to stop calling me it, nor did I say you needed to.” He raises his eyebrows at you and bobs his head. “Nor do I want you to. I like it when you do. A lot.” 

You smirk at his admission and shrug at him. “You were making an awfully big deal about it.” 

“Yeah because it, it…”

You’re genuinely not sure how he wanted to end that sentence. “It what Michael?”

Robby shakes his head at you. “Just… you’re not an attending yet. Maybe when you’re an attending, okay?”

You know Robby isn’t talking about you calling him Michael. Isn’t saying that you can’t call him Michael until you’re an attending. He’s saying what he’s said since that time on the roof that when you’re an attending the two of you can act on the feelings you clearly have for each other. 

But the maybe in front of that phrase is new and hits you like a slap across the face, heart twisting as it sinks into your stomach. He’s never said that before. It’s never been a maybe and not a certainty. Robby watches your face fall and hurt cloud your eyes. He replays what he said trying to figure out what part it was that hurt you, that made your entire demeanor change. If you’re just that disappointed you didn't change his mind and aren’t suddenly a couple or if it’s something else. He can’t figure it out.  

You swallow thickly, tears sting your eyes but you’re quick to blink them away. “Yeah.” You nod at him finally. “Maybe. But you know, that assumes I become an attending here, Robby. In Pittsburgh at the very least. And I don’t know if I will.”

You slip off your stool, leaving your half empty drink and heading over to the table. You tell everyone the exhaustion has hit and so you’re going to head home. They’re sad to see you go but nobody questions much. You cover well enough that if anyone had noticed you and Robby talking they wouldn’t think you were hurt by him and running away. Which you know is kind of what you’re doing instead of just asking him about it. Asking him if he doesn’t want to try the two of you anymore. If he doesn’t want you anymore. If that’s why it’s a maybe all of the sudden.

Your words throw Robby for a second because he realizes that you’re right, neither of you know for sure if you’ll get an attending job at PTMC or anywhere else in Pittsburgh. He realizes the two of you have never had a real conversation about if you want to stay in Pittsburgh, if you’re going to apply for attending spots in Pittsburgh or if you want to go somewhere else. And then he realizes you called him Robby. 

He’s not sure what to do with that. What it means. He slides off his stool and goes to look for you at the table, doesn’t see you but thinks you’re in the bathroom until he’s told no, you left. He has to play it cool and nod like he isn’t internally panicking about whatever the fuck just happened. And he can’t just leave because it’ll look suspicious. He has to wait a respectable amount of time, ends up leaving when Samira and Langdon do. 

Robby calls you as he walks home. No answer. He has no idea what to even say to you right now so he doesn’t leave a message. He decides to text you instead. He’s worried about you and whether you’re okay and got home safe. He’s always worried about you when he doesn’t have eyes on you. 

R - Let me know you got home safe  R - Please

You don’t reply immediately. Or within five minutes. Or within ten minutes. It’s almost long enough to make him start panicking and change his direction to walk to your place and see if you’re there. Because of course he knows where you live and has been to your place before. But then you finally reply.

You - I did, yeah, thanks. Was showering. I hope you have a good rest of your night

It’s the truth. You were in the shower. In the shower standing under almost scalding water ruminating on ‘maybe when you’re an attending.’ Maybe. When did it become maybe for him? And why? You hate how bad it hurts, the thought of never getting to even try with him. The thought of him not wanting you anymore, of his feelings for you just disappearing. It makes you anxious. 

And more than anything right now, you’re confused. So fucking confused because he’s still flirting with you just as much and as hard as he always has when you guys are alone together or when you’re close enough to whisper. His hands and fingers still linger just a couple of seconds too long when he passes you something or wrap over yours to show you how to do something. You still feel his eyes on you when you talk to other men, especially if the men flirt with you. You still notice him checking you out sometimes. But now it’s maybe. Maybe. 

Robby lets out a breath when your message comes through. He debates calling you again to try and talk on the phone but he’s still not sure what to say. He walks into his apartment and drops his stuff, heads to his room and takes his scrub top and pants off before letting himself sit on the edge of the bed and reply.

R - Good.  R - Are we okay? You left quickly and without saying bye

After you finish getting ready, you slide into your bed and turn the tv on while you think about what to say to his message. Tone is so hard to get out of texts but you can tell he clearly still cares about you and whatever is between you. Enough to ask if the two of you are okay. It helps your anxiety a little bit. 

You - Yeah, we’re fine

He believes you but the word ‘fine’ also scares him. It’s not good or great or perfect or even normal or like we always are. So he can’t let the conversation die. Not when he’s still so unsure about whether you guys are okay or if he did something or if you still want him or if you’re mad at him. 

R - Are you working tomorrow? 

You - Yeah but at night. I’m starting a string of six nights to help cover. 

Robby knows you’ll be with Jack every night. He remembers Jack mentioning a string of six on. He’s not jealous in a romantic sense. He’s jealous of the time Jack will get to spend with you and is already thinking of excuses to stay late to be with you. He’s sad that he won’t see you for more than maybe an hour or so for the next six days.

R - Abbot’s going to try to steal you from days permanently

You type out your reply. It’s genuine but you know it’s going to seriously fuck with him and that the idea will freak him out and make him scared of losing you. Or will it? You don’t seem to know anymore. And that hurts. And hurt people hurt people. But you pause. You erase your last sentence. ‘Maybe when I’m an attending.’

You - He just might. Going to bed at 7 in the morning rather than getting up early enough to be at work for 7 in the morning kind of appeals to me

Robby stares at your response, a wave of deeper anxiety passing over him. You can’t go to nights. He’d barely see you. You can’t be serious about this. 

R - Really?

You - Yeah. Why?

Fuck. You are serious about this. And what the fuck is he supposed to say in response to your question? He knows you know why. He knows you know how he feels about you. How he wants you too. How he can’t wait for you to be an attending or even accept a position because then he can finally have you.

R - Would be a big loss for day shift. You’re one of the best

That hurts a little. That you switching to nights would just be a loss to day shift to him. Not a loss to him personally. That he wouldn’t miss you apparently.

You - You guys would be fine 

R - I’d miss you. I’ll miss you this week

You smile at him saying he’d miss you and that he’s going to this week. But part of you struggles to believe him after the bar.

You - Would you? Will you? 

He can’t believe you’re even asking that. And because it’s a text he can’t hear in your voice whether those two questions are serious or teasing. It hurts him to think that they might be serious. 

R - Of course 

You - Well I really doubt I’ll end up switching. So you’ll only have to miss me for a week 

R - Absence makes the heart grow fonder, right?

You are so confused by this man. It’s ‘maybe’ and ‘a loss to day shift’ but then it’s also he’ll miss you and his heart will grow fonder. But it was a good line. And between him telling you he’ll miss you unprompted and that being away from you for almost a week will deepen his feelings for you, you’re starting to feel back to your usual self and, while the change has been subconscious mostly, you go back to texting him like your usual self. 

But before you can reply Robby sends another message. It terrifies him. He’s not sure how he even worked himself up to asking you. He just needs to know. Needs to know if the two of you are really okay. 

R - Will you miss me at all?

It’s an incredibly vulnerable ask. You know it. He knows it. He knows you know it. He needs a very ‘you’ answer to it. So you give him one.

You - 🙂‍↕️

R - Good

You - Did you have to google what that emoji meant? (P.S. You should have added girl after good)

Robby laughs to himself and shakes his head at you. This feels better. Normal. Like you. 

R - Did you just call me old? (P.S. Stop it)

You smile to yourself. You know he means the stop it playfully. He’d have said way more if he actually wanted you to stop.

You - 😶🤐 You - Did you change the font size on your phone?

R - I’ve changed my mind about missing you 

You - Whatever you have to tell yourself to sleep at night, Michael

R - Go to bed, Kid R - Don’t  R - Don’t even think it

You giggle to yourself. He’s lucky he was so quick to realize and send the ‘don’t.’

You - Does it make it better if I told you it was going to be daddy and not dad?

Robby groans to himself a little. No. That’s what he wants to tell you. No, it makes it worse in a way. It has him half hard pretty quickly. 

You - I’ve been in bed this entire conversation too, so 

You know you’re getting close to Robby’s limit of this shameless of flirting and overt sexualness. You’re toeing the line. It hits just right though. It makes him harder. Fully hard. And Robby has to groan to himself a little louder this time because if you guys were together he’d work himself up to sending you a picture of his very obvious erection under his boxers, or facetime you and make you talk him through it. But you’re not together. And you’re an R3. And he can’t.

You - Wanna know what I’ve been doing? 

You wait a few seconds just to let him start to think before you hit send on the picture you took of your tv that shows you’re watching some trashy reality tv show he hates. Or pretends to hate. Because he always knows enough about the last episode to talk to you about it. Maybe he hated it before you, maybe he still does kind of hate it, but now he watches it for you. 

You - I’m sure that’s what you were thinking I was doing. Anyway. Did you make it home safely?

Robby lets out a quiet laugh. You’re so ridiculous. So perfect for him. He’s so spectacularly fucked when it comes to you. 

R - Yes and I’m going to shower. You go to sleep

You - 😏😏 You - Alright I’m stopping  You - Sleep tight and try not to miss me too much this week 

R - Sleep well, Kid

Robby throws open the door to the stairwell and walks in. He’s shaking, closer to tears than he wants to admit to himself and he is pretty sure he has never felt this much rage in his life. All of his emotions, all the grief and loss and sadness and guilt have turned into anger. 

And all because Langdon had to come back and then run his fucking mouth. He’s trying to calm down, to let go of the anger before he goes back out there and does or says something he’s going to regret because his mind is too clouded with anger. His hand rubs the back of his neck as he paces to try and burn off some of the adrenaline. 

He replays the confrontation in his head over and over. Eventually he’s struck by one thing in particular. How the fuck did Langdon even know about what happened in pedes? You were the only one who saw him-

Robby stills. It feels like another part of his world is coming crashing down around him. The only way Langdon could have known is if you’d told him. Or you’d told someone else who’d told him. If you were gossiping about him. About something so incredibly private and intimate. 

The door to the stairwell gets thrown back open and Robby walks further into the Pitt, head on a swivel looking for you. His jaw clenches when he sees you standing alone and charting. He stalks over to you.

“We need to talk.” The anger in his voice is palpable. And unlike the last time he sought you out, this time he’s not asking to speak with you. You saw him follow Langdon out so you assume it must be related and Langdon really must have done or said something.  “In here. Now.” 

He’s seething. He leads over to the supply closet and opens the door, walks in behind you, locks the door behind him. “What happened?” you ask, brows furrowed.

Robby just stares at you. It’s like he’s waiting for you to admit something. And you slowly realize his anger isn’t at Langdon or that situation or at anything else. 

It’s at you. 

He finally speaks. “I cannot fucking believe you.”

You shrink back at his words and tone. “What?”

“There are a lot of fucking people here who I would expect this shit from or not be surprised when they did it. But not you. Not fucking you,” he spits out. “How could you? How could you fucking gossip about that?” Robby tells himself the tears forming in his eyes are ones of anger and nothing else. “How could you betray me like that? I trusted you. I fucking trusted you.” His voice cracks on the second trusted.

To say you’re confused would be a massive understatement. Your stomach twists with anxiety. You don’t like any of this. You don’t like how he thinks you betrayed him or broke his trust. Because you’re not sure if your relationship could survive him truly believing that. “Michael, please believe me when I say that I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The confusion written all over your face just pisses him off more. It’s like you’re trying to be the victim. “No. Don’t do this shit. Don’t act like you don’t know exactly what I’m fucking talking about. Don’t try to be the fucking victim. The very fucking least you could do at this point is own the fuck up to it.”

You are desperately trying to play your day through your head to see if you can figure out what he’s talking about, figure out what you did that apparently betrayed him and obliterated his trust. You and Dana talked during the day but you never told her anything, just expressed your concern about him and him saying and acting like he was fine. You and Jack spoke while organizing supplies, but again, you just expressed concern about him and how he’d react if something happened to Jake. You said nothing to either of them that they didn’t already know because Robby had told them. You have no idea how he could consider any of that gossiping. 

“You’re really going to make me fucking spell it out for you, hm?” He bobs his head condescendingly. 

Tears spill over your lash line and slide down your cheeks because of the way he’s talking to you, the way he’s treating you. Because you know exactly where this conversation is headed if he won’t explain to you and then listen to your response. Because he’s slowly breaking your heart. 

“You told someone, Langdon or whoever the fuck else, about what happened in pedes. About me breaking down in there and being on the floor. You just fucking blabbed that to whoever,” he scoffs, a few tears running down his cheeks. Out of anger, yes. 

But out of heartbreak too. You gossiping about this, you breaching his trust like this, shatters Robby. Because he loves you. Even if he hasn’t said it. He’s stupidly in love with you. He has been. He thought you were the one. That you were it. His end game. He pictured a proposal and a wedding and a house and maybe kids.

And then you broke his heart. 

“Okay,” you sniffle through some tears. “I know you don’t believe me but I have no idea what you’re talking about. I didn’t tell anyone absolutely anything about pedes. I never would-”

“Well nobody else came in and saw me so how the fuck else would Langdon know? Hm?” he snarls. “You fucking gossiped about it. Like it was this casual thing.” He shrugs at you as more tears fall down his face and he glares at you. “We’re done. Because I will never be able to trust you again. Not with anything like that, with how I feel, to see me when I’m vulnerable. And I deserve a partner I can trust with that.” His anger slips for a moment, the trembling of his chin and the way his eyes soften into hurt and grief give it away. “We waited all this fucking time, I waited all this fucking time for you and you do this before we even hit six fucking months?” You can see when the anger returns as his primary emotion in addition to hearing it. “You threw it all away! And for what. For fucking what? Please tell me. Because I don’t fucking understand.” 

You’re at a total loss. You know that it ultimately doesn’t matter what you say. Robby isn’t in a state of mind to truly hear or listen to anything you tell him and even if he was, he doesn’t want to. Not right now at least. He just broke up with you. For, as far as you can tell, nothing. Your heart is shattered just like his. You thought he was the one. You knew he was deep in your heart. He was always there when you pictured your future. 

It takes you a moment to gather a few thoughts and calm your crying down enough to coherently talk. You clear your throat and sniffle before starting.

“You very clearly aren’t interested in listening to anything I have to say, but I’m going to say a few things anyway and hope you do listen, or think about them later. I did not tell anybody anything about pedes. I would never. Even now.” You take the briefest pause, worried that if you stop for any longer he’ll cut you off and not let you say anything else. “I love you, Michael. I’ve been in love with you for a while now. I never said it because it felt like you weren’t ready to hear it or say it quite yet, or I don’t know, maybe I mistook things and you didn’t, don’t love me.” You shrug. “I was so proud of you when I watched you pull yourself together in the face of multiple things, any one of which let alone all of them combined would have kept most people on the floor of that room, and go out and save lives and rally a team and support others and hold others up while you were dying inside. And I really hope one day, that for yourself, you’ll be able to learn and speak with Langdon or whoever else you need to and know that I was telling the truth and didn’t say anything to anyone and never would’ve. I loved you, Michael. You were amazing today. You are so much stronger than you think or give yourself credit for. I’m proud of you. You should be proud of yourself even through all the hurt, Michael.”

“No.” Robby shakes his head. He’s too angry and hurt and grief stricken to see anything clearly or even truly process your words. He stoops so that he’s face to face with you and you’ve never seen Robby look this angry and hurt. He makes sure you’re looking at him dead in the eyes as he speaks. “No, you don’t get to call me Michael. Or Robby. It’s Dr. Robinavitch to you.” 

He stands back up, unlocks and throws the door open and walks back out. Like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just issue you your very own scarlet letter by telling you that you can only call him by his full name and title, a stark contrast to the intimacy of Michael and even the casualness of Robby that everyone, except for you now, gets to call him. Like he didn’t just break up with you. Like he didn’t just shatter your heart. Like you’re not even worth hearing out or having an actual conversation with or listening to. Like you’re nothing. 

Pretty fucking cruel of the world for it to end where it started. In this supply closet. 

You lock the door behind him and slide down it, give yourself a few minutes to quietly sob, thoughts racing. But you don’t want to do this here. You can’t and you won’t. You open a pack of gauze and use it to clean off your face, unlock the door and peek through it until you see a good moment and sprint to the bathroom. 

You press a cold paper towel beneath your eyes. You know it’s probably pointless but maybe it’ll help a little. You’re focusing on thinking about how to get out of here and have the least number of people see you as possible. After a few minutes you toss the towel, splash some cold water on your face and dry off. You stare at yourself in the mirror. Marginally better, you guess. 

You slip out of the bathroom and look around. You should tell someone you’re leaving. The only two you decide you’ll be able to bring yourself to talk to are Jack and Dana. You spot Jack first.

“Hey,” you greet Jack as you walk up to him. Janey has arrived and Robby’s over talking with her so the hub is free of him for now. “I’m heading out.”

Jack looks up at you. To anyone else it would seem like he didn’t react. But you know him well enough to see the slightest raise of his eyebrows and the corners of his lips turn down. You have a fake smile plastered on your face and even with the damage control you did in the bathroom, someone would have to be an idiot to look at you and not know you’d been crying. And you know Jack is far from an idiot. 

You know he knows when his eyes leave you and go to Robby and then back to you. “Okay… We’ll probably do some sort of debrief and then I’m sure some people will go to the park. Robby’s probably going to be here for a little bit yet.”

“I figured, yeah.” You nod. “Thanks Jack.” You spin and start walking away before Jack can say anything further or Robby can walk back over or even look in your direction. You don’t want to feel it. You have enough already. His glare at you, livid and disappointed and betrayed and disdained and hurt. And even though you know why he’s with her, seeing him with his ex is hard. Especially when you realize you’re now just another ex for him to be seen with too. 

You wonder if they’ll bond over their fear for Jake before they knew he was okay and get back together as you walk to your locker. You grab your backpack and take the back way out to limit the chances of anyone seeing you and manage to hit the street without encountering anyone else.

You have a few things of Robby’s in your locker that you’ll have to figure out how to return to him. More things at your place. You’re going to have to go home and still see him. Have his presence there. Thinking about it makes tears sting at your eyes. But you refuse to break down until you get home, you won’t do it even out here. You need to be home before you break down. About any of it. Robby or the mass casualty incident you just went through. And it’ll mostly be about Robby. Probably 99%. You’re numb to whatever it is you saw and went through, focused on losing Robby.

And as brokenhearted and sad and hurt you are, part of you is mad. That Robby could even think you would do such a thing, much less believe it enough to accuse you of it and end your entire relationship over it without a real conversation. You know it was a bad day for him. Beyond a bad day. Probably one of the worst days of his life. But that’s not an excuse or justification for how he treated you. He didn’t even listen to you, wouldn’t even contemplate it being possible that someone else saw him and he just didn’t see. 

Part of you knows that with the day being what it was and what it became, Robby’s mind was trying to protect himself. That his mind could only see loss and grief and convinced him that you were going to leave him at the end of the day after seeing him like that in pedes. So when he saw an opportunity to control it, to set the terms of losing and grieving you, he took it and didn’t ask any questions. 

Robby does not want to gather everyone and give some kind of debriefing speech, but he knows he has to say something to everyone. Once everyone is gathered he starts talking and as he looks around the group he realizes you’re not there. He tells himself he doesn’t care but he absolutely does. Even with how much you hurt him he misses you. He wishes you were here to ground him a little. He thinks he could forgive you, especially if you had an explanation. Maybe you didn’t mean to say as much as you did to whoever. 

But as everyone walks away and goes back to whatever they were doing he slips back into anger because it’s an easier emotion to process and feel at the moment. You’re an attending now. It’s your job to be here for things like this. To stay for debriefings. No matter what might’ve happened in your personal life. 

So when he feels his phone vibrate and pulls it out and sees it’s you calling him he rolls his eyes  and sends it straight to voicemail on the second ring. And he gets annoyed when you don’t leave a message and immediately call him again. This time he just lets it ring until it hits voicemail. Maybe you’ll get the hint this time, he thinks. He figures you must because you don’t leave a message again and don’t try calling him a third time or send a text. Robby gets involved in another case with Jack and one with Mel and doesn’t think much of it. An hour and a half passes in the blink of an eye.

When he walks out of one of the trauma rooms and stops at the hub the exhaustion finally slams into him full force. He’s hungry too, can feel his blood sugar dropping. His ability to regulate and deal with his emotions is going further out the window with both of those developments. Which, he presumes, is why when he sees Langdon walking towards the ambulance bay doors to leave he walks over to him quickly. 

“Why the fuck are you still here?” Robby glances down at his watch. “I told you to leave over two fucking hours ago!”

“Why the fuck do you care? I’m leaving now.” Langdon doesn’t stop walking. 

Robby stands there for a second watching Langdon walk away. He needs to know he was right. That it was in fact you who told Langdon. 

“Hey!” Robby yells at Langdon and walks to catch up with him. “Who fucking told you?” He knows Langdon will know what he’s talking about.

“I’m not fucking telling you,” Langdon laughs dryly. “Unlike some people here I’m not going to rat out-”

Robby interrupts him by saying your name. “Was it her?”

Langdon laughs, shaking his head at Robby before he apparently realizes the question is serious. “You can’t be fucking serious.” Robby’s lack of response makes it clear he is serious. “Of course it wasn’t her! She would absolutely never spread shit about you, especially something like that. Someone else saw you in there on the floor firsthand. They’re glass fucking doors, Robby!” Langdon lets out an incredulous laugh. 

Fuck. Fuck. Robby’s heart drops into his sinking stomach and everything starts to spin, his extremities turning to ice. He knows Langdon is telling him the truth. He knows he monumentally fucked up. He just broke up with you for nothing. He just destroyed your heart for nothing. He just shattered the most precious and important and meaningful person in his life. He just imploded everything for no fucking reason. 

He just lost the best things in his life, your relationship and you, the person who kept him going. And he has nobody to blame but himself. 

He vaguely hears Langdon start to say something else to him but he’s taking a deep breath to try to get his dizziness to pass and walking back inside. Robby thinks about how he spoke to you. The words he said. How he barely let you say anything and didn’t listen to what he did let you say. He’s not sure if the two of you can recover from this. He’s not sure he deserves you giving him a second chance. If anything, he’s more sure he doesn’t. But he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try, if he doesn’t apologize and ask for a second chance. 

His eyes skim across everyone on the floor he can see once he’s back inside. He walks by most of the rooms and doesn’t see you in with any patients. You’re not in the breakroom. Maybe the bathroom. He doesn’t want to stand around waiting though. 

The roof. You saw him go up to the roof this morning because that’s where Jack was getting some air. He’d told you he was going up there to talk with Jack. Maybe you’re up there trying to clear your head. As he gets to the elevator and presses the up button it hits Robby. You could be standing on that ledge. You could be thinking about jumping. About disappearing from his life permanently. About really and truly leaving him forever. Nothing left but a grave to visit.

The only thing that stops Robby from turning to give into the feeling and be sick in the trash can is the elevator doors opening. He slips inside and hits the button for the roof, holding the close door button down the entire way up as though it really does anything. He tries to tell himself he’s just projecting his feelings onto you and that he has no reason to think you’re on the ledge.

Robby can’t decide whether he’s relieved that you’re not on the roof. Certainly he’s relieved you’re not on the ledge but it means he still doesn’t know where you are. He stands in the middle of the roof sucking in huge breaths of air trying to come down from the panic that’s starting to consume him. It’s not really working though. It’s just turning into hyperventilating. 

“Well you’re almost in my spot,” Jack calls to Robby as he walks out onto the roof. “What is going on? She-”

“I fucked up Jack,” Robby blurts out. “I fucked up so so badly and I don’t, I don’t know if I can fix it.” He slips completely into hyperventilating at this point as it plays in his head again. Him destroying everything in that supply closet. 

“Okay you’re having a panic attack, Michael-”

“No, no I’m not, I’m not, I’m just,” he’s shaking at this point, his body and his voice, “I just lost her and I, I, I…” Robby can barely put that three word phrase together. 

“I promise you that you are having a panic attack, Michael, believe me I know.” Jack steps in front of Robby and catches his gaze. “You have to follow my breathing, okay?” Robby shakes his head for a second and squeezes his eyes closed trying to fight back tears before starting to nod. “Look at me.” Robby opens his eyes and watches Jack. He watches Jack’s exaggerated breathing and tries to follow it. By focusing so hard on following Jack’s breathing Robby’s mind stills for a few moments. “Alright, better?” Robby nods at him. “What the fuck happened?”

Robby’s quiet for a moment and turns and takes a step so that he’s not facing Jack anymore. It’s a little too much. “I broke today. During the middle of it all, after Leah.” Robby’s voice cracks on her name. “She found me crying on the fucking floor in pedes and helped me get through it and back.” Robby pauses and lets out a huffed laugh. “For this to make sense I have to tell you that Langdon’s addicted to pain meds and stealing meds. Fucking, I don’t even know what to say about that right now.” He can see Jack’s slightly surprised expression out of the corner of his eye. “Anyway, after everything calmed down Langdon and I had it out in the ambulance bay and he threw it in my face. What happened in pedes.”

“Mmmm,” Jack cringes in acknowledgment. Robby knows he knows where this is about to go. 

“She was the only one I saw see me in there. So I assumed she told fucking Langdon or someone else who then told him. That she was gossiping about it.” Robby shrugs and sniffles. “I dragged her into that fucking supply closet with me and lost it. Asked her how could she, told her I couldn’t believe her, all while she was looking at me confused which just pissed me off more in the moment. She said it wasn’t her but I wasn’t listening. I barely let her speak. And then,” Robby pauses, lips trembling hard. “And then she said she loves me and is proud of me and she ended her last sentence with Michael and all I said was that she didn’t get to call me Michael or Robby. That it was Dr. Robinavitch to her. Then I walked out. I saw Langdon just now and he told me it wasn’t her and I know he was telling the truth.” Robby takes in and lets out a big breath quickly, sniffling again and wiping some tears away. “So I broke up with her and broke her heart for nothing. And I’ve been trying to find her to apologize as if she’ll ever take me back. She shouldn’t. I know she shouldn’t but I have to try Jack.” Robby looks over at him. “I have to try.” 

Jack takes in a deep breath and lets it out. He looks like he’s trying to decide what to respond to first. He runs a hand through his hair and then drops his hands to his hips. “Yeah,” he draws the word out. “That’s…” he sighs. “You guys might be able to work this out. It’s very obvious she knows you and how you think, better than you probably, and she is so fucking in love with you,” he tries to give Robby a somewhat reassuring smile, “so, I don’t know. You have to try, I agree. But she left, Robby.” Jack glances at his watch. “Two hours ago.” 

“What?” Robby whispers, turns back to face Jack. He glosses over everything Jack said to try and give him hope because he can’t take any possibility of false hope right now, as much as he knows Jack wouldn’t lie to him. 

“When you were talking to Janey. She came up to me at the hub, looking like she’d just had the conversation you described with you and said she was leaving.” Jack shrugs. “I said we’d do a debrief and some people would probably go to the park after and that you’d be here for a bit yet and she said she figured that and thanks and walked away.”

“Did you actually see her leave?” Robby doesn’t know why the thought of you leaving and being at home in your bed sobbing, or having already sobbed yourself to sleep makes it all feel worse. 

“No-” 

“So she could still be here.” Robby nods as he says it. “She could have gotten involved in a case or something and not left yet.” He starts walking back to the elevator. 

“Theoretically,” Jack agrees. “I think she probably left, Robby. You know her locker code? See if her stuff is there.” 

“Yeah, yeah I do.” Robby nods as they step in the elevator. “That’s good, that’s a good idea.” He’s praying that your stuff will still be there. That you’re not at home alone crying over him and how he treated you and the end of your relationship. Because he doesn’t want that. He’s not sure anymore if that’s really what he wanted when he was so sure you gossiped about it. 

As soon as he’s off the elevator Robby’s speed walking to the lockers, Jack following behind at a more normal pace. Robby hears Jack stop a few feet behind him as he opens your locker. Your stuff is gone. You’re gone. At home alone. Just like he didn’t want. 

“Michael,” you pant as his lips move down your neck and to your collarbone where he sucks a bruise into your skin making you moan softly again. “We should stop, you, you should go home and get some sleep before work.” The hand in his hair tugs at it to get him to look at you. 

It’s the night of your first date. After dinner you guys came back to your place. It started with just sitting and chatting on the couch, having another drink. Then you started kissing as you talked. Then you were kissing more than you were talking. Then you straddled him. And now he’s laying on top of you on your couch, bracing himself with his arms to not put too much of his weight on you. You have to have been making out like this for the better part of an hour. You’ve both been shamelessly grinding into each other, pulling little sounds you’ve always wanted to hear from the other. Robby’s painfully hard. Your underwear has to be soaked through or close to it. 

“What?” Robby’s already halfway gone, mind hazy with thoughts of you. It takes a second for what you said to process. “What? No first date sex for me?” he pants softly. You know he’s teasing you, that he truly didn’t come here with any expectations and he would absolutely never pressure you. 

“Nope.” You smile at him as you pop the ‘p.’

Robby groans a little at you as he moves off of you to sit normally on the couch, helping you sit up next to him. “Why not?” He pushes his bottom lip out at you a little as you climb into his lap. “That hardly seems fair.”

You give his bottom lip a quick nip before kissing it. “Because I care about you and this. Us.” 

“But if there’s already an us…” he trails off with a raise of his brows at you. “And we’ve been basically dating for four years.” You snort a laugh and give him a look. “Okay, we’ve been close friends with feelings for each other for four years. That should count for something right?” He lets one hand rest at your hip and the other in your lap. 

“In a way, yes, of course it does.” You run your hand through his hair, scratching at his scalp a little just to see the way his eyes flutter closed. “I still need to keep you interested though. Make sure you have a reason to ask me out again and keep me around.”

Robby scoffs as he opens his eyes. He gives you a look. “Kid, you really think that after pining for you and dreaming about you for four fucking years that I’m going to finally get inside of you and then just decide I’m romantically done with you?”

You shiver at his words and the thought of him inside of you. “Maybe I won’t be good in bed or you won’t feel a spark or it’ll be flat.”

Robby lets out a breath as he takes your face in his hands. “I can pretty much guarantee you none of that will be the case.  Having sex with you is just going to make me more obsessed with you, Kid.”

You nod, give him a small smile and lean into one of his hands. “Maybe I just like torturing you.” A slow smirk pulls onto your face. “You made me wait four years. And yes I understand and respect and appreciate why. But I still think it means you can take me on a date for every year you made me wait, and then maybe I’ll let you put your cock inside of me, Michael.”

He groans, dropping his hands back to your hip and lap where they were. “So breakfast, lunch and dinner dates tomorrow?” 

You giggle at him, lean in and give him a kiss. You love knowing how desperate he is. It makes you feel good. But while you and Robby have known each other and been dancing around this for four years, that’s almost what makes you feel like the sex is going to be more meaningful and like for some reason you should wait just a couple of dates. Because you could fall in love with Robby. Because you know you already are starting to fall in love with him. That you have been since you met him. 

“No.” You shake your head at him. “But that was a great try.”

“Can I at least do four days in a row?” he whines. 

You hum in fake thought for a few seconds. “I’ll allow that.”

“Good.” Robby leans in and kisses you again, deepens it when you open your mouth a little for him when his tongue presses at your lips. He’ll never get enough of this. Enough of you. He pulls away just a little before you’re both desperate for air and rests his forehead against yours. “I’m going to make you break before the fourth date.” 

You chuckle. “Oh, Michael, Michael, Michael.” You pull your forehead from his and give him an almost sympathetic look. “You should know better than to challenge me by now. Because now that you’ve said it, I absolutely won’t let you break me.” 

“Yeah,” he sighs the word, “I was trying so hard to be hot and sexy for you I forgot how incredibly stubborn you are.” 

You roll your eyes at him playfully. “You know you don’t have to try, Michael. You just are hot and sexy.” 

He just hums at you and squeezes your hip and thigh. “Come on, I’ll go. We both do need to sleep before work.” You sigh a little about it as you get off his lap and stand up. You don’t really want him to leave but you know it’s better to do it this way. “I’m gonna use your bathroom before I leave.” Robby kisses the top of your head as he passes you. 

You get a thought and slip to your kitchen while Robby’s in your bathroom, quickly getting your bottoms off. You make sure your underwear adequately reflects how turned on and wet you got just from making out with him and then them off and get your bottoms back on. You tuck the underwear in the back of your waistband and pull your shirt down over them. 

You wait for Robby on the armrest of your couch, smiling at him when he reappears. The two of you walk to your door together. “I had a really great time tonight, Michael.” You’re smiling so widely your cheeks hurt. 

“So did I, Kid. The best time.” Robby’s hands find your waist again, just holding you gently. “Will you go on a second date with me?” he asks like you don’t both already know the answer. 

“You know it.” Your smile somehow widens a little more and you have to fight to get it off your face so that Robby can kiss you when he starts leaning down and in. Neither of you are surprised or mad when the kiss turns into making out for a couple of minutes in front of your door. 

You break apart naturally when you need air and you let your forehead fall to rest on Robby’s chest. After a second you pull back. 

“Here.” You grab your underwear from your waistband. You let them dangle off your finger for a second to make sure Robby knows exactly what they are. “To get you through the night and proof you don’t need to try to be hot and sexy.” You smirk at him as you shove them in his pocket. “Took them off while you were in the bathroom. You can feel they’re still warm. And maybe if you’re good you’ll get a pair at the end of each date.”

Robby swallows hard, breathing picking up a little just at the beginnings of thoughts of what he could do with them at home and how you’ll know he’s doing something with them and how you want him to. He presses his palm against his pocket. They’re still warm like you said. A blush creeps up his neck to his cheeks and the tips of his ears. He has to close his eyes for a second as he tries to regulate a bit. “You’re gonna kill me, Kid,” Robby breathes out. 

“I’m a doctor, remember? I would never let that happen.” You and Robby exchange soft laughs as he opens the door. “Text me when you get home safely please. Or on your way home.” You grin at him. 

“I will.” Robby nods at you. You lean up and give him a soft and lingering kiss. It’s simple, but the perfect way to end the night. 

“Have a good night, Michael.”

“Have a good night, Kid.”

There’s very little thought to it. Robby just follows the instinct that tells him to run after you. Doesn’t grab his backpack. Doesn’t say another word to Jack. He just turns and runs. 

Robby knows that you’ll be at your place. That you won’t have gone to a bar or something. You’ll just want to be alone. He hates himself for it, hates the thought, can picture you curled up alone and crying or sniffling heavily in your sleep because you finally cried yourself out. 

He books it to your place, comes close to being hit once or twice when making a few unwise crossing decisions. He’s panting hard by the time he gets to your building and fumbles with his key to get in the main door, taking the stairs two at a time as he hauls ass up to the third floor. He’s running on sheer adrenaline. 

He doesn’t take a moment to collect himself when he gets to your door, just starts knocking. When you don’t answer he uses his key to let himself in. He knows he shouldn’t, he knows he should respect you not wanting to see him and wanting to be alone right now, but he needs to see you and apologize and make everything okay again. 

But your apartment is dark when he steps in. Hot. Like the AC has been off because you’ve been at his the past week. You’d have turned the AC on if you were here. He checks anyway though. But you’re not there. Not in your bed or the shower or on your couch. And so Robby’s left a sweaty and panting mess as he closes your bedroom door and leans back against it. 

He tries to take a moment to calm down, get his breath back, some focus back so he can think about where else you might be. But he can’t. 

Instead, Robby slides down your bedroom door, bringing his knees to his chest and starting to cry again. Just like he did in pedes. It’s more sobbing this time, especially because of how hard it is to breathe, how out of breath he was before he started crying. Some of his tears are for the loss, Adamson and Leah, for his guilt at giving Jake his other ticket and thoughts that it should have been him to get shot and not Leah, for the damage to his relationship with Jake, for Langdon, for breaking down in the middle of an MCI and letting his team down. 

But most of them are for you. The loss of you. The way he’s already grieving you while praying and hoping and wishing that he’ll be able to stop, that you’ll take him back and so he won’t have to keep grieving the loss of you in his life. For accusing you of something horrible like that. For yelling at you. For the way he snapped at you all day. The way that, although you were quick to shut it down most times, he took out a lot of his emotions on you over the entire day. Took out his emotions on you who was only ever there for him whenever he needed it. Who kept him together and in check. Who saw only the best in him and stayed. Who saw the worst in him and stayed. Who was proud of him. Who he needs to survive this. And for the way, he realized on his run over as he replayed the scene in the supply closet over in his mind, your tense changed. You love him to you loved him. Love to loved. An audible breaking of your heart.  

Robby looks over at your kitchen. Maybe it would just be better for you and Jake and everybody if he just disappeared. If he just ceased to exist. He told you he wouldn’t. He promised you he wouldn’t. But maybe you want him to now. He’s tired of feeling. Of hurting. Without you he doesn’t really have anyone. Jake hates him. Jack and Dana will be fine without him. You have sharp enough knives. He knows exactly where to cut.

His phone ringing pulls him out of it for a second. He sniffles and clears his throat as he moves to pull his phone out of his pocket. He knows it’s not you because you’d given yourself a special ringtone and it’s not the one playing.

It’s Jack. If you’re there at the hospital still with Jack then he won’t. He’ll keep his promise and run back. Apologize. Beg. Grovel. Anything. Everything. 

“Did you hear from her?” There’s no greeting. Robby’s straight to the question. 

“Robby, she’s here.” Jack’s voice is strained. He sounds exhausted, but more emotionally than anything. He sounds pained. Like speaking these words is physically and emotionally hurting him. He didn’t sound like that when Robby left. But Robby brushes it all aside.

“Oh fuck, okay thank you.” Robby lets out a sigh of relief and wipes at his face. He sniffles again and lets out a little laugh. Because at least he knows where you are. “Keep her there Jack, please. I don’t care how you do it, lock her in a room or use restraints, just keep her there. I need to talk to her. I need-”

“No, not like that,” Jack tells him, voice clipped, still strained. “Like-” Jack gets interrupted. Robby can hear what sounds like a door opening, muffled movement and beeping of monitors. He can just make out a female voice tell Jack ‘she’s seizing again.’ Jack’s voice is muffled like he’s holding the phone away from him but Robby can hear him say ‘yes’ to what sounded like the shout of a medication order, followed by Jack yelling ‘and where the fuck is neuro?’ 

“Fuck. You need to get here, Michael.” Jack rushes it out but Robby recognizes Jack’s tone clear as day because he’s used it so many times himself. 

It’s the tone they use when stressing to family members that they need to get to the hospital as quickly as humanly possible because a loved one is about to die. 

Tears start to stream down Robby’s face again because he knows. Robby knows exactly what Jack means when he repeats it. “She’s here.”

I know. 😶🥲😶��🌫️😭

I've affectionately called this Robby's No Man's Land. It was named the same way too. Obviously there will be a Part 2 unless nobody wants one. 😂 I PROMISE that what happened in NML Part 2 will not be repeated in the Part 2 to this.

I hope it was okay and that you were able to enjoy! Again, I really love hearing your thoughts and comments, they give me serotonin and motivation and inspiration!! Liking, replies and reblogging are always so so appreciated! My inbox and DMs are always open for thoughts, comments, and general screaming (or (lovingly) screaming at me I suppose)! 🙂

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[radenajeng]

Older Boyfriend Jeongin

Tags: idol!jeongin, female!reader, hurt/comfort, emotional maturity, mild age gap, reader is early legal age, reader is NOT minor.

A/N : English is not my first language, and this is my first time writing something like this (idek what writing style is this the hell) but i hope you enjoy.

He’s known as the maknae on top. Everyone treats him a little differently. He gets to eat first, gets extra turns in games, and when he messes up, people just laugh it off.

They coddle him, tease him, ruffle his hair like he’s still the youngest of them all.

And most days, he doesn’t really mind.

But you know a different side of Jeongin. The one who doesn’t ask for special treatment. The one who doesn't act like the baby. The one who knows how to show up for someone. Quietly, consistently, like it’s second nature.

olderboyfriend!jeongin who doesn’t post you, doesn’t flaunt you. But always has a hair clip stuck in his bag strap, a playlist titled like a love letter, and an emoji that represents you in every description of his posts just so people know he's not single.

olderboyfriend!jeongin who never shows you to the world, but introduces you to his family and members with his arms around your waist, smiling so wide his eyes disappear into crescents.

olderboyfriend!jeongin who is not only say “i love you”, but adjusts your seatbelt, charges your phone, walks you to your door, carrying your purse around like second nature.

olderboyfriend!jeongin who plays tough with the members, rolls his eyes at their teasing, shoves Hyunjin off the couch for being too dramatic, but he lets you lie on his chest until his arm goes numb. Lets you take his hoodie even when it's his favorite. Lets you in.

olderboyfriend!jeongin who still gets shy around you sometimes. who bites the inside of his cheek when you compliment him, and pretends to scroll through his phone when your head rests on his shoulder.

olderboyfriend!jeongin who remembers the exact way you breathe when you're overwhelmed. who answers late-night calls with a voice low and steady, whispers “take your time” instead of “what’s wrong?”

olderboyfriend!jeongin who doesn’t talk over you when you’re mad. He waits, lets you finish every word, every sigh, every silence.

He doesn’t try to win.

He tries to understand.

So when you snap — sharp words, a crack in your voice, something bitter you instantly regret — he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t fight back.

He just looks at you with that quiet, steady gaze that makes you feel both too much and never too little.

Then he breathes in, slow and careful, like he's afraid anything louder might hurt you more.

"i know you didn’t mean all that," he says, voice low.

"but even if you did, i’m not going to stop showing up."

And maybe that’s what gets you.

Not the apology. not the patience.

But the fact that he stays.

Even when you push.

Even when you're not sure you deserve it.

He stays.

olderboyfriend!jeongin who listens quietly when you say sorry. who pulls you into a hug before you can say more, tucks your head into his chest and whispers, “we’re okay.”

olderboyfriend!jeongin who lets you be messy, sharp, complicated, whatever it is that shapes your personality — and never once makes you feel hard to love. Because he knows love isn’t about perfection.

It’s about staying. Even when it’s not easy.

—————

©radenajeng, June 2025.

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 25

˗ˏˋ vanilla drips ˎˊ˗

"Sometimes the sweetest confessions come in the form of flour wars and vanilla extract kisses, when 3 AM vulnerability meets kitchen counter chemistry and you realize you've been lying to yourself about what you actually want."

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✧ chapter details ✧

word count: 11.2k

content: 3am sourdough therapy sessions, flour warfare, vanilla extract as foreplay, kitchen counter confessions, raw intimacy (literally), tessa reconnaissance missions, jason date debriefs, smut, penetration, vanilla kink as always

✦ author's note ✦

Okay. Before anyone starts warming up their fingers to type “why is Y/N being such a hypocrite about Tessa,” let’s stop right there because actually? She’s not. Not even a little bit. What you’re witnessing here isn’t hypocrisy—it’s human behavior. It’s trauma logic. It’s psychological realism. And it’s honestly the most consistent Y/N has ever been.

Here’s the thing: what she has with Jungkook is sex. She’s said it, she’s acted on it, and more importantly—she believes it. Her brain doesn’t categorize him as a romantic option, not even subconsciously. So when she pushes Tessa toward him, it’s not because she’s lying to herself—it’s because, from her point of view, Jungkook deserves something good. After Mia? Yeah. He deserves a little sweetness. Tessa’s nice. That’s literally it. She’s responding with a moral instinct, not romantic jealousy. And that’s not hypocrisy—that’s compartmentalization paired with a genuine (if ill-defined) desire to see someone be treated well.

But here’s the question the chapter’s really asking: is “something good” always what someone needs?

Because Jungkook doesn’t recognize affection as safe. The boy has trained himself not to see it—thanks to a past that weaponized intimacy against him. So of course he doesn’t clock Tessa’s interest. It’s not him being stupid. It’s a trauma-informed blind spot. He’s too tuned into control dynamics to perceive sincerity when it’s offered without strings. (And let’s be real, how many of us have had our receptors miswired by the wrong person?)

That’s where the mutual curiosity comes in—both Y/N and Jungkook ask about each other’s dating lives in this chapter. Not because they’re pining or secretly in love or any of that fluff. They’re not. What they are, though, is interested. Maybe not in a romantic sense, but definitely in a human one. They’re trying to read each other. Understand each other. That’s what friends do. Or, in their case, that’s what trying to be friends looks like. They’re clumsy, they’re defensive, but they’re showing care in the only languages they know—flour fights and 3 AM bread commentary and checking if the other person is sleeping with someone else, just to make sense of the shape of things.

And Jungkook? For all his snark and dodging—he reads her this chapter. Like really reads her. He names her deflections. Calls out her need for control. Gives her permission to let go in ways no one else has. That kitchen scene isn’t romantic, it’s recognition. And that’s what makes it intimate. Not love. Not pining. But connection.

The vanilla extract moment—look, I know some of you are rolling your eyes at the "of course it's vanilla because that's Y/N's scent" metaphor, but hear me out. The fact that he was drinking it? That's not cute quirky behavior—that's concerning. It's self-medication disguised as harmless habit. For those of you who don’t know or haven’t caught up—vanilla extract is ethanol. Which means, it is alcohol. And Y/N recognizing it but choosing to transform it into something sensual instead of confronting it directly? That's her attempting to heal through intimacy rather than conversation, which is very much her emotional language at this point in the story.

Anyway. Enjoy the mess. Enjoy the tension. Enjoy Jungkook's dirty talk and Y/N's stubborn deflection and the way they're both falling without admitting it. It's about to get so much more complicated, and I am absolutely living for it.

✧ read on✧

ao3

wattpad

You're halfway to sleep when the knock comes.

Soft at first, almost hesitant, like whoever's on the other side isn't sure they should be there.

"What?" you mumble, voice thick with exhaustion.

No response.

Another knock, louder this time.

"Whatttt?" you snap, sitting up and glaring at the door.

Still no answer.

With an annoyed huff, you throw off the covers and march to the door, yanking it open—and nearly stumble into Jungkook.

He's leaning against the frame, one arm braced above his head like he's posing for a magazine cover. His hair is messy, his silver ring catching the faint light from the hallway.

You take a step back instinctively, narrowing your eyes. "What do you want? It's three in the morning."

He tilts his head toward the kitchenette, lips quirking into that infuriating half-smile. "I'm making sourdough."

You blink at him. "Sourdough?"

"Remember I told you about my Steam nickname? The baking pun?" He raises an eyebrow like he's daring you to remember.

"Huh," you say flatly, still trying to process why this man is standing outside your room at an ungodly hour talking about bread.

"Wanna see?" he asks, his grin widening.

"No," you reply immediately, crossing your arms. "Why would I want to see your midnight bread experiment?"

"Because it's cool," he says simply, as if that explains everything.

You stare at him for a long moment before sighing and stepping out of your room.

"Fine. But if this is stupid—"

"It's not stupid," he interrupts, already turning toward the kitchenette. "It's art."

"Oh my god," you mutter, following him reluctantly.

The counter is a mess of flour and bowls and what looks like a dough blob covered with a damp cloth. Jungkook gestures at it like it's a masterpiece.

"Behold," he says dramatically. "The future of bread."

You squint at it.

"It looks like a brain."

"Shows what you know about baking," he retorts, grabbing a wooden spoon and poking at the edges of the dough. "This is proofing."

"You're proofing my patience right now," you mutter, leaning against the counter.

He smirks but doesn't look up from his work. "You're just jealous because I have hobbies."

"Making bread at 3 AM isn't a hobby; it's a cry for help."

"Says the girl who reads Kafka for fun."

"It's called intellectual stimulation."

"It's called depressing bug stories."

You roll your eyes as he starts shaping the dough.

"So this is what you do when you can't sleep? Play housewife?"

"Better than doomscrolling Twitter," he shoots back without missing a beat.

"Shut up." You watch him for a moment longer before asking, "Why sourdough?"

His hands pause briefly before resuming their rhythm.

"My mom taught me how to make it when I was younger," he says quietly. "I loved it, so I picked it up quite easily. I guess it's just habit now."

There's something softer in his voice now, something almost reverent.

You don't press him for more details; it feels like enough that he shared this much.

"But I mean... why do it now?" you ask instead.

He shrugs but doesn't look up. "I told you, it helps me think."

You scoff, trying to keep the mood from dipping too far into serious territory. He finishes shaping the dough and places it on a tray before turning back to you.

"Wanna help?" he asks, holding out the wooden spoon.

"Nope," you say immediately.

"Oh come on." He wiggles the spoon enticingly. "Live a little."

"I'm living just fine without touching your weird blob bread."

"You're no fun."

He sets the spoon down with exaggerated disappointment and starts cleaning up the counter.

You watch him for another moment before grabbing the spoon and poking at the dough experimentally. It feels weirdly satisfying under your fingers—soft but firm, pliable but resistant.

Jungkook glances over and smirks again.

"See? Told you it was cool."

"Don't push it," you warn, but there's no real bite in your tone.

He chuckles softly and continues tidying up while you poke at his sourdough creation like it might reveal some hidden secrets about him—or maybe just about yourself.

And somehow, in this quiet kitchen at three in the morning, surrounded by flour and sarcasm and unexpected softness, it feels... okay.

You're still poking at the dough when Jungkook flicks a bit of flour in your direction. It lands on your arm, a tiny white puff against your skin.

"Oops," he says, not sounding sorry at all.

You narrow your eyes. "Don't start something you can't finish, Rogue."

His eyebrows shoot up at the nickname, a challenge sparking in his eyes.

"Is that a threat, Phoenix?"

"Yes it is."

You dip your fingers into the flour bag and flick it back at him, leaving a white streak across his black t-shirt.

"Oh, that's how it's gonna be?" He grins, reaching for more flour.

You back away, holding up your hands. "Don't you dare."

"What are you gonna do about it?" He advances slowly, a handful of flour cupped in his palm like a weapon.

"I'm serious, Jungkook," you warn, but you're already calculating escape routes. "I just showered."

"Should've thought about that before you started a war."

You dart around the sofa, putting it between you.

"This is childish."

"Says the girl hiding behind furniture," he counters, mirroring your movements as you circle the couch.

"I'm being smart."

"You're being a chicken."

You gasp in fake outrage. "Take that back!"

"No can do," he taunts, lunging suddenly to the left.

You shriek and bolt right, nearly slipping on the tile as you move through the narrow space between the coffee table and the couch. He's right behind you, laughing as you sprint to the other side.

"Get away from me, you monster!" you yell, but you're laughing too, the absurdity of the situation hitting you.

"Never!" he calls back, his voice pitched higher in a cartoonish villain impression. "Ueheheheh!"

You grab a throw pillow as a shield, holding it in front of you.

"I'm warning you!"

"Oh no, not the pillow," he mocks, still advancing. "Whatever shall I do?"

You swing it at him, but he dodges easily, grabbing your wrist with his flour-free hand.

Before you can react, he's smearing the flour across your cheek, touch surprisingly gentle despite the roughhousing.

"Got you," he says, voice low and triumphant.

You retaliate immediately, snatching the bag of flour from the counter and shoving your hand in.

"Fuck that, this means war!"

And so then, war begins indeed.

Flour flying everywhere, breathless laughter echoing through the apartment, furniture used as barricades and launch pads.

You leave white handprints on his shoulders when you try to push him away; he leaves them on your waist when he catches you mid-escape.

The aftermath leaves the kitchen floor looking like a disaster zone, flour coating every surface like a dusting of snow.

You're both covered in it—hair, clothes, skin—looking like ghosts in a low-budget horror movie.

"Truce?" you gasp finally, out of breath from laughing and running.

"Never surrender," he declares, lunging for you again.

You dodge, but your sock slips on the flour-covered floor, and before you fall, Jungkook grabs you, steadying you with a hand on your waist.

"Gotcha," he says again, softer this time, his face inches from yours.

You're both breathing hard, covered in flour.

His eyes flick down to your lips, then back up, a question in them.

And then—

SMACK.

His hand connects with your ass in a playful swat, leaving a perfect white handprint on your black sleep shorts.

You gasp in outrage as he dances away, cackling like a maniac.

"You did NOT just—"

"I did," he confirms, looking far too pleased with himself. "And it's a work of art, if I do say so myself."

You glance over your shoulder, trying to see the handprint.

"I'm going to kill you."

"Worth it," he declares, already backing away as you advance on him. "Totally worth it."

"You're dead, Ro," you threaten, grabbing another handful of flour. "Dead!"

He just laughs, eyes bright with mischief, not looking sorry at all.

"Come and get me then, Phoenix."

And despite yourself, despite the mess and the late hour and the flour in places flour should never be, you're laughing too, chasing him around the kitchen like you're both twelve years old instead of college students with responsibilities and complicated lives.

It's ridiculous. It's childish.

It's the most fun you've had in weeks.

Flour permeates the kitchen air like falling snowflakes.

Jungkook is now leaning against the counter, still grinning like the Cheshire cat, surveying the flour-dusted disaster.

You, for your part, are trying to brush flour off your arms, which is mostly just smearing it around.

"You know," Jungkook says, his voice laced with that fake-innocent tone he uses when he's about to say something outrageous, "all this flour… it's probably not great for your pores."

You eye him suspiciously. "And?"

"And," he continues, pushing off the counter and taking a step closer, "you should probably shower again."

"Yeah, no shit, Sherlock." You gesture vaguely at your flour-coated state.

"I could help," he offers. "You know… save water. Be environmentally conscious."

You burst out laughing, a startled, disbelieving sound.

"Are you serious right now? We just had a flour war, and your first thought is how to get laid?"

"Efficiency, Nix," he says, tapping his temple. "Always thinking efficiency."

"You're deranged," you choke out between laughs. "A completely deranged, horny bitch."

He just shrugs, unbothered.

"Maybe. But think of the planet."

You're still chuckling, shaking your head at his sheer audacity, when a thought flickers through your mind, uninvited and slightly uncomfortable.

Tessa.

If he actually starts dating her, if they become a thing… this—the easy banter, the late-night flirting, the casual hookups—it would all have to stop, right? You can't exactly keep sleeping with him if he has a girlfriend.

The thought leaves a weird, vaguely metallic taste in your mouth. Not jealousy, exactly. You don't want Jungkook in that way.

But the dynamic you have, this messy, undefined thing… it's familiar.

Weirdly comfortable in its own chaotic way.

The idea of it changing, ending… it's just… weird.

You push the thought away, shaking your head again, trying to clear it. Not your problem right now.

"Yeah, I'll pass on your noble environmental efforts," you say, trying to regain control of the conversation.

You look around at the white-dusted apartment, then back at him.

"Seriously though, when did you even get home? I didn't hear you come in at all."

He leans back against the counter again, crossing his arms over his flour-streaked chest.

"A while ago. Maybe you were too busy dreaming about me to notice."

"In your dreams, Rogue." You pick a stray piece of dough off your sleeve. "I was sleeping. Like normal people do at"—you glance at the microwave clock—"three-thirty in the morning."

"Normal is boring," he counters easily. "Besides, I'm stealthy. Like a ninja. A bread-making ninja."

"A messy ninja," you correct, gesturing at the flour coating literally everything, including him. "You look like a powdered donut."

"A sexy powdered donut," he clarifies, striking a pose.

You snort. "Keep telling yourself that."

You start trying to wipe down a section of the counter with a paper towel, which mostly just creates floury streaks.

"Seriously though, you didn't make any noise. I would've heard the door."

He shrugs, grabbing another paper towel and starting to help, surprisingly.

"Maybe I'm just light on my feet. Or maybe your ears are full of wax."

"Rude."

You throw the floury paper towel at him. He dodges it effortlessly.

"Just stating facts," he says, grinning. "Maybe you should get them checked. Could be impacting your hearing. Explains why you never listen to me."

"I listen," you argue, crumpling up another paper towel. "I just usually choose to ignore you because ninety percent of what you say is bullshit."

"That feels statistically inaccurate," he muses, wiping down the handle of the fridge. He leaves a faint white handprint behind. "I'd say it's more like… eighty-two percent bullshit. The other eighteen percent is pure genius."

"Delusional," you mutter, tackling the flour patch on the floor near the sink. "Completely delusional."

He stops wiping and just watches you for a second, a thoughtful expression replacing the usual smirk.

"You really didn't hear me come in?"

"No," you say, looking up. "Why? Should I have?"

He shakes his head, the smirk returning.

"Nah. Just means my ninja skills are improving. Or you're a really heavy sleeper." He leans closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Do you snore, Nix? Is that your dirty little secret?"

"I do not snore," you hiss, flicking water at him. "And get out of my personal space."

He laughs, easily dodging the water droplets. "Just asking!"

He resumes wiping the counter, humming softly under his breath.

You watch him for a moment, thoughts about Tessa still churning in your mind.

It's ridiculous, standing here covered in flour at nearly four in the morning, cleaning up a mess you both made, arguing about ninja skills and snoring.

But somehow, it feels… normal. Your kind of normal, anyway.

Messy, complicated, and definitely not boring.

You're on your hands and knees, attempting to wipe up a particularly stubborn patch of flour near the leg of the kitchen island, when you decide to go for it.

Operation: Tessa Reconnaissance. For the sisterhood, obviously.

And maybe a tiny bit because you're curious how this whole mess fits together.

"So," you say, keeping your voice casual as you swipe uselessly at the floor, "your friends seem… like a lot."

Jungkook snorts from where he's attempting to de-flour the coffee maker.

"Yeah, they're idiots. But they're my idiots."

"Including Library Girl?" you ask, aiming for nonchalance. "The redhead? Tessa?"

He pauses, glancing over his shoulder.

"Tessa? Yeah, she was there. Why?"

"No reason," you say quickly, maybe too quickly, focusing intently on the flour patch. "Just noticed you two talking a lot. She seems… nice."

"She is nice," he agrees easily, turning back to the coffee maker. "Super smart, too. Knows her shit about film. Like, really knows it."

Okay, good start. He acknowledges her existence and intelligence. Phase one complete.

"Yeah?" you prompt. "She mentioned you guys talked about… Park Chan-wook?"

You pronounce the name carefully, hoping you got it right based on Tessa's text.

He brightens instantly, forgetting the coffee maker entirely and turning to face you fully.

"Dude, yes! She actually got why The Handmaiden is structured the way it is. Most people just focus on the twists, but she was talking about the shifting perspectives and visual storytelling… it was cool."

His enthusiasm is genuine, almost nerdy. It's the same way he lit up talking about John Mayer's guitar playing. He's clearly impressed by her film knowledge.

"So… you like her?" you ask, trying to sound like you're just making conversation while scrubbing the floor.

"Yeah, she's cool," he says easily. "Definitely one of the few people in that class who isn't a total poser. We had this debate about Bong Joon-ho's genre blending—it was actually interesting."

He seems focused entirely on the intellectual connection. No hint of anything else.

Time for phase two: physical attraction assessment.

"She's really pretty, too," you add, still scrubbing. "Like, model pretty."

He shrugs, grabbing a damp cloth to wipe down the counter where his dough blob still sits.

"Yeah, I guess. Didn't really notice."

You stop scrubbing and look up at him incredulously. "You didn't notice? She looks like she walked off a runway and directly into that ramen shop. How could you not notice?"

He frowns slightly, like he's genuinely trying to recall her appearance beyond 'classmate'.

"I mean, she's got… hair? And a face? I don't know, Nix, I was more focused on the conversation." He seems genuinely perplexed by your insistence. "Why are you so hung up on how she looks?"

"I'm not hung up!" you retort, feeling defensive for reasons you can't quite articulate. "I just… stating facts. She's objectively attractive."

"Okay?" He draws the word out, like he doesn't understand the relevance. "Lots of people are attractive. Doesn't mean anything."

He gestures vaguely with the damp cloth.

"Are we gonna finish cleaning this up or are we analyzing the relative hotness of my classmates now?"

You huff, returning to your floor scrubbing.

Unbelievable. Either he's genuinely oblivious or he's the world's best actor.

Given his track record, oblivious seems more likely.

"Fine," you mutter. "Just making an observation."

"Well, observe the flour patch you missed by the trash can," he retorts, pointing with the cloth.

You glare at the spot, then at him.

"Bossy."

"Best one."

You crawl over to the trash can, wiping up the offending flour.

Okay, so he acknowledges she's nice, smart, shares his interests, but is apparently blind to the fact that she's a literal goddess?

Why are men so confusing?

"So," you try again, shifting tactics. "Since she's so cool and smart and into the same weird movies as you… you gonna ask her out?"

He stops wiping again, looking genuinely surprised by the question.

"Ask her out? Why would I do that?"

"Because… you like her? You just said she was cool and smart?"

Are you losing your mind? Is he actually this dense?

"Yeah, as a friend," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "We're in the same class. We talk about movies. That's… what friends do?"

"Jungkook," you say slowly, sitting back on your heels and facing him directly. "Girls like Tessa—girls who look like her and are that nice—don't usually go out of their way to talk to guys about obscure Korean directors unless they're interested."

He stares at you, blinking. Like the concept is entirely foreign.

"Wait, you think she… likes me? Like, likes likes me?"

"Is there an echo in here?" you ask dryly. "Yes, you absolute walnut. That's generally how that works."

He runs a hand through his flour-dusted hair, looking completely bewildered.

"No way. She's just… friendly. People are friendly sometimes, Nix."

"Not that friendly," you insist. "Trust me. There's friendly, and then there's 'laughing at all your jokes and touching your arm every five minutes' friendly. That's different."

He actually seems to consider this, replaying interactions in his head.

His brow furrows.

"She does laugh a lot… And she did touch my arm…" He looks back at you, still skeptical. "But maybe she's just, like, a touchy person?"

"Or maybe she wants to touch your dick," you deadpan.

He chokes on air, eyes widening.

"Dude! What the fuck?"

"Just saying! It's a possibility you seem to have completely overlooked."

He shakes his head, a disbelieving laugh escaping him.

"Nah. No way. You're messing with me."

"I'm really not," you say, suddenly feeling bad for Tessa—because this poor beautiful girl is putting in the effort, and he's completely clueless. "She basically told me she likes you."

"She told you?" Finally, he looks like oxygen is reaching his brain. "When?"

"At the party. We talked for a bit."

"And she just… announced her romantic interest in me? To my roommate? That seems weird."

"It wasn't like that! She was asking for advice! Because she was nervous!" You're practically defending her now. "She's really sweet, Rogue. And clearly into you."

He leans back against the counter again, processing this information.

He doesn't look smug or pleased, just… thoughtful.

And maybe a little overwhelmed.

"Huh," he says softly. "Never would've guessed."

He's quiet for a moment, staring down at the floury cloth in his hand.

"I mean, she is… really nice."

"So?" you prompt. "Now that you know the feeling might be mutual…?"

He sighs, dropping the cloth into the sink.

"I don't know, Nix."

"What do you mean, you don't know?"

He avoids your eyes, turning on the faucet and starting to rinse the cloth with unnecessary focus.

"Dating's… complicated, you know?"

"Everything's complicated with you," you mutter.

He glances back, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before it's gone.

"Yeah, well. Maybe that's just how it is." He turns off the water, wringing out the cloth. "Besides, I'm not really… looking for anything right now."

"You're never looking for anything," you point out. "Except maybe your keys. Or a clean mug."

"Exactly," he says, attempting a grin, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Too busy looking for my keys."

There it is again. That deflection. That hint of something heavier beneath that he refuses to acknowledge.

You think about what Yoongi said, about Mia, about Jungkook needing to be careful.

Maybe he's right to be hesitant.

"Okay," you say quietly, deciding not to push it further.

You've done your recon. You have information for Tessa, even if it's not the straightforward green light she might be hoping for.

"Just… don't be a dick to her, alright? If you're not interested, fine. But she's nice. She doesn't deserve games."

He looks surprised by your defense of her.

"I wasn't planning on playing games." He hesitates, then adds, almost reluctantly, "She does seem… different. From…"

He trails off, but you know who he means.

Mia.

An awkward silence hangs between you for a moment.

Unspoken history and potential futures.

Jungkook breaks it first, clapping his hands together with forced brightness.

"Okay, enough about my potential love life," he says, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes. "Let's talk yours. How was the date with Jason?"

You freeze, paper towel in hand, caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation.

"What?"

He's halfway through sweeping a particularly stubborn pile of flour when he pauses, leaning on the broom handle.

"You know, Jason? Tall guy, glasses, probably owns more vests than actual personality traits?" He waves the broom vaguely. "The one you were all dressed up for earlier?"

"I wasn't dressed up," you protest automatically, even though you know it's a lie.

You definitely put effort into your appearance for that coffee date.

Jungkook snorts.

"Please. You were wearing makeup on a Sunday. And that green top thing that makes your—" He cuts himself off, clearing his throat. "Anyway. Spill. How'd it go with Professor Boring?"

You narrow your eyes at him.

"His name is Jason, and he's not boring. He's... mature."

"Mature," Jungkook repeats, drawing out the word like it's a foreign concept. "Right. Because that's what every college student dreams of. Maturity."

"Some of us actually want to date functioning adults," you retort.

"Functioning is overrated," he says with a grin. "But seriously, how was it? Did he dazzle you with his extensive knowledge of... what does he study again? 18th-century doorknobs?"

"Modern literature," you correct, rolling your eyes. "And it was nice."

Jungkook raises an eyebrow.

"Nice? That's it? Wow, don't oversell it or anything."

You sigh, grabbing the dustpan to help him with the flour pile.

"It was really nice, okay? He's smart, and he actually listens when I talk. We had a great conversation about female agency in Gothic novels."

"Riveting," Jungkook deadpans. "I'm sure the sexual tension was off the charts. Did you hold hands while discussing the patriarchal oppression of women in corsets?"

"You're such an ass," you mutter, but there's no real heat behind it. "Not everything has to be about sexual tension, you know."

"Doesn't have to be," he agrees, sweeping the last of the flour into the dustpan you're holding. "But it sure makes things more interesting."

And yeah, you catch him looking.

That look.

The one that says he's already decided how this ends.

One hand still loosely gripping the broom handle, the other braced against the table as he leans into it like he's posing for a fucking cologne ad.

You don't acknowledge it at first. Too proud. Too fucking annoyed by how easily he can flip the switch. One second you're arguing about Gothic literature and vests, the next—he's practically leaking testosterone across the countertop.

"I know that face," you mutter, not even looking up. "That's your 'I need to nut or I'll die' face."

He grins, unbothered. "Not wrong."

"Go jerk off in your sad little windowless cave like a normal person."

He shrugs, grabbing the bag of flour again, sifting some through his fingers with mock concentration.

"Mmm. Say it again. That mouth of yours, Pix… always so fuckin' mouthy."

You roll your eyes, but your stomach dips. "Maybe if you had more than two brain cells to rub together, I wouldn't have to talk so much."

"Yeah?" he says, ignoring the flour and stepping forward.

One stride. Two. And then he's right in front of you, eyes glinting.

"Keep runnin' that smart pretty mouth. See what happens."

You're about to fire something back—something snarky, something biting—but he grabs you.

Just yanks you forward by the waistband like it's nothing. Like you're nothing but a ragdoll he gets to toss around.

Your body stumbles into his chest and suddenly both his hands are on your ass, gripping it with filthy enthusiasm—greedy, solid handfuls of flesh through thin cotton, palms still dusty with flour. His fingers press, squeeze, spread, claim.

You gasp—too startled to bite it back.

And he fucking grins.

"See what you do to me when you act like that?"

His cock's hard against your stomach. Rock solid. Obvious. Shameless. He doesn't even try to hide it.

"God, Nix," he mutters, voice thick now. "C'mon. It's been too long."

You snort. "I sucked your winny yesterday."

He breaks—a bark of laughter, genuine and scandalized.

"Winny?" he repeats, like he can't believe you said it. "You calling my dick a preschool toy now?"

You shrug, deadpan. "Fits. Loud, annoying, kind of a drama queen."

He leans in again, dragging his mouth close, too close.

"Uh-uh, and I ate you out the day before that," he says, scornful little smile tugging at his lips like he's winning something. "So technically… still overdue."

"So?" you snap, but your voice is breathier than it should be. "That's not overdue."

"It is," he says, like it's math. "I mean actually being inside you. Kinda been craving it for a while now."

You swallow. Loud.

"Should I bend you over the kitchen table?" he murmurs. "Fuck you from behind? Bet you'd like that, huh?"

"Please," you scoff. "You'd probably knock over your sacred sourdough."

He grins, cocky and low and unbearable.

"So protective of the dough. But not my Winny?"

You slap his chest, trying not to laugh.

"Don't say it like that."

"Me? You gave it a name, so… C'mon, give my Winny some love, Pix."

You snort, and it comes out halfway between a laugh and a groan because your thighs are starting to ache with how badly you want pressure. Relief. Something.

"Counter or table?" he asks, already walking you backwards.

You hesitate. Just a second.

"…Counter."

He doesn't wait. Doesn't ask. Just grabs you and lifts like it's easy, like you weigh nothing. Drops your ass right onto the cool marble and steps between your legs—close enough your knees bracket his hips.

And his voice? His voice is low and filthy and unforgiving.

"Atta girl."

His mouth is on you before you can roll your eyes.

Hot, hungry kisses trailing up your neck—messy, unhurried, lips dragging like he wants to brand you. He bites at your jaw, just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. You tilt your head without thinking, baring your throat like a fucking offering.

And he groans—low and wrecked—like that does something to him. Like you're giving him more than skin.

His hands stay on your thighs, thumbs digging into the soft crease near your hips, holding you open while he devours.

You blink, and something catches the light near the sink.

Tiny. Brown. Familiar.

Your arm reaches past him, still off-balance on the counter. Fingers curl around it—vanilla extract.

You hold it up between two fingers, smirking.

"Why the fuck is this out?"

His head lifts just enough to glance at what you mean.

"Oh," he says, then immediately dives back in, mouthing at your collarbone like he didn't just answer you. "Nothing. Was sipping a lil bit earlier."

Your body stiffens. Barely. But he feels it.

You don't say anything for a second. You just… look at the bottle.

That rooftop moment. Yesterday. Him alone up there while the party buzzed under your feet. You didn't press then, just made a joke, let him deflect.

But it doesn't take a genius to figure out why someone drinks baking extract ethanol like it's bourbon.

You lick your lips. Keep your voice easy. Teasing.

"That why you smell like a cookie?"

He huffs a laugh against your throat. "You love it. Bet it's makin' you wet just thinking about biting into me."

He's joking. He's back to kissing.

But the bottle is still in your hand, glass warm from your skin, rolling between your fingers like it's got a heartbeat.

And okay. Fine. Maybe you're a little unhinged too.

"Wanna try something?" you ask, voice quiet, a little hoarse.

His head lifts slow. Eyes lazy. Lips wet.

He tilts his head, cock twitching against you like it heard the shift in your voice before he did.

"Yeah?" he says, grinning like he already knows he's gonna say yes no matter what it is. "What're we trying, Phoenix?"

Because you know—you know this man would let you pour hot sauce on his dick if you told him it'd turn you on.

His gaze flicks to the bottle still resting against your palm. Back to your mouth.

"Fuck, yeah," he says, voice already going gravel. "Show me."

You dab two fingers against the lip of the bottle, tilting it just enough to coat your skin in that sticky-sweet scent. Not much—just enough to cling. Your pulse, your collarbone, the hinge of your neck.

His eyes track everything. Like he's under hypnosis.

Slow drag up your wrist, down your throat. Pupils blown wide. Tongue peeking out to wet his bottom lip like it's instinct.

And then you offer it to him.

Your throat—tilted, bare. Vanilla blooming warm across your skin, seeping into heat, mixing with your scent.

You watch his jaw tick, tension wrapped in restraint.

He hesitates. Just for a breath. Not because he's unsure. But because he knows what'll happen if he starts.

His eyes drop to your hand. Then back up to your face. And then—

He grabs your wrist, rough but reverent, and slides your fingers straight into his mouth.

His tongue curls around them, sucks them clean like he's starving and this is the only sweet thing he's allowed to have.

His eyes don't leave yours for a second.

Heavy. Dark. Quietly fucking feral.

You feel it in your cunt.

That twitch—sharp and sudden—when he lets your fingers fall from his mouth with a wet pop and immediately dives back into your neck.

No warning. No mercy.

Just mouth on skin, lips dragging open over the vanilla, tongue flattening against your throat like he's licking you clean. Like you're the bottle. Like he's drunk and this is the relapse.

"Mmmfph—fuck," he groans against your neck, hot breath flooding over your skin. "You're—fuck—you're dessert, Phoenix."

He's biting now. Mouthing. Bruising.

Your head falls back against the cabinets with a dull thud and you don't care. Not even a little.

His hands are under your thighs again, yanking you closer to the edge of the counter like he's going to eat you here and now and be proud of the mess.

He doesn't stop licking your neck—just shifts slightly, mouth dragging lower, wetter, hungrier—until he can grab the flask again without even looking. He uncaps it one-handed, like he's done it a hundred times in the dark.

Because he probably has.

And then he's holding it over your chest.

"Hold still, Phoenix."

Voice low. Thick with something needy.

You barely nod before the cool drip hits your skin—fuck—a slow, deliberate trail spilling from the center of your collarbone and down, sliding between your tits, disappearing under the fabric of your tank top.

He watches it move. Doesn't blink. Bites his bottom lip like he's trying to restrain himself and failing spectacularly.

"Fuckkk," he mutters under his breath, and the way he stares?

You'd think he just watched God part the Red Sea between your tits.

But he can't see where it goes. Not really. Because of the shirt.

And that?

That's unacceptable.

So he doesn't ask. Doesn't even warn.

He just grabs the hem of your tank and yanks it up, fast and messy, until it's bunched under your armpits. The cool air hits your bare skin, but his gaze is scorching—dragging down to your breasts, then lower, following the trail of sticky syrup that's now sliding beneath.

He drops the flask without care.

Leans in.

And presses his mouth to the spot just under your breasts, where the drip ends. A hot, open-mouthed kiss. Tongue darting out to chase the taste.

He groans against your skin, like you're something forbidden and fuck, he's eating it anyway.

Then he starts licking up.

Slow. Thorough. Filthy.

Tongue dragging up the underside of your tits, between them, following the line of vanilla all the way back to your cleavage. His breath is hot and shaky, hands holding your thighs tight like he needs to anchor himself before he devours you.

"You taste like fucking heaven," he growls against your skin.

And you can barely breathe.

You lean back on your palms, spine arching subtly, thighs spreading wider across the counter—silent invitation.

His mouth twitches. Just slightly. Like he's trying to play it cool, like he's not already mentally wrecked.

Your fingers close around the vanilla bottle again.

And you tip it over your stomach.

A thin stream spills, slow and syrupy, tracing a path from just under your ribs down to your navel.

Sticky gold pooling in that soft dip, then slipping lower—toward your waistband, beneath it.

He stops.

Mid-breath.

Eyes drop.

Then drag back up to your face, slow as fucking sin.

And those eyes… those fucking eyes.

Dark like blackout curtains. Hungry. But quiet, too. Restrained. Like he's hanging onto the last thread of control and it's fraying fast.

He bites his lip again, teeth dragging over it, jaw flexing.

You raise a brow.

"Aren't you licking the vanilla off my skin, Rogue?" you say, voice steady, teasing, like your pulse isn't sprinting. "Go ahead."

He snorts through his nose—horny.

It's not even a laugh, not really. More like disbelief.

"Jesus, you're such a fucking menace."

Then he moves.

Hands at your waistband, yanking your shorts down like they've personally offended him.

There's no grace. No finesse. Just desperate, fumbling urgency, like if he doesn't get them off now he might lose it.

They hit the floor. So do your panties.

And then he drops to his knees.

Hooks your thighs over his elbows and pulls you closer to the edge of the counter, eyes level with your pussy. Eye to eye with his fucking meal, and the smirk that twitches at the edge of his mouth is so cocky it should be illegal.

But then he pauses.

Eyes catch on the fact that you're smooth. Bare.

His gaze flicks up, that same damn smirk sharpening.

"So you did plan on wishing me a happy birthday, huh?"

You groan, head thunking back against the cabinets.

"Shut up before I change my mind."

He just laughs, grabbing your thigh and yanking you closer, like that's his response.

It is.

"Thanks for the gift," he says with mock sincerity, "but like… full runway smooth? Nix. Just so you know, I like a little design."

You gape at him.

Is he serious right now?

Does he ever stop speaking?

Or think before he speaks? Like 'oh this might sound embarrassing coming from my mouth, I probably should keep it to myself.'

No. Definitely no.

"Design?"

He nods, dead serious now.

"I'm just saying. Little lightning bolt? Maybe a star? I could help you trim it next time. Get real artsy with it."

"I hate you," you mutter, scandalized and laughing, because of course this is what he's focusing on.

"I'm just saying…" he defends, grinning like a madman. "Bare's too creepy. I like texture, Phoenix. But not, like, a forest. I'm not tryna floss with it."

"God, you're disgusting," you shoot back, heat simmering low in your gut despite the absurdity.

"Disgustingly honest," he counters. "I want a little… edge. Like an angled fade. A pussy taper."

You laugh so hard your core clenches and he notices. Eyes drop. His smirk vanishes.

And just like that, he's focused again. Hands tightening around your thighs. Mouth opening. Ready to dive in.

But not before he whispers:

"Now be good and let me taste my birthday cake."

His mouth hovers. That maddening space—right there, close enough to feel his breath but not close enough to feel him.

It's hot. Each exhale fanning over your cunt like a fucking tease. You twitch, involuntary, hips tilting forward on reflex, thighs tensing around his shoulders.

"Rogue," you murmur, half-warn, half-beg.

He smirks. That slow, cocky pull of his lips that tells you he's going to drag this out just to see how long it takes before you snap.

He leans in, tongue barely peeking out like he's going to lick—

And then doesn't.

"I will actually punch you in the face," you hiss.

But he's already grabbing the bottle again.

His other hand steadies you, fingers splayed on your thigh, as he lifts the vanilla flask to eye level. Tips it slightly.

"Wait—" You grab a fistful of his hair. "Wait. Is that even safe?"

He pauses. Looks up at you, eyes wide, surprised—but not annoyed. Just… calm.

"Yeah," he says, voice casual but sincere. "This one's alcohol-based, not oil. No sugar. Won't mess with your PH or anything, I like your pussy way too much to risk it."

You roll your eyes, but okay. Fine. He's got a point.

And he's never put you in danger—annoyed, yes. Insane with frustration, absolutely.

But never unsafe.

"Okay," you mutter. "Proceed with your perversion."

"Oh, I plan to."

He uncaps it.

And the way he does it—so casually, like this is just some Wednesday night extracurricular?—makes your whole body lock up in anticipation.

He tips the bottle, lets a slow stream of vanilla drizzle from just above your navel, down the curve of your belly, heading lower.

It tickles. Warm and sticky, trailing through your folds, and your whole fucking body tenses with it.

His tongue flicks out, but this time, it's not teasing—it's the real deal.

His tongue drags up.

One long, slow stroke—base to tip—starting where your thighs twitch and ending where the vanilla's pooled.

He groans into it. Groans. Like it's crème fucking brûlée and he's been starving for a week. Like your cunt is the main course and dessert and a Michelin star.

You blink down at him, suddenly weirdly self-conscious.

Because—why the fuck is he acting like it's the best thing he's ever tasted?

It's vanilla extract and you, not caviar. Chill.

Your instinct is to kick him. Or flick his stupid forehead. Something.

But your cunt's already clenching around nothing, wetter than you want to admit.

Because—goddammit—his enthusiasm is doing something to you.

Like deeply. Shamefully. Physically.

You glance down, ready to call him dramatic. Maybe smack the back of his head.

But his eyes are closed.

And not in a performative way. Not for show.

They're hidden—lashes soaked, hair falling in messy dark strands over his brows. His whole face is fucking soft—relaxed, like he's at peace. Like this is meditation. Like your pussy is his church.

You reach down, tug his hair back just enough to uncover his face—need to see him.

Need to look.

And then—fuck. He looks up.

And he smirks. Caught you in 4K. Knew exactly what you were doing.

You want to smack him. Or yank his head down harder. Or kiss him. Or maybe scream.

It's all too much. He's too much.

But he just shifts again, mouth zeroing in now—on your clit this time. Tongue flat. Warm. Pressure steady and—fuck, fuck—

Your head slams back against the cabinet. You don't even feel it.

Because he's staring straight at you while he licks.

Intense. Sure. Smug. Like he knows. And the worst part?

He does.

You don't like eye contact. You hate eye contact.

Or—you did. Before he made it his fucking thing.

Now it's some kind of sex death ray. You're melting under it. You can't breathe under it.

He pulls back just enough to speak, his voice hoarse, lips slick with you.

"So mouthy up there…" he breathes, thumb dragging over your inner thigh. "But fuck, you're weepin' for me down here."

You choke on your own spit.

"Shut the fuck up with your cringy little sex monologue."

He snorts. Has the audacity to laugh into your cunt like it's funny.

"Uhhh? I thought we were past that whole thing where you pretend you don't like my dirty talk."

"I don't—"

He cuts you off with a slow circle of his tongue around your clit. Just once. Cruel.

"Right. That's why you got all hot when you said, 'Do you want me to ride you?'" he mimics, low and teasing. "Looked me in the eye when you said it, too. Said it just like that. Fuckin' purring, Pix."

You groan. "God, I hate you."

He grins. "No, you don't. You just hate that you like this."

Another lick.

Another smug look.

Another twitch deep in your gut.

And all you can do is glare at him—until his mouth is back on you, and then you can't even do that.

Because fuck, he picks up the pace.

Your right leg bends, heel dragging up his arm, foot planting itself on his shoulder like it belongs there. Toes curling the second his tongue swirls just right—just there. Over and over. Unrelenting.

Your whole torso arches back, spine stretched out like a bow. Head thunked against the cupboard above, hands gripping the edge of the counter so tight your knuckles go white.

And he doesn't stop.

Both his hands keep you steady, locked around your thighs, until the right one slides up—palm dragging over your skin, hot and too much. It settles right in that spot between your hip and waist. Thumb pressing into your side like an anchor.

Like he's keeping you from falling.

Like you're breakable.

You want to scream. Or sob. Or maybe just bite him for being so fucking considerate while simultaneously licking your pussy like he's trying to win a Michelin star.

You whimper. Actually whimper.

Because it's too much.

Because how the fuck does he even do that with his tongue?

It's obscene. Criminal. Feels like he's mapping you from memory now—like he's figured out every angle, every twitch, every exact combination that gets you to the edge in five minutes or less.

And—fuck—there it is.

That low hum in your belly, spiraling sharp and fast, heat pulsing outward. Nerve endings tightening. Your thighs start to close but he forces them open with a flex of his arms, tongue flattening again.

You gasp. Loud. Desperate.

Your hand flies down to his head and you yank his hair—hard.

He growls against you, frustrated, head jerking up, lips glossy and chin slick and brows scrunched like he's ready to fight.

"What," he snaps, breathless, panting. "What—what the fuck—"

You just whisper, shaky:

"Inside."

He blinks. Once. Twice.

Mouth parts. Eyes still a little wild.

"Huh?"

You meet his gaze, still breathless.

"I wanna cum with you inside me."

It short-circuits him. For real.

He pushes to stand so fast he almost stumbles. Feet trip a little. Palms slap the counter behind you as he catches himself and mutters, "Yeah—okay—fuck—gimme a second—"

But you reach out. Grab his arm. Stop him cold.

You lick your lips.

Probably look stupid. Glossy-eyed and dazed, like someone just rewired your brain through your pussy.

Whatever. You don't care.

You don't care because you can feel it now.

That ache. The need. The desperate, pulsing want for him to just get inside already. Your whole body's still twitching from his mouth and now it's fucking empty.

No thank you.

So you yank him. Hard.

Fingers curling in the loose fabric of his tee, tugging him back toward you like gravity's rewired itself around your cunt.

He lets himself be pulled. Doesn't even fight it. Just stumbles forward until he's between your legs again and then—then you're crashing his mouth to yours.

No hesitation. No buildup. No thoughts.

Just heat. Tongue. Need.

It's messy. Teeth clash. Vanilla and sweat and slick.

His hands slam to the counter beside your thighs for balance, knuckles brushing your waist as your tongue slides against his and you swallow the groan he lets out.

And yeah. You don't kiss men after they eat you out. Ever.

You've always thought it was gross, honestly. You live in your pussy. You don't need the flavor profile introduced.

But with him? Right now?

You don't even care.

You just want to taste what he tastes like. Want his spit in your mouth. Want to feel him.

So you kiss him like you mean it. Like you're not overthinking it. Like this doesn't break five of your own personal rules.

When you finally pull back, lips slick and breathing uneven, you keep your hands fisted in his shirt.

And say—quiet. Calm. "No need for condoms."

His eyes snap open.

You watch them go wide like you just told him the world's ending tomorrow and there's a free-for-all orgy scheduled at noon.

He coughs. Legit coughs. Like your spit went down the wrong pipe.

"Wait—what?"

You shrug. "I have a copper IUD. Works from minute one. I'm good."

His mouth opens, then closes again. Brain buffering.

"I mean…" he blinks. "I—I just—I didn't think you'd…"

You arch a brow.

He shakes his head a little, eyes dropping to your lips.

"No—like—I'm not complaining, I just—" His mouth staggers like he can't quite get the words out fast enough. "Are you sure?"

"I mean, you've been fucking with condoms, right?"

"Yeah. Always. Jesus. Yeah."

"And you've been getting tested?"

He gives you a look. "You think I'd be rawdogging around Brooklyn without paperwork?"

"Kind of," you mutter, just to mess with him.

"Okay, rude," he says, palm flattening on your thigh like it's involuntary. "I'm not feral. I'm—I'm… a respectful slut."

You almost laugh. Almost.

Then you say, quieter, "I haven't fucked anybody else since I fucked you."

And that? That actually makes him pause.

He blinks again. "Wait. For real?"

"Yeah. Nothing so far."

And he doesn't make it a thing. Doesn't get all soft and stupid about it.

He just takes a beat, stares at you, lips slightly parted like he's replaying it. Like the logistics are finally syncing in.

"Okay," he says. Rough. Breathless. "Yeah. Yeah, that's… okay."

You tap his chest. "Just cum outside, alright? Just in case."

He groans. Low and pained.

"Pix."

"I'm serious."

"You're killing me."

"Don't care."

"I'll pull out," he promises, fingers tightening on your skin. "But I swear to god, if you keep saying shit like that—inside, raw, no condom—I'm gonna lose it before I even get my pants off."

You grin back. "Sounds like a you problem."

And he breathes out, frustrated and horny and fucking wrecked, and mutters—

"You're my fucking problem."

He licks his lips.

Slow. Deliberate. Like he's already tasting you again.

Then he leans in and murmurs against your cheek—

"Okay. Turn around."

You blink. "Huh?"

The corners of his mouth tug up. "Turn. Around."

"Of course you wanna change positions."

"What can I say," he shrugs, cock already visibly straining through his sweatpants. "Artist's curiosity."

Still. You do it.

He helps you down—steadying hands at your waist, guiding you like you're breakable, which, let's be honest, rude. And once your feet hit the floor, you shift, pivoting slowly to face the counter.

Elbows down. Back arched.

You stick your ass out just to be a bitch about it.

He groans. Actually fucking groans. Like it hurts him.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, hands immediately cupping your ass like it's reflex. "You're such a bitch."

You smirk into the counter. "Complaining?"

"No complaints." He huffs out a laugh. "Hands on the counter."

You glance over your shoulder. Raise a brow.

"Trust me," he says, already dragging one palm up the curve of your back.

You hum. But you do it. Flatten your hands, palms flush with the counter's edge.

Behind you, there's a shuffle.

Then that sound—the sound.

Elastic snapping as he yanks his waistband down.

You hear him shift his stance, toes lifting slightly as he lines himself up behind you. And then—

The press.

Just his tip, nudging against your entrance, and your whole body seizes, lips parting around a silent gasp as your thighs instinctively press together.

"You better not let go of that counter," he mutters low.

You don't answer.

Not out of defiance—just because your brain's gone static.

So he spanks you. Sharp and hot and immediate.

"I said something to you," he growls, palm landing hard enough to echo. "Did you hear?"

"Yeah," you breathe. "Okay."

"That's what I thought."

Then his hand drops from your ass, slides between your thighs, fingers spreading you open as he lines himself up again. Still doesn't push in.

Just rubs.

His cock slides up and down your slit, slow, deliberate strokes. Slick everywhere. Your breath stutters every time he nudges your clit on the way up.

"God, you're so fucking slippery," he mutters, almost in disbelief. "Dripping for it. I haven't even put it in yet."

You close your eyes, grip tightening on the edge of the counter.

"Your pussy's acting like it missed me," he adds, rocking his hips again, cockhead dragging lazily across your folds. "She's not even pretending."

"Maybe she has bad taste," you snap, voice shaky.

He laughs. Loud.

Then does it again—another glide, another tease, tip pausing right at your entrance just long enough for your breath to catch, then slipping away again before you can adjust.

"You're gonna lose it, huh," he murmurs. "All that smart mouth. All that sass. Gonna forget how to speak when I give you what you want?"

You grit your teeth.

He slides his tip back again, holds it there—barely inside. Just pressure.

Still not pushing in.

Still not giving it to you.

You whimper, shoulders tensing.

"Gripping the counter, Phoenix?" he asks sweetly. "Like I told you to?"

Your fingers curl tighter.

He grins.

And stays right fucking there. Not moving.

Just waiting.

Just standing there behind you like a smug little shit, cockhead resting at your entrance, hot and heavy and perfectly fucking poised—and somehow not going any further.

You shift your hips back slightly, trying to bait him.

He clicks his tongue. "Uh-uh."

"Rogue."

"Pix."

You groan. "You're so fucking annoying."

"Don't tempt me. I could stay like this all night," he says, cock dragging up through your folds again just to prove his point. "Just rub it against you until you're crying."

You scoff. "You act like that's a threat."

He leans forward, chest brushing your back, voice right at your ear.

"You'd cry so pretty."

You twist your head just enough to glare at him.

"You're actually insane."

"Says the girl bent over the counter like a porn scene," he grins, straightening back up. "All 'no condoms, fuck me raw, Rogue' like it's nothing."

You roll your eyes. "Oh, sorry. Do you not want it?"

He hums thoughtfully. "Kinda liking the view, not gonna lie."

"Oh my god."

"Seriously. You ever seen your ass from this angle? Top-tier."

"Shut the fuck up," you mutter, squeezing the counter harder. "You gonna give a Google Maps review next?"

"Might," he shrugs. "Five stars. Would fuck again."

You start to reply—some scathing, lethal retort—but you don't even get the first word out.

Because suddenly—he pushes.

All the way in.

One smooth, brutal thrust.

And you moan.

Loud. Unfiltered. Embarrassing.

Your hands slam flat on the counter like your body can't fucking handle it. The stretch, the shock of it.

You feel full. Too full.

He doesn't ease in. Doesn't give you time to adjust. Just buries himself in one go like it's his fucking right.

Then—smack.

His palm lands on your ass again, sharp and fast.

"That's more like it," he pants behind you, hand lingering after the slap. "There's my girl."

He pulls out slow.

Real slow.

Too slow.

Like he wants you to feel every inch leaving you, feel how empty you get without him. Like he's making a point.

Then—slam.

Hard. Deep. Ruthless.

You jolt forward, hands scrambling for grip as the counter rattles under your hips. A broken sound slips out of you—more instinct than choice—and behind you, he laughs.

Actually laughs.

A horny little chuckle, cock still buried deep like he didn't just rearrange your goddamn organs.

If you could twist around and kick him in the ribs, you would.

"What the fuck are you laughing at," you bite out.

He hums, smug as ever. "Sounded cute."

You glare at the spot, then at him.

"I'll show you cute—"

But you don't finish it. Because he pulls out again, and then slams back in with the same brutal force that leaves your legs trembling and your lungs gone.

What the fuck is he so cocky about?

He's the one getting it raw.

You're the one granting the privilege here. He should be grateful. You could revoke his rights real quick.

Even though… you won't.

Because there's something about it. About this.

No condom. Just skin. Just him.

It's different.

You don't know why it's hotter. Why it feels so much more intimate. You didn't think it would be. It's just cock. Just fucking. But now you feel everything—every twitch, every drag, every time he shifts his angle and catches that spot that has you choking on air.

And then he murmurs behind you, voice low—

"Does it hurt?"

You swallow. "No."

"Good," he says. Calm. Like it's logistics. "If it does, just arch your back more. Fixes the angle."

Fucking hell.

There it is, again.

How is he being considerate and a little shit at the same time?

You're not even flustered because of the sex anymore—you're flustered because he's flipping toggles like he doesn't even notice he's doing it.

You don't respond.

You can't. Because he grabs your hips and—

Slams into you again.

Not fast. Not rushed. Just one clean, devastatingly hard thrust that knocks the breath straight out of you. His grip holds you there, cock pressed deep, dragging that edge of pain into something white-hot and filthy.

"God," he mutters, breath catching. "The way you're gripping me—fuck—you like that, Nix?"

You don't answer.

Too proud. Too dazed. Too stubborn.

So he spanks you. Again.

Sharp and immediate.

"Answer me when I talk to you."

You flinch. Then growl, "Keep spanking and being demanding and I'll revoke raw rights so fucking fast—"

But he just snickers.

"Oh, will you?"

You can hear the smirk.

Then he leans over, chest brushing your back, breath hot on your ear.

"You like it when I slap my hand on your ass, Nix," he says, low and satisfied. "That's why I keep doing it."

You scoff. "You're making shit up."

He grinds into you once, slow and cruel.

"Am I?"

"Yup."

"Naaah. I've been testing."

You blink. "Testing."

"Mhm," he confirms. Another slap to your ass, gentler this time. Palming over the skin after. "And now I know."

You suck in a breath. "How would you know what turns me on?"

He huffs a laugh—mean, hot, unbothered.

"Because you always mouth off about the shit that gets you going."

Your heart stutters. He keeps going.

"Too embarrassed to just let yourself enjoy it, so you talk shit. Every single time."

"Fuck off," you hiss.

He smirks again, hands dragging your hips back slightly. "Nah. You're not fooling anyone, Pix."

"Eat shit," you bite out, but your voice betrays you—tight, breathy. Fucked.

He groans, head tilting back for a second like he can't believe how good he has it.

"You're so full of it."

You scowl over your shoulder.

He slaps your ass again. Just to punctuate it.

"This," he says, palm dragging slow over the sting he just left, "is textbook Phoenix behavior."

"Fuck's that supposed to mean?"

"What I just said. You always talk shit about what you like." He thrusts again, not deep—just enough to feel like a warning. "First it was the dirty talk. Remember?"

You roll your eyes. "Barely."

"Oh, you remember." His voice drops. "Because you called it cringey, and five minutes later you were soaking my jeans."

You grit your teeth.

"And then you rode me," he continues, like he's delivering an airtight closing argument. "Said 'do you want me to ride you?' all breathy. Like you hadn't spent days pretending you were above it."

You don't reply.

He leans in, hips pressing closer, cock buried deep and still not moving.

"And yesterday?"

You clench without meaning to.

"Yeah," he laughs softly. "Yesterday. You wouldn't even look at me when you were sucking me off. Acted all bratty and 'ugh I hate eye contact,' and now tonight you were pulling my hair back just to see my face."

You did do that.

"And now it's the spanking," he says, rocking his hips slow. "Bitching about it."

Another smack, firm and deliberate.

"But you just clenched around me. Again."

You groan into your arm. "You're fucking exhausting."

He grins against your shoulder. "You're fucking lying."

You shake your head. "You're not right."

He pulls back a little, just enough to move again. One clean stroke, all the way out and back in with a grunt.

Then—

"You're wet as fuck."

And you are. You feel it. Feel him glide. Feel the mess. Feel how your body wants him deep, no matter what your mouth says.

"You keep acting like you're not into it," he murmurs, breath hot. "Like you don't love being talked to like this. Touched like this."

"Shut up," you whimper, because you don't want to admit it. You don't want him to be right.

But he already is.

"You act like it's for me," he mutters. "Like I'm the one getting off on it."

And he is. Of course he is.

But so are you.

"You keep lying like it's gonna protect you," he says. "But your body gives you away every time."

He's still going.

Deep now.

Fast.

No hesitation, no mercy—just relentless drive, hips snapping into yours, angle brutal and right. Every time he hits bottom it knocks a broken little moan out of you. Loud. Unfiltered. Fucking real.

And still—still—he doesn't shut up.

"You've convinced yourself it's all for me. That you don't enjoy it. Can't. Won't."

Your jaw clenches.

"You can't let yourself," he continues, thrusting hard enough to slap skin. "Because you need to stay in control. Need to be good. Do it right."

His hand grips your hip tighter, pulling you back to meet every thrust. Your ass bounces off him with every slam, lewd and hot and loud.

"You need to know I like it," he says, "so you can file it under 'doing well,' and that's how you let yourself feel good."

You want to argue. You really do.

But you can't.

You're moaning too loud.

"You don't even stop to ask what you like," he growls, eyes locked on where you're joined. "But I'll tell you."

Smack.

"You like this position."

Smack.

"You like it raw. Hard. Deep."

You whimper.

"You like when I spank you," he murmurs, biting his lip, thrusts picking up even more.

"Shut up," you hiss. "Shut up, shut up—"

But it's useless.

You're already flushed down to your chest. Already arching into every thrust. Already leaking down your thighs.

Your hands grip the counter like a fucking lifeline—knuckles white, arms shaking.

He groans, hands adjusting—one on your waist, the other wrapping low across your belly to pull you into every stroke.

"It's okay, Nix," he says, voice rough but coaxing. "You don't have to say it."

He slams in harder, burying himself to the hilt, making your knees buckle on instinct.

"Just keep gripping the counter."

Your breath stutters.

"Don't let go if you like it."

You bite your lip.

"Don't say anything. Don't explain. Just grip."

You hesitate. One second. Maybe two.

And then—you do.

Fingers curl tighter around the countertop edge. You lock in. Anchor yourself.

Give it to him.

You don't say a word. But that grip? That's your answer. That's your yes.

He groans, hand dragging up your spine, palm flat between your shoulder blades like he wants to feel how it wrecked you.

"There she is," he whispers. "There's my good fucking girl."

That last comment—

There's my good fucking girl.

It does something. Snaps something in your spine. Or maybe your brain.

Because your cunt flutters around him hard, slick tightens, thighs tremble, and yeah, yeah you're closer. Closer than you should be. You were already there when he first slid in—already so worked up you could've finished in sixty seconds if he just shut the fuck up and focused.

But of course he didn't.

Of course he ran his mouth. Called you out. Read you like a book.

And now?

Now you're clenching around his cock like you're about to shatter, and he feels it.

You know he does.

Because he leans in, breath gone wrecked. Lip caught between his teeth.

"Hmm?" he pants. Thrusts harder, deeper. "What's that? You like when I call you that?"

Your jaw clenches. You want to scoff. Or deny it.

But your cunt clenches instead.

He feels it.

"Ohh fuck," he groans, like it hits his brainstem. "You do."

You turn your face into your arm, humiliated by your own goddamn response. But it's too late. He's already there—already winding it tighter.

"Let's see if you like it even more when I do this."

You blink. "What are you—"

He grabs your thigh.

Hooks it up onto the counter. Bends your leg at the knee beside your elbow, spreading you wider without warning. Opening you up. Letting him deepen.

And he does.

Slams into you again with the new angle, and fuck—it hits different. Hits deep. Your whole body pitches forward with the force, mouth open on a sharp moan you can't swallow.

Then—his hand.

His fingers find your clit. Circle it once, slow and effective.

And you whimper.

It's high-pitched. Unintended. Undignified.

You want to vanish.

But then he's right behind your ear again, voice slurred and drunk on it.

"Gonna cum for me, angel?"

Your body jolts.

Because yeah. Yeah, you are, especially now that he's got your leg hooked, your pussy stuffed, your clit being worked with just enough pressure to make you lose it.

He feels your thighs twitch.

"Do it," he breathes, cock dragging thick inside you, fingers pressing just right. "Come on, let me feel it. I'm close too. Gimme it, Pix."

And your body obeys.

It rolls over you in one hard pulse—core tightening, vision blanking, thighs squeezing in and failing to stay strong.

Your moan punches out of your chest, loud and cracked, hips grinding back into his like you need more even as you're falling apart.

"Ohhhh my god, fuck yes—fuck, yes, Nix, fuckkkk."

He keeps fucking through it. Doesn't stop. Lets your pussy spasm around him, wet and squeezing and pulling him deeper as you ride it out. You whimper, already too sensitive, hips twitching, but he's not done.

Because he's laughing now.

Not mocking. Not cruel.

Just that fucked-out little giggle he always gets when he's high on it. Like your orgasm lit him up from the inside.

"Jesus—oh my god—holy shit," he's muttering, still fucking you, little messy stutters in his rhythm now. "You feel so fucking good when you cum, I swear—fuck."

He moans again—short and desperate and real—and you feel it in the way his thrusts go uneven.

"Where—where do you want it?" he gasps. "Fuck—I'm gonna—I'm so close, where do I—"

"Ass," you croak, head low, voice barely there.

That's all he needs.

He pulls out instantly, like he's yanking a ripcord.

You whimper at the loss but then you feel his hand—fast and rough—working himself over the curve of your ass.

"Oh fuck—oh god, yeah, look at this gorgeous ass—fuckfuckfuck—"

And then he's cumming.

Thick, hot ropes spilling over your skin as he pants and jerks through it, one hand steadying himself on your back, the other stroking through every twitch of his cock like he's trying to squeeze out every drop just to paint you.

"Shit," he gasps, hips still flexing forward. "Fucking hell, Phoenix."

You don't move.

You just breathe. Still shaking. Still clenched. Still wrecked.

There's cum on your skin, sweat between your shoulder blades, and your thighs feel like they've forgotten how to exist—and somehow, you still feel good.

Too good.

And a little fucked up about how good.

But you'll deal with that later.

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[batsandbirdbrains]

I need Bruce trying to gentle parent Dick as a child. Like maybe Bruce isn’t exactly a good parent but tries. When Dick starts throwing massive tantrums, he just puts Dick in an empty room for time out. This does not stop Dick as he ends up destroying the room despite nothing being in it. When Dick does something Bruce doesn’t approve of, Bruce just says softly “Don’t do that.” Dick does it again. Like I need him trying and failing. Nothing he does works. Then Dick decides to turn that gentle parenting back on Bruce. No whenever Bruce makes him mad, he puts Bruce in a time-out room. Whenever Bruce is being dumb, he just gives him a pout and says “Don’t do that.” Bruce actually does his best to listen to Dick because he thinks it might foster trust or encourage Dick to follow along when Bruce does it to him. It doesn’t really work. Dick still doesn’t listen and now Bruce is being parented by the child he’s supposed to be raising. The only plus is that it calms down Dick’s more violent urges because instead of destroying shit he just sends Bruce away.

Then Dick gets shot, and something in Bruce snaps. There is no more gentle parenting, no more kind words or soft punishments. He needs to make Dick listen, and if that means hurting him, then so be it. He loses sight of the fact that Dick is still a kid, an incredibly traumatized one at that. He still lets Dick parent him, although he’s more snappy about it. Dick stops being soft with him, too, instead telling him harshly to get to bed, threatening to sic Alfred on him, or screaming in his face about how he’s the worst. Somehow they’ve fallen into this horrible dynamic and neither of them know how to get out of it. Dick blames himself for being such a troubled kid, and though Bruce never says it, Dick knows he blames him too. So Dick leaves.

Eventually, over the years their family grows, but Bruce’s softness never really comes back. He’s meaner, more controlling, even downright cruel at times. And one day when the entire batfam is arguing with him over how unreasonable he is, one them snaps and says “Jesus, B, who turned you into such a fucking asshole?” and before Bruce can even think about it, he responds “Dick did.” He closes his mouth in shock, face going ashen while everyone else freezes. The words cut straight into Dick’s heart. He replies with the only words he can think of at the moment “Don’t do that.” He meant for the words to be cold, confident. Instead they came out soft, chiding and pained. Before anyone can say anything else, Bruce turns on his heel and leaves. They all try to follow him to argue more but then stare, confused, as he walks into an empty room, locking the door behind him. He doesn’t come out for a long time.

🥺 rip out my fucking heart why don’t you, damn.

But now I’m just thinking of the scenario with Bruce saying Dick turned him into an asshole, and the whole room freezes.

Jason didn’t expect an actual answer. Tim and Damian thought Bruce would have just chided Jason for his language. Dick thought a Bruce was just going to keep yelling.

But then the way he says, “Dick did” without even thinking about it, without hesitation, it shocks everyone.

And Dick feels like he wants to cry, because sure, he knew he was a pretty fucked up kid. He was troubled. Traumatized. A problem child. But Bruce for the most part had been so patient when he was little. And when Bruce started being an asshole after Dick got shot, it wasn’t like Dick couldn’t fight right back. It was almost like a game, sometimes. But Dick has always felt so guilty about it, because Bruce had been so soft spoken and patient and nice, and then Dick went and fucked him up. Dick ruined him. It’s all Dick’s fault.

Dick has always had that thought in the back of his mind. But he’s never had any real proof that Bruce felt the same.

Now he does. And Dick’s chest feels hollow as he stares at a horrified looking Bruce.

All Dick can manage to say is a soft, desperate, “Don’t do that,” just like Bruce always tried to use with him, before he started using yelling as his go-to response.

Then Bruce turns without saying anything and walks right into an empty room, and Dick feels like he’s going to throw up. He turns too, towards his bike, and he ignores the way his siblings are calling after him. He turns off his comms and rides home, going way too fast, feeling the wind whip around him, and tears blurring his vision until he blinks them away.

When he gets back to his Blüdhaven apartment, he slides in through the window and doesn’t even change out of his costume before he’s puking in the bathroom.

He silences his phone, turns in his security system, and then spends the next hour sitting under the water in his shower, spacing out until the water goes ice cold and he has to get out. Then he crawls into bed, pulls out Zitka from under the pillows to hug to his chest, and buries his head under his pillows. If he doesn’t pay attention to it, he can pretend he’s not still crying because of the guilt.

He stays like that for a long time, not moving. He falls asleep for a while, wakes up in a panic, rinse and repeat.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been, but the next thing he knows, someone is sitting down on his bed next to him, laying a hesitant hand in his back. And he knows it’s Bruce, and it just makes him feel even worse.

“Go away,” he begs, the words muffled under his pillows.

“I didn’t mean it,” Bruce tries to tell him.

“Yes you did,” Dick says miserably. “And it’s true. I know it’s true, you don’t have to pretend it’s not.”

“It wasn’t you who made me an asshole,” Bruce says. “The situation-”

“Caused by me,” Dick argues.

“You were just a child, Dick.” Bruce sighs.

“A horrible, no good, rotten child!”

“Don’t say that about yourself,” Bruce says firmly. “It’s not true, Dick. I don’t care what anyone says, you were not a rotten child. You were just a little boy. I was the adult, and I should have found other solutions that worked for you.”

Dick doesn’t say anything, but he eventually moves out from under the pillows to curl up with his head in Bruce’s lap. Bruce plays with his hair, and the two of them stay quiet for a long time. Neither of them really knows what to say. They’re both still upset. And they’re both awful at dealing with their feelings.

The sadness and anger and guilt they’re feeling from this fight won’t be resolved. They won’t really talk about it. It won’t be talked about without someone else bringing it up, and that won’t happen for a while.

But for now, Bruce is going to comfort his son. And for now, Dick will let him.

[jjkbambi]

single dad luigi mangione x reader

this is smut MINORS DNIIIII 18+ !!!!!

the first time you meet luigi, you’re fumbling with peach’s leash outside your apartment when the door beside yours opens.

he steps out—tall, tan-brown hair tousled just enough to look effortless, eyes sharp and hazel. he doesn’t look much older than you—maybe late twenties, but there’s a quiet maturity in the way he carries himself, like someone who’s taken care of himself, both body and mind.

“you’re the one with the dog,” he says, voice low, no smile, just the barest tilt of his head.

“yeah,” you say, suddenly aware of how much you’re holding the leash like a lifeline. “her name is peach.”

he shifts the weight of the kid on his hip and watches as the toddler stares at peach, unafraid.

“i’m luigi,” he adds. “and this is marco.”

your dog wags her tail, but she’s quieter now, like she senses the change in the air.

“you live here?” he asks, stepping a little closer than you expect, hazel eyes never leaving yours.

“just moved back for school,” you answer, trying to keep your voice steady.

“undergrad?” he asks.

“master’s,” you correct.

he nods slowly. “i’ve seen you around.”

there’s no warmth in the words—just a quiet, measured observation that makes you a bit nervous.

you swallow, suddenly aware of the heat creeping into your cheeks and how intensely you’d been staring. “well. hi, luigi.” you say. “i’m y/n.”

he holds your gaze longer than you’re comfortable with, like he’s weighing you up,

“peach really seems to like your son,” you say, hoping to lighten the moment.

“good,” he replies, voice tightening just a fraction. “he’s not going anywhere.”

you don’t pay much attention to the neighbors, but over time you’ve learned things here and there, bits and pieces caught without meaning to. luigi’s alarm blares sharp and insistent at 5:30 every morning—the kind of sound that cuts through both of your sleep schedules like a battle axe. by 7, he’s usually gone, quiet footsteps down the hallway, a low murmur from the apartment next door signaling marco’s wakeup.

sometimes, if you time it right, you catch him jogging down the corridor shirtless just after dropping off the kid at daycare: the faint sheen of sweat on his sun-kissed sicilian skin, muscles flexing with each stride, hair tousled from the early run.

today, returning from peach’s determined thirty minutes of exploring every leaf and crack in the pavement, you spot luigi emerging into the hallway, but he’s not alone.

a woman walks beside him, lean and striking, her dark hair pulled back tightly. her features are sharp and unmistakably italian, her expression unreadable as she balances a couple of worn leather bags in one hand. the way luigi’s shoulder subtly shifts toward her, the ease between them, is something you’ve never seen before. you weren’t sure exactly when luigi moved in, but he’d always been a quiet presence, mostly solitary, with no obvious other half in his routine.

the moment hangs for just a beat before they disappear down the stairs, leaving the faint scent of her perfume lingering behind—something warm and earthy.

ugh. you really thought you’d grown out of being so nosy.

you’re in the laundry room on the first floor, folding towels that still smell like lavender detergent and city water, when the door swings open behind you. you glance over your shoulder, expecting a stranger.

but it’s luigi.

he steps inside without hesitation, marco tucked under one arm like it’s nothing. the kid’s sleepy but still a bit giddy, cheek pressed to luigi’s collarbone, eyes wide and curious.

he sets a laundry basket on the machine beside yours.

his brown eyes set on you. “you’re always on time.”

you blink. “for laundry?”

“routine says a lot about a person,” he says. you wonder if he’s noticed you studying his. the toddler frees himself from his grip, stumbling around the marble floor. luigi begins pulling clothes out of the basket without another look. you’re not as disciplined. your gaze lingers a bit, just enough.

he seems lighter today. not exactly talkative, but looser. a little more open. maybe his girlfriend straightened him out. gave him a bit more personality.

you pause mid-fold, curious. “and what’s mine say?”

“still figuring that out,” he says. then glances at you, his expression unreadable. “but peach seems to like it. you know, growing up, my dog used to lose his mind when the sink turned on.”

you nodded. “aggressive reaction to plumbing.”

he huffs a laugh. low, barely there. but there.

you steal another glance at him. plain black t-shirt, sleeves pushed up, features sharp even in the bad fluorescent light. eyes focused on the clothes but still clearly aware of you.

you clear your throat.

“is your whole family italian?”

very subtle. he’ll never notice.

“what gave it away?”

“the name,” you say. “and… the woman from the other day. she looked italian.”

his folding slows. not much. but you notice. his hands still for half a second. then resume. deliberate.

“she is,” luigi says, voice flat. “but we’re not together. haven’t been in a long time.”

you reel back, offended at how quickly you were caught. “i didn’t assume—”

“yeah, you did,” he says. not unkindly. there’s a lift to his tone. almost amused. “but that’s fine.”

you keep folding, not sure what to say to that, so instead you go with the thing that’s been sitting in your throat since the first time he looked at you too long.

“you know, you’re kind of intimidating.” it slips out quieter than you expect. no drama, no irony. just a small, true thing.

this time, he does look at you. “why?”

you shrug, eyes fixed on the towel in your hands. “you’re serious. and quiet. and you notice things. that combination kind of scrambles me.”

he watches you a beat longer, then says, “you don’t come off like someone who gets scrambled.”

“i don’t usually,” you think out loud.

“i’d argue that’s far more intimidating.”

you laugh, surprised. “so now we’re both scared of each other?”

“no,” he says, a little too quickly. amusement clearer this time. “i’m not scared of you.”

“then what?”

you meet his eyes. it lingers this time. longer, warmer, closer.

“still figuring that out.”

neither of you moves. the dryer buzzes behind you, ignored. peach shifts at your feet. marco babbles in the distance.

finally, luigi looks away first. folds another shirt.

but his voice is low when he says:

“you’ll get used to me.”

the third time you talk to luigi, it feels like a dreaded step back into awkward acquaintanceship.

it’s late, and you’re just about to close your apartment door when you hear footsteps behind you. luigi’s standing there, the curly-haired toddler sleeping against his chest, eyes steady on you and the guy you’ve been talking to—someone from a recent class, nothing serious, just another midnight delay. the guy steps back and away, giving you space without a word.

you clear your throat, suddenly aware of how terrible you looked.

“luigi,” you say, trying to sound casual.

luigi raises an eyebrow at you. “who was that?”

you glance back at the figure disappearing down the hall. despite your barely budding friendship, you felt caught. like you were keeping secrets he was entitled to.

you were terrible at lying on the spot. “what do you mean?”

“what do i mean?” he repeats, expected.

you try to laugh it off, but the sound feels hollow. the guy leaves the hallway without so much as a goodbye. you chew the inside of your lip, wholly aware of how this looks. “my friend just dropped something off.”

luigi’s tired brown eyes wash over your face. he doesn’t believe you for a second. “at four in the morning?”

“when you put it like that, it does sound bad.”

“isn’t it?”

for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you: his steady presence, the quiet hum of his breathing, the way his eyes soften ever so slightly.

you swallow hard, heart thudding in a way that might have nothing to do with embarrassment.

“look,” he says after a pause, voice gentler now, carefully folding his intensity into something almost tender, “i’m not here to judge you. just…don’t let it become a habit. you have early mornings.”

“alright, dad,” you say, mock-saluting, your tone laced with just enough sarcasm to keep things light. “i’ll be on my best behavior.”

the door shuts behind him, and that’s the last you see of luigi for a while. your plan is simple and flawless: no more embarrassing encounters with the hot neighbor. none. zero.

with any luck, the next time you see him will be a year from now, in the mailroom or something, and he’ll smile politely like you’re just another face in the building. clean slate. no lingering awkwardness. no weird tension. because honestly, the last thing you need is to fumble your way through a close-proximity crush when you’re barely holding it together in your master’s program.

still, you hear him.

luigi’s alarm still goes off at 5:30. he’s out the door by 7. and you know—you know—he hears your blender screaming through the wall when you make your frozen fruit smoothies. once, you swear you hear him laugh, low and muffled, but it could’ve been the pipes. your mornings follow a different rhythm: up by 6, protein within 30 minutes, walk peach the second luigi’s car disappears down the block, slap on makeup, and bolt to your 8 a.m, fruit smoothie in hand. you’re always a few minutes late, but your one-night stand turned note-taker never misses a lecture. it’s a system.

with lectures cancelled, you’re thrown a bit off beat. you’re halfway through your coffee, tucked into the corner of the café with your earbuds in but no music playing—the universal signal for leave me alone. and honestly, you’d hoped it’d work.

but then you feel it: the weight of someone standing too close. the static of their presence.

you look up.

it’s luigi.

gray hoodie. scruff. iced green tea in hand. same unreadable look in his eyes.

“hey,” luigi says, not bothering to ask if he can sit. just does.

you blink.

“thought you were a smoothie-for-breakfast kind of girl,” he adds, casual.

you shoot him a look. "thought you were a mind-your-own-business kind of guy."

his lips twitch into a half-smile. “i pay attention. can’t help it.”

“there’s a difference between paying attention and being creepy,” you say, only half-joking. you’ve caught him watching you before—sometimes on your walk home from class, you see his silhouette leaning against his car, all casual and cool like he just happened to be there. you had to focus hard on not looking back. on pretending you didn’t feel his eyes on you the whole way down the block.

he blows out a breath. “creepy’s a strong word.”

“you’re skating close.”

“guilty. but at least i can be honest about it.”

you roll your eyes but can’t stop the small smile.

“so,” he says, taking another sip of his drink, “how’s michael from stats?”

you nearly go into anaphylactic shock; your lashes flutter. caught. your laptop’s still open—too open—and sure enough, the last message on screen is a deeply unhinged text thread between you and said michael. you snap it shut.

“don’t start.”

he looks good. he always does, unfortunately. that olive skin, the warm brown hair that never seems to sit still, the sleeves of his shirt pushed up just to brag. you’re not sure if it’s the eyes, or the voice, or the fact that he somehow smells like bergamot and sandalwood and the beach.

he raises an eyebrow, all innocent. “what? just trying to keep things… neighborly.”

sure. friends. white flag. truce.

you shrug, being honest. “we’re not talking.”

“looked like you were talking a lot,” he says, grinning.

you narrow your eyes. “you’re enjoying this way too much.”

he leans in slightly. “maybe. but come on—you’ve been avoiding me for two weeks.”

“that’s not true,” you say, lying in his face. “i’ve just been busy.”

“you’ve been avoiding me,” he says again, tone final.

“hardly.” you say. “you’ve been lurking.”

“i live here.”

“you timed your afternoon walks to mine.”

“you changed your route.”

“you changed yours.”

he smiles—sharp, a little smug. “you noticed.”

you ignore that. “maybe i just didn’t feel like making awkward small talk with my hot neighbor who forgets how to blink.”

the word hot slips out before you can stop it. his eyebrows shoot up. you instantly feel the crash of your own dignity sinking somewhere near your stomach.

“you think i’m hot?”

you roll your eyes and turn your head away. “not the point.”

he leans forward slightly, elbows on the table, voice lower now. “so what is the point? that you’d rather talk to michael from stats?”

you frown.

“you left your screen open,” he continues, light. “i figured you wanted an opinion.”

“okay, fine.” you sigh. “what’s your opinion?”

he leans in just slightly—close enough that you feel it, the shift in air. “i’d say michael’s not your type.”

you open your mouth to say something sarcastic, anything to cut through it, but luigi moves before you can. he grabs your chair with one hand—casual, like you’ve done this a million times before—and pulls you close. the other brushes your jaw, a soft, sure touch. his thumb pauses near your cheekbone. there’s heat in his gaze, something reckless and unreadable.

“tell me to back off,” luigi says, voice low.

you don’t.

his hand slides from your wrist to the side of your face, thumb grazing your jaw, and for a second he just looks at you. searching. waiting.

“this is a bad idea,” you whisper.

“the worst,” he says.

and then he kisses you.

it’s not sweet. it’s not practiced. it’s heat and frustration and something like longing, poured into one breathless, unguarded second. his mouth moves against yours with slow urgency, like he’s been thinking about this since day one and can’t hold it back anymore. needy, but firm. like he’d been holding it back without even knowing it. your fingers curl into his shirt, anchoring yourself, and when he deepens the kiss, you let him. his mouth is warm and certain, and for a second, your brain short-circuits: you’re in the middle of a crowded café and luigi, your maybe-jealous, maybe-unhinged neighbor, is kissing you like he’s claiming something.

when he pulls back—just barely—his thumb brushes your cheek. you’re both breathing hard.

you’re the first to speak. “we shouldn’t have done that.”

his thumb brushes your jaw, slow. “you say that like we’re not gonna do it again.”

you swallow. “we barely know each other.”

he huffs a quiet laugh, gaze still fixed on your mouth. “i know enough.”

you raise a brow. “yeah?”

he leans in, mouth close to your ear now. his voice drops—low, certain, dangerous in that way that makes your knees threaten to give out.

“i know i’ve wanted to do that since we met in the hallway.”

you almost smile.

almost.

but you’re still too breathless for it. too wired. too wrecked by how good that felt.

you look up at him, steady. “so now what?”

“now,” he starts. “i think you should get into my car.”

you’re making out with him in the backseat like horny teenagers within five minutes. he nudges aside the delicate lace of your panties, his fingertips pressing against the slick heat between your legs. a gasp hitches in your throat.

his fingers crooked to hit that perfect spot that makes you feel like you might cry if he rubbed it too much. you noises sound much louder now, jagged and pitchy.

"you’re such a tease," luigi murmurs, his motions not slowing. "keeping me from this. keeping all your pretty noises to yourself."

and, as if he'll know what it'll do, he stretches his hand, veins bulging in his forearm, and plants his thumb on your clit. you jolt against the new stimulation, another desperate gasp escapes you, and luigi moans against your neck.

his hand keeps moving, fingers still plunging into your soaking cunt, thumb rubbing tight, small circles on your clit. you cling to him, hips rolling to meet his strokes, the heat in you storming, suddenly desperately fast. your breathing comes out heavy and if it's not a moan, it's his name.

"feelin' good? ‘m i making my girl feel good?" luigi says, voice hot and raspy against your throat. he starts on his marks, leaving a trail of sloppy hot kisses on your neck.

he lets out a low groan, leaning down to suck another sloppy hickey against your shoulder. he’s insiatiable.

you buck against his hand, crying out, and then pant like a little puppy when he starts to slow it down after several long moments. you truly can’t move a muscle, you’re completely at his mercy and he loves it. you’re shaking, fumbling at his belt, really not getting anything done, and he smiles against your jaw.

"don’t know how to unbuckle a belt?"

“luigi,” you whine. “please—i need you now.”

“i know, baby,” he murmurs, low. your faces were inches apart, your lips parted as you watched him reach between your bodies and grab his cock, slowly giving it a few pumps before he aligned himself with your core.

"fuck," he groans, the feeling of your wet core overwhelming his senses. you stretched around him so perfect, taking him so well he couldn't help himself. “i’ve needed you for weeks.”

your body contorts under his harsh pace. your limbs are reduced to jelly.

"so pretty," he cooed, cupping your face. "all for me, right?"

“yes,” you whisper, barely breathing. “all your’s.”

he brings his hand up to your chin, moving your mouth open. he’s so cocky, so smug. his eyes glimmer as he spits in your mouth.

"that's it, c'mon princess, cum for me, cum all over this cock like the good little girl you—“

the phone rings. his pace stutters.

you whimper, squeezing your thighs around his hips, your heels digging into his back as he reaches for his cellphone and frowns down at the caller id. there’s a flicker in his eyes, a something you’re not quite sure of.

“luigi—” you start.

"shh... quiet princess, unless you want someone to hear," he murmurs, before swiping up and pressing the phone to his ear.

your eyes widen, but before you could argue, luigi rocks his hips down deep into yours and has to press his palm over your mouth to muffle your squeak.

“good morning, sweetheart,” he says, voice sarcastic as he throws you a wink. you’re already too fucked out to respond. was it his ex? “i’ll come by and get him right after practice….i haven’t forgotten, no….”

you don’t hear half of the conversation and can’t bring yourself to. you still haven’t comprehended how huge he feels. it hurts it hurts it hurts. as if the insides of your body have been set alight, limbs writhing uselessly. a stormy, bubbling heat deep in your belly. you can’t even gasp at the sensation. not when you’ve felt fuller than you ever have in your life.

"huh? no nothing—just uh—” luigi raises an eyebrow down at you, moving his hips, the feel of his cock dragging inside you nearly makes your eyes roll back. fucking tease.

your walls clench down around him desperately, biting down hard on your own lips to keep from making noise. a part of you is flared with jealousy, but the majority of you is too wrapped up in lust to do anything more than a glare. he smirks, resting his free hand on your hip to hold you still as he tugs back for a particularly hard thrust.

“doin' some maintenance work," luigi says, chuckling darkly.

"some of these screws are in a bit tight," he winks, pulling back and thrusting forward once more, "y'know how things get when they're not... worked out properly once in a while.”

you squeeze your eyes shut, feeling the coil tighten inside you with every dreadfully slow movement of his hips. the tip of the length nudges up against your g-spot, you’re biting so hard on your lip, you’re sure it bleeds. you scrabble underneath him, trying desperately to give him a warning tug as he laughs at something his ex says.

"i get it, i’ll be on time,” luigi says, leaning down to kiss your jaw. “this won’t take long.”

he clicks off without a goodbye and throws his phone into the front seat.

"f-fuck luigi, th-that's not funn—” you try to force out a coherent sentence, but luigi only coos as he reaches down between you to slap your clit. immediately, your mouth falls open, and you jerk up against him. he chuckles.

“such a good girl for me,” he says, kissing you sweetly. you gave him your tongue, which he accepted with a grin. “so fuckin’ well behaved. i could take you anywhere, huh?”

you’re so close. “mhmm,” you whimper. “yes daddy.”

you felt yourself heat up. your cheeks red hot as you realised your blunder, and you started to scrabbled together some apology. but luigi wasn't surprised. not in the slightest. he just chuckled, effectively cutting you off and making you even wetter with humiliation.

"alright, baby,” he says. “take it for daddy."

and just like that, you're his perfect little toy.

"god fuck—fuck—you're so tight, pretty girl—y'hear how wet you are for me?" luigi asks. breathless, your body only allows for a small, desperate nod of your head as he hoists your leg up to fuck you deeper. “he didn’t fuck you properly, did he? didn’t know how to fuck you like daddy does?”

you lost control of yourself. luigi’s eyes darken as you whimper underneath him, slamming his mouth back onto yours to drink in every moan.

“good fuckin’ girl,” he growls as you cum around him. letting out a sharp hot hiss of his own as he slams his hips into you, palm squeezing your tits so hard you think you're about to burst.

he doesn’t wait. he shoots his load into you with a choked whine and he doesn't pull out—doesn't want to abandon the tight warmth of your hole hugging his cock like the world’s prettiest little fleshlight. he simply fucks back into you with a blissful groan.

"look what you did to me, baby," he mutters, almost dazed, like he really couldn't believe it. his cock stayed buried inside you, slow and purposeful, dragging out every last drop.

“luigi,” you whine. “sensitive.”

“‘m sorry, principessa,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. more smug than sorry, you catch it in his smile.

the car creaks slightly as he leans back, pulling his pants up with one hand while the other lingers on your thigh, like he’s not ready to let go just yet. you exhale, trying to will your pulse into something normal. normal finally comes—and your sound, sober mind is wondering what the hell you’re just thrown yourself into.

you adjust your sweater, fix your skirt, open the door without another word.

“hey,” he says, confused. “what are you—”

you’re already stepping out onto the pavement, the night air sharp against your flushed skin.

“where are you going?” he calls after you, his voice still casual—but under it, a flicker of something else. something real.

you just walk, fast, shoes clacking against the quiet lot, the adrenaline in your body now shifting from want to regret. from heat to clarity. the car door swings open behind you. he calls again, louder this time. “get back in the car.”

you keep going.

“baby, come on.”

you turn your head just enough to look at him. “i dont know if you should be calling me that.”

he’s standing by the car now, shirt half-buttoned, sleeves rolled. wind in his hair. too handsome for someone who just ruined your sense of stability in the span of twenty minutes.

“what do you mean?” he asks.

you cross your arms. “this was a bad idea.”

he raises a brow. “you didn’t seem to think that ten minutes ago.”

you exhale hard. “you answered your ex’s call mid-sex, luigi.”

“you want me to ignore the person keeping my four-year-old today today?”

you open your mouth, then shut it. okay, fair. annoying, but fair.

“still,” you mutter.

“i knew it was about him. and you—” he tilts his head, watching you. “you didn’t stop either.”

you look down at your shoes.

he takes a step toward you. “what are you really freaking out about?”

you hesitate. “i don’t… do stuff like this.”

“what, parking lot sex or catching feelings?”

you shoot him a look.

luigi grins, slow and lopsided. “you didn’t hate it.”

you shake your head, staring out at the street, begging your senses to unnerve, your face to cool off. “you’ve got issues.”

and then you look at him—really look—and the smugness is still there, sure, but but beneath it something tightens—a flash of doubt, sharp and raw. not quite vulnerability, but a heavy weight you weren’t ready for. like if you walked away, it wouldn’t just hurt. it would pierce.

“get back in the car,” he says again, quieter this time. “it’s cold. i still wanna look at you.”

your chest tightens.

you hesitate for another beat.

then you sigh, roll your eyes a little and walk back.

he doesn’t smile like he’s won. just opens the door for you. waits until you’re in. shuts it gently behind you.

and then luigi smiles.

masterlist

[makelemonade]

HOW TO DATE YOUR CLASSMATE 101 BY MEGUMI FUSHIGURO

Megumi is hopelessly in love with his outgoing classmate and, guided more by his friends’ advice than his own instincts, ends up stumbling through a series of awkward attempts to catch her attention.

If anyone asked, Megumi Fushiguro would rather fight ten special-grade curses blindfolded than be left alone in a room with you.

It wasn’t that you were mean. Or intimidating. Or even particularly unkind.

No, the problem was that you were you; loud, magnetic, unpredictable in the best way. You joked with strangers, danced at every party, and had once allegedly made out with Toge at a Kyoto mixer just because the energy felt right.

Megumi, on the other hand, walked into a fence during baseball last week because you had been cheering him on with both hands in the air, looking so beautiful with your face paint of the colours of the school- the colours he was WEARING. He looked for way too long, didn’t realize everyone was yelling at him and then hit the fence.

You two weren’t even that close. You hung out in the same group, trained together, did missions sometimes. But it was always as a team; Him, Yuuji, Nobara, you. If it was just you and him? Megumi would short-circuit. 

You probably didn’t even notice how he’d been acting around you.

But his divine dogs sure did, because lately, they kept running up to you. Every time you smiled and knelt down to pet them, his feelings betrayed him and no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t call them back. 

He didn’t know what was worse, liking someone so out of his league, or having to survive Yuuji’s “bro I got you” plans to help him.

Like the following tank top incident just a few days ago;

Okay, hear me out,” Yuuji grinned, arm slung over Megumi’s shoulder like they were about to plan the biggest heist ever.  “You’ve got the muscles. You just don’t know how to use them.”

Megumi frowned. “I’m not using my arms. For anything. That involves impressing someone.”

“You’re already doing it wrong,” Nobara announced, kicking open his locker and tossing a black tank top directly into his face. “Put this on. Seriously, as your friend this sounds weird, but you’re very attractive; be confident and flex the muscles, maybe even that back!”

Megumi peeled the shirt off his face like it offended him. “No.”

Nobara glared. “Don’t you wanna get her attention?”

His silence was answer enough.

Cut to ten minutes later: Fushiguro standing stiff as a statue on the outdoor training field in the tightest tank top Nobara chose, shoulders tense, and trying desperately to hold back a glare.

You were nearby with Momo from Kyoto, laughing about something and sipping a bubble tea like you were in a completely different world. The way you talked with your hands, the way your hair bounced when you laughed, holy Megumi was doomed.

“Okay, okay,” Yuuji whispered behind him like a coach giving a halftime speech. “You’re gonna walk over there, and just like… scratch the back of your head. That’s a classic ‘check out my biceps’ move. But do it chill. Natural.”

“I’m not seducing someone with my head scratch,” Megumi hissed.

“You are today,” Panda said solemnly.

Still, Megumi sucked in a breath and did it. He lifted his arm, elbow stiff, and awkwardly reached behind his head.

The result looked less like a confident head scratch and more like a man suffering from sudden neck pain. He held it too long. Then clenched his bicep. Way too hard. His whole body tensed like he was trying to flex every muscle at once.

Yuuji grimaced, “Oh no.”

Nobara slapped a hand over her mouth, eyes watering.

Panda whispered, “Is he… constipated?”

Maki turned around and fully walked away.

And then you turned. Your gaze drifted lazily over the field until it landed on Megumi, mid-flex, veins popping slightly, expression neutral like he’d transcended embarrassment.

You tilted your head, clearly confused…but maybe a little attracted?. “Uh… you good?”

Megumi didn’t move. He had entered some sort of embarrassment-induced fight-or-flight freeze mode.

“Yeah,” he said, voice too low. “Just, uh. Stretching.”

You blinked. “Well…have fun!” You gave him a big smile, “Don’t stress yourself out too much. You’ve been training a lot lately, but it’s definitely doing you good.” You turned back to Momo, acting as if your words didn’t just make him blush profusely and almost make him collapse in adoration.

As soon as your back was turned, Nobara collapsed against Maki, wheezing.

“That was so bad,” Panda whispered between snorts.

Yuuji grabbed Megumi’s shoulders once he walked over after realizing h was staring at you for too long . “I’m proud of you, bro.”

“I want to die.”

Nobara already had her phone up. “And now you live forever. In 4K.”

After that, a few days later, everyone was crammed into the common room after a long day of training and missions; banged up, bruised, and very, very hungry. Someone had ordered takeout from that spicy ramen place downtown (Yuuji’s pick), and the table was overflowing with noodle cups, sauce packets, and chopsticks in every direction.

You were sitting cross-legged on the floor, laughing at something Maki said, your mouth full of hot curry ramen. Everyone else had tapped out long ago, tongues scorched, sweat forming at their temples.

“Oh my god,” you said, fanning yourself and slurping another bite. “This is so good. God I love when it hurts.”

Megumi, mid-sip of water, choked slightly.

“Spicy food is character-building,” you declared, waving a noodle-drenched chopstick. “I swear, everyone needs to handle some heat.”

Nobara immediately looked at Megumi with the slowest, most evil smile known to man as she leaned in

“Oh?” she whispered innocently. “Interesting.”

Megumi stiffened. “No.”

Panda popped his head up from behind the couch. “No what?”

“Don’t even-”

“You can handle spicy food, right?” Nobara asked sweetly.

He glared at her. “I will end you.”

“She basically just said it’s a green flag,” Panda added, shoving a Styrofoam container into his lap. “This one’s the ghost pepper dumpling. You got this, king.”

“Don’t say ‘king’ like that.”

Yuuji grinned. “Bro, this is your redemption arc. After the tank top incident, you need a win.”

“This is not a win, this is a medical emergency waiting to happen.”

You were still chatting with Momo and Toge on the other side of the room, too far to hear the conversation, but close enough to watch. And you were watching. Right now. With that curious little smile you always got when something chaotic was about to happen.

Megumi sighed, staring down at the dumpling like it personally wronged him in a past life.

“Fine,” he muttered.

“LET’S GOOOOO,” Panda cheered.

“Shut up,” Megumi hissed.

He picked it up with chopsticks, examined it like he could decode its Scoville level with his eyes alone, and then, quickly, ate the whole thing in one bite.

For three full seconds, nothing happened.

Then his soul left his body.

His eyes widened, throat convulsing slightly as heat exploded across his mouth like a nuclear detonation. He blinked once. Twice.

“You good?” Yuuji asked, already laughing.

Megumi nodded silently.

Nobara whispered, “His eyes are watering.”

Megumi shook his head again, jaw clenched. “I’m-fine-”

You stood up, walking over with a cup of water and a worried grin. “Oh no, Megumi are you okay?!

He could only nod, steam practically pouring out of his ears.

“That was insanely spicy. I like guys who can handle spice, that was cool.” You slid the water to him.

He forced a thumbs up.

Then immediately keeled over and collapsed sideways onto the couch.

“Oh my god,” you laughed, gently placing the water next to him. “You poor thing.”

Megumi couldn’t answer. He was busy staring at the ceiling, hoping to astral project.

Somehow, next week, the Kyoto school got involved.

They were at an exchange training. No one got cursed. No one lost a limb. Maki only threatened to break someone’s kneecaps twice. Overall, solid day

However the real problem was the after-training cooldown area with the guys, buckets of ice water, sweat-drenched shirts, and far too many bored boys.

Megumi was just trying to drink his water in peace.

He failed.

“FUSHIGURO,” Todo boomed, dropping down beside him like a meteor. “I sense a storm in your soul. Who is she?”

Megumi blinked slowly. “What.”

“You like someone,” Todo declared. “You radiate longing. It’s tragic. Poetic. Like a sad stray cat in the rain.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” said Mai, sipping from her boba behind him. Why was she even in here?! “You’re wearing the same shirt from yesterday.”

Megumi opened his mouth to argue, then realized she was right and closed it again.

Momo leaned over. “Wait, who’s the girl?” 

Seriously why were the girls in here.

“Y/N,” Yuuji announced proudly, striding up with a towel around his neck. “He’s down horrific for her.”

Megumi groaned and dropped his face into his hands. “Can everyone please shut up.”

Todo’s eyes sparkled like a man on a mission. “What type of man does she desire?”

“I don’t-”

“WHAT TYPE,” Todo repeated, gripping Megumi’s shoulders.

“She’s loud,” Momo supplied. “Talkative. Super physical.”

“She kissed Toge at that rooftop party last semester,” Mai added, deadly casual. “So probably into spontaneous chaos.”

“She loves dancing,” Yuuji chimed in. “Like actually dances at parties. Full choreography.”

Todo gasped. “Then the answer is clear.”

Megumi braced himself.

“You must transform yourself into the man she wants,” Todo said dramatically. “If she likes dancing, you will dance. If she likes bold men, you will become the boldest. You will ascend through love.”

“That’s horrible advice,” Mai muttered.

“You will no longer be Megumi Fushiguro.” Todo grabbed his hand like they were making a blood pact. “You will be…Megumi 2.0: THE BOLD UPDATE.”

Somehow, against all odds, Megumi Fushiguro had decided to take Todo’s advice.

Which meant that tonight, He was going to a party.

A Kyoto-Tokyo joint party.

He wasn’t sure who exactly convinced him it was a good idea, but it involved Todo’s disaster advice, Yuuji’s endless pep talks, Nobara’s relentless shoves.. Somehow, here he was,  standing on the edge of the room, surrounded by a sea of faces, thumping bass, and flashing lights.

You were already inside the club, glowing and dancing like you owned the place. Your laugh cut through the music, warm and infectious. You moved with such ease between groups, joking, teasing, dancing, that it looked like you were made for this.

Megumi wished he could disappear.

Yuuji sidled up next to him, grinning like a lunatic. “Okay, bro, you got this. Just go dance.”

Megumi blinked. “Dance? Like, move?”

Nobara rolled her eyes. “I’m pushing you in 10 seconds.”

Before he could protest- it wasn’t even 10 seconds since she gave a firm shove that nearly sent him sprawling into the crowd.

The music ramped up, heavy drums, electronic pulses, and suddenly Megumi was swallowed by the mass of people.

He tried to keep his footing, heart hammering, when some random girl stepped right up to him with a grin. Without a word, she started dancing on him, moving close, hips swaying, hands playful on his chest.

Megumi’s brain screamed. His body froze.

He wanted to back away but didn’t want to be rude.

He wanted to dance but didn’t know how.

He wanted to run but didn’t want to look scared.

He wanted to look like he knew what he was doing so you didn’t think he was some sore loser.

Somewhere, Yuuji yelled, “Dance back, dude! Come on!”

Nobara hollered, “MOVE YOUR FEET! DON’T JUST STAND THERE LIKE A STATUE!”

The girl smiled wider, completely unbothered by his silence, and danced closer, still teasing and moving with wild energy.

Megumi’s eyes darted around the room, looking desperately for an escape route.

You were watching too, from a few feet away. Your brow furrowed in confusion, and yet you were giggling at the sight. You saw the tension, the panic, the whole I’m-about-to-die vibe radiating off him, and you thought;, Aw, poor Megumi. He’s so cute.

Then the song ended.

The girl gave him a quick wink and danced off into the crowd.

He just bolted. His breath hitched as he pushed through the crowd, everyone’s eyes briefly on him as he fled.

He burst out the door into the cool night, gasping like he’d just run a marathon. The city stretched out before him in blurry streaks.

Megumi didn’t even glance back when he heard the rooftop door creak open. It was probably Yuuji about to hype him up or Nobara teling him to just give up.

His hands were stuffed in his pockets, pacing slowly, jaw tight. His voice came out before he could think.

“I know you’re gonna say I’m being stupid,” he muttered. “But just… let me say it.”

He exhaled through his nose, pacing a little faster now, eyes fixed on the ground.

“I like her. I like Y/N so much I feel like I’m losing my mind over it.”

His voice was low, rushed, desperate in a way he didn’t know how to shut off.

“She’s not even doing anything. She’s just... existing! And it’s like that alone is enough to screw me up.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, still walking.

“She’s kissed people, dated people. Guys who are funny, loud, good at dancing. I can’t even talk to her half the time without sounding like I forgot how words work.”

His breath caught, but he pushed through it.

“And I know she probably doesn’t see me like that. I know I’m the guy in the background. The serious one. The boring one. The one who ran away when some random girl danced on him like a damn idiot, like she saw that, and I still haven’t recovered. How could I recover it was a minute ago?!”

He stopped, running both hands down his face.

“But I like her anyway,” he said quietly. “Even if it hurts. Even if I’m not what she wants. I just… I can’t turn it off.”

Silence.

He let out a shaky breath. “You don’t have to say anything, Yuuji. I know.”

Then, very softly, a voice that was not Yuuji’s.

“You’re an idiot.”

Megumi froze.

He turned.

You were standing there. Just a few feet away, arms crossed, a soft, almost stunned smile tugging at your lips.

His stomach dropped.

You raised an eyebrow. “Did you really just rant about liking me to my face?”

He opened his mouth. No sound came out.

You took a slow step closer. “You said you like me so much it’s messing you up?”

“I-” He blinked hard. “I thought you were… Yuuji…”

“Yeah, no,” you said, almost laughing. “Not even close.”

His ears were burning.

“I am gonna go throw myself off this roof.”

You smiled.

“You could,” you giggled, “or you could listen to me say I like you too.”

His head snapped up.

“I’ve liked you for a while, actually,” you said gently. “I didn’t think you liked me back. I figured I was too loud, too much for you… and you were always just so quiet around me. I thought you didn’t like me.”

“I’m quiet because of you,” he muttered, eyes still wide. “You short-circuit my brain.”

You laughed, and something about the sound broke the tension in his chest completely.

“I think you’re kind of perfect,” you smiled.

He blinked again.

“And I think we should go back downstairs before Nobara starts throwing chairs looking for us.”

He stepped forward, slower now. Still stunned.

“So… this means we’re-?”

“You haven’t even asked me yet, Fushiguro.”

He hesitated. Swallowed hard.

“Would you… wanna go out with me?”

You beamed.

“Yeah. I really would.”

And then, casually, like you weren’t sending him into cardiac arrest, you leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.

His entire system rebooted.

“See you down there,” you said, turning for the door like nothing happened. “Save a dance for me!”

Megumi just stood there, one hand slowly lifting to touch his cheek.

“…what the hell is happening..” and yet he grinned.

[imtaashu]

Invisible String🪡

Inspired by: “Invisible String” – Taylor Swift

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Setting: Post-Endgame, modern-day Brooklyn

Summary: You’ve always believed in fate, but Bucky never did—until he starts noticing all the invisible threads that led him straight to you.

Genre: Soft fluff, fate, slow burn warmth, soulmates-vibe

Word Count: ~1.3k

Author Notes✍️ : this one is like a warm cup of tea with your name on it. i wrote this with taylor’s lyrics echoing in my heart and bucky’s soul tangled in gold thread. ☁️🩷

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“Time, curious time / gave me no compasses, gave me no signs…”

But somehow, it led him here…

Bucky never used to believe in fate.

Not after Hydra. Not after the Winter Soldier. Not after everything that taught him the world was chaos and survival was coincidence.

But then he met you Or—maybe he didn’t meet you. Maybe he always knew you.

Maybe it was a thousand little things pulling him toward you across years and cities and silence.

Like an invisible string.

Tied from his heart to yours.

⸻

It starts with something stupid.

You hand him a book in the common room one afternoon. He flips it open and finds his own name underlined on page 17.

“What the hell?” he asks.

You laugh. “That’s from years ago. Before I even knew you. I used to highlight characters with names I liked.”

His name. His.

He doesn’t say anything, but later, he folds the page corner down like a secret.

⸻

Then it’s music.

You hum exactly the same melody he used to whistle as a kid. One day, he stops you mid-hum and stares.

“What?” you laugh.

“Where’d you learn that song?”

You shrug “I don’t know. My grandma used to sing it to me.”

His grandma did too.

⸻

“Do you believe in fate?” you ask him once, lying with your head in his lap on the fire escape, city lights flickering below.

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t think it’s kind of crazy? That out of every coffee shop in Brooklyn, I picked the one you were hiding in that day?”

“You were loud,” he mutters.

“You were grumpy.”

“You ordered your coffee wrong and then said ‘oops’ like it was cute.”

You grin. “You remembered.”

He looks down at you. Soft. Barely breathing.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I remember everything about you.”

⸻

There are photos now.

Polaroids tucked into his wallet. One in his book. Another under his pillow, where he swears you’ll never find it. (You do. You smile. You don’t say anything.)

He gets clingier the more time passes.

Not possessive. Just grateful.

Like he can’t believe the universe handed him something good and is just waiting to take it back.

⸻

One night, he’s quiet. Too quiet.

You trace circles on the metal of his arm. “What’s going on in that head?”

He shakes his head. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

He hesitates. Then finally, softly “I think I’ve loved you forever. I just didn’t know your name yet.”

You stop breathing. And then you kiss him.

Not like a first kiss.

Like a memory.

Like coming home.

⸻

You both start collecting little threads.

Literal ones.

You find a gold string in a bookstore binding and tie it around your wrist. He notices. Doesn’t say anything—but you wake up the next morning and there’s a matching string on his.

“No one’s gonna believe how soft you are,” you tease.

“Good,” he says. “I’m not soft for anyone else.”

⸻

Sometimes he stares at you like you’re not real.

Not in a weird way. In a stars are real and so are you kind

One day you catch him whispering something to himself after you walk away from the kitchen.

“What was that?” you ask.

He clears his throat. Shrugs “I just… I think maybe the string showed up because I finally stopped running from where it was trying to take me.”

You blink. “You mean… me?”

He nods. His voice is barely a whisper.

“You.”

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🏷️ tagging - @surebutwhy 🤟🏻

───────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─────────

wanna be tagged in all the clingy!bucky chaos and emotional destruction? tell me and i got you ⛓️‍💥♥️

[rainrot4me]

your girl dad jeff post has got me in a chokehold!!! /pos

i was wondering if you would be willing to maybe do girl dad brian or tim too? :]

Hehehehehheeh I love what I’ve started.

── .✦

Masky’s girl. The daughter of a man who speaks in grunts and violence but melts at the sound of “Daddy.”

“You okay, baby?” It’s the phrase he says the most. Doesn’t matter if she fell off the swings or got overwhelmed in the grocery store—Masky’s immediately crouched beside her, gently gripping her little face in his scarred hands, eyes searching hers with that quiet intensity only she can handle.

“Use your words. What do you need from me?” He listens. Every time. Always.

He reads to her in a low, gravelly voice, one arm wrapped around her like a steel cable while she curls up under his jacket.

Doesn’t matter what the book is—fairy tale, adventure, bedtime story—he treats it like sacred ritual. If she interrupts to ask a question, he stops and explains it like it’s the most important thing he’s ever been asked.

“The bear’s not mean, sweetheart. He’s just scared, like people get sometimes.”

She gets night terrors, and you don’t even have to call him. Masky’s already in her room before she fully wakes up, sitting at her side and running a thumb over her brow until she calms.

“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Breathe for me, baby.”

You catch him on the couch watching her sleep sometimes, completely still. Mask half-on, eyes hollow—but there’s that crack in his armor when he brushes her hair back and whispers, “You make all of this worth it.”

First time she cries because of someone at school? He doesn’t say a word. Just kisses her temple and walks out of the house for a few hours. (You know he didn’t hurt anyone… but he definitely scared their shit straight.)

His biggest fear is losing her. So he teaches her self-defense like it’s another form of love. “You aim for the throat. You run. You don’t freeze, you hear me?”

The day she asks him why he wears a mask around strangers, he just sighs and lifts her into his lap. “Because I’m scared people will look at me wrong. But you never do.”

She hugs him tighter. Tells him he doesn’t need it. He doesn’t take it off yet—but he lets her see him. You two are the only people he doesn’t mind not putting up a shield for.

Every drawing she makes of “Daddy” gets pinned to the kitchen fridge. Even the ones where he has three teeth and giant bug eyes. “She nailed the hair though,” he mutters.

He would rip this world apart piece by piece if it ever got too close to her, no matter what.

── .✦

Hoodie’s sweetheart. The only thing in this godforsaken world that keeps him human.

Hoodie is the kind of dad who doesn’t talk a lot, but who watches everything. He knows exactly when she’s about to cry—before she even realizes it. He notices when she’s off, when she lies about being okay, when she drops a crayon because she’s tired.

“…C’mere, bug.” He’ll just pull her into his lap without a word and hold her there. Calm heartbeat. Gloved hand stroking her back.

She always calls him “Daddy,” even when she’s older. He pretends to be annoyed about it, but it makes his throat tight every time.

“Still my little girl, huh?” He says it like a joke. She knows it’s not.

He teaches her how to use a camera before she can even spell the word. She wanders the backyard with an old Polaroid in hand, taking shaky, blurry photos—and Brian keeps every single one.

There’s a box in his room labeled “Her Eyes.” It’s sacred. No one touches it.

Hoodie is terrifying when someone hurts her. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just suddenly gone for a few hours. The school bully never bothers her again. His teacher gets real quiet when Hoodie shows up for parent meetings.

One time, a neighbor made her cry—Brian just stood on their porch the next morning, silent, unmoving, hoodie up, until the man closed his blinds and never spoke again.

She always puts stickers on his gear. His gloves, his boots, even his spare mask. You catch him brushing one off his sleeve once—and then peeling it off carefully and sticking it to the corner of his laptop instead. “She said that one looked like me. I’ll keep it.”

When she falls asleep on him? Hoodie freezes. Like he’s afraid any movement will wake her. He leans his head against hers, tucks her close, and finally… lets himself breathe. You swear he sleeps better those nights.

She grows up soft, but sharp. Independent. And Hoodie is ferociously proud of that.

“That’s my girl,” he says when she stands up for someone.

“That’s my girl,” when she bandages his hand after a job.

“That’s my girl,” when she hugs him for no reason.

His girl forever and always.

꩜ .ᐟ

[mylovesstuffs]

OT13 reaction to their s/o saying “You’d be such a good dad” randomly

Request: CELESTE hiihihi! I have an idea! What do you think svt Ot13 would react to you saying like, "you'd be such a good dad" 😍✨🤡🕊️😔💀😍😔💀😍💀😔🥺 AHHHHHHH. THANK YOUUUUU GIRLLL

A/N: my heart <333 when will they have kids? 🥺 They'll be such good dads!!!

He’s blushing so hard omg he might combust — Seungcheol, Jeonghan, Mingyu

He wasn’t expecting it. You caught him totally off guard, and now he’s smiling like he just won the lottery. He laughs nervously but there’s sooooo much warmth behind it. He starts imagining it: holding a tiny baby, teaching them to play soccer or read. He squeezes your hand and says, “If I’m anything like you, I’d try my best.” You can feel his heart melting right there.

Smiles and gets thoughtful — Wonwoo, Woozi, Minghao

He takes a moment before answering, eyes distant like he’s picturing a future he hasn’t allowed himself to fully see yet. “I hope so.” There’s a hint of vulnerability in his voice so he might not say much, but you know that’s a big deal. Later, he’ll bring it up maybe while you’re watching a family movie or passing by a playground and say, “You really think I’d be a good dad? That means a lot.” You’ll feel the weight of his dreams and worries all at once at that moment.

He tries to be funny but it’s so sweet — Dokyeom, Seungkwan, Vernon

“Oh, absolutely! I’ll be the coolest dad.” He grins wide, nudging you. “But only if you’re the mom.” He’ll joke around, but you can see the pride in his eyes. It’s clear he wants that future even if he doesn’t say it outright. Sometimes, he’ll tease you by pretending to ‘practice’ being a dad with stuffed animals.

Gets shy and awkward but loves it — Jun, Hoshi, Dino

He fidgets, scratches the back of his neck, and looks anywhere but at you. “Me? Dad?” He repeats it like it’s a foreign concept but the corners of his mouth twitch up. He might change the subject quickly, but you know he’s thinking about it and is just shy 😂🥹 Sometimes he’ll bring it up later, half-joking, half-serious, “you really think I’d be good at it? I’d better start practicing…”

He’s already imagining names and baby clothes — Joshua

His eyes light up like you just handed him a treasure map. “What if we have twins? Or a little troublemaker?” He grins, excited and full of ideas — names, personalities, even the kind of dad jokes he’d tell. “I’d want to teach them everything. Maybe I’d even teach them how to play guitar and sunday morning rain is falling~.” His warmth fills the space around you, and you can tell this isn’t just playful talk, but he’s dreaming of a future with you. He gets a little carried away, but it’s the cutest thing ever. Him being a dad, is his dream.

[beaviu]

wrong table, right person .𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ — sjy

⋆˚꩜｡ 003 :: mr basic

ʚଓ m.list — prev — next

synopsis . ❀ ݁ ˖ yn finally agrees to a blind date to finally shut her bffs up about her tragic dating life. Dressed to impress but armed with zero expectations, she arrives at a café, scans the room, and sits across from a guy who checks every box: handsome yet cute, and surprisingly sarcastic in a way that keeps her on her toes. Only one problem: he’s not her date. Jake, a schools heartthrob laying low not to be caught by his fan girls, is just trying to enjoy a quiet cup of coffee when a stranger slides into the seat across from him and starts talking like they know each other. Intrigued — and a little bored — he plays along. What starts as a mistaken identity turns into a full-blown accidental date. And when yn finally realizes her mixup… she walks away mortified. But Jake? He can’t stop thinking about her. Now he’s determined to find her again — without revealing who he really is. As fate (or nosy mutual friends) brings them back together, their story becomes anything but accidental. Because sometimes, love finds you at the wrong table — at exactly the right time.

As yn stepped into the café, the rich scent of freshly brewed coffee enveloped her, immediately grounding her in the cozy atmosphere. Her eyes scanned the room until she saw a guy who could potentially be her future boyfriend, sitting down alone cap on and head down on his phone

Approaching the table, she noticed the empty seat across from him.

“Hey, Intak, right?” she asked with a shy smile.

Jake looked up from his phone, his cap blocking his view and the top half of his face “i think you—“ but before he could finish, the barista’s voice cut in, calling out his order number.

“Oh, you already ordered?” yn said, a little flustered. “Was I that late? I'm so sorry.”

Jake stood up, waving off her apology. “No, it’s fine. I’ll just grab it real quick.”

As he walked toward the pickup counter, he couldn’t help but glance back at the girl now settling into the seat across from where he'd been. Something about her—maybe the way she looked around with quiet curiosity or the slight smile still on her lips—made him suddenly okay with this unexpected meetup.

Walking back with his drink in hand, Jake spots yn sitting at the table, eyes glued to her phone, fingers flying across the screen.

“Hey,” he says, raising an eyebrow as he sits down, “everything alright?”

yn glances up, her expression shifting quickly into a sheepish smile. “Yeah, sorry—my friends are being annoying as usual”

Jake chuckles, lifting his cup. “i understand that”

yn nods silently then asks “what’d you order?”

“oh an iced americano”

She raises an eyebrow, teasing. “Wow. Basic.”

jake gasps, clutching his chest theatrically. “Basic?! Excuse you, this is the superior drink. Sophisticated. Timeless.”

yn laughs, shaking her head. “Okay, Mr. Basic, whatever you say.”

Jake grins, watching her for a moment before saying, more softly, “You know… you have a really pretty smile.”

Her laughter slowly fades as her cheeks flush with color, and she opens her mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. “I—” Jake quickly leans back, eyes wide. “Shit, sorry. That was too sudden, wasn’t it?”

“No!” she blurts, voice higher than intended. “I mean—no, it’s fine. Just… unexpected.”

There’s a beat of silence, but it’s not awkward—just warm. Comfortable.

He takes a sip of his drink, eyes still on her and breaks the silence. “So... you gonna tell me your not-so-basic order, or is it a top-secret recipe?”

“I don’t know…do you really deserve to know?” yn teases, her eyes glinting mischievously.

Jake raises an eyebrow, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “Wow, fine,” he sighs dramatically.

yn chuckles, then stands up. “Let me order it first, and then I’ll show you a visual representation,” she says, flashing him a smile before heading over to the counter.

The café’s quieter now, so she waits for a few minutes, picks up her order, and walks back to Jake. “Sorry for keeping you waiting,” she says, an exaggerated pout on her face. Then, with a proud grin, she holds up her matcha latte like she’s unveiling a trophy. “But look at my glorious baby!”

Jake eyes the drink, nodding appreciatively. “I’ll admit, it does look pretty good.”

yn laughs, her eyes twinkling with amusement as she offers him a sip. “Wanna try it? I promise you, it’s the drink of champions.”

Jake grins, shaking his head. “Nah, it’s fine. My iced Americano is superior.”

yn gasps, putting a hand to her chest in mock outrage. “No way! My drink outshines yours in every way!”

Jake rolls his eyes with a playful grin, then decides to switch things up. “Alright, random question. What’s your favorite color?”

yn chuckles, clearly amused. “Navy blue, I guess?”

Jake raises an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth twitching in a teasing smile. “Hmm, navy blue. Interesting... You’re a uni student, right?”

yns expression shifts, slightly suspicious. “Yeah, I am. Why? You’re not gonna sell my info on the dark web, are you? I’m starting to get worried now.”

“oh cmon i would never do that to you” jake says batting his eyes playfully. yn rolls her eyes playfully “please you just met me”

After about 20 minutes of easy conversation, filled with lighthearted jokes and shared interests, yns phone suddenly starts buzzing incessantly. Jake glances at it, eyebrows raised, and chuckles. "I think you might want to check that? Seems like it’s blowing up."

YN lets out a sigh, a bit embarrassed, and smiles sheepishly. "I’m so sorry, I have no idea why they’re all blowing up my phone. One second let me hop into the ladies room!" she rushes to the bathroom and opens her phone to see a spam of messages from the gc all spamming her name.

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹ `✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹ `✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹ `✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹ `✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹ `✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹ `✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹ `✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ authors note — hehehhehe nd the plot thickens! sorry for the shitty writing I’m still kinda rusty it’s been awhile 💔

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ taglist — @astrobebba @rikchic @zoe1love @t1iqaa @enhanoa @yuyita-rosier @smolderingoasislegion @synamon @blvengene @urfavmelaninatedgeminii @cupidmiyu @naevisringring @swiftcityy @luhvletters @sumzysworld @w3willris3 @skepvids @enhastolemyheart @kimuranirisi @rairaiblog @teenagecheesecakereview @kuroosluthoe @firstclassjaylee

[pittsick]

JJ MAYBANK WHEN HE... EATS YOU OUT.

JJ doesn’t just eat pussy — he feasts. Like he’s been starving for days, like it’s something holy to him, like he was made for it. The first time he gets between your thighs, he jokes about it (“hope you got a lifeguard on duty, baby, ‘cause I’m about to drown in you”), but the second his mouth is on you, he shuts up. And stays quiet for maybe the first five seconds. Then he’s moaning into your cunt like he’s high off you.

He's messy. You learn that fast. JJ’s not a clean, precise kind of lover. His tongue drags through you slow and deep, his nose nuzzling right into your clit while he licks into you like he can’t get enough. He likes sucking — hard, wet, loud. Slurping sounds echoing off the walls while he holds your thighs open like you might try to run. Spoiler: you do try. Your hips jolt, your legs tremble, but he just laughs into your cunt and keeps going.

“Where you goin’, huh?” he grins, chin glistening, lips swollen. “You said you could handle me.”

He doesn’t stop until you’re begging. Not to come — to breathe. JJ holds you down with both hands, spreading your thighs and licking until your clit’s puffy, until you’re twitching, until your hands are fisting the sheets or his hair (he loves that—says it makes him harder when you tug his curls, like you’re trying to punish him for being so fucking good at it).

And he is good. Not because of any porn moves, but because he’s obsessed. JJ pays attention. He watches how your body moves when he circles left, when he flicks fast, when he sucks slow. He’ll murmur against you, “Yeah? You like that, angel?” or “You’re so wet, fuck—tastes so good, swear to God,” and you can feel him smiling against you when you moan in response.

JJ’s the type to grind the bed while he’s going down on you. He gets that turned on just from eating you out. Sometimes he hums into you, all casual, like he’s trying to show off how much he loves this. Other times, he bites—soft, mean, playful. A little scrape of teeth right near your thigh before he soothes the spot with his tongue.

“Mine,” he mutters into your skin when you come. “All fuckin’ mine.”

And if you try to squirm away after? Good luck. JJ’ll hook your thighs over his shoulders and start over, kissing your clit like an apology before diving back in. He’ll spend the whole night between your legs if you let him. Hell, even if you don’t, he’ll convince you.

Afterward, he’s smug as hell, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and kissing your inner thigh like a gentleman. Then he glances up with that cocky smile and goes:

“Can I see if you taste sweeter the second time?”

[cowboylikemac]

THE WAITING GAME || J.P

a/n: i am honestly not sure how to feel about this but if you love it, i’ll end up loving it. Honestly its giving jeff buckley’s yearning.

summary: James Potter touches you like it means nothing. You feel it like it means everything. Best friends caught in the in-between. Too close to be casual, too scared to be honest. It’s all glances that linger too long, hands that almost hold, and words neither of you are brave enough to say. But how long can you keep waiting for someone who’s already halfway yours?

including: Slow emotional, mutual pining, angst, no explicit content or character death

word count: 2k+

James Potter always touches you like it means nothing.

An arm slung over your shoulder. A hand on your arm when he’s laughing too hard at Sirius. His chin on your shoulder as he reads your Herbology notes upside down. You’ve learned to breathe through it. To pretend your skin doesn’t buzz every time he’s close.

You’re best friends. You don’t ruin that.

But it’s hard.

Especially when he curls up next to you on the Gryffindor common room couch and falls asleep halfway through some dull Astronomy chapter you offered to read out loud. His head is on your chest, soft snoring, lips slightly parted. You don’t dare move.

You also don’t sleep.

You stare at the ceiling for two hours and wonder if he hears how fast your heart beats when he’s this close.

⸻

You get good at hiding it.

The longing. The way you look for him in every hallway, laugh a little louder when he’s nearby. The way you watch his hands, his long fingers, calloused knuckles, a freckle on his middle knuckle you once counted just to distract yourself.

He talks about girls sometimes. You pretend not to care.

“You think Smith likes me?” he asks one afternoon, sprawled on your bed eating half your chocolate stash.

You shrug. “Probably. You’re loud. People notice loud.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Do I?” you joked.

He throws a pillow at you. You throw it back.

⸻

One morning, he’s already at your table in the library when you arrive. There’s an extra quill waiting for you, your favorite fruit chews, and a note folded in half.

“Thought you’d forget your stuff. You always do.”

You roll your eyes but keep the note.

You tuck it in your pocket and read it again three times during History of Magic.

He never mentions it.

⸻

Sixth year feels heavier.

He’s taller. His voice is deeper. Lily Evans finally starts looking at him the way he’s always looked at her. It makes your stomach twist.

You hate that you see it. That he doesn’t seem to care as much anymore. Or maybe he’s just tired of waiting for her, the same way you’re tired of waiting for him.

You sit beside him in Transfiguration and pretend it doesn’t mean anything when your knees touch.

You lend him your scarf one day when he forgets his. He forgets to give it back for a week. When he does, it smells like him.

⸻

You tell yourself you’re fine with this.

This limbo. This almost.

He doesn’t say anything, and neither do you.

Because how could you? What would you even say?

“I think about kissing you every time you lean too close.”

or something even better

“I feel like I’m falling in love with someone who thinks of me like a place to rest, not stay.”

You’d sound crazy. Mental.

But worst of all— you’d lose him.

So you smile. Laugh. Let him get close, but never close enough.

You wait. And wait. And wait.

⸻

It changes one night in November.

It’s late. Past curfew. You’re both on the Quidditch pitch, lying in the middle of the grass after James dragged you out for “fresh air and perspective,” whatever that means.

You’re lying side by side, his fingers close to yours. Not touching. Just close enough to feel the warmth radiating like a furnace.

He sighs. “Everything feels like it’s moving too fast lately.”

You glance at him. “What do you mean?”

“I dunno. Lily. School. Life. Everything feels like it’s on the edge of changing and I can’t tell if that’s a good thing.”

You chew your lip. “Maybe it is.”

He turns his head toward you. “What if I don’t want it to change?”

You look at him.

And you say the bravest thing you’ve ever said “Then tell it to stay.”

James blinks.

You keep going, even though your chest feels like it’s caving in. “Sometimes… I feel like I’m standing still and everything else is moving on without me.”

He’s quiet.

And then he whispers, “Mine doesn’t move without you.”

You stare at him. His voice is low. Vulnerable. Like he’s saying more than he knows how to say.

“James—”

“I think about it,” he says suddenly. “Us. Sometimes.”

Your heart stutters. “Oh.”

He laughs softly. “That’s all you’ve got?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “That you think about it too.”

You look down. “I think about it all the time.”

He’s still. Like he’s scared to move, scared it’ll break whatever moment this is.

But then he reaches out — slowly — and takes your hand.

Just that.

Not a kiss. Not a confession.

Just your hand in his.

And somehow, that’s everything.

⸻

After that night, nothing’s different.

And yet everything is.

He still jokes. Still ruffles your hair. Still falls asleep beside you with a book open in his lap. But now, his fingers find yours under the table. His arm lingers around your waist longer than it should. And when he smiles at you, it’s softer.

You still don’t talk about it.

Neither of you are ready.

But when you see Lily Evans look at him and he doesn’t look back, you feel something loosen in your chest.

You’re still waiting.

But it feels different now.

Like maybe — finally — he’s waiting too.

⸻

(James POV)

James Potter doesn’t know when it started.

Maybe it was fourth year, when you cursed Mulciber for hexing his broom and then shrugged it off like it was nothing.

Or maybe it was fifth, when you fell asleep on his shoulder in the library and slightly drooled on his robes and he didn’t even care.

Or maybe it was always there — this quiet ache that sat low in his chest every time you laughed and it wasn’t at something he said.

He doesn’t know.

He just knows it’s getting harder to ignore.

⸻

You’ve always been his soft spot.

He thinks he hides it well. He teases you like he teases Sirius. Shoves your shoulder in the hall.

But he notices things about you that he doesn’t notice about anyone else.

You chew your lip when you’re nervous, even though it annoys you. You hate coffee but drink it every morning needing anything to wake up. You sleep on your side, always facing the wall. You pretend not to care when people hurt you, but you always go quiet after.

He notices.

He wishes he didn’t.

⸻

When he talks about other girls, he watches you.

He doesn’t mean to — he just does.

Watches how your jaw tenses, how your eyes flick down, how you suddenly start organizing your bag like it’s the most urgent thing in the world.

And every time, he feels like the worst person alive.

Because he wants your attention, but not like this. Not through jealousy. Not through hurt.

But if he asked you — really asked you — what would you say?

⸻

He dreams about you sometimes.

He never tells anyone, obviously. Not Sirius. Not Remus. Definitely not you.

But they’re not always romantic. Sometimes you’re just… there. Laughing in the rain. Sitting on the Quidditch stands. Reading upside down with your foot tapping against his knee.

But sometimes, it’s more.

Sometimes, it’s your hand in his, your lips against his throat, your voice in the dark saying his name.

He always wakes up sweating.

⸻

When he finds you on the Quidditch pitch that night, something in him unravels.

He doesn’t plan on saying anything. Just wanted to be near you. That’s always been enough.

But the way you look at him — like you see him, not the version he pretends to be which only makes it harder to lie.

He says everything without saying anything.

“Everything’s changing.”

“I don’t want it to.”

“I think about us.”

And then your hand in his.

Just that.

It should’ve been too small to mean anything.

But it feels like the start of something he’s been running from for years.

⸻

He doesn’t kiss you.

Not because he doesn’t want to — but because he wants it to mean more than almost.

He wants to be sure. Not of you — he’s always been sure of you. But of himself. Of the version of him that’s not just the Quidditch captain or the loudest in the room or the idiot pining after Lily Evans.

He wants to be the version of him that’s worthy of your attention.

And maybe — just maybe — that version is already here.

⸻

Every time you’re near him after that, his whole body feels wired.

Like if you touched him for one second too long, he’d combust.

He doesn’t tell you this.

He lets his hand brush yours under the table. Lets his fingers rest on your knee when no one’s watching. Lets his shoulder bump yours when he sits beside you, like he can’t stand the inch of air between your bodies.

Because he can’t.

But he still doesn’t kiss you.

Not yet.

Not until you look at him like you know.

Not until he’s brave enough to say the thing he’s never said

“It’s always been you.”

⸻

(Readers POV)

It starts with a glance.

You’re in the corridor, laughing with Marlene, and James is passing by. He looks over his shoulder like he always does, like he’s checking you’re still there. Like he can’t help it.

But then Lily catches up to him and links their arms.

He doesn’t look back.

You laugh a little too loud after that.

Marlene notices. She doesn’t say anything.

⸻

Later that night, you’re curled in a chair by the fire, pretending to read. James flops beside you with a sigh and that familiar look — one part affection, one part restlessness.

“Evans thinks I’ve been distant,” he says.

You don’t look up. “Have you?”

He shrugs. “Dunno. Maybe.”

You flip a page. You haven’t read a single sentence.

“Do you want to be with her?” you ask, and it sounds calm, but your knuckles are white on the book spine.

James hesitates. “I thought I did.”

You nod, like it doesn’t cost you anything. “Well. Let me know when you figure it out.”

You stand.

He grabs your wrist.

“Wait—what does that mean?”

You don’t answer. You just look at him — really look — and see it: the confusion, the fear, the same ache you’ve been carrying all year.

“You don’t get to hover near me forever, James,” you whisper. “You don’t get to want me halfway.”

Then you walk away.

⸻

( James’s POV )

She’s pulling away. He can feel it.

Not all at once — no, that would be easier. But piece by piece. The long looks become quick glances. The silence between them stops feeling comfortable.

He misses her in the small ways first.

Misses how she always passed him a sugar quill when he fidgeted. How she said “you’re fine” every time he doubted himself — not in the loud, Gryffindor way everyone else did, but in a quiet, real way that actually worked.

He misses her voice.

He misses her attention.

But he doesn’t say anything.

Because saying something makes it real. And if it’s real, it can break.

⸻

Sirius elbows him one day in the courtyard. “You’re brooding. Stop.”

“I’m not brooding,” James mutters, lying badly.

“You look like you’ve just been dumped.”

James doesn’t reply.

Sirius raises a brow. “Wait—did you? Did you and Y/N—?”

“There was no me and Y/N,” James snaps.

But the words taste wrong in his mouth.

Because maybe there was. Just in a way he never had the guts to name.

⸻

That night, he finds her by the lake.

She doesn’t look surprised.

“I figured you’d show up eventually,” she says.

He runs a hand through his hair. “Can we talk?”

She stays silent.

“Only if you stop pretending you don’t know how I feel.”

James stares.

“I’ve loved you since fifth year,” she says flatly. “And I’ve waited. And waited. And you’ve spent every second dancing around it like it might ruin your perfect little world if you say something real.”

James feels like the wind’s been knocked out of him.

“I never wanted to ruin what we have,” he says.

“Well, you did anyway,” she says. “Congratulations.”

He steps closer. “That’s not fair.”

“No?” Her voice cracks. “You don’t get to hold my hand like it means something and then tell people you’re not sure how you feel.”

James opens his mouth. Closes it.

“I wanted you to say something first,” she says quietly. “Just once. I wanted it to be you.”

Silence.

Then James says, hoarse, “I think about kissing you every time I’m near you.”

She goes still.

“I think about how you smell like cinnamon and ink, and how you laugh when you think no one’s listening, and how I started waiting for you at breakfast even when I wasn’t sure why.”

He exhales. “I’ve been in love with you so quietly for so long I didn’t even realize it until I thought I lost you.”

She swallows. “Then why didn’t you say something?”

“Because I’m terrified,” he says. “But I’m more terrified of never trying.”

A painfully long pause.

Then, finally, she whispers, “Say it.”

“What?”

“Say it. Like you mean it.”

He steps forward. Takes her face in both hands.

I’m in love with you,” James says. “Not just in the way people say it. I mean in the way where you’re the first person I look for in every room. The one I can’t stop thinking about, even when I’m trying not to.

Then he kisses her.

And she kisses him back.

It’s not soft. It’s not careful. It’s everything they’ve held back for years pouring out all at once.

It tastes like relief. Like maybe they were always heading here.

Like they were always going to break just to fall into each other.

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a/n: i wrote this a 6 in the morning…i am running on fumes

tags: @lydiascabinsix @lydiasfalling @laufeysvalentine

[goddamnitmahtin]

All in Your Head

(a dc x dp au)

Bruce: *shaking Harley’s hand* Thanks for coming to see me on short notice.

Harley: It’s no problem. I didn’t have plans today.

Bruce: *leads her to the sitting area, sitting in an armchair*

Harley: *sits across from him* What’s going on Bruce? Is it system stuff? I thought you all were doing pretty okay last session. All things considered.

Bruce: I thought so too but…. I found another voice or alter I guess? And I don’t know when he got here. If he’s been here the whole time or if maybe I got stressed out and split? I dunno.

Harley: *nods* Both are possible… your split tolerance isn’t the best Bruce. What do you know about this new alter so far?

Bruce: He says his name is Danny and that he’s 15. *shrugs* I don’t know what he looks like. Matches says that he looks the way we did in high school but sometimes he’s a ghost. I don’t even know what that means.

Harley: *writing down notes* So he’s a non human alter. This wouldn’t be the first one you’ve had.

Bruce: *thinking about the dark shadow person with bat ears that crawls around on the ceilings in headspace* I’m aware…

Harley: Is Danny close to front right now? Is there any way we can communicate with him?

Bruce: *trying to check* Um… no. But B is near front. He says he’s gonna look for him.

Harley: *smiles* Your gatekeeper is very responsible.

Bruce: *sighs* I do not know what I would do without that guy- I would not be able to handle our kids- *dissociates*

Harley: *waits patiently*

Bruce: *realizes someone is trying to switch* Gimme a second-

Harley: Take all the time you need.

*a few moments pass in silence*

Danny!Bruce: Someone asked for me?

Harley: *smiles, holding out a hand* I’m Doctor Harleen Quinzel. I am assuming you are Danny?

Danny!Bruce: *sits up excitedly* Oh my god lady- you gotta help me- I possessed this rich guy thinking I could lay low for a bit while my core healed but now I’m stuck in here and there’s like a lot of dudes in here and some sort of bat shadow thing? It’s scary as fuck- I just wanna go home-

Harley: *calming voice* It’s okay Danny. You are probably a little confused about your situation.

Danny!Bruce: *groans, his face in his hands* I just wanna go home…

Harley: *assuming Danny is talking about false memories* Why don’t you tell me a little bit about that? What you remember before joining the headspace?

Danny!Bruce: I live in Amity Park. It’s a pretty secluded area. I have a mom and dad and a sister named Jazz. I’ve got two best friends, Sam and Tucker. Literally where am I right now- because this isn’t Amity Park.

Harley: You are in a city called Gotham.

Danny!Bruce: Fucking Gotham!? Holy Cheerios, no wonder this guy’s brain is so weird…. This place is practically as volatile as Amity Park. This also explains the huge amounts of ecto in some of these kids-

Harley: *frowns* Ecto?

[sonarspace]

꥟ content. 18+. joel miller x reader. age gap kinda. nsfw. not proofread. an. haven’t written in a while so this might be all over the place… sorrryyyy & enjoy

you woke with a book resting against your cheek. the spine creaked as you sat up, one corner of the page folded beneath your skin, leaving a faint mark that would fade by the time you brushed your teeth. the room smelled like paint and leftover coffee. a lazy breeze drifted through the window and carried the summer with it.

there wasn’t much in your apartment. a single mattress on the floor, a wobbly secondhand table littered with sketchbooks, and a thrifted armchair that you kept meaning to reupholster. mornings always started like this, quiet, half-formed, the light still soft. you rubbed your face, then pushed your hair back and padded into the kitchen.

you worked part-time at a café on the corner. the rest of your days were spent in a small studio two blocks over, where a well-known local painter let you assist her with commissions and murals. her name was evelina. she had sharp grey eyes and paint under her nails, and once told you that if you weren’t exhausted at the end of the day, the art wasn’t honest.

the café opened at seven. you were there by six-thirty, apron tied, lights on, pulling chairs down from tables. he showed up five minutes later.

he was always the first. tall, with sun-dried skin and hair that curled slightly at his temples. older, maybe in his forties. he never said exactly. wore the same heavy work shirt most mornings and boots that tracked dust across the floor. his hands looked like they had lived another life before this one.

you poured his coffee before he reached the counter. black, no sugar. always paid in cash, folded in half, slid across the counter with a nod. he sat near the window. never stayed more than fifteen minutes. rarely spoke unless you did first.

you cleaned his table every morning. even if no one sat there after him. you started wiping down the window too, until it gleamed clear in the morning sun. it was the little corner of the café you wanted to make right. for him. he noticed. he always left a tip, folded neatly, large enough that it felt like a thank you.

some mornings, you asked about his work. landscaping, he had said once. mostly small gardens, fences, stone. he liked working alone. when you asked why he didn’t use gloves, he said the earth felt better bare. then, a little quieter, he mentioned how he used to sketch furniture. how he liked salvaging old pieces, wood that had been forgotten. said he was working on a few things in his garage. a bench made from floorboards. a table from a door. didn’t know if it would ever turn into something, but he liked the process. said it helped him think.

he asked about your art once. you told him a little. that you painted sometimes. that you helped evelina finish large murals, brushed color into corners too high for her on the ladder. he’d nodded slowly, like he was interested.

you started to notice him more. the way he kept his elbows close when sipping on his coffee. how he always sat in the same spot. how he didn’t like it when the place got too loud. you liked when it was just the two of you in that quiet hour. you liked how he always glanced at the light through the window, how his shoulders relaxed when it was a good morning.

you saw him outside the café sometimes, too. loading supplies into the back of a truck. carrying lumber over one shoulder. once, you watched him crouch to tie down a tarp, arms flexing beneath the rolled sleeves of his shirt, hands steady with rope. you thought about how those hands might feel on your skin. your face flushed hot and you looked away, pretending to busy yourself. when you glanced up again, he was looking at you

"morning," he said, tipping his head in greeting.

"morning," you managed. your voice caught a little in your throat.

he smiled at you softly before getting in his truck and driving away.

a few days later, you were heading home, trying to balance a large canvas under one arm and carry a pack of water and a tote bag filled with groceries digging into your shoulder. the canvas kept slipping, and the straps were biting into your skin. the heat didn’t help. it was the kind of thick, slow summer afternoon that made everything feel heavier.

you paused halfway up the street, shifting the weight, your fingers aching, and just as you were about to readjust your grip, the strain on your arm eased.

you turned and saw him there, one hand curling easily around the tote strap, the other lifting the water from your arms like it was nothing.

“i can help,” he said.

you blinked at him, a little breathless. “do you just… materialize when i’m struggling?”

he raised a brow. “you saying this is a regular thing?”

you huffed, cheeks warm. “only on days ending in y.”

he gave the smallest smile, the kind that barely curved the edge of his mouth. “lucky i was here, then.”

“what are you doing here?” you asked, falling into step beside him.

he nodded toward a white truck parked at the curb. “delivering a sofa. across the street.”

“you really don’t believe in second trips?” he asked, glancing sideways at you.

you smiled. he didn’t rush the walk. stayed close, shoulders square, the groceries slung over one shoulder and the pack of water steady in his hand. your fingers brushed once and neither of you pulled away.

“i live on the fourth floor with the elevators barely working. i barely believe in the first.”

he huffed a quiet laugh. the kind that barely left his chest but settled somewhere in yours. 

the stairs creaked under your steps. the hallway smelled like dust and someone else’s cooking. you reached your door and fumbled with the keys, the canvas leaning against your legs. he shifted the water to one arm, the bag in the other, like he wasn’t in any hurry.

“it’s not much,” you warned, pushing the door open.

“it’s…nice,” he said, looking around.

inside, the air was warm and soft with the smell of paint. your cat was already at the window, curled into the strip of sun that hit the floor just right this time of day. black fur gleaming, tail flicking once at the sight of someone new. he set the water down by the fridge and set the groceries on the small kitchen island.

“didn’t know you had a cat,” he said.

“you never asked,” you replied, toeing off your shoes.

“what happened to her paw?” 

you glanced over from where you were placing the canvas flat against the wall.

“i found her outside my door a few weeks ago. limping. pads were torn up, like she’d gotten caught in something. took her to the vet. she’s mostly fine now.”

he crouched to offer her a hand. she sniffed, then rubbed her cheek against his fingers.

“she likes you,” you said.

“that right?”

“she doesn’t like many people.”

“guess she’s got good taste.”

he stood slowly, his eyes moving across your apartment. the unfinished paintings leaned against the far wall. a few pages torn from your sketchbook were taped to the wall. there were brushes in a chipped ceramic cup by the window, a jar of murky water beside them.

he stepped toward one of the paintings. not the biggest. not the brightest. just a soft wash of color. ocean blues and sun-faded beige. not done yet.

he nodded at it. “i like this one.”

“it’s not finished.”

you watched him. the way he looked at it, then back at you with his eyes softened.

you sat on the edge of the mattress and reached for the water bottle you’d left there the night before. unscrewed the cap and took a slow sip. 

he was still by the painting, but his gaze drifted back to you.

“you free tomorrow night?” 

you swallowed. looked up.

“yeah,” you said.

he gave a small nod.

“dinner, maybe. i know a place down near the pier. nothing fancy. just good food.” 

you nodded back.

“okay.”

“i’ll pick you up at six?”

“okay.”

you didn’t say anything else for a moment. neither did he. the cat stretched, paws reaching into the sun. 

he glanced at his watch then, sighed quietly.

“should head out,” he said.

“okay.”

he walked toward the door, stopped before reaching for the handle. turned just slightly to face you again.

“i’ll see you tomorrow.”

“yeah,” you said. “see you then.”

then he was gone. the door clicking shut behind him.

you leaned back on your hands, eyes on the ceiling. your cheeks warming and turning a shade darker at the thought of spending a different time of the day with him.

he was picking you up at six. you spent most of the late afternoon cleaning your apartment, half-distracted. your cat watched from the windowsill as you changed into a simple strappy dress, something soft and light, easy for summer. the color reminded you of sea glass. you slipped on a pair of sandals and tied your hair back loosely, letting the strands fall where they wanted.

you were still adjusting your earrings when you heard the knock. when you opened the door, he was there with a small bouquet in one hand, the other resting in his pocket. the flowers weren’t anything fancy. stems wrapped in paper. wildflowers, mostly. a few sprigs of lavender tucked between them.

“these are for you,” he said, and your heart clenched a little.

“they’re beautiful,” you whispered, stepping aside to let him in.

he followed you to the kitchen while you reached for a jar. as you filled it with water and arranged the flowers, he crouched near the window where your cat had curled up. she blinked at him lazily, then let out a soft purr when his hand reached to stroke her fur. you smiled as he fed her one of the snacks you kept in a dish by the fridge.

the drive to the pier was smooth. the sky was that soft gold that only lasts twenty minutes. he rolled the windows down. the breeze carried in the smell of salt and the hush of waves. neither of you spoke much.

the place he picked was small, tucked beside a boarded-up bait shop. the menu was handwritten on a chalkboard. 

you ate by the window, the sea in view. he asked about your latest mural with evelina, and you asked about the table he’d been building. he said he was sanding it slowly, piece by piece, because machines stripped the wood of its story. said he liked when things took time. you told him you understood that. you liked when things revealed themselves slowly too.

after dinner, you walked along the pier. the sky had faded to a deeper blue, tinged with rose. the water below was calm. a few gulls floated in the distance, the sound of waves brushing against the dock. his hand brushed yours, then found it fully. your fingers fit together easily, like they’d done it a hundred times. you glanced at him, but he was still looking ahead. his jaw littered with brown scruff, touched with white near the edges.

you stopped near the edge of the railing. the ocean moved slow and silver beneath you. he turned to face you fully. his hand lifted slightly, like he wasn’t sure if he should touch your cheek or your hair, then settled at your neck. his palm was warm.

his thumb brushed the skin just below your ear and your pulse beat a little faster beneath his touch. you saw his eyes flicker there, just for a second.

then he leaned in and kissed you. slow, like the way the tide reaches the shore. like he had time. he tasted like salt and something like earth. like the smell of warm wood and sun on stone.

when you parted, both of you laughed softly. not nervously, just in that way people do when something clicks into place. you kept walking, hand in hand. the sky was getting darker now, colors folding into each other like sleep.

you were quiet for a while as he drove. he turned onto a quieter street, just a little away from the pier. parked beneath a streetlight where no one would bother you. the engine clicked as it cooled.

you looked at him, and he looked at you. his hand moved to your knee, fingers warm through the soft fabric of your dress. you leaned in without thinking, mouth catching his in a kiss that landed hotter than either of you expected.

it was wet. your lips parting quickly, his tongue brushing yours as you kissed him again and again, fast and messy and full of want. your breath caught when his hand moved to your thigh, pushing it up slowly, feeling the muscle there like he was memorizing the shape.

you climbed over, straddling him in the seat. your dress hitched up around your hips as he reached down and pulled a lever. the seat eased back with a soft click and you let out a small yelp at the shift. he chuckled under his breath, eyes flicking up to yours, but neither of you stopped. your hips slotting over his. your chest pressed to his, your fingers curling in the collar of his shirt.

his skin was hot under your fingers, sweat gathering at the back of his neck. he smelled like cedar and salt. when your mouth dragged across his jaw, his pulse jumped beneath your lips.

you shifted again, rolling your hips down against the bulge in his jeans. his hands gripped your waist, held you there tight.

“jesus,” he muttered, voice rough. “you tryna kill me?”

“do you have a condom?” your voice was soft but already breathless, your hand moving between your bodies.

he nodded, eyes heavy. “glove box.”

you reached for it, pulled out the foil packet with shaky fingers, handed it to him. he tore it open while you kissed down his neck, your mouth open and hot, tongue dragging along his skin.

he was already hard. thick and leaking in your hand. you helped him push his jeans low enough, watched as he rolled the condom on quickly, his hands only just steady.

then he looked up at you.

“c’mere.”

you shifted your hips and sank down slow. the stretch made you gasp, made your eyes flutter shut. he filled you so deep it left your mouth open and your hands clutching at his shirt again.

his jaw tensed, his hands sliding up your sides as you started to move. slow at first, letting yourself feel it. his hands found your thighs, held you steady while you rocked your hips over him.

“fuck, baby,” he said, voice all grit. “feel so good.”

the truck rocked faintly with the rhythm you found. your bodies moved together with the sound of slick skin and soft breath, the wet sounds of your pussy getting louder with every grind of your hips. he looked up at you like he couldn’t believe it. like you were something he’d dreamed about but hadn’t dared to touch until now.

you leaned forward and kissed him again. deeper this time. your tongue pushed into his mouth and you moaned his name against his lips.

“joel,” you whispered, almost begging.

his fingers dug into your ass. he thrust up into you, harder now, pushing you back until your spine arched and your hands scrambled for something to hold.

“that’s it,” he said, breath caught. “ride me. just like that.”

his hand came up to your chest, pulling one strap of your dress down and sucking your nipple into his mouth. you cried out. the feeling sharp and soft at once. his mouth was hot and hungry. your hips moved faster, chasing the edge already curling in your gut.

he pulled back just long enough to whisper, “you’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me.”

your orgasm hit fast, harder than you expected, the second his thumb found your clit and rubbed in tight, steady circles. your whole body arched into it. your moan broke open against his mouth, breath caught and spilling as you clenched hard around him. your nails dug into his shoulders, thighs trembling as the pleasure rolled through you. you gasped his name, voice cracking, and he kept going, fucking you through the high until you were shaking.

he cursed, held your hips down and drove up into you, hips jerking once, twice more. then he groaned, his head falling back against the seat as he came deep inside the condom. his whole body tensed under you.

you collapsed onto him, face against his neck. the heat of your skin pressed to his. the windows were fogged now, the air thick with salt and sweat and the warm smell of sex.

he rubbed slow circles on your back. kissed your shoulder. held you like he didn’t want you to move yet.

you stayed there, your legs still around his waist. your body limp. your heart beating loud.

he reached up and brushed your hair behind your ear. his thumb grazed your cheek. his voice was quiet.

“you okay?”

you smiled, still breathless. “yeah. are you?”

“better than okay.”

you kissed him again. slower this time. your bodies sticky with heat, your dress wrinkled around your waist.

you stayed like that a little longer. pressed together in the quiet of the truck. the outside world muted by steamed glass and the sound of your breath settling.

you didn’t want the night to end. not yet. not if it meant letting go of him.

but still, you knew. he’d be there again in the morning. first one at the café. waiting by the window where the sun came through.

[alicethenobody]

I think maybe one of the reasons Dante is so often misunderstood as a character is because he’s never written in just one specific way. I fee like different eras of the franchise have him act in different ways depending on where he is in his life.

In 3 he is often described as “A younger Dante who lacks the maturity DMC1 Dante had.” As he’s kind of a dick early on and doesn’t really care about much happening besides his beef with Vergil. That is until he gets his character development, of course. Dante’s Awakening has a double meaning because he awoke to his DT and awoke to justice like his father.

In 2 and the Madhouse anime we see a Dante who’s way more reserved and he can come across as cold sometimes, as he’d been dealing with grief and thought the only way to protect people was to be cold to them so they wouldn’t want anything to do with him. This is a trauma response to Nell, Grue, Jessica, and Vergil’s deaths (or “death” in Vergil’s case) in the Madhouse anime it’s implied he was kinda pushing away Lady and Trish for a while, with Trish being a little surprised he offered a place for her if she ever needed somewhere to stay. Thankfully this isn’t the case anymore starting with 4 where we see the trio hanging out and having fun.

Speaking of. 1, 4, and 5 Dante + multiple spinoffs or crossover media like PxZ, PGR, MvC, etc. We see him being warm and friendly to people. Compare how he interacts with Lucia in Before The Nightmare and DMC2, it’s honestly night and day.

So for me I see Dante’s default as a warm and friendly guy who’s also jokey but I mean friends joke with each other all the time so that’s an aspect of his friendliness. But might put on an act of coldness like he did in 2 and sometimes in the Madhouse anime if he deems it necessary. It’s really a show of how selfless he is, but too selfless, because he’s essentially hurting himself for the sake of others. He doesn’t believe he deserves happiness because he blames himself for things that aren’t his fault like the fact Nero didn’t have a father or the deaths of his loved ones. He’s clearly very lonely and doesn’t enjoy pushing people away.

This man needs therapy and hugs.