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solxamber · 7 months ago

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Holding Them and Not Letting Go with: Housewardens + Jamil

a little something before i go all in for the milestone events <3

Other parts: Vice Housewardens + Rollo, Neige ; First Years

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle goes bright red the second you wrap your arms around him, stiffening in your hold like he’s forgotten how to breathe. He tries to splutter something coherent—maybe a reminder about PDA rules, maybe a request to know what’s going on—but his voice gets tangled up, and all that comes out is a confused murmur.

You don’t let go, though. Instead, you squeeze him a little tighter, prompting him to look down at you, his eyes widening with soft confusion. “Is… Is something wrong?” he stammers, gently pressing his hand to your shoulder, trying to read your face.

“Nothing’s wrong,” you answer with a warm smile. “I just love you, Riddle. That’s all.”

For a moment, he’s frozen. Just love him? He feels his heart stumble, so unfamiliar with this kind of simple, generous affection. In his childhood, hugs were formal gestures, love was measured and conditional—a reward to be earned, rarely felt freely. But here, with you… you’re holding him because you want to, with nothing expected in return.

Slowly, Riddle’s hands find their way to your back, and he pulls you close with a tenderness that surprises even him. There’s a quiet ache in his chest, an overwhelming mix of joy and disbelief, like he’s filling up with something he never knew he was missing. He clings to you, unable to speak, as though afraid that words might shatter the beautiful warmth settling between you.

You both stay like this, tangled together in silence. In this simple embrace, Riddle feels more seen, more loved, than he ever has before. It’s a feeling he wants to hold onto forever—a happiness he never thought he’d be allowed to have. For the first time, he feels completely at peace.

Leona Kingscholar

You wrap your arms around Leona, your grip firm as if you’ve decided you’re never letting go. At first, he’s as stoic as ever, arching an eyebrow in mild confusion. “Oi, herbivore…what’s this all about?” he mutters, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

But when you stay silent, he lets out a chuckle, amused by your stubborn clinginess. “If you’re hoping to trap me, you might wanna try harder than that.”

After a few more moments, his teasing fades. You’re still holding him, your head resting against his chest, heartbeat steady against his. He tries to check if youre upset and realizes then that you’re not sad, nor do you seem upset; you’re simply content. When he starts to pull back to look at you, you give him a warm smile and quietly say, “I just…love you.”

The words wash over him, soft and simple yet deeply affecting. His expression shifts, from nonchalance to something much more vulnerable. To Leona, who’s spent much of his life overshadowed, unwanted, and fighting for recognition, the idea of being someone’s first choice feels like an impossibility.

And yet, here you are, holding onto him like he’s the only thing that matters. He swallows hard, not saying anything, but the look in his eyes says it all.

He finally allows his arms to come around you, drawing you in with more intensity than he’d probably ever admit aloud. His tail snakes around your waist in a protective loop, pulling you even closer, as if anchoring himself to you. “Don’t go getting mushy on me,” he mutters, trying to sound unaffected, but his grip tightens just a bit more.

But despite his usual attitude, he’s never felt this…full. Full of pride, full of warmth, full of something he’s struggled to admit he even wanted. And it’s all because of you, the one person who looked past his rough edges and stubborn exterior.

He chuckles softly, burying his face in your shoulder, whispering, “Guess you got yourself a lion for life, herbivore.”

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul is hunched over his desk, papers and ledgers strewn around him, eyebrows furrowed as he works late into the night. He’s so engrossed that he doesn’t even notice you approaching until you gently climb onto his lap, resting yourself against him without a word. His body goes rigid in surprise, the usual control he wields over his composure completely shattered.

“Are you... feeling alright?” he asks, voice a little breathless, struggling to keep himself calm as you press your face into the crook of his neck. “Are you sick? Is there something wrong?”

You just shake your head, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “I just love you, Azul,” you whisper softly, a warmth in your gaze that sends his heart into overdrive. “And I’m so proud of you.”

With that, you wrap your arms around him again, holding him close, and suddenly, all the strength in him unravels. He hadn’t realized how much he’d needed this—how much he craved reassurance, wanted to know he was worth it.

All his insecurities, fears, and memories of feeling out of place resurface, but they’re softened by your presence, and with just one hug, you’re able to ease away all that self-doubt he keeps buried.

Without another word, he wraps his arms tightly around you, his grip firm and filled with an unspoken desperation. He clings to you as though you’re his lifeline, as though you’re the single steady point in his otherwise frantic world, and for a few moments, he allows himself to just feel—to let go of the worries, to set aside the constant weight of expectations.

The mountain of paperwork on his desk feels meaningless compared to the comfort you bring, and all he wants is to stay like this, holding you as closely as he can, reveling in the feeling of being loved for who he is.

Kalim Al-Asim

Kalim is in his element, animatedly discussing ideas for his next big celebration. His hands gesture widely, his voice bright, detailing elaborate plans for decorations, food, entertainment—he's clearly in his happy place, and you can’t help but feel utterly captivated by his joy.

Without even thinking, you throw your arms around him, hugging him tightly mid-sentence. Kalim laughs, hugging you back with his usual enthusiasm, though a bit of surprise colors his expression when you show no signs of letting go. “Hey, is everything okay?” he asks, a smile in his voice.

You lean back just enough to grin up at him, eyes shining. “I’m perfectly okay. You just looked so radiant talking about the party—and I love you.”

He stares at you for a beat, completely dazzled, and then his face breaks into the brightest smile as he spins you around, laughter bubbling from both of you. When he finally sets you down, he pulls you close, cradling you like you’re the most precious thing in the world.

“I’m so glad you chose me,” he murmurs softly, his forehead pressing against yours. The simple joy radiates from him, a warmth and gentleness that wraps around you both. It’s a pure, unfiltered happiness that you feel too, knowing that you chose him, and he chose you.

You stay wrapped up in each other, reveling in that perfect moment, glowing with the warmth of shared love. For now, with his laughter filling the room and his arms securely around you, nothing else matters.

Jamil Viper

Jamil walks into his room, the exhaustion from managing Scarabia weighing heavily on his shoulders. But before he can even remove his shoes, you’re already there, waiting for him. Without a word, you step into his space, your arms winding around him in a gentle but firm embrace.

His body relaxes instantly, the stress of the day melting away as you run a soothing hand down his back. The warmth of your touch settles over him like a blanket, but after a few moments, he notices you haven’t let go. The silence stretches, and his concern grows.

He pulls back just slightly, searching your face with quiet intensity. “Are you okay?” His voice is soft, careful, as though bracing for something serious.

You meet his eyes with a smile, your voice tender but full of affection. “I’m fine. I just… I love you. I’m proud of everything you do. You work so hard, and I see all of it. I just wanted to be here, with you.”

A deep warmth spreads through Jamil at your words, the weight of the day almost forgotten as he pulls you back into him. This time, his hold is even tighter, more possessive, as if he’s afraid that if he lets go, this moment will vanish. His face buries itself into your neck, and he inhales deeply, breathing in the scent of you—your presence, your comfort.

For once, he allows himself to fully sink into the embrace, no longer needing to wear his usual mask.

With you, he doesn’t have to hold back his feelings. For the first time in what feels like forever, he lets his guard drop, the emotional wall he’s spent building his whole life crumbling in the warmth of your arms.

“I could stay like this forever,” he whispers, the words barely audible as he holds you close. His voice is thick with emotion, a mixture of tenderness and longing. “I never want to leave your side.”

In the comfort of your touch, Jamil realizes something. He’s never felt more at peace, more cared for, than he does in this moment. He holds you tighter, savoring the feeling of being loved so deeply, so completely. No matter what happens, he knows this is where he belongs—in your arms, and with your heart.

Vil Schoenheit

It’s been a long day, and by the time you reach Vil, all you want is to collapse into his arms. But before you can even speak, he’s already analyzing you, frowning at your slumped posture, the bags under your eyes, and the way you haven’t had time to take care of yourself. "Did you eat today? Are you even sleeping? Honestly, I can't—"

And before he can finish his lecture, you launch yourself at him, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck.

He catches you with his usual elegance, barely flinching. His lips curl in that slight, amused way, but the concern in his eyes softens as you cling to him, not letting go.

"Darling, What's wrong?" he asks, his voice taking on a gentler tone as he instinctively pulls you closer. You can feel the smoothness of his coat beneath your fingers as you bury your face in his chest.

"I missed you," you murmur. "I'm just happy to see you. I love you. And I love that you worry about me."

Vil’s chest tightens at your words, a soft, almost imperceptible sigh escaping him. He gently strokes your back, the movement slow, deliberate. “You’re something else,” he teases, his lips twitching, but there’s warmth in his voice. “You know you should’ve eaten something, and yet here you are, throwing yourself at me.”

His hands remain on you, though, pulling you closer, stroking your back with a tenderness he rarely shows in public. He may pretend to be exasperated, but the way his fingers gently brush the length of your spine betrays his true feelings. Deep down, he’s touched by how much you put up with him.

"You should be scolded for your own good," he starts, but it’s a half-hearted attempt. There’s no real bite to his words this time. Instead, he just holds you tighter, deciding that, just for tonight, you don’t need any more lectures.

“You’ll never be rid of me now,” he murmurs softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “And you’re welcome to lean on me, always.”

In the comfort of his embrace, you let go of the day’s stress, finding peace in the warmth of his arms. There’s no need for anything else, just this moment, just him.

Idia Shroud

Idia’s explaining the intricate details of a new strategy, his eyes wide with excitement. But then, suddenly, you set your controller down and throw yourself at him in an unexpected hug, effectively cutting off his speech. His hair flares a brilliant shade of pink as his brain momentarily glitches, clearly unsure of how to process what's happening.

And he is in full panic mode. His mind, always working a mile a minute, goes into overdrive trying to figure out what he did wrong, or if he's somehow messed things up.

“Uh—are you okay?” he stammers, voice filled with concern but entirely thrown off by the situation. You don’t answer with words, just a soft smile as you bury your face in his chest.

“I love you,” you whisper, “and you’re adorable.”

He’s used to being alone, to being misunderstood, to retreating into his games and hiding from the world. But here you are, in his arms, embracing him for no reason other than that you love him.

Despite his anxious thoughts swirling, he awkwardly places his arms around you, his body stiff at first, unsure of what to do. It takes him a moment before he relaxes, and as he holds you, his mind starts to clear. All those fears—of not being enough, or of being too much—slowly fade away, replaced by something that feels warm and real.

You, who listen to him ramble about things no one else would care about. You, who understand when he’s not up for going out, who accept him as he is. He feels so undeserving of someone so kind, but at the same time, something deep inside him stirs. It’s happiness. It’s love.

His arms tighten around you as he buries his face into your hair, his heart racing with a mixture of overwhelming joy and disbelief. He’ll never understand why someone like you would choose him, but as long as you’re here, he wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

Malleus Draconia

Malleus stands before you, holding the gargoyle he crafted with such care, the stone masterpiece shimmering in the soft light. "This is for you," he says softly, his voice full of pride. His eyes shine with the unspoken hope that you’ll appreciate the effort.

Before he can say anything else, you wrap your arms around him, pulling him into a warm embrace. He freezes for a moment, unsure, before his own arms encircle you with surprising gentleness. He’s always craved touch, but the depth of affection you offer fills him with awe.

The two of you stand there, the moment stretching on in comfortable silence, until Malleus pulls back slightly, his eyes searching your face. "Are you alright?" His voice holds a hint of concern.

You smile at him softly, your words simple but filled with a warmth he rarely hears: "You mean the world to me. I love you."

Malleus's breath catches in his throat, and before he can think, his arms tighten around you. He pulls you impossibly closer, as if afraid you’ll slip away. His heart races as he feels the weight of your love, the pure acceptance and tenderness you give him. The loneliness he’s lived with for so long, the misunderstandings, the isolation—none of it matters now.

He’s here with you. You see him, not as a prince or a fae of great power, but simply as Malleus. And that, more than anything, fills him with a kind of peace he’s never known.

Malleus buries his face in the crook of your neck, holding you tightly as if to make sure this moment doesn’t slip away. "I will never forget this," he murmurs softly. "I will cherish you... forever."

In your embrace, he finds something he thought was impossible—a sense of belonging. He smiles, feeling the warmth of your love seep into him, and he knows he is truly loved.

Masterlist

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yeagersss · 2 months ago

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Sukuna as a Firefighter (Part 2)

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Thanking him was the only logical explanation.

The man saved your life after all. Pulled you away from the jaws of death. You know you tried to thank him just before you lost consciousness but that felt like a poor excuse.

So you do what you do best. You bake him some brownies as a thank you. (Those brownies never failed you. Everyone loves them. Friends, family, charity events, your burned down workplace.)

So you carefully place them into a container and head down to the local fire station.

Your heels click against the marble floor as you walk inside the building. You were a bit nervous. The men turn to stare at you curiously or in amusement or were checking you out.

You straighten up and go to the closest fireman.

"Excuse me."

He turn towards you. He is just as large as the man who had saved you but with black hair and a scar running across the corner of his lips.

His lips curl up into a sultry smirk as he eyes you up and down. "Well, well. What's a pretty, little thing like you doing here?"

You ignore his obvious flirting attempt and just get to the point. "I'm, uh... Looking for someone. He saved me and I just want to thank him."

The man steps closer. "You sure it wasn't me? I'm the chief around here. I know a thing or two about saving pretty things like you."

You try your best not to roll your eyes. "No, I'm pretty sure it wasn't you. The man has pink hair."

And that's when the fireman sighs and steps back. "Of course, he does... Sukuna! Someone's here for you."

The man—Sukuna—walks over, running a hand across his hair. Unlike last time, he has ditched his heavy jacket and is wearing a compression shirt that accentuated his muscular frame.

The fireman mutters something about "why does this damn guy keep getting all the credit around here. I work my ass too." as he walks away. Sukuna merely smirks his way. "Not my fault I'm too unforgettable, Fushiguro."

And then he turns to you. At first he narrows his eyes and then a flash of recognition passes across his face.

He grins. It almost looks feral.

"It's you. What? You here to make good on your promise?"

You frown at that. "Excuse me?"

"The one where you said you were going to marry me before you passed out."

"Excuse me?" You squeak out. "I said no such thing!"

He leans closer to you but you lean away, glaring at him. He merely chuckles. "Oh, that's definitely what you said. I'm used to women saying I'm hot as hell when they're delirious but marriage? That's new."

"I was thanking you!"

"By saying you wanna marry me?" He snorts and stares at you in amusement. "You're going to have to work harder than that if you want me, girl."

Oh... This... This jerk! You suddenly regret even doing all of this for him. You should have just forgotten about it and moved on with your life!

Sukuna's gaze then shifts to the container in your hands and he perks up. "That for me?" He doesn't give you chance to say anything as he takes it from your grasps and opens it, staring down at the brownies.

He picks one up and takes a large bite, humming. "Not bad. Too sweet for my taste though."

You splutter because he had the audacity to call your precious brownies too sweet. You had enough and turn around, storming out of the fire station and hoping against hope that you will never get to see that jerk face ever again.

#sukuna #sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna #jjk sukuna #sukuna x you #sukuna x y/n #mine

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reilemon · 3 months ago

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Sweet Stardust

⚠ MINORS DNI (18+ ONLY) ⚠

♡︎ synopsis: You'd never expect to be set up on a blind date with Xavier - the one man you’ve been hopelessly crushing on for months.

♡︎ pairing: Xavier x fem!reader

♡︎ tags: fluff, smut, use of 'sweetheart' 'princess' 'honey', reader has hair (at least shoulder length, didn't specify texture), fingering, creampie ofc

♡︎ word count: 6.1k

♡︎ a/n: written for @who-mentioned-rhys-larsen ♡ this fic is part of the Blind Date Matchmaking event by @unintentionalseductress

♡︎ Thank you to my dearest friend and my beta reader ♡︎@its-de♡︎ for helping.

divider by @/anitalenia

You take a slow sip of your iced tea, the coolness doing nothing to soothe the warmth creeping up your neck.

Why did you think this was a good idea?

Your fingers find the edge of your star-shaped earring, tracing the smooth metal absentmindedly as you glance around. The restaurant is elegant but cozy, the kind of place that requires a reservation but doesn’t suffocate you with formality. Secluded tables nestle in private corners, the polished dark wood of the bar offering a sense of quiet luxury. It’s nice— a perfect spot for a first date.

The thought only makes your stomach twist tighter.

You arrived earlier than planned, too anxious to sit alone in your apartment with nothing but your thoughts. Now, perched on a barstool, you’re starting to question every decision that led you to this moment.

The worst part? You don’t even know what your date looks like.

Tara assured you she’d pick someone good. And you trust her—she’s not just a colleague but a close friend, someone who knows you well enough to understand your type, your standards, your... predicament. That is, your utterly hopeless crush on Xavier.

Your gaze drops to your lap at the thought of him, an old ache stirring in your chest. You’ve spent months pining for him—your colleague, your neighbor, the man who has occupied far too much space in your head. But nothing has ever come of it. No flirty advances, no subtle signs that he might see you as anything more than a friend and coworker. And you’ve grown tired of waiting.

So, you let Tara set you up. Maybe this mystery man will be exactly what you need—a good distraction, someone to help you move on. If that’s even possible.

Still, one small consolation eases your nerves - you know you look good. The sweater dress you chose hugs your curves just right, soft and warm, the cleavage dipping just low enough to be tempting. Your heeled boots elevate your outfit, and, miraculously, your hair cooperated today, falling just the way you like it.

Tara instructed you to wear a recognition piece—something star-shaped, she had said. You thought it was too subtle, but you were relieved you had control over your outfit. Now, though, as you anxiously toy with your earring, you wonder if your date will even notice it.

What if he saw you already and decided to leave?

Your grip tightens slightly around your drink, your pulse stuttering at the humiliating thought. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe—

A small speck of light floats in front of you, pulling you from your anxious thoughts. You can’t help but associate them with him, as they always appear -

“Hey.”

The soft, familiar voice shifts your attention.

You turn, blinking in surprise, and your heart nearly stumbles out of your chest.

Xavier is sitting next to you.

When did he even get here?

He’s propped against the bar, one elbow resting on the polished wood, his cheek lightly pressed against his hand. The dim glow of the restaurant catches in his deep blue eyes, glinting with something unreadable as he watches you.

Your breath falters for just a second, heat creeping up your neck. “Hi.” you manage, offering a sheepish smile, your fingers still toying with your earring.

His gaze flickers down, catching on the star-shaped piece before shifting back to your face. “Are you waiting for someone?”

You straighten instinctively, forcing yourself to stop fidgeting. “I am,” you say, glancing toward the entrance. “But I’m not sure what he looks like.”

His brows lift slightly. “A blind date?”

You let out a small, nervous chuckle. “Yeah.”

You glance at your phone. You exhale sharply, shifting in your seat. “But I’m starting to think he won’t show up.”

Xavier hums, the sound low and thoughtful. “Maybe he’s just running late.”

You look back at him then, finally taking in the details of his outfit—he’s wearing a crisp white shirt, paired with light-colored slacks that somehow make him look even taller, more put-together, but still effortlessly him.

Your stomach twists with an uneasy realization —what if he’s waiting for someone? Swallowing past the sudden lump in your throat, you force yourself to ask, keeping your voice as casual as possible. “Are you waiting for someone?”

His eyes linger on yours for a second too long. Then, he shakes his head. “Not really.”

You barely have time to process that answer before he turns his attention toward the softly lit dining area. Without hesitation, he rises from his seat, and then—he extends his hand toward you.

“Our table is ready.” he murmurs, his voice smooth, a soft smile curving at the edges of his lips.

Your breath catches.

Oh -

He’s your date.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍓ɞ˚‧｡⋆

After settling into a table tucked in a cozy corner, bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, you and Xavier placed your orders—drinks and appetizers to start. But your mind was spinning too fast, so you excused yourself to the restroom, needing a moment to breathe.

Inside, you grip the edge of the sink, inhaling slowly as you pull out your phone.

"Tara, did you bribe Xavier into being my date?" Your heart hammers in your chest as you type the next part. "Please tell me you didn't tell him I have a crush on him!"

Within seconds, a text pops up:

"Of course not!"

You wait, staring at the screen. Then a voice note appears.

You tap play, Tara’s familiar voice filling the quiet space of the restroom.

"He immediately refused when I asked him if he wanted to be set up on a blind date." You can hear her dramatic pout, but then it shifts—lighter, giddy. "But when I told him you’d be his date, he accepted. Anyway, have fun!"

You blink.

Your reflection in the mirror catches the exact moment your anxious frown softens into something else entirely—a shy, almost disbelieving smile creeping across your lips.

He accepted because it was you.

A warm, tingling sensation spreads down to your fingertips. You clutch your phone, staring at yourself, trying to tamp down the hopeful little spark.

Does this mean he likes me?

You bite your lip, willing yourself to stay grounded, to not jump to conclusions. It just means he didn’t hate the idea. That’s all. Don’t get ahead of yourself.

Still, as you slip your phone back into your purse and wash your hands, your movements feel lighter, less burdened by nerves. By the time you push open the bathroom door and step back into the dinning area, that giddy warmth is still lingering in your chest.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍓ɞ˚‧｡⋆

You step into your apartment, and turn to lock the door after Xavier enters. It feels surreal. Xavier is standing in your entryway. In your apartment. Slipping off his shoes, asking where the guest slippers are. He shrugs off his coat, and before you can even think to reach for it, he’s holding out his hands—first to take the bouquet of flowers he bought for you on the walk back, then to grab your coat.

The bouquet is filled with your favorites. Did he ask Tara? Did he just… know?

You clear your throat, mumbling a quiet thanks, and step into the kitchen to grab a vase. The sound of running water fills the space as your mind is stuck on the simple, surreal fact that he’s here. Xavier is standing in your kitchen, looking around with quiet interest, his gaze flickering over little details—your recipe books stacked on one counter, the aprons hanging next to the fridge, the faint scent of vanilla lingering in the air.

“Cozy.” he comments, his voice warm.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱

You cover your lips as a chuckle escapes you, shaking your head. “I’m sorry,” you say, glancing at Xavier with an apologetic smile, “I just always assumed you were bad at cooking since there’s burning smoke coming from your apartment almost every week.”

Xavier exhales a quiet laugh. “It’s not that I’m bad,” he muses, “I just have a bad habit of dozing off while waiting for something to cook.”

The low rasp in his voice makes your stomach flutter. You’re suddenly very aware of how close he is, how his knee has brushed against yours too many times to be an accident.

You clear your throat, scrambling for something to keep the conversation flowing. “I have dough at the apartment.” The words slip out. “I’m not sure what to make with it yet. Do you have any ideas?”

Xavier leans in slightly, resting his chin on his hand as he contemplates, but his eyes never leave yours.

“I bought strawberry jam today,” he murmurs. “It would be perfect with homemade bread.” His gaze flickers to your lips for the briefest second before it settles again on yours. “I could help you with it—if that’s okay with you?”

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱

Your cheeks burn at the memory.

Just a few hours ago, you thought Xavier wasn’t interested in you at all. That your feelings were nothing more than a hopeless crush. But now—he’s here. He’s helping you find the perfect spot to set the vase, standing close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him.

And you know - he does like you.

You saw it in the way he looked at you at the restaurant, in the way his usually distant, unreadable gaze softened, locked onto you. It wasn’t the casual attention he gave to others, the absentminded focus of a man who was simply being polite. No—this was different. His eyes had lingered, had traced the curve of your lips between words, flickering down for just a second too long before finding yours again.

And you felt it, too. In the way his knee brushed against yours beneath the table. In the way his fingers found yours by the end of the night,the touch tender and grounding.

And now, here you are—just the two of you in your cozy kitchen, setting everything up to prepare homemade bread.

You move around the space, trying to keep your hands busy, trying not to focus too much on the man leaning against the counter. You reach for the aprons hanging by the hook, and a playful smile tugs at your lips as you hand Xavier the one with the bunny print. He raises an eyebrow at the design before letting out a low chuckle, shaking his head in amusement but accepting it anyway.

"You picked this on purpose, didn’t you?"

"You’ll look cute in it," you tease, already tying your own cherry-print apron around your waist.

But before you can secure the knot, his fingers brush over yours. "Let me."

His breath against the shell of your ear makes goosebumps bloom along the side of your neck. He steps in behind you, his fingers tying the knot — but he doesn’t move away immediately. For a lingering moment, his hands rest on your hips, fingers splayed lightly over the fabric of your dress, and your breath catches. It’s so subtle, so fleeting, but the touch lingers even as he steps back and moves to stand beside you.

You exhale slowly, turning your attention back to the dough in the bowl.

Xavier rolls up his sleeves, the fabric sliding up his forearms, revealing the sculpted muscle, the veins subtly lining his skin. His hands flex as he reaches for the dough, fingers sinking into the soft mixture.

"I can handle the kneading," he offers, his eyes flicking to you. "Just instruct me."

You nod, too distracted to say anything.

Xavier’s hands press into the dough with steady, practiced motions, fingers flexing as he pushes forward, the soft mixture stretching and folding beneath his palms. You watch, transfixed, as the muscles in his forearms shift with each movement, flexing beneath his skin. The dough yields to his touch, stretching between his fingers before he folds it over itself again, his knuckles pressing in, wrists rolling as he coaxes the mixture into the perfect consistency. It shouldn’t be mesmerizing. It shouldn’t be distracting. But it is.

You swallow, completely absorbed in the way his hands work—the slow push, the press, the stretch, the way his fingers curl just slightly as he pulls the dough back. Heat pools in your stomach, and you have to remind yourself to breathe.

And then he stops.

Your gaze snaps up from his hands to find his face already turned toward you, amusement flickering in his deep blue eyes.

"Can you sprinkle more flour? Or are you just gonna keep staring?"

Your stomach flips.

Oops.

Heat spreads over your cheeks as you realize he caught you shamelessly ogling his arms like they were the most fascinating thing in the world. You scramble to gather yourself, clearing your throat as you quickly grab the flour.

"I was just making sure you were doing it right." you lie, voice slightly higher than normal as you sprinkle a light dusting over the dough.

Xavier hums, clearly unconvinced, a smirk playing at the edges of his lips as he kneads again, the fresh coating of flour making his hands glide easier. But just as you think you’ve escaped the moment, he shifts—his hands no longer sticky with dough, moving faster than you can react.

A soft swipe of flour brushes against your cheek.

You blink, stunned. Xavier pulls his hand back, his smirk widening, too pleased with himself.

"Focus." he teases, the mirth in his eyes makes your stomach flip all over again.

Your jaw drops in feigned offense, so you grab a pinch of flour, and tap the tip of his nose. The faint layer of white settles on the tip of his nose, an almost comical touch against his usually composed expression. His gaze locks onto yours, surprise flickering in his eyes, and then—

A low chuckle spills into a soft, genuine laugh. Your heart stumbles over itself at the sight of him like this— warm and sweet, no longer distant. The sound of it makes you grin wider, but you don’t miss the way his eyes gleam with mischief. The playful glint is all the warning you get before his hand moves as he smears another streak of flour along your cheek.

“You should really focus.” he teases, voice rich with amusement, tilting his head as if inspecting his work.

You gasp, feigning an appalled expression. “Oh, you’re gonna regret that.”

But you don’t get a chance to launch another attack, because he moves swiftly, catching your wrist in his hand. The contact sends a small jolt through you; it’s soft but firm enough that you can feel the heat of his palm against your skin, holding you in place. You expect him to smirk, to tease. But instead, his expression softens, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes as he lifts your hand. And then—he presses a kiss to your knuckles. His lips linger for only a second, the warmth of them seeping into your skin, before he pulls away.

Your pulse is fluttering, your cheeks heating, and silence settles between you, stretching for just a beat too long.

You clear your throat, glancing toward the dough still resting on the counter, and force your voice to sound as steady as possible.

“So, what do you like to cook the most?”

Xavier hums in thought. “I like trying new things,” he muses, rolling his shoulders slightly, easing some of the tension in his muscles. “It doesn’t always turn out great, but I like the challenge.”

You tilt your head, intrigued, and then smirk. “So, you like torturing yourself with hard recipes?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Something like that.” His voice is a little quieter as he continues. “You make it look easy. Thought I’d try my hand at a few things.”

You pause for a moment, wondering if you heard him correctly. “Wait - have you been trying to remake my recipes?”

His fingers falter for just a second before he smooths his expression into something neutral. “Maybe.”

A slow grin spreads across your face. “Xavier.”

He exhales, shaking his head like you’ve caught him in something ridiculous, but the corners of his lips twitch. “You make good food,” he mutters. “I wanted to see if I could make it too.”

You fight the urge to squish his cheeks that have flushed a tiny bit at the revelation. He actually remembers the things you’ve brought him, the little baked goods and dishes you’d made. And not only does he remember—he tries to recreate them.

His gaze flickers to you. “Maybe you should teach me.”

It’s a casual request, but you hear what he isn’t saying. He wants to see you more, and it sends another rush of giddy warmth through you.

“Okay,” you say, pretending like your heart isn’t doing flips. “What do you want to learn?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Egg tarts.”

The answer is so unexpected that you blink, then laugh. “Really? Out of everything?”

He nods. “They’re delicious.”

Finally, the bread dough is prepped, shaped, and ready for the oven. You slide the tray inside, and after cleaning up the counter and your hands, you remove the aprons and put them back on the hook.

As you turn to face Xavier again, you catch him watching you, his arms crossed loosely over his chest, leaning against the counter.

You clear your throat, trying to shake off the way his gaze makes your stomach tighten. Then, with a teasing lilt to your voice, you ask, “Should I go get you a blanket? Since you might doze off.”

His brows lift slightly, and then he huffs a short laugh.

But then, his voice drops, smooth as silk. “I think we can find a better way to pass the time.”

A soft laugh spills from your lips at first, but as soon as you catch the look in his eyes, the warmth in your chest falters, the laughter dying on your tongue.

The teasing spark in his eyes is nowhere to be found. Instead, a soft blush dusts his cheekbones, creeping up to the tips of his ears. Then—he moves.

One step, then another, the space between you disappearing, inch by inch. The edge of the counter presses into the small of your back as he approaches, your body instinctively leaning away. His hands rest on either side of you, palms pressing flat against the cool surface of the counter.

His breath is soft, ghosting over your lips. The sheer weight of his attention wraps around you like a second heartbeat, syncing with your own, pulsing through your veins. Your fingers twitch at your sides, aching to reach for something—him, the counter, anything to steady yourself.

The rest of the world fades into nothing, and all that exists is him.

His lashes lower just slightly, his lips parting as he leans in, his gaze holding yours the entire time. He’s waiting, offering you one last chance to pull away, to stop this before the moment tips over into something neither of you can take back.

Then, barely above a whisper - “Tell me to stop.”

You don’t say a word.

Instead, you tilt your chin up, closing what little distance remains between you, and press your lips to his. Xavier exhales softly against your lips, the sound breaking somewhere between relief and disbelief before he finally moves.

His mouth presses more firmly against yours, molding to the shape of you, learning the way you taste, memorizing the way you feel beneath him. His fingers twitch against the counter, like he’s restraining himself from reaching for you, from pulling you against him, from letting his hands wander to the places he’s only ever dreamed of touching. But he lingers, soaking in every moment, every detail, every sigh and shiver you give him. You melt into him, your fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him closer.

Xavier pulls away for a moment, his breath warm against your lips. "Can I touch your hair?"

It’s such a simple question, yet it sends comforting warmth through you, and it makes you fall for him even more. You nod, your heart hammering in your chest as you tilt your head slightly in invitation. You press your lips to his again, needing to feel that warmth, needing to drown in the way he kisses you. The moment his hand settles on your hair, a slow shiver rolls down your spine. His touch is reverent, the slightest tug at the roots sending small tingles all the way down your neck. You sigh into his mouth, the sound soft and almost dazed, relishing in the way he handles you, like he wants to learn the texture of every strand under his fingers.

And then he steps closer, pressing his body fully against yours, erasing the last inch of space between you. His firm muscles shift slightly against you, the warmth of him seeping through his clothes, through yours, until you feel surrounded, consumed. And lower, against your hip, there’s something else—something hard and pressing insistently, showing just how much he wants you.

Your breath catches, your fingers faltering where they rest against his jaw.

Just a small movement—that’s all it takes, the softest drag of your hip against the unmistakable hardness straining against his pants, to draw out a reaction from him.

Xavier’s body tenses, his breath catching in his throat. His fingers twitch against your hair, tightening slightly before loosening, as if he’s reminding himself to be gentle. His jaw clenches, his eyes squeezing shut for the briefest second before they open again, darker now, heavier.

He whispers your name. "If you keep doing that—"

But you don’t move away. Instead, you lift your gaze to his. "Do you want to stop?" you whisper.

The moment hangs between you, before he exhales.

"No," he murmurs, "But if we do this, I need you to be sure."

And you are sure. Your fingers tighten around his wrist, feeling the pulse thrumming just beneath your fingertips. You guide his hand from your hair down to your waist. "I want this." you whisper, your heart pounding so violently you wonder if he can hear it. "I want you."

The tension in his body dissolves, his grip tightening at your waist, holding you there, against him. His breath stutters for just a moment, his nose brushing against yours, and then he kisses you. His lips move over yours with such aching tenderness that your knees almost buckle. His hands smooth over the curve of your waist, fingertips trailing lightly along your spine, sending shivers down your back, making you arch into him. Your fingers find the front of his shirt, curling into the fabric, gripping tighter as your body melts further into his.

Then he pulls away just enough to wrap his arms around you and effortlessly lift you off the ground. You gasp softly as he positions you carefully on the counter, ensuring you're comfortable. His fingers slip beneath the soft fabric of your sweater dress, and instinctively, you part your legs in silent invitation. He doesn’t hesitate. He steps forward, pressing into the space between your legs, his body crowding against yours. Then his hand ventures further, toward the ache pooling between your legs.

He pulls back just enough to watch you, his lips parted, his breath mingling with yours. His eyes flicker between your gaze and where his fingers now hover. Then—his fingertips graze over the damp fabric of your underwear and a sharp breath escapes you.

His voice drops to a husky murmur. “You’re already so wet for me.”

Heat licks up your spine, not just from the way he touches you, but from the way he looks at you—devouring, mesmerized. Your cheeks flush, warmth creeping up your neck, your ears. Your grip on his shirt tightens as his touch grows bolder, his fingers tracing lazy circles over your folds, teasing, coaxing.

Your lips part on a quiet whimper, and he catches it, swallowing the sound as he leans in again, capturing your mouth in another slow, intoxicating kiss. His teeth graze your bottom lip, a teasing scrape that makes you shudder against him, makes your body arch instinctively. His fingers press firmer, brushing up, down—catching against your clit with just enough friction. You gasp softly, tightening your grip on him, your hips shifting involuntarily.

Then, his fingers hook over the waistband of your underwear, and you rest your hand against his shoulder, lifting your hips to help him slide the fabric down your legs. Heat blooms across your cheeks when you catch him tucking the lace into his pocket, and you’re even more flustered when you see the mischievous smirk on his lips.

His fingers trail back between your legs, but the first brush of his fingers against your bare folds makes you jolt.

"Relax for me, honey." His voice is soft, soothing, his lips just a breath from yours.

You nod, your breath shaky as you let your body give in. His fingers slide along your wet heat, teasing and exploring in slow, tender strokes. Your grip tightens on his shoulder as one finger circles your entrance, prodding and testing you. A quiet gasp escapes you as you tug at his shirt, pulling him closer—and you press your lips to his, your tongue tangling with his.

Then his finger pushes in slowly, making you feel every inch of that delicious stretch and every slick, teasing glide. He finds that sweet spot with ease, the one that makes your breath hitch and your toes curl. A soft curse slips from your lips as he strokes it again and again, spreading tingling warmth through you.

He savors your soft, breathy whimpers as he slides a second finger inside, curling them just right and moving them in deep strokes.

"Does that feel good?" he murmurs, giving you a moment to catch your breath.

You can only nod, unable to form words when he’s touching you so perfectly. Your gaze flickers downward—between your legs, where his fingers move, where his hand glistens with your arousal—and the sight alone sends another pulse of heat through you.

Xavier’s lips curve in a soft, knowing smile as he takes in your expression, your half-lidded eyes, your parted lips. His free hand lifts, cradling the back of your neck, tilting your head to expose your neck to him. His lips graze your skin, teasing at first, before his tongue flicks out, dragging a wet trail along the sensitive slope of your neck.

A sharp gasp escapes you as his thumb presses against your clit. He circles it in slow, lazy swirls, the pleasure deepening, pooling low in your stomach. Your thighs tremble, hips shifting involuntarily, chasing more, needing more.

"That’s it, honey." he breathes against your throat, his fingers plunging deeper, working you open. He latches onto your skin, sucking gently, his breath fanning over the damp spot.

The hand on his shoulder moves to hold onto his forearm, each precise stroke sending jolts of pleasure through you, winding that coil in your belly impossibly tight. You’re right there, trembling on the edge, every breath a shaky, desperate gasp. If you had any control left, you would be embarrassed by the broken sounds spilling from your lips—whimpers, soft cries, the only thing you can manage being his name, over and over like a plea.

Xavier groans low in his throat. “You sound so fucking beautiful,” he rasps, lips brushing your ear. “Come for me, princess. I’ve got you.”

His control is slipping—you can hear it in his voice, feel it in the way his hips press forward, seeking friction against your thigh. He’s trembling, barely holding himself back, and the thought alone sends pleasure ripping through you. You shatter against him, burying your face in his neck as your release crashes over you, your walls clenching around his fingers, slick dripping down his hand. He holds you through it, his grip firm, his breath ragged, whispering praise into your hair, your pleasure undoing him just as much.

Your lips press against his throat, muffling the last of your cries as your body trembles against him, and he’s not so sure he can hold back any longer. His hand catches your chin, tilting your face toward his. His thumb brushes along your jaw, eyes locked onto yours, dark and desperate. His chest rises and falls in uneven breaths, his restraint hanging by a thread.

“I need to feel you.” His voice is barely more than a whisper, trembling. “Please.”

Your body is still pulsing with the aftershocks of release, but you know you need more.

"Yes." You whisper, wasting no time to slip one hand between your bodies, trembling slightly as you reach for his pants.

Xavier groans softly, helping you with the belt when your hands fumble, his own need evident in the way he works quickly to unfasten it. The moment he pulls himself free, your breath catches—he's so hard, flushed and aching, the sight alone making you even more wet. You can’t help but wrap your fingers around him, feeling the weight, the heat, the pulse beneath your touch. When your thumb glides over the bead of precum on his tip, smearing it over the sensitive skin, a sharp hiss leaves his lips, his grip tightening on your waist.

"Fuck—" he exhales, his fingers wrapping gently around your wrist, stilling your touch before he brings your hand up, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of it. Then, as he lowers his gaze, positioning himself between your legs, his breath stutters again. His tip nudges against your soaked entrance, and just before he presses forward, his eyes flick back up to yours.

"I don’t have— Do you—?"

A soft smile tugs at your lips as you cradle his cheek, your thumb stroking along his jaw. "I'm covered," you murmur, brushing your lips over his. "And I trust you."

His exhale is shaky, his forehead pressing to yours before he finally moves. Carefully, the thick head of his cock begins to ease in, parting you with an aching stretch that has your body tensing before melting, your nails pressing into the firm muscles of his shoulders. You’re already so sensitive, still pulsing from his fingers, and this only adds to your dizzying arousal.

"Fuck," he grits out, his jaw clenching as he inches deeper. "You're so—"

The words die in a low groan as he bottoms out, pressing flush against you, his pelvis catching on your clit in a way that sends sparks through every nerve in your body. Your walls flutter around him, gripping him so tightly that he shudders, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

"Are you okay?" he breathes against your hair, his arms tightening around you.

You can’t speak—you can only whimper, nodding as your body adjusts. Your lips part against the crook of his neck, sucking lightly on the skin there, grounding yourself in the feel of him. His first thrust is slow, dragging — so controlled it’s almost torturous. You can feel the tremble in his muscles, the way his breath shakes as he exhales through gritted teeth.

"Look at you—so beautiful." A deep groan rumbles in his chest as you clench down around him, your walls gripping him so tight it makes his thrusts falter, his cock stroking against that perfect spot over and over.

Your hands slide up, fingers curling in his hair, tugging gently as you tilt your face up, finding his eyes.

"Xavier—ahh—" your voice is soft, pleading, "I’m so close. I need you—"

His cock twitches inside you, throbbing against your walls, slick and tight and perfect. His fingers dig into your hips, trying to hold back, but it’s no use. A desperate moan spills from your lips as his thumb returns to your clit, pressing, circling, matching the frantic stutter of his hips.

"You feel so fucking good," he rasps, voice wrecked, hoarse. "Taking me so well, honey."

Pleasure crashes into you, shattering, overwhelming. Your pussy clenches around him, pulsing, gripping, and Xavier curses under his breath, arms locking around you, holding you through it.

"That’s it—fuck—just like that,” he pants, breath shaky. “I’ve got you—haah—I'm so close."

His rhythm stutters, his hips grinding deeper, erratic, chasing the high. You’re still trembling, still lost in your high, but you don’t want him to stop—not with the way his cock throbs inside you, not with the way his breath stutters.

You tighten your legs around him, pulling him deeper. That’s all it takes.

Xavier chokes on a groan, his hands gripping you so tightly you know you’ll feel it tomorrow. His cock pulses, his entire body tensing as his release crashes into him, his hips pressing flush against yours as hot spurts of cum spill deep inside you. His breath breaks into uneven gasps against your ear as he grinds through it, his cum slipping out, messy and warm between you.

"Can’t get enough of you," he mutters, almost delirious. His lips brush your temple, his hands roam over you, slow, reverent. Even spent, his cock twitches inside you, hips rolling in lazy, absent thrusts, as if he’s already craving more.

"Never gonna get enough of you," he breathes.

Xavier doesn’t move for a while, and you don’t want him to. His arms stay wrapped around you, holding you close against his chest as his breath evens out, warm against your hair. His fingers trace light, absentminded patterns on your back, his other hand smoothing over the side of your waist, as if he can’t stop touching you. You sigh into him, boneless, completely melted in his hold, and he lets out a quiet, satisfied hum in response, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your temple.

His lips graze your forehead before pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. His gaze is warm and tender as he takes in the sight of you in the afterglow, "You have no idea what you do to me."

Your breath catches, your fingers tightening slightly where they rest against his shoulder, and you don’t know what to say. You don’t know how to say anything when all you want to do is hold onto this feeling forever.

So instead, you just nuzzle closer, in the crook of his neck where small, faint marks are forming on his skin. He smiles against your cheek, squeezing your waist before he loosens his hold, letting you shift against him.

And then your nose reminds you of something. Your eyes snap open, panic flashing through you as you sit up straight, hands flying to Xavier’s chest.

“Oh no!”

His brows furrow, confused at the sudden change. “What?”

“The bread!”

You scramble off the counter, adjusting your dress as best as you can, legs still shaky, as you rush to the oven, already bracing yourself for disaster. But when you peek inside, miraculously, the bread is still perfect. Golden brown, fluffy, not even close to burnt.

You let out a deep, relieved sigh.

As you take off the oven mitts after placing the bread on a cooling rack, you turn back to Xavier. He’s leaning lazily against the counter, pants in place, but his shirt still rumpled, his hair thoroughly disheveled. He looks impossibly handsome like this. But instead of letting yourself get distracted, you cross your arms, feigning a small pout. "You’re bad luck in the kitchen."

"Bad luck?" He tilts his head, and you instantly regret saying anything.

He pushes off the counter, strolling toward you with that confident ease, stopping just shy of pressing against you. "Didn’t seem like you minded the distraction."

Your face burns.

You could argue. You could roll your eyes, huff, tell him off for that smug little look he’s giving you. But what’s the point? He knows he’s right. And you’re too warm, too utterly spent to even deflect.

Before you can decide on a response, he moves.

One second, you’re standing there, legs still a little wobbly, and the next—Xavier scoops you up into his arms like you weigh nothing at all. A startled yelp slips past your lips, but it dissolves into breathless laughter as you grab onto his shoulders.

“Xavier—!”

But he only gives you a soft smile, before pressing his lips to yours.

By the time he pulls back, your head is spinning all over again.

He smirks down at you, adjusting his hold. “Come on, princess,” he murmurs, walking toward the bathroom. “We made a mess.”

As you gaze at his face, you muse how the once-distant, untouchable Xavier—the man who felt like a star too far away—has somehow become warm and steady and impossibly close.

And you’re just a giddy, melted puddle in his arms.

#love and deepspace #xavier love and deepspace #love and deepspace xavier #xavier smut #xavier x reader #love and deepspace smut #xavier #lads x reader #lads smut #xavier x you #ncs valentines day #blind date matchmaking

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backtothefanfiction · 4 months ago

Text

First Impressions | Joaquin Torres

Summary: the first time Sam introduces you to Joaquin

Warnings: flirting, fluff, playful banter

A/N: I fell in love with this man during Falcon and the Winter Soldier. Completely forgot about him until I watched the new Cap the other night. So here’s this little before going to sleep drabble. As you will quickly be able to tell I love the idea of a Carol Danvers niece reader given the whole air force thing. Hope people enjoy. May write some more in the future.

Joaquin was smitten the second you walked into his house. When Sam said he was headed over with “some new recruit” he hadn’t expected you. A roughed up baseball cap on top of your head, faded baseball jersey, baggy oversized jeans and sneakers, dripping from head to toe and almost shivering.

“What happened?” Joaquin asked Sam as you tentatively stepped through the sliding door, not wanting to drip too much on this strangers carpet.

“He dropped me in the lake.” Your voice blurted out, completely unamused, shooting daggers at the still newly appointed Captain America.

“Yeah, well, still better that than a 40ft drop onto hard ground.” Sam retorted.

“Or you could have just not dropped me at all?!” You stressed, hands raised in the air, still in complete disbelief over this turn of events. “That’s the last time I’m ever flying with you.” You muttered and you saw Joaquin let out a little chuckle over the situation.

That’s when you really took him in. The guy who Sam sung the praises of. His supposedly best recruit, not that he would actually tell him that.

“Come on, I’ll get you a towel.” Joaquin said, leading you upstairs and to the bathroom.

“You wouldn’t happen to have anything I could change into, do you?” You asked him, as he handed you a couple towels.

“Umm, yeah, of course, I’ll just go find you something.”

You didn’t wait for him to return before you whipped off your clothes and immediately jumped in the shower to wash the murky lake water off of you. You were grateful that it was an old tub and shower curtain situation and not one of those see through glass cabinet shower situations, not that it didn’t stop Joaquin from blushing when he came back into the bathroom a few minutes later with some clothes in hand.

“Oh, sorry- I didn’t realise you were- I’ll just leave these- uh- yeah.” He rushed out before quickly shutting the door again.

He hesitated a moment as he stood with his back to the door, his brain fixated on the small glimpse he got of your naked back from behind the shower curtain. He could feel the flush in his cheeks. The smile that threatened his lips. He fought to hide it as he went back down to Sam in the kitchen.

“So who is she?” Joaquin asked as he grabbed a fresh cup of coffee and passed it to Sam before picking up his own previously discarded mug to finish.

“She’s a Danvers.” Sam said, as if the surname alone held a lot of weight, but Joaquin still didn’t bite. “As in Carol Danvers… Captain Marvel.” Sam said, walking him through it slowly until Joaquin’s face began to flicker with recognition. “Carol’s her aunt. Before she became Captain Marvel she was one heck of an Air Force Pilot. Kid saw what her aunt did and decided to pick up the mantle.”

“And she’s good?” Joaquin fished, a flame for the woman upstairs really taking hold as Sam kept adding more fuel to the fire.

“Yeah, she’s fucking great. Best female pilot I’ve ever seen.”

“So you looking to set her up with a pair of wings?” Joaquin asked, even though he had a hint of jealousy to his tone. He enjoyed being the only person other than Sam who had access to the now not so secret military wings, but he also couldn’t deny the new found need to go flying with you on a sunny afternoon and treat you to a picnic on the top of a mountain or something.

“We’ll see.” Sam said sceptically, but Joaquin knew from the way Sam had even brought you to meet him he thought you had what it takes.

“What are you two girls talking about?” You asked as you came striding back into the kitchen in a pair of Joaquin’s joggers and his old air force T-shirt. You were using a towel to squeeze out your hair and Joaquin couldn’t deny you looked right at home in his house, wearing his clothes.

“Lover boy here was grilling me about you.” Sam joked, taking in the way Joaquin looked at you.

“Was he now?” You asked feigning interest and playing up to the little bit in order to embarrass him, but as you sat across from him at the table and really took him in for the first time, you couldn’t deny he was handsome- and if the T-shirt he gave you had anything to say, you definitely had a lot in common to bond over.

“Uh- um- no- I-“ Joaquin began to stutter bashfully.

“It’s all cool dude,” you reassured. “I know he’s just messing. You really shouldn’t let him rile you up like that.”

Joaquin sighed before he leaned in closer to you, “How do you stay so calm around him?” He asked as if Sam wasn’t there and you had all the secrets.

“Eh, when you grew up being told about your badass aunt with actual super powers, some guy in a read white and blue bird costume is nothing.” You joked.

“Hey!” Sam pointed at you, “don’t you dare turn him against me or I’ll drop your ass in the lake again.”

“So you admit it! You did it on purpose.” You said, slamming your hand on the table animatedly.

“Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t. What are you gonna do about it?” He asked back, but you didn’t say anything more. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

You rolled your eyes at him before fixing them on Joaquin instead as Sam’s phone began to ring. You both turned your eyes on him as he checked the caller ID. “I need to take this.” He said, before getting up and dismissing himself, stepping out the back door to take the call outside.

“Would you like coffee?” Joaquin asked to break up the silence the two of you were left in.

“Umm, yes, that would be great.” You said with a smile and he got up to pour you a cup full from the pot.

“It looks good on you.” He said as he came back over a moment later and handed you the mug.

“What, now?” You said confused.

“Uh, my shirt,” he said with a shrug, as he committed to the statement. “It looks good on you.”

You couldn’t help but blush slightly under his gaze. He was cute and confident and oddly endearing. “Thanks.” You smiled, as he sat himself back down. “I guess I’ll keep it then.” You joked.

“The only way you’re keeping that thing is if you were my girlfriend.” He replied, half as a joke, half as a way of informing you just how much that shirt meant to him.

“Well I guess you better ask me on a date then.” You smirked playfully as he took a sip of his coffee and he almost choked as he spat it back into his cup. But before he could say anymore, Sam came back through the sliding door.

“Alright lovebirds, you can stop having your meet cute moment now, we gotta go,” he said to Joaquin.

“And what about me?” You said indignantly, feeling a little put out.

“He’ll be back in time to take you out on a proper date later.” Sam retorted, marching back through the house to get his shit from where he’d left it by the front door.

“And what am I supposed to do in the meantime?” You asked, completely brushing over the rest of what he’d said. “I don’t even live anywhere near here!” You stressed. “You just brought me here and now you’re gonna up and leave me here!” You said indignantly.

Joaquin froze in the middle of the hallway next to you, looking from his mentor and back to you as he tried to keep up with what’s going on. He felt conflicted. “I mean, can’t she just come with us.” He offered. “I mean, you brought her out here because you wanted to see what she could do. So I say let her.”

Sam looked between the two of you slowly, before he conceded. “Uh, fine. But if anything happens with her it’s on your head.” He warned but you were both smiling.

“So, is this technically our first date?” You ribbed him as he began to usher you out the door so he could lock up.

“We’ll see. Depends if you like it or not.” He mused and you had to admit, his cheeky smile did make you swoon.

“And if I don’t?” You asked with a playful twinkle in your eye.

“Don’t worry,” he reassured you with just as equal playfulness and innuendo, “you will.”

#joaquin torres #Joaquin Torres x reader #joaquin torres imagine #short #fluffy #mcu #falcon #captain america brave new world #captain America #Sam Wilson

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biteyoubiteme · 8 months ago

Text

bubble gum flavored

Beomgyu x fem!reader

synopsis: you're a camgirl and beomgyu is your favorite fan.

warnings: 🔞!!! mentions of masturbation (m! and f!), sex toys, mentions of cum eating, panty sniffing, fingering, oral (f!rec), nipple play, overstim (m! and f! rec), marking, use of teeth, unprotected sex, creampie, reader calls gyu by username beomiebear, prob forgot some sorry

wc: 6k

an: my weakness is camgirl/camboy fics and I already want to write a part two. take a shot every time I use the three c’s cum clit cock feedback appreciated :)) [m.list]

this is a part of my mini kinktober event check out the other fics! [dumdums m.list]

beomgyu remembers when he found your stream for the first time. The cam website had you listed in the newcummer ranks, only a few watchers sitting in the chat when he clicked on. he usually kept to the top camgirls in the list, getting off once and then heading to bed, but he had misclicked when logging on ending up right where he needed to be all along.

The little window previewing your stream showed your pink backdrop, a million pink pillows laid out on the ground where you leaned back. He shrugged, opening your stream to see you with a wand pressed to your clothed clit, legs lifted to your chest, your back arching as you came, the strappy blue bikini straining against your tits like it would pop off at any second. It was over for him the second he heard your breathy whines, thighs shaking as you overstimulated yourself, knees pulling in before you gave a shout pulling the vibrator away. The swimsuit bottoms are completely soaked through sticking and outlining your cunt.

Even without the wand you were trembling, head thrown back as you tried to catch your breath. And for the first time ever gyu commented in the chat dropping a donation with a single word.

beomiebear: again.

The ding of the request was the only sound in your room, drawing you to look right at the screen for the first time. If he hadn't been gone by the sound of your pretty noises he was with your pretty face.

“okay ill go again,” you hooked your arms under your knees, and before pressing back down on your clit you muttered, “This one's for you beomiebear,”

beomgyu stayed up until your stream was over, cock raw from how long he had been fucking his hand, stomach covered in streams of his cum from how often he finished to the sight of you. he bookmarked your page, paid to be an exclusive member and waited for a notification that you were on live.

The first month of following you he got used to your schedule on Wednesday, and Friday nights he would be at his desk filling your chat with requests, commenting on your beauty, dropping donations like candy leading you through the forest of your other commenters to praise him and him alone. Every stream he joined got him more and more recognition from you. A sweet, “hi beomiebear,” drawn out and giddy, your little wave and smile just for him. Other exclusive members in the chat didn’t get that voice, no, it was reserved for beomgyu and beomgyu alone. Even as you grew higher in the ranks and more people started joining your little army you always greeted beomiebear. He was the longest standing member in chat, donated the most, requested things he could tell you liked just by the way you sounded.

When you listed a wishlist for items to be sent to you, if the gift was from beomiebear you didn’t just mention the one time you wore it but every time after, “You remember this one don’t you? It was a gift from beomiebear,” your fingers snapping the waistband of the pink thong you wore, “beomie says he loves me in pink, do you guys agree?”

Your streams were everything to him, even if he was on a trip or out late when you started a stream he was in the bathroom of a bar jerking off like it was the first time he ever saw you, he's trying to stifle his moans in hotel rooms, cumming hard with your name on his lips. he was there for your streams when you just got ready, always in your tiny little tank top nipples peddled, treating the camera like a facetime call. Asking the chat what you should wear, holding up options. His favorite part is always at the end when you put on your lipstick and then go on to fix up your hair, spinning in your outfit asking if you looked pretty. He never missed an opportunity to shower you with love.

And when you did an event for reaching your goal sub count you promised the highest donator a fleshlight, two used pairs of panties, and a personal video of you cumming in one of them. beomgyu was the winner by a landslide. “and who would have guessed that beomiebear was the winner? I'm not surprised my beomiebear is obsessed with me,” it was the same time that you set up personal chat offers for long-time members and no one had been watching as long as gyu had.

you: Do you want me to use your real name in my video for you?

But gyu loved that you called him by his screen name, anyone else he had ever had sex with only called him beomgyu and you were so much more than just casual even if you had never met in person.

beomiebear: No, I like it when you call me beomiebear or even just beomie or bear.

Once beomgyu got his video he watched it on the days you didn’t stream, playing it over and over until he had each word memorized.

“I picked these out just for you,” your hands running over the bubble gum pink panties you wore, “you’re going to have to tell me if you like them. and then these,” you held up that strappy blue swimsuit, “I know I said two panties but these were from the first stream you joined, so that means I wore them the first time you made me cum,”

just the fact you remembered made him hard. and when you pulled out the fleshlight you got him, unboxing it to show it off, “now it's not wet unlike how I am right now but I'm sure you'll get it wet enough,” your fingers running over the silicone, slipping your middle and ring finger in the hole before taking them out and putting them into your mouth, “I wish I could lick this clean after you had used it,” you pout, “I know you must taste so good,” you kissed over the puffy lips before asking, “you’ll think of me when you use it right?”

You had him wrapped so tight about your little finger that he was nodding and answering to a screen knowing damn well you couldn't hear him.

When his package came in he was shaking with need, straining in his jeans ripping open the box, groaning over the smell of you. You didn’t only send the things promised, you tossed in an extra pair of panties, sprayed with your perfume, and a little bear and lollipop phone charm. A note card handwritten for him saying ‘for my beomiebear, don’t forget to give your new toy clitty kisses before fucking it and filling it up while thinking of me <33’ and did he listen, kissing over where he knew your lips had been before sending it, fucking it until he was so drained he was amazed at how much cum could leave his body. Your panties pressed to his nose, phone charm hanging from his case.

You were right about him being obsessed with you and neither of you would have it any other way. and you were no different. Seeing beomiebear's name in the chat or donating would never stop you from smiling. He was one of the first people to support you on live, calling out bad behavior in chat, and calling you the prettiest names. When beomie was active you were putting on your best show. You felt the prettiest when beomiebear was watching and commenting. You picked out outfits you knew beomie would like and couldn't help but think about how he must look behind his keyboard at home.

You've never seen beomie but that didn’t mean that you weren't obsessed with the idea of him just like he was obsessed with the idea of you. Sometimes after a stream when beomie would go to your private chat complimenting you and saying goodnight you were laid out in bed giggling and kicking your feet, blushing and smiling acting as if you've never had a boyfriend before in your life. No man had ever made you this giddy in real life and no one else from your streams compared.

You remember finding the little phone charm when you were on vacation smiling like a madman just thinking about beomiebear so you bought it. You wouldn't be able to forget the cute little bear or the lolly pop, beomiebear, and his bubblegum princess in pink. Always wondered if he had put it to use or if it was sitting in his nightstand with your panties.

Tonight you set up your stream for a get ready with me, fingers rolling over your nipples to get them hard, “Hi! Tonight is just going to be a short stream, it feels like forever since I've been on but it's been only one day,” your eyes scan over chat, welcoming the users who tip or the ones you've seen before. These streams never did as well as the ones with you masturbating but they did bring in long-term tippers, the ones who requested private texts and videos often. “I'm going out tonight so I need help to make sure I look good, do you think you could help me decide on a few things?”

Your setup is in your spare room, the one space that made you sign for your apartment as soon as you saw it. Your backdrop is set up right along the back wall, a bed set up lengthwise along the wall with all your pillows to lay down at the perfect angle for your camera. Your vanity is usually behind the camera, only used when you do streams like these, the lights setting the mood. The small closet attached to the room held anything you wore for streams, all your toys and props organized under where everything hung. Tonight you were going out with friends for drinks for a rare night out with friends. You spend most of the time commuting to class and home, and with both your cam schedule and your school schedule you didn’t go out much. And none of your friends knew your little secret and you would keep it like that as long as you possibly could.

You held up the two options you had picked out for tonight, “maybe I should try them both on for you?”

It then that beomies name pops up in chat and your smile brightens, “Hi beomiebear! Which one should I try first?” you were going for an angel or devil theme with the white set and the black set in hand, both of them nearly identical to each other.

beomiebear: Don’t we get to see the lingerie first?

“I didn’t even think of that beomie you’re so right. I would need your help to pick out the perfect panties for these, hmm let me see what I have,” you dig through your collection, pulling out a few options for them to pick between. “Here I have pink,” you hold them up one at a time, “white, red, and black. If I wear the white skirt I don’t know if I'll be able to wear the red but why don’t we see?”

Your top half was mostly in frame as you changed your panties but stepping closer to the bed you could see more of your body in the viewfinder. Picking up the white skirt to pull it on, purposefully tugging it up higher. “see what I mean everyone would be able to see, especially if I bend over,” you demonstrate leaning over the bed and looking over your shoulder as you wiggle your hips.

beomgyu is sitting in his apartment biting his lip trying to decide if he should touch himself when he has to be ready in an hour to leave for drinks with his friends. Debating if the clean up is worth it but knowing that if he doesn't get off at least once he will be fighting a boner for a while. He watches as you pick up the next pair of panties to try, you’re standing in front of the camera tugging your skirt down enough so that when you take off the red pair the camera doesn't pick it up, but as you tug on the white lace and bend back over the bed he gives up on resisting. The material is just sheer enough to show the outline of your cunt and as you sway your hips asking if these are better the fabric slips along your lips. there is no way he is not touching himself now. “oops,” you giggle fixing the lace so that it sits right again, “maybe not these, don’t want anyone else seeing what is only meant for my angels,”

you stand back up, “You know what I think the black skirt is better,” you slide the white skirt off leaving you back in your tiny cropped tank and lace panties before sliding up the black skirt, “okay but now the white is too showy,” you bend again, “what should I pick next the black or the pink?” gyu is fast to respond, “okay beomie says pink so I think we have to try that one next,” and gyu doesn't know what happens to him when he sees you wear pink only that he's whimpering with his hand down his sweats picking up his pace as he squeezes his cock. When you bend doing your little wiggle he knows he's the one who sent these to you from your wishlist, that alone makes him cum. His head falls back against the headboard, not caring about the mess anymore when you’re there taking your top off, pushing down on your boobs with your arm to hide giggling about not wanting to wear a bra tonight. Your bare back to the camera as you pull on your new top.

By the end of your stream, he was cutting it close to making it out on time to meet up with everyone. But when he got to the bar they had saved him a seat at their booth half taken up with his friends and half taken up with yours.

You were half squished between your friend and soobin, feeling claustrophobic amongst the group. soobin and you have an econ class together along with another friend at the table. He had invited the two of you out a couple of times but it was always on a Friday and you always made the most of Friday nights. But he had asked to celebrate the end of the semester pointing out everyone else was going so you agreed wanting to finally get out even if it was only the one time. So far all of his friends were nice, picking up conversation easily and adding everyone in like they had been besties for years. gyu didn’t even realize it was you at the table until you lifted your head at yeonjuns loud, “Look who finally made it!”

beomgyu had only just seen you on his screen, putting on lipstick and blowing a kiss to your chat before logging off, he felt like he was hallucinating but he didn’t want to get caught staring. He tried to keep his features blank, avoiding spending too much time looking at you when he nodded a short greeting to everyone. he wasn't fully convinced it was you until soobin was introducing your side of the table, “And this is gyu,”

your smile was the barest reaction he had ever seen you give, “Hi gyu,” so unlike the way you look when you call him beomie. he sat on the other side of soobin as the others continued their conversation. His hands were slick with sweat as he discreetly pulled out his phone pulling up your private chat, he had messaged you after stream like he usually did complimenting you, your sweet reply always going straight to his heart. He typed out a message for you clicking his phone off and letting it sit in his lap as he watched you pick yours up.

beomiebear: I hope you’re thinking of me while you’re dressed that pretty tonight don’t need you forgetting me.

beomgyu was trying not to make it obvious he was watching you as your face lit up typing before clicking your phone off. In his lap, his buzzed and he knew it was you. That little smile gave away more than anything else.

you: There is no way I could forget about you when I'm always thinking about you <3

And as much as beomgyu wants to talk to you he's completely scared shitless.

He feels like the second you two lock eyes you'll know he knows you’re a cam girl. That you'll feel weird once you know he's watched you get off for what feels like forever. Not even that he just watched but he's gotten off more times than he can count from watching you. that not even two hours ago he was fucking his hand wishing it was you and you had only been changing. He wouldn't be able to take it if you ignored him, stopped answering his messages, and smiled at his user. So he bit his tongue and sat back.

beomgyu didn’t think he would have a problem acting normal but when your friend dragged you out onto the dance floor it was almost painful not to watch you. the way your body was moving drawing him in without him noticing he was stuck on you until soobin bumped his shoulder, “just talk to her,”

“w-what no,” he stumbled, waving away the suggestion, “she wouldn't- I'm not-“ his heart was beating so hard he's sure any more attention brought to him would give him away.

“I will if you don’t,” gyu gave the deadliest glance, it was the last thing he ever wanted to think about, his friend and you together when it should be him. soobin chuckled, “I'm kidding I like her friend but it proves my point on why you should speak up,”

beomgyu bit the inside of his cheek before muttering, “I'm getting another drink,”

and that's where you found him at the bar. He was checking the time on his phone waiting for his drink when you popped up next to him leaning over the bartop waving over the bartender. Not even noticing he was from your group until the bartender walked right past ignoring you. gyu went stiff, placing his phone face down on the counter when you spoke up, “gyu right?”

“Yeah,” he absentmindedly starts to play with the charm on his phone, flicking the lollipop. He knows you've never seen him, that you wouldn't know him in the way he knows you. Every shared glance feels as if you will just know it's him, like his username is written on his forehead that if you paid enough attention would be visible to only you. He could feel a pit in his stomach, a brewing mix of embarrassment and need. If he wasn't worried you would freak out he wanted to get to know you like he would any other girl in the bar. Ask you to dance, get you a drink, flirt until the sun comes up; he wanted you to like him, feel something for him even if it was a fraction of what he felt for you.

“how do you know soobin?” you ask just trying to make conversation as you wait for another bartender to pass.

“we're childhood friends and we roomed together our first year,” he flicks the charm again, looking over at the glasses lining the wall in front of the two of you, missing the way you looked down at what he was messing with.

You could feel your heart in your ears at seeing the charm on his phone, the instant realization almost blinding. Your silence is what makes gyu look back at you, both of you looking at eachother like you saw a ghost. The two of you jumped out of your skin when Yeonjun and Kai came up behind gyu to say goodbye.

“beomgyu were leaving,” and if Kai hadn't said his name at that exact moment you could have written it off. Anyone could be beomiebear it didn’t have to be gyu but mixed with the phone charm at that exact moment you couldn't have missed it.

“o-okay,” beomgyu had to clear his throat to get the words out. the final nail in the coffin was when Yeonjun ruffled gyus hair as a salute not knowing he was leaving the two of you in a puddle of nerves after saying, “Bye beomie,”

Even if it's a packed room, the only thing you can see is gyu in front of you. you had always dreaded the day when you would meet a member outside of chat, the possibility so much higher with your face uncovered. Now you were face to face with someone you had proof watched almost every single one of your streams. “so… is it going to be really uncomfortable now?”

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable at all. I wasn't going to say anything,” beomgyu feels like he's rambling, grasping for straws to try to right the situation. You can see the panic on his face, the same face you're re-examining with your new clarity. A deep blush is set across his cheeks, his brows pinched in worry.

“no it's okay I'm more shocked than uncomfortable,” you try to laugh it off, finger brushing over the little bear charm. “Happy to put a face to the name, you’re way cuter than I imagined,”

beomgyu could feel warmth all over his body at the compliment, a soft smile showing itself. “you think?” it was so much better in person to hear you say nice things, to know it was meant for him alone.

you give a soft chuckle waving, “Do you want to dance with me? I don’t think the bartender cares about us at this point,”

“o-okay,”

beomgyu couldn't believe you were here, the two of you are so close now that beomgyu can smell your perfume, making his cock so much harder remembering your panties pressed to his face, aided now by the way you were grinding back on him. he had a hard time putting his hands on you in the first place, you have to guide him to grab your waist. But as the night went on he was finding it easier and easier to let his hands roam wherever you let him.

It felt as if you've known him for so long, everything falling into place as if you've always known each other, like that first stream was a first date and you haven't been apart since. If it had been anyone else you think you would have gone straight home and locked yourself away, with beomiebear, with beomgyu, you felt as if you could lock the two of you in a room and never leave. Because even if he had been behind the screen he still had picked up on the way you liked things.

You turned wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him closer to your mouth, “it's getting late,”

“I don’t wanna go,” he confessed not caring if you could feel his erection pressed against you, he wanted to stay with you not see you go.

“You don’t want to go home with me?” if you could push yourself any closer you would just to make your point, “Because something tells me you really do,”

beomgyus mouth is dry, trying and failing to come up with words that won't seem too needy because all he wants to do is beg. he would have you right here if he could, right in the back of the uber you called to pick the two of you up. He's never been so nervous to be with anyone before, even his first time he was less needy and more confident. What breaks him is when you get to your apartment, when you push open the door to your spare room and he sees that pink bed from your background, moody lights and all. He moans at the thought of all the times he's seen you spread out on those very pillows with your hand between your thighs. The white skirt and panties you didn’t wear were still on the floor. “are you really wearing the panties I picked out?” his voice was caught in his throat, not at all how he wanted it to come off. But you just smile from the doorway, no one has ever been in here with you before and it gives you butterflies.

“Why don’t you find out for yourself?” you ask, sliding your hands up his chest and around his neck.

He's slow to kiss you, the soft tentative nature of his kiss unlike how you thought he would be. He was being so gentle, taking his time with you, exploring the way you two fit together. His hands at your waist pulling you into him, kissing you breathless. beomgyu could make out with you forever, making every effort to know you inside and out. one hand sliding down the curve of your ass, pushing your shirt up until he was feeling the lace of your panties, groaning into your kiss. “do you-,” he can’t even pull himself away from you, pressing himself closer, coming back to your mouth like it was the source, “do you think-“

you have to pull away giggling. “it's okay beomgyu I'll still kiss you after you ask your question,” he's nodding like he understands, nose brushing against yours as he tries to latch back onto your mouth.

“Do you think I could watch you?” those puppy dog eyes working wonders on your stomach, “please,”

“only if I get to see what it looks like on the other side of the screen,” you reach down to cup him over his jeans, “it's only fair,” beomgyu has never been so noisy in his life, whimpering as you feel him up, wanting to thrust into the air when you pull away. “Do you want me to use a toy?”

he's nodding his head watching you pull open your closet door, the drawer you pull open overstocked with everything he's ever seen you use in a stream, even things he hasn't seen you use yet. He's almost a little shocked at the sight of all the options to choose from, mind filtering through every reaction he can remember you having with each one, needing to see your lashes flutter. It's when he sees the wand toy from the first stream he attended that he knows there was never another option for him.

beomgyu sits on your vanity chair, leaning back against the cushion to get the perfect angle to watch you. The nerves were new for you, even the first few streams you had done you had been able to overlook the feeling because you were just alone in the room and no one really watched. Now you were actively being seen because even if the chat was running it was almost always positive comments that boosted your ego. Even other partners hadn't stepped into the space and maybe that's what was making it worse, you didn’t want to disappoint, but as you laid back on the pillows all stacked up to keep you slightly upright and looked at beomgyu it all faded away. He was watching you like he was seconds away from devouring you, that needy crease to his brow, the hem of his shirt rolled up just enough to show off his navel and waistband of his underwear.

You lifted your knees to your chest using your arm to help keep them up, the way you were folded made your panties tighten against your cunt, the wet outline making gyus mouth water. He popped the button of his jeans, zipping down the zipper, to give him some release. You clicked on the vibrator, the hum the only sound in the room as you pressed it over your clit. Your reaction was instant, hips jerking and lashes fluttering. You could see the way beomgyus breathing increased, his hand pushed into his pants, lip between his teeth to keep his moans quiet.

“I want to hear you,” you gasp, “I need to hear you,”

beomgyu nods adam's apple bobbing, the breathy whimpers taking up all of the space in your mind until he pulls down his pants. His cock is heavy as it slaps against his stomach, beomgyu works fast to take off his shirt not caring where it lands as you focus in on every vein on his shaft. He's already so leaky, all his precum aiding his strokes. The visual of watching his hand working himself drives you insane, your imagination running wild as his hand pumps up and down stopping right at the flared tip, picturing exactly what it would feel like when he pushes into you. Your orgasm comes crashing down on you, the pretty sounds coming from your mouth alone have beomgyu following right after, both of you locking eyes across the room as you try to come down from your high. gyus stomach is covered in streaks of his cum, sliding down with every breath he takes. You click off the wand not wanting to overstimulate yourself letting it fall in the pillows next to you.

Your panties are completely soaked as you push them down, strings of wetness still clinging to the fabric. You toss them over to beomgyu who's eager to catch them, cleaning up the mess he's made only to wrap them around his still-hard cock, letting your combined cum work as more lube for his slow pumps. “Your cock is so pretty beomie, does it put the gift I gave you to good use?”

beomgyus thrusts up into his hand at the nickname, “Yes, I-I make sure to give it clitty kisses just like you told me,”

you run your fingers through your slick folds spreading your legs wider to give him a better view, “are you going to give me clitty kisses before you fuck me?” beomgyu has to pull his hand away from himself before he came again at the question. He had dreamed of tasting you; getting lost between your thighs. He dropped your panties making his way to kneel in front of you on the bed. You still had your shirt and skirt on and he helped take both of them off before hooking your knees over his shoulders. As much as he has seen your pussy on screen nothing beats in person, your swollen clit covered in your slick, his head framed by your thighs. beomgyu is licking his lips as you brush your fingers through his hair, pushing the strands behind his ears, his eyes flickering up to yours as he wraps his hands around your thighs to keep you still. “how is it that you look this edible?”

you roll your hips, the heels of your feet pushing into his back, “just get to eating me,”

his lips ghost over your clit, your whimper drawing him closer, soft kisses dusting over every part of your pussy. You have to tighten your hold on his hair, pushing him to your clit to get him to move past all his teasing. beomgyu moans at the taste of you, the vibrations aiding his work on your clit. If he could spend the rest of the night between your legs overstimulating you he would. Every sound and movement in reaction to the way he's making you feel fuling him on. He's messy as he buries his face into you, all of your wetness gathered on his tongue as he circles your bundle of nerves, sucking deeply making you roll your head back. Your second orgasm is blinding as he presses two fingers into you, the pressure making you see spots, legs closing in around his ears.

When beomgyu pulls away your legs feel weak when they rest back on the bed. He kisses up your stomach, loving your uneven breathing as you try to come back to reality. His mouth is all over you, tongue trialing your skin before he finds your nipples. Taking his time with each he lightly tugs them between his teeth, sucking along the delicate flesh leaving marks up and down your body. beomgyus thinking about seeing all the hickeys he's leaving on you when you stream, everyone knowing someone had their mouth on you. The thought alone has him humping into the mattress, your giggles waking him up as you run your thumb over his cheek, “who knew beomiebear would be so needy,”

“only for you,” he confesses kissing your extended wrist, “please let me fuck you, please,”

you don’t hesitate to let your legs fall open wider as an invitation beomgyus cock already pressed against your thigh, sticky still from earlier. “you don’t need to beg,”

you help him guide himself to your entrance, mushroom tip pressing in enough to make you shiver, mouth opening in a silent moan at the feeling. beomgyu can’t contain his noises, eyes glued to where the two of you are connected. He pushed in further the sight of him disappearing into your cunt like a beacon he won’t look away from. He doesn’t look up to see your face until he gives one last thrust to fully knock his pelvis to yours. Your head is rolled back with that hazy fucked out expression and he’s hardly done anything at all. he rolls his hips back before pushing all the way back in your whimper tearing him apart. “you feel so fucking good,”

beomgyu sits back on his heels dragging you with him, hands holding your hips as your back arches. The angle pushing him right against your gspot, your feet digging Into the mattress as gyu frantically picks up his pace. He guides your body down on his cock, every thrust making your boobs bounce. beomgyu is lost in the feeling, desperate whimpers escaping him, veins in his hands and arms bulging from his hold on you.

“beomie,” the name slipping so easily, the whine making beomgyu feel like any second he would cum especially when you felt this warm, this wet. He was using you like his own personal cock sleeve focused solely on getting his cum as deep as possible into you.

Blindly you reached out next to you for the vibrator, finding it and turning it on pressing it to your clit. beomgyu can feel his orgasm building aided by the way you’re squeezing him. Sloppily thrusting he feels the tightness in his balls, he presses as close as he can get himself to you.

The fucked out expression on his face as his hot cum spills inside you triggers your orgasm, the wand pressed to your clit also pressed to the base of his cock overstimulating the both of you. You go to move it but beomgyu’s hand shoots out holding the vibrator in place watching the way your body convulses. Thighs trying to close in around him, your cries loud enough you know you’ll get a noise complaint. But beomgyu’s cock is still pulsing your body milking him in a way no one ever has before.

It’s only when he sees the tears in your eyes that he pulls the wand away, switching it off and laying himself onto you. His mouth is on your neck, hammering pulse pressed to his lips as he gives you slow soft thrusts making sure you’re stuffed full of his cum.

Your arms wrap around his shoulders, fingers curling in the sweaty strands of hair at the base of his neck. Both of you catch your breath slowly coming back to yourselves.

When he pulls out you feel the overwhelming gush of your combined cum slipping out and down to puddle on the mattress. beomgyu sat back watching in amazement. “I’ve always wanted to see what your pussy would look like after i was done with it,” two fingers scooping up anything he could to stuff it right back in.

🏷 taglist: @kissmekissykissme @bts-txt-ateez @apeachty @stwq2349 @isa942572  @tomorrowxforever @beestvng @soobingf-blog @lovinjjong @lola-horore-553  @cypher-03 @midnight-mochii @hueningwhy @choibeomning @soobinbunnie5  @yunjinswifee @cupidtaehyun @bamgeutsz @prince-jjae

and a very special thank you to @fairyofshampgyu for beta reading this for me <33333

#choi beomgyu x reader #beomgyu x reader #beomgyu x you #choi beomgyu #beomgyu #beomgyu smut #choi beomgyu smut #txt x reader #txt smut #yeonjun #soobin #taehyun #huening kai #kpop smut #kinktober

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josephquinnswhore · 6 months ago

Text

replicate failure to protect - joel miller x female reader

summary: Joel cannot bare to lose you, not the same way he lost Sarah. Through his own self declared failure to protect.

word count: 1.8k

content warnings: ptsd episode, panic attack, mention of past attempted suicide, reader gets fucked up ig, blood, murder, guns, violence, age gap- unspecified. Established relationship.

It feels euphoric, the numbness that spreads from your side up your arms, parts of your body are fizzing with a lightheaded tingle as the blood seeps out of your body. Past the point of pain, the searing sensation of a dull arrowhead being pulled forward, taut at the hands of a single raider camouflaging into the surrounding bush—whistled silently through the air. The metal savagely tears through your flesh and stops right below your bottom rib on the left side.

As you lie on the ground, you’re unable to make sense of the blurred shapes and colours of the overgrown foliage on the slanted buildings, the sound of explosive gunfire is muffled by the ringing in your ears—you feel something. A tugging sensation, one that vibrates through the arrowhead and emits a protestful rumble from your lungs.

All you can make out is muffled ringing in your ears and some incoherent mumbling, watching the blurred outline of his lips move.

You can barely make him out, as he kneels above you, having snapped off the end of the arrow and tossed it behind him, knowing better than to take his eyes off of you for one moment. He’d looked away once, when he’d apprehensively watched you drop to the ground once the arrow had hit. In a moment of necessity to eliminate the enemy.

All you can make out is muffled ringing in your ears and some incoherent mumbling, watching the blurred outline of his lips move.

He knew tearing his gaze off of you a second time was a death sentence.

It had happened once before—the split microsecond that his deep brown teary eyes had sought reassurance from his younger brother in a moment of pure desperation. Pleading for any kind of comfort his brother could promise that she would survive, but she’d slipped away in his arms. The life in her eyes had faded the moment he looked away. Missing the last moments of light in her eyes that solitudes life.

This could not happen to you.

His aching fingers tear off a segment off his flannel below the last button, bending down to manoeuvre your body to slide the fabric under your back, wrapping it around the arrow to keep it stable.

The crimson blood had begun to seep through the flannel before he had finished tying a knot in the shredded fabric, even the loose strands of twine were stained.

But the blood.. your blood covers his hands, the colour burns the back of his eyelids. A burning sensation rises up his throat at the recognition. As he leans over you, the blood makes contact with his flannel, smearing a messy, damp pattern onto his clothes. He was reliving hell all over again two decades later.

But he broke his own rule, tearing his focus gaze away from your face to finish this task, it had been mere seconds of the process. He looked away a second time.

Speaking to you absentmindedly, his gaze returns to your face, dread filling his chest when he sees that your lips are slightly parted. The stress line in your forehead has ceased as your head is lulled to the side, the supple skin of your cheeks is grazed on the surface of the dirt on the ground.

Those beautiful, teary orbs that had just been staring at him with an unfocused gaze were now clamped shut.

A part of Joel wants to give up, reliving the traumatic event that had torn apart his will to live two decades ago, and left him with physical and psychological scars.

“No.. no, no no!” The shout is primal, a clear denial of acceptance that this was your fate.

The sight of you sends a jostle of dread through his veins. All he could see was himself re-living through the devastation of losing Sarah. On the account that he had failed once again to protect someone he loves.

Gathering his thoughts and thinking fast, he intertwined his hands and placed them in the centre of your chest, ignoring the ache in his knees against the crackled rubble of the concrete ground. He positions himself above you, bringing a inhuman-like strength into pounding his hands against your chest as he begins his compressions.

“Not you, not you baby.” He utters desperately, voice thick with emotion.

Unaware of his little brother’s presence—Joel’s eyes darken, black in colour and exerting a burning gaze through your eyelids, prompting you to open them.

To look at him. To prove he hadn’t failed you too.

An exhausted, broken cry rolls between his lips into the stale air between you, spit flying from his mouth as his actions become less precise and more desperate and harmful. Ignoring the fact that he had heard a substantial crack vibrate through his palms.

The burning sensation is all over, his shoulders, arms, wrists, knees. His heart.

“You’re not doin’ this, y’hear me? You have’ta stay.. you stay f’me baby.”

All the while your body is unmoving, limbs shaking with each downward thrust of his hands. “Just open ‘em for me, just look at me.”

Tommy watches the horrific scene, unaware of what your state was like—but he had seen Joel live through this once before.

“I ain’t mad at’cha baby. Jus’ open ‘em for me.”

Joel is begging you—if you can hear him, he can’t will himself to bring his fingers to your neck or wrist to feel your pulse point, petrified of feeling nothing.

His resolve crumbles when he sees Tommy, unable to stop.

“Joel.. Joel stop. Let me check, alright?” His voice hadn’t been this soft and insistent since he had pried his niece's cold body from Joel’s arms to bury her.

Joel falls backward onto the ground out of exhaustion, the ache in his chest is pressing upward into his throat, squeezing the life out of his oesophagus making him feel dizzy.

“She’s alive.” Tommy murmurs, turning to look at his older brother.

FOLLOWING MORNING

“You look like shit, Joel. Have you moved since we’ve been back?” He hears Tommy’s scornful voice, but he can’t bear to tear his eyes off of you. Watching the subtle rise and fall of the blanket that covers your chest.

“I ain’t movin’.”

Not an inch, not once did he allow his gaze to tear away from your chest, the proof that you were still alive. Some semblance of hope he was clinging onto that you would make it.

“You see her chest movin’?” He utters to his younger brother, seeking reassurance.

Without so much as a wink of sleep, he had begun wondering if he was hallucinating the faint movement from sleep deprivation.

“Course I do. You’re just tired.” Tommy reassured, holding out a mug of warm, black coffee.

Joel’s movements are piloted, automatic. Stiff as his arm lifts the mug to his lips, swallowing coffee with a bitter aftertaste of anxiety. The same heavy feeling builds in his chest for the second time he’d returned with you.

The pressure of his anxiety escalates, unable to focus his vision of you, or Tommy’s concerns he speaks, lungs stuttering and struggling to inhale as his hand begins to tremble.

Just shy of his fifties, Joel Miller was having a fucking panic attack. Again.

“Joel,” the weight of his younger brother’s hand digging into his shoulder with a firm grasp, withdraws him from his dissociative state, lying on his bed.

Tommy was staring down at Joel with a knowing expression. “She’s wakin’ up.” He repeats a second time.

Tommy and the coffee are long forgotten, set aside as Joel rises to his feet, looming over you in heavyset silence of anticipation and exigency.

His hands grasp onto your cheeks, cradling them as he lets out a long exhale of relief, staring into the familiar colour of your irises.

“Baby I thought you’d left me..” he utters shakily between the two of you, thick tears fall from his wet eyes down his face.

He watches as your dry lips part, a hoarse croak rolls off of your tongue in an attempt to speak.

“Don’t say nothin’, save your strength.”

His hands tighten around the small mug, tucking his thumb into the handle instead of four of his fingers, for the reason that his hands were too large to navigate the small curated gap.

Thoughtfully, he’d filled it only halfway with water and left it by your shared bed the previous evening, in the expectation of you regaining consciousness.

“Here,” he murmurs, with his free hand he urges you to tilt your head backwards. “There you go.”

Bringing the rim of his mug to your lips, he slowly tilts it upward until a small amount of water has seeped into your lips, allowing a small relief for the uncomfortably dry surface of your mouth.

The second time he encourages a little more, brushing the single few strands of hair from your face as you begin to sip on the water with a loud slurp.

When he’s satisfied you’ve had enough, he pulls the mug away and sets it back on the bedside table.

Your lips are tugged upward in a small smirk, the smallest huff of a laugh vibrates through your nose, and he raises an eyebrow.

“Straight back to annoyin’ me huh? Seems like my girl is feelin’ more like herself already.”

The coo sends your heart through an extra murmur, pulse erratically causing the flesh in your neck to pulsate.

“Know.. you..” your voice is strained, and hoarse from lack of water. “Love it.”

A hum reverberated through his throat in agreeance. Placing his hand on top of your own, clasping his fingers in between your own.

“I do love you.”

For a first confession, the words linger heavily in the air between you. An intense gaze is shared before you could process the weight behind them.

“I love.. you.” Taking a wheezing breath, you continue, the attempt to squeeze his fingers albeit weak—conveys the message. “Even if you.. cracked my ribs.”

His golden complexion reinforces a bright pink hue across his cheeks and ears. “Y’heard that, huh? I’m real sorry ‘bout it.”

Blinking lazily, you nod once, waving off his apology. “That an’ everything else.”

Continuing on from a brief pause, you place your second hand on top of his, grounding him, offering him a sense of security and reassurance he didn’t often receive as self appointed protector.

“You saved me.”

The look in your eye expresses deep gratitude and understanding, promising him that you wouldn’t end up like Sarah, that he would never have to endure pain like that ever again.

Not as long as you lived.

“No, baby. You saved me.”

There are many things you’ve saved Joel from, but he leaves them unspoken, because you know, whether or not he’s mentioned it—you know.

“Get some sleep Joel..”

He obeys, sliding under the thick duvet beside you in the bed you shared, unwilling to break the hold of your hands.

#joel miller tlou #joel miller the last of us #joel miller x reader #joel fucking miller #joelmiller #joel miller fic #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfic #joel miller ptsd #joel miller angst #joel miller hurt/comfort #hbo joel miller #Pedro pascal Joel miller

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mygridclub · 4 months ago

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MyGridClub offers Face Recognition for Events MyGridClub brings the power of face recognition for events, transforming how organizers manage attendee check-ins. This state-of-the-art technology provides a quick, secure, and contactless entry process, reducing long queues and eliminating the need for physical tickets. With MyGridClub’s face recognition for events, attendees enjoy a smoother and more personalized experience, while organizers benefit from enhanced security and streamlined event operations. Whether it’s for large conferences, festivals, or corporate events, MyGridClub ensures a flawless event experience with cutting-edge face recognition technology.

#Face Recognition for Events #face recognition #face recognition events

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astrstqr · 3 months ago

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—★! IDOL/FAME PROFILE THINGS TO SCRIPT

yoncé: think i work better under pressure lol

all this free time made me lazy

　 𓏲 .ᐟ. 　 strong suits ׅ

unstoppable stage presence, powerful vocals, dynamic dance moves, iconic style, charismatic personality, versatility in music, empowerment and inspiration, amazing fan engagement

　 𓏲 .ᐟ. 　 media rep ׅ

consistent positive coverage and high-profile collaborations that showcase my influence and versatility. my status as a fashion icon is highlighted by frequent appearances in fashion magazines and at red carpet events. i handle interviews with poise and have a strong, authentic social media presence, connecting deeply with fans. my award recognition and involvement in philanthropy further cement my impact and commitment to making a positive difference.

　 𓏲 .ᐟ. 　 public image ׅ

unwavering blend of confidence and charm, establishing me as a powerful and relatable figure. i am celebrated for my exceptional talent and versatility, with a strong presence in both music and fashion. my genuine interactions with fans and dedication to charitable causes reinforce her positive and inspiring reputation. overall, i project a polished, influential persona that resonates deeply with audiences and sets me apart in the industry.

𓏲 .ᐟ. 　 rep colors ׅ light pink, magenta, sky blue, acid green, aero, alloy orange, antique ruby, flame, forest green, french raspberry, fulvous, beaver, baby pink, champagne

　 𓏲 .ᐟ. 　 fandom colors ׅ cerise, chili red, china pink, columbia blue, dark cyan, flirt, fire engine red, floral white, finn, french lime, bitter lime, blue, brown sugar

　 𓏲 .ᐟ. 　 titles to have ׅ

☆ everyone’s ideal type

☆ golden girl/boy

☆ nation’s crush

☆ nation’s center

☆ global it boy/girl

☆ ace

☆ human (any brand)

☆ celebrity of celebrities

☆ future of (any genre)

☆ (country’s) pride

☆ (company) lucky charm

☆ face of (any genre)

☆ global superstar

☆ pop culture icon

☆ best dancer/singer/rapper/actor etc

☆ black swan

☆ white swan

yoncé speaks 2: yes yall those are real colors lol

if you want more here a link from when i got them

color list !!

#yonce ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏★#my dr things 𓈒 𑁯 ⁀ ִ ۫#things to script #dr scripting #scripting ideas #shifting ideas #shifting script #shiftblr #reality shifting #shifting community #shifting #shifters #desired reality #shifting motivation #manifesation #fame dr #kpop shifter

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jcmarchi · 1 year ago

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Israel now uses mass facial recognition in the Gaza Strip - Technology Org

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/israel-now-uses-mass-facial-recognition-in-the-gaza-strip-technology-org/

Israel now uses mass facial recognition in the Gaza Strip - Technology Org

Israel has discreetly initiated a widespread facial recognition program in the Gaza Strip, compiling a database of Palestinians without their awareness or authorization.

A video surveillance camera – illustrative photo. Image credit: Pawel Czerwinski via Unsplash, free license

As revealed by The New York Times, this initiative, developed after the October 7th incidents, utilizes technology from Google Photos along with a specialized tool from the Tel Aviv-based firm Corsight to detect individuals associated with Hamas.

The facial recognition program was established jointly with Israel’s military campaign in Gaza. Following the October 7th events, operatives from Israel’s Unit 8200, the primary intelligence unit of the Israeli Defense Forces, identified potential targets by scrutinizing security camera footage and content uploaded to social media by opposition groups. Additionally, soldiers solicited information from Palestinian detainees to identify individuals affiliated with the adversary.

Company Corsight, renowned for its technology’s capability to accurately recognize individuals with less than half of their face visible, utilized these images to develop a facial recognition tool for Israeli personnel operating in Gaza.

In order to expand the database and pinpoint potential targets, the Israeli military installed facial recognition cameras at checkpoints along major routes used by Palestinians to travel southward.

Soldiers recounted to the Times that Corsight’s technology sometimes yielded inaccurate results, especially when dealing with low-quality footage or obscured facial features. In certain instances, Corsight’s tool erroneously identified individuals as being linked to adversary groups.

In October, several hospitals in Israel began employing Corsight’s technology for patient identification, as reported by Forbes. Since then, Corsight’s technology demonstrated the capability to identify individuals “whose features had been impacted by physical trauma, and find a match amongst photos submitted by concerned family members.”

Corsight primarily targets governmental, law enforcement, and military applications. In 2020, the company, just one year old at the time, claimed its technology could identify faces even when masked. Two years later, Corsight purportedly embarked on developing a tool capable of constructing a person’s facial model based on their DNA. Last year, Corsight collaborated with the metropolitan police in Bogotá, Colombia, to locate suspects involved in murder and theft cases within the public transit system.

Written by Vytautas Valinskas

You can offer your link to a page which is relevant to the topic of this post.

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fielddrive · 2 years ago

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Delight Attendees with Facial Recognition Check Ins

Experience the fastest, most personalized, and most secure check-ins with fielddrive's facial recognition solution. Scan with facial recognition to leave a lasting impression. Enjoy enhanced security, instant colour badge printing, and seamless integrations for a seamless event experience. Visit our website to learn more.

#face recognition attendance system #facial recognition check in #facial recognition event kiosks #Facial Recognition for Events

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greengoblinswifey · 5 months ago

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Game of Fate—Hwang In-ho/Front Man x Fem!Reader

summary— After discovering that you, a girl he had a one night stand with entered the deadly games, the Front man disguised as a player 001, infiltrates the games under the guise of monitoring Gi-hun but his focus becomes protecting you at all costs. based on this request.

warnings— none! fluff undertones, slight angst, season 2 spoilers, usual squid game chaos, in-ho being protective and possessive(he has a heart) <3

In-ho sat in his private quarters, the screens in front of him displaying the death and desperation of the games. His attention drifted from one player to the next until his eyes fell on you. A bolt of recognition shot through him. It was you, his one night stand from years ago, someone who had left a mark on him in ways he hadn’t expected.

He remembered every detail about you, your wit, your boldness, and the way you made him feel alive, even if just for one night. It infuriated him to see other players whispering in your ear or lingering too long in your space. His possessiveness surprised even him. You had been the best fuck he ever had, and seeing you here now stirred something he couldn’t ignore.

That’s when he made a decision.

By the time you met “Young-il,” the newest player in the games, you couldn’t place why he seemed familiar. His face was shadowed by the chaos of your surroundings, and you had no time to dwell on it.

“You,” he said, approaching you during a moment of uneasy rest.

Your eyes narrowed. “Do I know you?”

“You could say that,” have a sly smile, “Call me Young-il.”

You tilted your head, trying to recall where you might have met him. There was something about him, his confidence, his presence, that struck something. Still, you shrugged it off. “Okay, Young-il. Hope you know what you’re doing here.”

“I’m sure I’ll manage.”

You didn’t realize he was watching your every move.

During one of the more grueling games, you faltered. The sound of gunfire rang out as players dropped like flies, and your heart pounded. You’d made a critical mistake, one that should have cost you your life.

You braced yourself for the inevitable, but nothing happened. The guards moved past you, their guns silent. You stood frozen, confused, but grateful.

In-ho, hidden behind the mask of a player, allowed himself the briefest sigh of relief. His influence was subtle but effective, you were still alive, and he’d made sure of it.

Later, as the remaining players rested, he approached you again.

“You were lucky out there,” he said, sitting down next to you.

“Mhmm. Don’t know how I pulled that off,” you said as you glanced at him, still shaken from the day’s events.

“You’ve got more lives than a cat.”

“Or someone’s watching over me,” you joked.

He smiled faintly, hiding how true your words were.

As the games continued, his protectiveness grew. When another player made a sly comment about your appearance, he was quick to cut in.

“Keep your eyes on the prize,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The player backed off, muttering under his breath, while you arched an eyebrow.

“You don’t need to fight my battles,” you said sassily.

“I wasn’t fighting,” he said as he leaned closer.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide the faint smile tugging at your lips.

In-ho found himself conflicted. He hadn’t planned to step into the games, let alone risk his identity. But seeing you here, vulnerable yet determined, pulled at something deep within him. And when you finally cornered him one night, your wary gaze demanding answers, he knew he couldn’t stay in the shadows forever.

“You’re not just another player, are you?” you asked, your voice steady but your eyes searching his.

He hesitated, then smiled. “What do you think?”

“I think you’ve got secrets. But shit, me too. Let’s survive this first.”

“Deal,” he said.

He couldn’t stop himself from watching you, protecting you, and falling deeper into the very thing he tried to avoid. The very thing he said he wasn’t there for. Wasn’t he there to target Gi-hun?

Young-il seamlessly integrated himself into the group with Gi-hun and the rest, his calm demeanor and quick thinking making him reliable. Despite his apparent calmness, his sharp gaze constantly flicked to you. He positioned himself strategically, always close enough to step in if anything went wrong.

Gi-hun often exchanged glances with Jung-bae, silently questioning why Young-il seemed more concerned about you than the games themselves. But they never voiced their suspicions, after all, his protectiveness benefited the group.

Young-il wasn’t subtle about his priorities. When Thanos, one of the annoying and aggressive players, approached you with a smirk and a comment about how “a pretty thing like you shouldn’t be here,” Young-il’s jaw tightened.

“Walk away,” he said, his voice cold.

“Relax, man. Just talking—” Thanos chuckled nervously.

“I said, walk away.”

Before Thanos could respond, Young-il took a step forward, fists clenched, his eyes dark. Thanos scrambled back, muttering curses under his breath.

You crossed your arms and shot him a look. “I didn’t need you to step in. I could’ve handled that.”

“I wasn’t going to let him near you.”

When the lights went out, the dormitory turned into chaos. You barely managed to sleep, anxiety gnawing at you. But Young-il stayed awake, his body perched against the wall near your makeshift bed. His eyes, though heavy with exhaustion, remained trained on the room, scanning for any sign of danger.

At one point, you stirred, catching his silhouette in the dim light. “You’re not sleeping?”

“Not tired,” he lied, his voice soft.

“You should rest. I’m fine.”

“I’ll rest when this is over. Someone has to make sure you’re safe,” he said as he shook his head.

His words lingered in the air, and you turned away, confused by his constant concern.

When food rations arrived, Young-il always ensured you had enough, sometimes splitting his share without you noticing. If you hesitated to eat, he nudged the portion toward you.

“Eat,” he insisted once, placing his biscuit in your hand.

“I’m not a damsel in distress,” you said. “I don’t need you to babysit me.”

“I’m not babysitting,” he replied. “I’m keeping you alive.”

In the third game, players had to quickly form groups based on the number the organizers called, and with each failed attempt, the penalty was being shot to death. Fear ran high, and each moment felt like it could be your last.

You were with Young-il, trying to keep calm as the guards shouted the numbers. The merry go round platform spun as everyone scrambled to form groups and find a room, but it quickly turned chaotic. Someone tried to push past you, their eyes wild with desperation, and before you could react, Young-il was already stepping in.

His face was hard, his eyes cold as he grabbed the man by the collar, dragging him to the back of the room. The man’s protests were cut short as Young-il raised his hands and broke his neck, ending his life. The room fell silent for a moment before the countdown ended.

You froze, shock creeping into your body as you realized what had just happened. You hadn’t expected him to kill so easily, even after all the brutality you’d witnessed in the games. His gaze softened when he turned to you, seeing the fear in your eyes. He stepped closer, his hand resting on your shoulder.

“I know this is hard,” he whispered, his voice gentle compared to the violence he had just shown. “But you need to understand, this place doesn’t have mercy.” He looked down at you, his hand reaching up to cup your face, brushing away the few tears that had fallen. “It’s gonna be okay, I’m here.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of his words as he pulled you into his chest. The harsh reality of the games had taken root in you, but with him, you knew, even if just for a minute, you wouldn’t have to do it alone. His feelings for you were clear, he wanted you to survive, to make it out of this, and he was determined to ensure that you would.

During the dark night when the O Team launched their attack, chaos erupted. Players were dragged from their beds, screams echoing through the dormitory. When someone lunged toward you with a fork, Young-il stopped them in an instant, knocking them to the ground with a brutality that left you stunned.

He positioned himself between you and the attackers, his stance firm. “Stay behind me,” he barked, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“I can fight!” you shouted back, trying to step forward.

“Not tonight,” he said, shoving you back gently but firmly. “You’re staying behind me. That’s final.”

Despite your protests, he shielded you with everything he had, fighting off anyone who dared come near.

When the group decided to attack the guards and confront the ‘Front Man’, Young-il hesitated. His gaze flickered between you and Gi-hun, his usual resolve wavering.

“You’ll be okay,” he said finally, pressing a gun into your hand.

“I don’t even know how to use this,” you said, eyes widened.

“You don’t need to. Just point and shoot if you have to,” he said. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

You stared at him, your chest tightening. “Why are you doing all this?”

“Because you’re mine,” he said quietly, his words slipping out before he could stop them.

Your breath hitched, but before you could respond, he turned to follow Gi-hun. Over his shoulder, he added, “You’ll be okay. I’ll make sure of it.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving you with more questions than answers and a determination to survive—not just for yourself, but for the man who had somehow made you his priority in this death game.

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rueclfer · 22 days ago

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and for my second requestttt

prohero katsuki with a hospital surgeon reader who gets annoyed at him everytime he shows up at the hospital because then they have to work overtime and stuff

(nobody hates pros more than healthcare workers)

but this time all the people are fine and katsuki is the one that gets really hurt

so the reader scolds them

sorry if i got tooooo specific with this one..

"no one hates pros more than healthcare workers" oh you are absolutely cooking omfg wait i love this dynamic!!!!!!

prohero!katsuki // job fair

event m.list

it’s been three hours since katuski’s surgery and four since when you were supposed to clock out. with your schedule clear for the rest of the night, you’ve done nothing but pace around his room with his chart tightly clutched under your arm and your ears sharp on the monitor tracking his heart rate.

“we expecting someone?” you hear muffled from the head of the hospital bed.

an air of relief left katsuki’s mouth once your face came into view- even if it did look like you were about to finish the villain’s job.

your hand comes up and brushes a stray piece of hair off of his forehead, and drags your fingers down to rest on the side of his face where a bandage had covered the majority of his cheek.

“you idiot. i should fucking kill you right now,” you softly say, “three villains and you didn’t even bother calling for backup? are you stupid?”

“all i’m hearing is that i’m keeping you employed,” he faintly chuckles, “sorry you had to see my ass in your hospital again.”

katsuki winces as he brings his hand up to touch yours, lightly resting his fingertips on top of your knuckles.

“making me see you on my operating table definitely takes the cake for the most annoying thing you’ve done. didn’t think you could be any more insufferable, but you surprise me everyday, dynamight.”

“katsuki,” he corrects, “and glad to be of service.”

a beat of silence looms over you as you inspect each other’s faces. katsuki notes the dark circles under your eyes and twitchy fingers pressed against his cheek. you notice the rare softness in his face as he looks up at you.

“don’t scare me like that again, okay?” you whisper, “i didn’t appreciate the heads up text either.”

“didn’t like that? thought i was doing you a favor.”

“you could’ve died and your last text to me could’ve been about fucking voice to text recognition, katsuki.” you exclaim, “how fucked up is that?”

“better that than nothing at all. if i was going to die i would’ve sent a better one, but i knew i wasn’t.” he rolls his eyes, “so stop yelling at me when i’m all cut up in this fucking hospital bed.”

you scoff, moving your hand to your side, “you pros are nothing but a bunch of cocky do-gooders who cause trouble for everyone else to clean up after.”

“well lucky for you, i’m out of business for a while."

you begin gathering your items from the chair off to the side, stuffing your paperwork and notebooks into your bag.

"good. maybe you can reevaluate your lifestyle choices and start prioritizing your health or something.”

after slinging your bag over your shoulder and giving your tired eyes a good rub, you scan over the room, making sure it’s set for the overnight nurse and for katsuki's comfort.

“why would i do that when this is the easiest way to see you?”

your breathing goes uneasy for a second. if it was you that was hooked to the monitor, you were sure that it would be reading as a cardiac arrest.

“i promise you that there are easier ways. especially if it’s you,” you quip, “the overnight nurse should be checking in soon, but you have my number,” you narrow your eyes to his, “don’t abuse it, but message me if you have any questions.”

katsuki trails you as you double check the IV bags and monitors connected to him one last time as if the moment you left those doors, he might not be alive the next day. it was easy for him to see- that despite your protests and constant denial, you care a lot more than you let on.

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thepencilnerd · 2 months ago

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The Story Never Ends

pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!Reader summary: From coffee and first glances to slow unraveling and quiet return—this is a story of love across changing seasons, of what’s lost, and what still lingers; healing is neither linear nor pretty, but it’s real—and sometimes, that's enough. warnings: references to unprocessed trauma and grief, emotional burnout, relationship conflict, brief mention of a mass casualty event (off-screen) genre/notes: meet-cute, slow burn, fluffy, heavy angst, miscommunication, hurt/comfort, HEA (but the H stands for hopeful), robby finally confronting his demons, might as well just be angst but i promise there's comfort word count: 9.5k a/n: i write to cope

The coffee shop buzzed with its usual afternoon chaos: the hum of espresso machines, baristas calling names, sunlight spilling through floor-to-ceiling windows. You stood in line, scanning the chalkboard menu like it might change, trying to decide between something familiar or something new.

It was supposed to be a regular afternoon—nothing remarkable.

Then you noticed him.

He stood near the counter, hunched slightly in a hoodie with the sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, fingers absently tugging at the seam of his cup sleeve. Not someone who stood out. But he felt like someone who carried weight. Like he’d seen too much, held too much, and hadn't yet figured out how to set it down. There was a quiet intensity to him, the kind you couldn’t explain—like he’d just come from somewhere heavy.

He must’ve felt your gaze, because he looked up. His eyes—dark brown, a little hollow—met yours.

You gave him a small, instinctive smile. Not recognition. Just something human.

He blinked, caught off guard, and then—tentatively—smiled back.

You looked away quickly, heat rising to your cheeks. But when you stole another glance, he was still watching you, his curiosity softening the tired lines of his face.

He turned back to the menu and stared at it like it might bite.

“The caramel macchiato’s pretty solid here,” you offered, voice low so only he could hear.

He looked over again, brow lifting in faint surprise.

You nodded, a little sheepishly. “If you’re into sweet. It’s my go-to after a long day.”

He considered you for a moment, then gave a small nod. “That sounds about right.” He turned to the barista. “Caramel macchiato, please. Large.”

When you picked up your drink, you glanced around for a seat—and found him already settled near the window, one hand cradling his cup. He looked up as if he’d been waiting. Then he gestured—an unspoken offer.

You hesitated, just for a second, then walked over.

“Mind if I...?”

“Please,” he said, and the word sounded like relief.

You sat across from him, hands curling around your iced drink. There was a pause—comfortable, almost—and then you smiled. “Thanks for not thinking I was weird.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “You did recommend a drink to a total stranger so I wouldn't discount that just yet.”

“Well, you looked like you could use a little help.”

His smile faded, just a little. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess I did.”

You didn’t push. Didn’t pry. And something about that seemed to make his shoulders relax. You started talking about the little things. Comfort meals. The awkward barista who always spelled your name wrong. The new park nearby with the strange modern art installation shaped like an egg roll.

He caught you looking at his badge—Michael Robinavitch, doctor, Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.

“I’m off the clock,” he offered, voice low.

You smiled. “Well, thanks for sharing it with me.”

—

You didn’t exchange numbers that day. But you ran into him again the following week, same coffee shop, same time. It happened again the week after that. Eventually, it stopped feeling like coincidence.

He finally introduced himself. "Dr. Robby," as he was affectionately called by his colleagues, Michael by his close social circle or when his grandmother was scolding him. That he was an attending for the emergency room’s day shift crew. That his sleep schedule was a mess, and that he liked his coffee way too sweet for someone who looked like he never let himself enjoy anything.

Your first date wasn’t anything planned. It was a shared walk to the bus stop that turned into dinner at the Vietnamese place a few blocks over. He’d been quieter than usual at first, eyes heavy with something he didn’t name, until you asked him what the best hospital vending machine snack was. That made him laugh—really laugh—and he said, “You have to try the orange peanut butter crackers. Horrible, but somehow perfect at 3 a.m.”

He had a way of making you laugh—quick, offhand comments delivered so seriously you almost missed the punchline. "You're one of those people who actually reads the coffee shop signs, aren't you?" he asked once, teasing, as you squinted at the seasonal drinks board.

"Only the ones with bad puns," you fired back, and he’d smirked like you’d passed some secret test.

"Are you one of those people who judges others by their coffee order?"

"Only if it's decaf," you replied with a mock-serious look. "That’s a cry for help."

He grinned. "Guess I shouldn’t tell you about my chai latte phase."

"Only if you're ready to be judged accordingly."

"Brutal," he muttered, shaking his head, but his eyes were bright. "You’re lucky you’re cute."

That made your eyebrows lift. "So, you admit it. I’ve won you over."

"I’m saying nothing without my lawyer present," he said, sipping his drink to hide the smile pulling at his lips.

There was a rhythm between you, like banter was its own language, and even the smallest exchange left you smiling until your cheeks ached. And just like that, the air between you warmed a little more.

Robby opened up slowly, in millimeters, not miles. Told you about college, about hating anatomy lab but loving the rush of a trauma case. About his years before med school, about the heat and chaos of field hospitals while volunteering for Doctors Without Borders, and the people he couldn’t save.

You never asked questions. Always listened.

By the end of the night, when he walked you home, there was a gentleness to him that you hadn’t expected, a softness that made you feel safe. He stopped just outside your door, his hand still holding yours, and he looked at you with a warmth that made your heart swell.

“Thanks for making me feel normal,” he confessed, his eyes searching yours. The vulnerability in his voice caught you off guard, but it made you smile.

“You are normal,” you whispered, reaching out to touch his hand. He hesitated for a moment before interlacing his fingers with yours.

“Thank you,” he said softly, his eyes shining with something unspoken. And in that moment, you knew you were falling for him.

There was no big kiss that night, no fireworks. Just two people sharing space and silence in a beginning of something.

He texted you the next morning.

Robby: Morning. Hope I didn’t say too much. Or not enough. I meant every part of it.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe maybe this could be something real.

—

It happened on a quiet night after your fourth date. Robby had invited you over to his apartment for a movie night. His place was spacious but cozy, tucked into a narrow walk-up with sloped ceilings and mismatched furniture that somehow worked. The couch had seen better days, but it was soft, and the throw blankets were well-worn with affection. A stack of unread books leaned precariously on the coffee table beside a half-finished crossword puzzle. The scent of cedarwood lingered faintly in the air, blending with the buttery warmth of popcorn.

You took a slow glance around when you stepped inside, letting the space sink in. "This place is very you," you said, a soft smile tugging at your lips. "Cozy. Quiet. Looks like it holds secrets."

Robby raised an eyebrow, amused. "I’m not sure whether to be flattered or mildly offended."

You laughed. "It’s a compliment. It feels... like someone lives here. Not just crashes between shifts."

"High praise coming from someone who judged my choice of hospital snacks," he said, already moving toward the kitchen.

"You earned that judgment," you quipped, grinning as you bumped his shoulder with yours. "I stand by it."

You’d helped him make snacks in the kitchen—microwaved popcorn, yes, but also cutting up fruit and arguing over the right chocolate-to-salty-snack ratio. "You can’t just put Chex Mix and M&Ms in the same bowl without a proper ratio," you protested, watching him pour each haphazardly like he was mixing concrete.

"Why not? It's all dry snacks. They're meant to mingle," he said, completely unbothered.

"You’re disrespecting the science," you defended. "That’s way too much grain and not enough chocolate."

"So... you're saying you want a bowl of candy with a side of crunch?"

"Exactly. Glad we understand each other."

"It’s called contrast," he defended, utterly serious. "Like plot twists for your taste buds."

Choosing the movie had been its own saga. You held up two options. "Rom-com or action?"

Robby narrowed his eyes, pressing his lips into a soft pout. "Define action."

"Explosions. Sweaty men. Poor communication."

He smirked. "So, basically... a rom-com but louder?"

You threw a pillow at him. "We’re watching the one where no one dies."

"Do you mean emotionally or literally?"

You responded with an exaggerated scowl.

He grinned at that—wide and a little crooked, the kind of smile that snuck up on you. "Yes, ma'am," he said, mock serious, pressing play.

By the time you settled onto the couch, your knees nearly brushing, the teasing had softened into something quieter—comfortable, expectant. The screen glowed softly against the far wall, the room dim but warm, and the distance between you gradually disappeared. But neither of you were really watching. Your mind wandered with every shift he made, every time his arm nudged yours.

Halfway through, you felt yourself leaning into him. He didn’t move away. In fact, he adjusted, slipping his arm around your shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. His warmth seeped into you, steady and reassuring, like the rest of the world had quieted. You could smell the faint trace of cedar and laundry detergent on his shirt, something familiar and grounding.

Your head rested lightly against his chest, where the soft fabric of his tee brushed your cheek and his heartbeat thudded in a slow, steady rhythm. As you relaxed into him, you caught the moment his nose dipped closer—just slightly—like he was taking in your perfume. Robby let out a soft sigh, his body relaxing into yours, and you felt his thumb gently tracing the outside of your arm, like even the quiet was something he wanted to savor.

“I’m not really following the plot,” he murmured after a while, voice barely above the hum of the dialogue onscreen.

You laughed softly. “Not really sure there is one.”

He turned slightly to look at you, kind eyes catching the faint light. “You always pick movies like this?”

“Only when I’m trying to impress a guy,” you said, smiling.

He raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “And how’s that working out for you?”

You tilted your head toward him, heart fluttering. “Jury’s still out.”

There was a pause—just a moment, but charged with something new. Slowly, Robby leaned in, eyes flicking from your lips back to your eyes. He hesitated, giving you the chance to back away.

You didn’t.

Your lips met in a soft, tentative kiss. It wasn’t perfect—more breath than pressure, more searching than certain—but it was warm and real. His beard tickled your skin as he leaned in, grounding the moment in something tangible. His hand came up to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye, and you melted into him like it was where you’d always belonged.

When you finally pulled away, your foreheads touched, both of you smiling in the quiet.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,” he murmured.

You nodded, breath catching a little. “Me too.”

He kissed your forehead gently, then wrapped both arms around you, pulling you close.And in the dim light, wrapped up in each other, it felt like—for now—everything else could wait.

—

It was late one night, the two of you sprawled across his couch, the city lights twinkling through the large windows, bathing the room in a soft glow. Robby lay beside you, his head resting on your shoulder, and your fingers moved slowly through his hair, absent and affectionate. He was unusually still, like the quiet had settled into his bones. You felt him shift slightly now and then, like he was trying to work up to something.

His hand found yours, his fingers lacing with yours in a tentative, careful way. When you glanced at him, you caught the soft furrow of his brow, the way his gaze flickered toward the windows, then the floor, then finally—hesitantly—to your face.

You waited. Letting him take his time.

He took a slow breath, like it might steady the ache in his chest, and when he spoke, his voice was quieter than you’d ever heard it. "You make things feel easy when everything else is hard."

Your throat tightened. You turned to face him fully, brushing his hair gently back from his forehead.

He looked up at you, and for the first time, there was nothing guarded in his expression. Just rawness. Hope. Fear. All of it naked in the space between you.

Then, finally—voice rough and low—he said, "I love you."

Your heart skipped. The words landed between you with all the weight of something unspoken for too long. You cupped his cheek, thumb brushing across his beard, your own voice cracking with emotion. "I love you too, Michael."

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for days. A slow, soft smile broke across his face, eyes growing glassy. He leaned in and kissed you—gentle and lingering, no rush, no performance. Just truth.

—

He’d given you a spare key to his place ages ago—an unceremonious handoff after your third night staying over, when leaving in the early morning had felt wrong. You’d been flustered, caught mid-yawn and still wearing one of his hoodies, and when he held it out, your brain short-circuited.

"You don’t—are you sure? I mean, not that I wouldn’t want to—but I don’t want to, like, intrude, or assume, or—"

“Breathe,” Robby said, already grinning—that slow, lopsided smile that always made your stomach flutter. He was leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, clearly enjoying every second of your spiraling… until he wasn’t.

You didn’t even realize you'd stopped talking until his arms were around you, warm and grounding. He pulled you in gently, tucking your head beneath his chin, his voice low near your ear. “You’re okay. Just breathe.”

"I just—I don’t usually get this far into relationships," you mumbled, finally taking it, fingers brushing his. "Feels like... a milestone or something."

"It is," he said softly, and the shift in his tone made your heart stutter. "One I’m glad to have reached with you."

You’d slipped it onto your keyring like it was no big deal. But he could tell by the way you couldn’t quite meet his eyes after that, the way your fingers nervously toyed with the chain, or how you pressed your lips together to hold back your smile. And he loved you a little more for it.

You didn’t use it often. But on the hardest nights, when you knew he was working overtime, you did.

Sometimes he’d come home late, bone-deep exhaustion in his eyes, still smelling faintly of antiseptic. He wouldn’t say anything—just step into the apartment and find you already there, barefoot in the kitchen, cooking quietly by the stove. He would wordlessly come up behind you, wrap his arms around your waist, and bury his face into the crook of your neck. His beard tickled your skin, but you didn’t move. You just let him hold on.

You never pried. Never asked what had happened or who he’d lost. You just stood still and let him breathe.

Some mornings, you’d wake up to the smell of breakfast—coffee already brewing, eggs soft in the pan. The light through the windows was always softest then, catching the curve of his shoulders as he stood at the stove, hair still tousled from sleep. He’d glance over and freeze for half a second, his eyes softening the moment they landed on you.

You, barefoot in his kitchen, drowning in one of his shirts, rubbing sleep from your eyes and blinking toward the smell of coffee like it was the only thing tethering you to the mortal world.

“Morning,” you’d mumble, voice still thick with sleep.

And he’d just shake his head with a quiet smile, barely audible as he murmured, “You’re gonna kill me looking like that.”

He never said more than that, never needed to. But the way he’d step over to press a kiss to your temple, or slide a mug into your hands like it was second nature—it was all soft, sacred routine. Like seeing you there made the weight on his chest just a little lighter. Like it reminded him there was still good to come home to.

You never got used to casual Robby. Eventually, you moved in—not all at once, but in slow, familiar steps: a drawer, a toothbrush, a mug that became yours. By the time you were sharing bills and arguing over which laundry detergent smelled better, it felt more like breathing than change.

The first time you saw him in glasses—framed in dark tortoiseshell, hair damp from a shower and curling slightly at his temples—you’d practically short-circuited.

He’d emerged from the bathroom in a faded t-shirt and joggers, yawning, and caught you staring from your spot on the couch.

“What?” he asked, squinting as he adjusted his glasses with the heel of his hand.

“Nothing,” you said way too fast. “Just—wow. You look so... smart.”

“Smart?” he echoed, amused.

“And cozy,” you added quickly, rambling now. “Like, approachable professor energy. You know, in a hot way. Not in a—never mind.”

He laughed then—low and genuine, crossing the room to nudge your knee with his. “You’re ridiculous.”

You grinned up at him, cheeks burning. “You love it.”

“I really do,” he said, and leaned down to kiss you on the forehead, glasses bumping lightly against your skin.

During evenings when he settled beside you on the couch, arm slung casually around your shoulders, your fingers found his left bicep beneath the worn cotton of his t-shirt. You traced the ink there—the delicate script of memento mori, bold and grounded—until he turned slightly, offering his other arm too.

You switched sides, brushing your thumb over the words on his right: amor fati.

“I forget they’re there, sometimes,” he murmured, watching you with a soft sort of curiosity.

“I don’t,” you said, quietly. “You carry both.”

His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes—but his hand found yours and gave it a gentle squeeze. You turned your palm to meet his, lacing your fingers together, your thumb brushing over the scar just beneath his knuckle. A quiet pause stretched between you, full of the kind of knowing that didn’t need words.

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to your temple, eyes closed, breath unsteady. You shifted closer, letting your head rest on his shoulder, your free hand still ghosting along the ink on his arm.

There was pain here—still. But also comfort, and the kind of closeness that aches in the best way. The kind that says: I see you. I’m staying.

Some nights, you'd fall asleep tangled together—his arm draped over your waist, your legs tangled under the blanket in ways neither of you could explain come morning. You’d fall asleep with your face tucked under his chin, only to wake up sprawled out diagonally across the bed, one of you stealing all the covers.

He’d grumble when you yanked the blanket away in your sleep; you’d mutter sleepy apologies and pull him back into your arms. One night, you twitched in the middle of a dream and accidentally swatted him across the face.

“Rude,” he murmured, half-asleep, rubbing his cheek.

“Reflex...” you mumbled, eyes still closed. “Fighting zombies...”

He laughed, voice thick with sleep, and kissed the top of your head. “Please try not to knock me out next time.”

Even in those clumsy, chaotic hours, you never felt anything but safe in each other’s space. The kind of intimacy that came not from candlelight or declarations—but from breathing the same quiet air and fitting, without trying, into each other’s lives.

And then there were the nights he couldn’t sleep. When his mind wouldn’t stop replaying whatever it refused to let go. He’d lie down on the couch with his head in your lap, his body tense at first, breath shallow like he was trying to stay composed. You’d run your fingers through his hair in slow, gentle motions, your touch featherlight but deliberate.

Sometimes he’d drift. But other nights, he’d break. His shoulders would shake almost imperceptibly, and you'd feel his tears start to warm your skin—silent, steady, soaking through the fabric of your shorts where his cheek was pressed.

You could feel how hot his face would get, how hard he tried to hold himself together. His breath would hitch against your thigh, soft and ragged, like every inhale cost him something. And still, he wouldn’t speak. Wouldn’t explain.

You never filled the quiet with questions. You just stayed, your hand still in his hair, your other one smoothing down his back in slow, reassuring lines. You’d whisper little nothings sometimes—just enough to let him know you were there, that he could let go. And even when he couldn’t say it, you felt it in the way he curled into you, in the way he finally breathed just a little easier. He never talked about it. But you always knew.

And then there were the quiet nights after. The ones where nothing hurt, and nothing ached, and you could just exist together.

You’d curl up together on the couch with no agenda, his hand resting on your thigh, your head against his shoulder, sharing whatever movie or show you’d already seen three times. His fingers would absently trace shapes into your knee. You’d hum quietly, not even realizing you were doing it until he said, soft and amused, “You always do that when you’re happy.”

Sometimes he’d look over at you like he couldn’t believe you were real. Like he didn’t understand how someone like you had ended up here, with someone like him.

And sometimes you’d catch him mid-laugh, glasses slipping down his nose, hair sticking up in a way that made your heart ache with how much you loved him. You’d kiss him just because, and he’d melt like he always did—like every time was the first.

“God,” you’d murmur against his cheek, “you’re everything.”

And he’d pull you in tighter, breath catching just slightly like he didn’t know how to hold something that felt this good. But he always tried.

—

But even love like that isn't always easy.

It started small—the way his responses got shorter on the nights he came home late. How he stood in the doorway a little longer, like something heavy waited outside and he hadn’t decided whether to bring it in. The way he flinched when you reached for his hand one evening and then apologized immediately, shaking his head like he didn’t know why he’d done it.

You’d always known he carried more than he shared. But lately, it felt like even his silences were starting to shut you out.

“Robby,” you said softly one night, after he’d barely touched his dinner. “Talk to me. Please.”

He didn’t look up right away. Just kept his eyes on the edge of the plate, shoulders stiff. “I’m tired.”

You sat back slightly, watching him. “I know. But this is different, and you know it.”

He exhaled through his nose, then pushed his chair back and stood, running a hand over his face. “I don’t want to fight.”

“We’re not fighting,” you said gently, standing too. “I just—I don’t know how to help when you keep shutting me out.”

“I’m not trying to,” he muttered. “I’m just... tired.”

You crossed your arms. “You said that already.”

He turned then, finally meeting your gaze. “What do you want me to say? That I see too much? That I’m not sleeping because I keep hearing their voices when I close my eyes? That I’m afraid I’m going to bring all of that home and ruin the one good thing I have left?”

Your breath caught.

He shook his head, stepping back like he could shove the words back in. “Maybe I don’t need you to fix it.”

That one hit. You felt it like a slap, your throat going tight.

Robby froze. The regret was immediate—visible in the slump of his shoulders. He reached out like he could take it back, fingers flexing midair, but you stepped away, not out of anger—just ache.

“I know I can’t fix it,” you said, voice trembling. “But I thought you trusted me enough to let me try. Not to fix. Just to be here.”

He didn’t answer. Just stood there, looking at you like he wanted to apologize but didn’t know how.

And for the first time in a long time, the silence between you didn’t feel safe.

—

It was hours later when he finally came to you.

You were in the bedroom, sitting cross-legged on the bed, folding laundry just to have something to do with your hands. The door creaked open, and Robby stood there like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed in.

He didn’t say anything. Just walked over slowly, his shoulders tense, eyes glassy with exhaustion—not just from the day, but from carrying it all alone.

You didn’t move. You didn’t need to. Because the moment he was close enough, he sank to his knees at the edge of the bed and wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face against your stomach.

You dropped the shirt in your hands and gently cupped the back of his head.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, threading your fingers through his hair. “You don’t have to say anything.”

He didn’t. Just held you tighter, his breath shaky as he tried to hold himself together. You could feel the weight in his grip, the apology in his silence.

You bent forward, pressing a soft kiss into his hair.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you murmured.

He exhaled into you, like the only thing he’d needed was to hear that.

Later, you curled into each other under the covers, the weight between you finally shifting into something softer. Robby lay on his side, eyes half-lidded, one arm around your waist, his fingers tracing the hem of your shirt like it grounded him.

Neither of you spoke much. The silence had changed—less sharp, more like a shared exhale. He pressed a kiss to your shoulder and stayed there, breath warming your skin.

“You’re still the one good thing,” he said eventually, voice rough and low.

You reached back to touch his arm. “And you don’t have to carry everything alone.”

“I know,” he whispered, like it still scared him to say it aloud.

You turned in his arms to face him, resting your forehead gently against his. “Then we’ll figure it out. One bad day at a time.”

Robby let out a shaky laugh—just a breath, really—but it was something. He pulled you closer, held you like an anchor in the dark.

And eventually, tangled up in each other, you both fell asleep—not because the weight was gone, but because it had shifted. Because it was shared.

—

Your mind flashed back to the times when everything felt simpler. You remembered the way his eyes lit up as he looked at you, the warmth that had filled those moments, making you forget the world outside. You thought of the nights spent waiting for his calls, the whispered conversations that ended with him walking through the front door and into your arms, the promises made in hushed tones, hoping the world would never hear.

There were days where nothing was wrong—no missed calls, no bad news waiting on the other end of a shift. Just you and Robby, a day off together, the sun warming the hardwood floors, and the smell of fresh laundry in the air.

He’d pull you out of bed late, already dressed in soft sweats and a mischievous grin, tugging the blanket away until you whined. “C’mon,” he’d tease. “You promised me pancakes and an embarrassing dance break while flipping them.”

“I said that once, half-asleep,” you’d grumble, dragging your feet to the kitchen. “It doesn’t count.”

“Still legally binding,” he’d say, wrapping his arms around your waist and swaying you gently, his chin resting on your shoulder. “I take all sleepy promises very seriously.”

You’d cook together, music playing low in the background, hips brushing, fingers stealing bits of fruit off the cutting board. He’d lean against the counter with a mug in hand, watching you like you were his favorite part of the morning.

And later, after breakfast, you’d collapse on the couch together, limbs tangled, sunlight spilling across your bare feet. He’d trace circles onto your thigh and tell you stories from med school, the kind that made you laugh until your stomach hurt. You’d kiss him between sentences, just because you could.

You never forgot the heavy days—but God, the light ones were magic.

—

Magic has a way of fading when one person keeps their pain locked behind silence.

The pattern had established itself. Missed texts. Longer showers. The way Robby would go quiet even in the middle of a sentence, zoning out like he was watching something only he could see.

You noticed. Of course you did.

You tried to bring it up gently. “Is everything okay?”

“Fine,” he said, not unkindly—but it was clipped. Automatic. A reflex he’d honed too well.

You started to keep count. How many times in one week he said he was fine. How many times he didn’t say anything at all.

One night, after a particularly long shift, he came home later than usual. You were curled up on the couch waiting, a soft blanket over your legs, a cup of tea gone cold in your hands. When he walked in, you stood up—tentative. Hopeful.

“Hey,” you said softly. “You stayed late.”

He shrugged out of his coat. “I stayed to finish some charts.”

You nodded, following him into the kitchen. “Want me to heat something up?”

“No. I’m good.”

That word again. Good. Like it meant something real.

“Robby,” you tried, voice quiet. “You haven’t been sleeping. You barely talk anymore. You come home and shut down like I’m not even here. I know you’re hurting, but—”

“I said I’m fine,” he snapped. It was louder than either of you expected. The kind of loud that made everything else stop.

You blinked, the words catching in your throat.

He didn’t look at you. Just stood there, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling too fast.

“Do you even hear yourself anymore?” you asked, the hurt breaking through. “Every time I try, you shut me out. Every time I reach for you, you flinch. I’m not asking you to bleed in front of me—I’m asking you to let me in.”

He turned, finally, but his eyes were stormy. “And what if I can’t? What if letting you in means dragging you down with me?”

You shook your head, your voice breaking. “Then let me choose that. Don’t decide for me.”

Silence stretched between you, taut and cracking at the edges.

And then it built to the moment that cracked something in both of you.

You were pacing, voice trembling as you spoke through the hurt. "I feel like I’m tiptoeing around a version of you that won’t look me in the eye. I miss you, Robby. Even when you’re right here, I miss you."

He stood still in the kitchen, hands braced on the edge of the counter like he might break it with his grip. “You think I don’t know that?”

“Then why won’t you talk to me?” you said, softer now, pleading. “Why do you keep shutting me out?”

His head dropped forward, jaw tight. “Because every time I let something slip, you look at me like I’m falling apart.”

“No,” you said, a little sharper now, voice thick with emotion. “I look at you like I love you. I want to help you carry it, but you make it impossible.”

Robby’s brow furrowed, defensiveness creeping in. “I never asked you to.”

You stepped back like his words physically knocked the air out of you. “I know. But you let me think I could. That I was helping. And now you act like all of this—us—was better before I got too close.”

His eyes flickered, like he wanted to take it back but didn’t know how. Like he was stuck between retreat and surrender.

“I’m trying,” he muttered, jaw tight.

“You’re not,” you said, breath hitching. “You’re pretending nothing’s wrong, and every time I try to reach for you, you pull farther away. And I’m tired, Robby. I’m so tired of feeling like loving you is something I have to earn over and over again.”

He didn’t respond at first. And when he did, it was quiet—so quiet you almost didn’t hear it:

“Maybe it was easier before you were always here.”

You froze. A breath—gone.

His face crumpled as soon as the words left his mouth. “I didn’t mean—”

But it was too late. Because even if he hadn’t meant it, he’d thought it.

You turned away, the tears already spilling—hot, silent, and fast. Your throat was tight, your hands shaking as you moved without thinking, heading for the bedroom.

You grabbed a bag from the closet and started stuffing clothes into it—not carefully, not thoughtfully, just enough to get through the night somewhere else. You weren’t sure where you'd go yet, but it didn’t matter. You just needed space. Air.

Behind you, Robby stood frozen in the kitchen doorway for a breath, then bolted forward, panic overtaking disbelief. "Wait—please, just—wait," he said, his voice cracking as he caught up to you.

He reached for your arm, hesitating before he touched you, as if afraid you'd flinch. "Don’t go," he whispered. "Please, just talk to me. I didn’t mean it like that."

You didn’t turn around. Your jaw clenched, eyes blurry as you shoved another shirt into the bag.

“I said something stupid, I was angry—I didn’t mean it,” he rushed, voice rising with desperation.

“I need space, Robby,” you replied, your voice shaking.

But Robby pulled you into him before you could take another step. His arms wrapped tightly around your shoulders, one hand rising to cradle the back of your head as if you might vanish if he let go.

“Please,” he whispered, breath warm against your temple. “Please don’t go.”

You stood stiff for a second, your hands still clenched around the fabric of the bag, heart pounding.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into your hair, voice breaking. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know how to do this right, I just—can’t lose you.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Just let yourself sag into his chest, trembling, as he held you like an apology.

“I don’t want to,” you whispered. “But I don’t know how to stay when it hurts like this.”

Robby pressed his forehead to yours, breath shaky, his hands gripping the back of your shirt like it was the only thing keeping him standing. “Then don’t,” he begged, voice cracking. “We’ll figure it out. Together. Just—stay.”

You closed your eyes, tears spilling freely now. “I’m so tired of being the only one trying.”

“I know,” he said, the words crushed between guilt and fear. “I know. I’m trying now. I swear. I’ll do better. Just don’t give up on me.”

His voice broke on the last word, and you felt it—every fracture in his armor finally showing. He held you tighter, like he could anchor you to the floor, to him, with sheer desperation.

“I love you,” he whispered. “Even when I don’t know how to show it. Even when I get in my own way. I love you so damn much.”

You swallowed, forehead still resting against his. Your voice was numb, not angry—just tired. Bruised from the inside out. “Then show me. Not tonight. Not with words. But show me.”

Because you couldn’t keep holding both of you upright anymore. It wasn’t just the arguments or the silences, it was how they chipped away at the space between you until even comfort felt like pressure.

Robby didn’t say anything right away, but you felt him nod—slowly, brokenly—his fingers twitching where they clutched the hem of your shirt. You were both worn raw, clinging to each other not because it made sense, but because letting go felt worse.

He was always the one who froze when things got too heavy. Who went silent instead of soft. Who drowned quietly so no one would have to watch him go under.

And you—you were the one who filled the silence, who tried to anchor both of you with warmth and patience, until you had nothing left to give.

You didn’t know what came next. But when his breath hitched against your skin, when his lips ghosted a promise across your temple, it wasn’t resolution—it was need. A shared ache that lived in the spaces where words had failed.

The tension between you was thick, your emotions raw and desperate. You curled up on the bed together, the blanket falling in soft waves over your legs as you lay facing each other, breath shallow and eyes red-rimmed. No words were exchanged—there were none left to say. Just the soft beat of your heart against his chest and the ache of being too close and too far away all at once.

But then his lips found yours—not gentle, not sweet. Desperate. A plea to stay tethered to something real. You kissed him back like you needed it to survive, like if you didn’t feel him now you’d vanish entirely.

He cupped your face, hands trembling slightly as he whispered your name, his voice so full of longing it nearly broke you in half. His forehead pressed to yours, the rhythm of his breath uneven.

Clothes were pushed aside, discarded with the same urgency that carried his hands across your skin. There was no finesse, no choreography—just aching, reckless need. You wrapped yourself around him, limbs tangled and breath shared, moving together like you’d forgotten how to be separate.

His hands roamed your body with a reverence sharpened by pain, like he was trying to memorize every inch, every sound you made. And when he buried his face into your neck and whispered broken apologies—"I’m sorry, please forgive me, I love you, I need you"—you kissed him harder, silencing the guilt with your mouth.

It wasn’t about lust. It wasn’t even about comfort. It was about needing to be known. Needing to be held in a way that made the world go quiet.

Afterward, you stayed tangled together, legs overlapping, his arm curled tight around your waist. Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. His fingers traced your spine like he was still trying to say something without words.

Nothing had been solved. Everything still ached. But in that fragile, flickering space between exhaustion and need, you held each other like it was the only truth that hadn't slipped through your fingers.

—

The days that followed blurred.

You still shared a bed. Still exchanged small gestures, the ghost of what once was: coffee waiting by the sink, a brief graze of fingers in the hallway, the habitual kiss on the temple that neither of you felt anymore. But the air between you had shifted. Thick, not with tension—but with the kind of quiet that feels like waiting for something to break.

Robby tried. You saw it in how he stood in doorways like he was working up the courage to speak, in the way he’d squeeze your hand under the blanket at night as if that one touch could undo the distance. But whatever he was reaching for, it never quite made it to you. His grief lived like a second skin, and no matter how close you got, you could never peel it back far enough to breathe with him.

And you—you were tired. So tired of shrinking yourself so he wouldn’t have to face the wreckage. You softened everything: your tone, your expectations, your joy. Until you felt like a whisper of the person you used to be. Even your patience had started to sour.

The silences weren’t loud. They didn’t scream. They just pressed, heavy and constant. And in that pressure, you both stopped speaking—not out of anger, but out of resignation. What was left to say?

You still looked at him like you loved him. Because you did. But more and more, that love felt like grief with a heartbeat.

And you wondered, in the quiet, how long a person could stay in something that made them feel so alone.

You stopped trying to talk first.

Not out of spite—just self-preservation. You couldn’t keep opening a door that never swung back your way.

Some mornings, Robby would kiss your shoulder before he left for work. Soft. Automatic. And maybe that was what hurt the most—how even love had become muscle memory.

You weren’t angry. Not really. Just tired in a way that felt marrow-deep. You woke up with it. Carried it like weight in your chest. The version of you that used to fight for every little connection had grown so quiet lately you hardly recognized yourself.

And Robby—he was still there. Still kind, still careful. But careful in the way people are when they know a glass is cracked and one wrong move might shatter it.

The worst part wasn’t the fighting. It was the lack of it. Like you'd both agreed to live in the ache instead of pulling each other out.

You still set the table for two. Still folded his laundry. Still turned on the porch light when you knew he’d be home late.

But you stopped waiting up.

You stopped hoping the door would open and he’d walk in like he used to—eyes tired, but lit with something soft when they landed on you.

Because it had been a long time since he looked at you like that.

—

After the breakup, Robby buried himself in work.

He picked up every extra shift. Charted until his fingers cramped. Slept in call rooms. Survived on caffeine and convenience store sandwiches. He didn’t go home unless he had to—and even then, he made it quick. Just enough time to shower, change, and leave again.

Abbott noticed first. He always did. He tried to check in after shifts, lingering by Robby’s car, offering dinner or a beer or just some silence on a park bench.

“You need a break,” Jack said one night, when Robby looked particularly worn down. “You look like shit.”

“I’m fine,” Robby muttered, not meeting his eyes.

Jack didn’t buy it. “You’re not. And don’t tell me this has nothing to do with her.”

Robby said nothing. Just stared ahead, jaw tight.

The others noticed too—nurses leaving snacks outside the on-call room, the new med student nervously asking if Robby was always like this. But no one said what they were all thinking: he looked like a man unraveling. A man trying to outrun something that lived in his own skin.

He barely ate. He barely slept. He didn’t talk unless he had to.

He just kept moving, like stillness might break him in half.

And the apartment? It stayed dark. Quiet. Cold. Empty.

—

“He’s not okay,” Dana said one evening as she leaned against the coffee machine in the break room, arms crossed, concern etched deep across her brow. “He’s always been a workhorse, but this... this is something else.”

“I’ve tried to talk to him,” Abbot added, toying with the serrated edge of an unopened protein bar. “He brushes it off every time. Says he’s ‘good.’ But I caught him charting the same patient twice this morning.”

Dana sighed. “You can see it all over him. It’s like he’s just... surviving. Going through the motions.”

“I’ve never seen him like this.” Abbot shook his head.

“We should do something,” Dana said gently. “Get him to go home. At least sleep. Eat something.”

Then Abbot added, softer still, “Won’t matter unless he wants to help himself.” He paused. “Maybe we should call her.”

Dana shook her head slowly. “I don’t know if she’s the answer right now. He’s got to want to come back to himself first.”

A beat of silence stretched before the soft click of a door behind them made them freeze.

Robby stood at the edge of the break room entrance, a coffee cup dangling from his fingers, shoulders drawn tight beneath his jacket. His eyes were blank, unreadable, but his knuckles were white around the handle.

“No need to whisper,” he said, voice low. “I can hear just fine.”

The tension crackled instantly.

Abbot was the first to speak. “Robby—”

“Don’t,” Robby cut in, setting the cup down a little too hard on the counter.

His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. The weight in it was enough to make them all go still.

“I know I’m not okay,” he said, looking down at the floor like he hated saying it aloud. “I know I’ve been a mess. I know she’s not coming back.” He swallowed, jaw shifting. “But I need to keep moving, because if I stop… I don’t know what’s left.”

No one said anything. Not at first.

Then Dana stepped forward, her voice gentler now. “You don’t have to stop. But you don’t have to do it alone either.”

Robby didn’t respond. He just stood there, hands in his pockets, staring at the floor like it might hold him up better than anyone else could.

—

Later that night, Jack texted you against Robby’s wishes.

Jack: Please. Just consider coming by. He’s not himself.

You: Jack, you know it might make things worse...

Jack: I know. But we’re all worried. He’s not eating. He’s barely sleeping. He needs something familiar. Someone who’s home.

You: ...Okay. But I’ll only come if you’re there to let me in. I don’t want to make it harder.

Jack: Thank you. I’ll text when he’s out cold.

You stared at your phone for a long time after that.

They’d had beers at Robby’s place that night. Jack had swung by after shift with a six-pack and takeout neither of them touched. They sat on the floor because the couch felt too formal, drinking in silence, the television flickering in the background. Robby had barely said five words.

When he finally passed out—curled on his side, still wearing his hoodie, mouth parted slightly like he hadn’t slept in days—Jack fireman-carried him to the bedroom, laid him gently on the bed, and grabbed his phone.

Hours later, a message buzzed in:

Jack: He’s asleep. Been out for almost an hour. Come now if you’re still up for it.

When you arrived at Robby’s apartment, Jack let you in quietly. The place smelled faintly of takeout and stale beer, the air still holding the weight of a long day. Jack didn’t say much—just pulled you into a tight hug, holding on for a beat longer than usual. His arms wrapped around you with the kind of quiet reassurance that said everything he couldn’t put into words. He nodded once and squeezed your shoulder before heading out, leaving you alone in the dim light.

The kitchen table was cluttered with unopened mail and a few empty takeout containers, the chairs askew like they'd been left in a hurry. A light layer of dust clung to the counter near the fridge, and a clean shirt hung over the back of a chair as if forgotten mid-morning.

The rest of the apartment told the same story—kitchen sink filled with dishes, clothes draped over the couch arm, blankets kicked into a corner, a half-full water bottle left beside the couch. It wasn’t dirty, exactly, just… untended. A space abandoned by someone barely surviving inside it. A space abandoned by someone barely surviving inside it.

So you cleaned. Quietly. Carefully. The way you used to when he had rough weeks and couldn’t lift his head, let alone fold laundry.

You weren’t sure how much of it was for him or for you. If the meditative rhythm of straightening, wiping, sorting was meant to soothe his unraveling—or to calm your own.

You wiped down the counters, sorted the mail into a neat pile, folded the blanket he always left crumpled on the couch. You didn’t do it for recognition. You did it because when he woke up, you wanted the first thing he saw to be something soft. Something familiar. Something that looked like care.

Once you were done, you slipped into the kitchen, your movements slow and deliberate. You found the familiar ingredients tucked behind newer groceries he hadn’t touched. It was muscle memory, the way your hands moved—preparing the dish Robby always asked for when he came home too late, too tired, too wired to sleep.

Soon, the scent filled the apartment, warm and grounding. You left the plate on the counter, neatly covered, the light above the stove left on.

Then you stood by the door for a moment—just breathing—before you left the same way you came.

Quiet. Careful. Hoping, maybe, when he woke up, something in him would remember the version of you that used to feel like home.

—

Months passed, and life went on. You tried to focus on yourself—on healing, on finding something steady again. You kept your head down. You worked. You saw friends. Some days even felt okay.

But no matter where you went, no matter what you did, the memory of Robby clung to you like a phantom ache. You’d be fine, and then a scent would knock the wind out of you. Or a patient would mutter something in the same cadence he used to. Or you'd catch yourself turning to text him something funny, only to remember.

One evening, you were out for dinner with your best friend at a cozy little restaurant, tucked away from the noise of downtown. The conversation was light, your laughter real. You were almost starting to feel normal again—until the TV above the bar switched to the news.

“Breaking update out of Pittsburgh tonight,” the anchor began, and your attention barely flicked upward—until you caught the words PittFest and shooting in the same sentence.

Your stomach dropped.

Your fork clattered against the plate. You didn’t even hear your friend asking what was wrong. The footage was grainy, chaotic—sirens, a shot of the emergency bay at PTMC, a flashing banner at the bottom of the screen.

Your friend reached across the table, squeezing your hand. “Hey. Hey. Look at me. Are you okay?”

You shook your head once. "Yeah," you said, your voice barely audible. "I just... I need a minute."

—

Across the city, Robby stood frozen in the middle of Trauma 2, his gloved hands still bloodstained, his pulse pounding in his ears.

The ER was silent now. Cleared. Stabilized. But the aftermath sat heavy on his shoulders—every scream, every gurney that rolled in, every second he had to pretend he was made of steel.

He leaned forward, bracing both hands against the wall just outside the bay, eyes closed. Someone handed him a bottle of water. He didn’t drink it.

It wasn’t until hours later, when the shift finally thinned out and the lights dimmed to their late-night hum, that he found a corner of the supply closet and finally let himself breathe. Not cry. Not yet. Just… sit. Just exist.

He thought of you.

He didn’t have to check the news. He’d lived it. But part of him—some deep, fractured part—wondered if you’d seen it. If you’d hear about the chaos. If you’d wonder where he was.

Or if he was okay.

His fingers tightened around the edge of the shelf behind him, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

God, he hoped you weren’t watching. He didn’t want you to worry.

But a small part of him also hoped you thought about him—if only for a second.

—

It was spring. The cherry blossoms were in full bloom, petals littering the sidewalks, drifting through the air like soft snow. The familiar scent of roasted espresso beans and warm bread filled the air as you stepped into the café.

You ordered a caramel macchiato this time. Something sweet. Something that might help anchor you.

You didn’t see him at first.

But he saw you—walking in with sunlight in your hair, shoulders tucked against the spring breeze. You scanned the café absently, completely unaware that you’d stepped right into the same orbit again. Robby felt the moment shift, like the air had thickened, like the city outside had gone silent.

His breath caught.

And when you finally turned, looking for a table, your eyes landed on him.

Robby was sitting in the exact same seat where you’d met. Shoulders hunched forward, hands curled loosely around a coffee cup that had long gone cold. His hoodie was pushed up to the elbows—a different one, but worn in the same places, frayed slightly at the cuffs.

You could see the moment recognition hit him, like a current moving through his chest. His breath hitched. His lips parted, as if to speak, but no words came. But this time, he looked different. Brighter. Less weighed down. Like the heaviness he used to carry in his eyes had finally lightened—like something inside him had softened in your absence, not hardened. And still, there was something raw in the way he looked at you—like he’d spent months trying to forget your face only to find it right there, exactly where he’d hoped to see it again.

His fingers tightened slightly around the cup, knuckles going pale. The city outside blurred behind him in soft motion, petals drifting past the window like the whole world had slowed just for this.

And in that stillness, his expression shifted—not shock anymore, but something softer. Something braver.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The world blurred around the edges, like the city was holding its breath.

His eyes softened. Just slightly. Enough to undo you.

He gestured to the empty seat across from him. The same way he had all that time ago.

And when you sat down—heart loud in your chest, hands wrapped tight around the warmth of your drink—you noticed it: the silver ring still on his finger. A quiet, familiar weight that mirrored the one still circling your own.

He looked down at his hands as if he hadn’t realized he was still wearing it, then up at you, the corners of his mouth twitching with something that wasn’t quite a smile yet.

“Hey,” he said, his voice rough, like it hadn’t been used for anything tender in a while. “It’s been a while.”

You nodded slowly, your throat thick. “Yeah,” you said, your voice softer than you'd meant. “It has.”

Silence hovered between you—not heavy, but tentative. Like the hush before a held breath.

Then, quieter: “You look good.”

A real smile this time, just a flicker. “So do you.”

Then, after a pause, Robby glanced down and gave a soft huff of breath, like he was working up to something. “I, uh... I took Abbott up on that therapist offer. After PittFest.”

His eyes flicked back up to meet yours, searching.

“It was long overdue,” he added, quieter now. “I didn’t know how bad I’d let it get until I started saying things out loud.”

Your heart ached, caught somewhere between heartbreak and relief. To hear him say it—to know he had started to find a way through the darkness—you could feel the pressure in your chest begin to ease, just slightly.

“I’m glad you did,” you said softly, your voice trembling despite your smile. “I’m really glad.”

Robby reached across the table, fingers brushing yours with the kind of tentative hope you hadn’t felt in so long. You didn’t pull away. You laced your fingers through his, slowly, like you were relearning the shape of something familiar.

His thumb moved gently over your knuckles, and when your eyes met again, both of you were blinking back tears.

“I’m so sorry,” Robby said, voice barely above a whisper. “For everything I put you through. For shutting down. For pushing you away when all you wanted to do was pull me out.”

He looked like he might say more, but the words caught in his throat.

“I want to try again,” he continued, steadier now. “If you’ll let me. If there’s still a part of you that thinks we could get it right.”

Your breath hitched, your grip tightening gently around his hand.

“I'd like that,” you whispered, a smile curling at the edges of your lips.

There were smiles too—real ones. Small and soft and a little broken. But full of something bright.

Hope, maybe.

And just like that, something shifted—something warm and incandescent blooming quietly between you, like the first dawn breaking through after a long, hard winter.

You didn’t know what would come next. Neither of you did.

But as you looked at him across that small table—amid the swirl of petals, the smell of coffee, and the quiet echo of something old and aching—you felt it settle into your chest.

The spark. The ache. The what-ifs. The maybe.

And sometimes, that was enough to begin again.

ㅇㄴㄴㅇㅊㅅㄹ

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