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superhoeva · 1 month ago

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𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬 – 𝐦. 𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡 (𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟, 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭; +𝟏𝟖) | what a fucking delight it was to write this, as someone who has a big fat crush on this ^ man right here and as someone who is also a lifelong steeler fan. this one goes out to @ovaryacted (who pretty much beta-ed the first handful of pages for this), @heavenbarnes (who maybe might have been bitten by the robby bug?? no pressure to read babes), @jackabbotsfakeleg (who is the first fellow steelers fan i found on tumblr; this team is my doom but i love them!), plus all the robby fiends

warning(s) include language, inappropriate relations (?),age gap (reader is 25ish/2nd year med student, while robby is pushing 50), he fell first and harder, sexual tension, reader is a steelers fan and from pittsburgh, (american) football talk, baltimore ravens trashing, injury (mentioned), smut, penetrative sex (p in v), oral sex (f receiving), handjob, nipple play, bodily fluids, big dick/down bad!robby, special appearance at the end; she's thick, guys... sitting at 5.2k words!

Medical school lecture halls are just as chilly as Robby remembers.

The air feels a little less clean, a little more human, but still. There’s a nip to the air that takes him back to his Monday-Wednesday-Friday EMED 851 lecture. Part of him wishes he had worn one of his hoodies, though that would look a little weird with the button-up and slacks he has on. The light blue–cornflower, the tag reads–top and black bottoms feel odd, tugging at Robby’s skin in a way that his scrubs and cargos don’t.

There’s a wide array of students scattered across the seats of the room. To his surprise, most of them listen to him ramble about airways with attentive eyes and scribble down whatever they can catch. Good. That means that they’re maybe halfway serious about this shit, which earns them 2% of the qualification needed to work in emergency medicine.

Other than a lull of awkward silence at the very beginning plus a few verbal stumbles in the form of curses that cause the class to giggle while he apologizes and gathers himself, the doctor is pretty solid.

There’s only one other time he flounders, if he should even call it that. It was more of an unforeseen pause. Nothing more than the tick of a few seconds when his eyes lock with yours for the first time today.

You’re already staring in his direction, waiting for him to finish the word that collapses surprisingly easy on his lips at the sight of you. He blinks, a strange flush ricocheting across the skin of his face when you blink at him, even throwing in a little grin just as he snatches back his composure with a distracted um.

The shirt you’re wearing is nice. Simple and fitted. Cap sleeves stop right below your shoulder and reveal intricate lines of ink that swirl back under the fabric in loops that make Robby wonder more than he should. You’re wearing shorts, too. Huh. He’d have half a mind to question how your exposed legs bear the nippy air of the hall, but it doesn’t matter. You make it work–and well–the material cutting off just a little higher than he initially realized.

Zipping his eyes back up to yours, he warms at how you’re picking at your bottom lip; your other hand now using your pen to write down something you remember him saying a few moments earlier.

Covering his gulp with a fast wipe at his beard, Robby somehow finds a way to push out the words that have been stuck in his throat for what feels like longer than the brisk five seconds that have passed since he spoke last.

His head tilts, barely, and his lips twitch into a small smile, dragging his stare from you to the carpet beneath him so he can speak again. Robby plays off the mistake as him thinking–about the question itself and not how you are unmistakably the prettiest thing in this room.

Eleven. That’s how many times he glances at you between then and the end of his lecture. The first three times were a genuine accident, and boy, did they feel like one. Goosebumps flutter across the back of his neck, which he’s rubbed enough times that some of the students probably think there’s something wrong with the tendons there. Robby almost agrees, with the way they keep allowing him to swivel and study you.

The more it happens, the oops of peeking at you, the longer it takes for him to look away. By the end of his knowledge-packed but run-on sentence answers, Robby’s stare cements to you. You’re nodding, legs crossed, and unintentionally drawing patterns with the pad of your finger across the skin of your thigh. For some reason, he’s fairly confident in the fact that you probably don’t even realize you’re doing it.

“Any more questions for Dr. Robinavitch?”

Dr. Robinavitch. Professors, man.

Robby doesn’t try to stop himself from glimpsing in your vicinity. Not right at you but close, so his peripheral can catch any possible movement of your hand raising. His eyes burn with an unsettling eagerness while he waits for something to happen. What the fuck is wrong with him? What the fuck is wrong with you for wearing shorts that fit that well even while you’re sitting?

Your hand stays where it is, arm propped against the side of your seat, fingers fiddling with the pen he can tell you’re trying not to click. The small pang of disappointment that rises inside him squashes away in seconds, and he prays that his ears don’t start to hue red after you hold his stare the longest you have for the entire class.

Looking at him through your lashes, you wait. And wait… and wait. A smirk barely ghosts across your mouth, and Robby rips away his stare. Throat bobbing while he swallows, blinking faster than he means to, he looks to the professor.

“Think they’re ready to kick me out, Dr. Hummel. I’ve probably rambled for long enough, yeah?” Robby shrugs. A sheepish smile warms his face when the room echoes with a healthy applause, and Robby almost recoils at the sound. There’s no way Hummel didn’t tell them to do that. And all he can do is stand and take it, hands tucked into his pockets, his thanks an awkward nod and embarrassed grimace-flavored grin.

Robby tries not to blush when he spots you clapping along with everyone else. He tucks his chin, feeling a little silly with how satisfying it feels to know he’s spoken well enough for you to show some appreciation. Or maybe you’re just doing it to be nice. Either way, you’re making the attending pinker than usual.

Class wraps in a daze.

Dr. Hummel leaves Robby lingering to the side, a wave of shuffling backpacks and zippers echoes throughout the hall. There’s a reminder announcement about a research paper due two weeks from today… or is it a presentation? Robby doesn’t listen hard enough to verify.

A sprinkle of pupils, glowing with a luster that only presents itself after their final class of the week concludes, come up to formally greet Robby. All with names he’ll try to remember but won’t. Bright-eyed and buzzing more than he thinks one would be after an hour and a half long lecture on airways, but hey. He appreciates the eagerness, even if it’s a little much.

Doing his best to be polite, Robby tries to seem as if he’s actively listening–nodding, humming, and throwing in a smile for good measure. He catches a few of the words being smattered his way, but he’s already forgotten them by the time the students leave him be. A sigh of relief sinks out of his nose when he turns his head to find you still in the room, only just now standing from your chair and sliding a thick notebook into your bag.

A line of spit gets caught in his throat when he sees you adjust your shorts, subtly tugging at where they’ve ridden up in between the warmth of your thighs–warmth of your thighs? Fuck, Michael, get it the hell together.

Robby coughs loudly into the crook of his elbow before pivoting to find you gliding his way. His heart jumps as you head right for the man, and his mind races to search for something to say. Hi? Nice to meet you? I really like those shorts?

His mouth opens to speak, though he quickly settles it into a kind grin as you scoot past him with a smile of your own.

“S’cuse me,” you pronounce gently, and Robby’s throat bobs.

“Of course,” he nods, voice huskier than he means for it to be as he takes a polite step to the side. You gift him one last breath-snatching smile before floating out of the hall without a second look. A long hum seeps from Robby, his fingers reaching to scrape at the nape of his neck.

Fuck, he needs to change out of these clothes… and maybe receive a beating of some kind for how long he let himself gawk at your ass just now.

Unfortunately, Robby doesn’t find the courage to ask anyone to smack him across the face the entire walk to his car. He does, however, have enough sense to unfasten the button that’s been digging into his skin since he threw on the shirt.

The man could cry happy tears when he pulls into the Panera Bread parking lot to find it close to empty. Surprising, considering that it’s the middle of the day on the UPMC campus but hey. He’s not complaining. The less college students in line between him and his overpriced iced green tea and tomato basil BLT, the better. In fact, he might splurge and go for a brownie, too… maybe that’ll clear the fog you’ve spelled him under.

His mind wandered for the whole ride over–swirling with blurry images of you and tingling with unanswered questions. Robby even stumbles through his order a few times, though the embarrassment over that is briskly wiped away when he turns his head to find you sitting at one of the tables.

Of course, you’re here.

Of course, you’re here and snacking on chocolate croissants and sipping coffee while reading off the screen of your laptop with the most delightful expression of intrigue he’s ever seen.

You aren’t real… you can’t be because only dreams are this coincidental.

Teeth grinding, Robby scans the area around you. Empty, other than an older man stirring his tomato soup and a mother and daughter sharing a frosted cookie with a pair of soft smiles. Robby’s eyes crinkle at the sight, shifting in his place at the counter in deep thought.

He guesses it’ll be a short wait for his food, as it always is. Then all he needs to do is fill his cup at the machine, wait for his number to be called and he’s home free… no matter how tempting it would be to tip over your way and say a quick hello. There’s a voice in the back of his head chanting for him to swallow the nerves and fucking do it, yet he still isn’t sure what’d he start with. What do you say to a young woman you’re certain will haunt you for the rest of you life–

“Dr. Robinavitch? Hi…”

It takes Robby a second to look at you. Even without, an odd feeling tightens Robby’s chest. He finally turns, swallowing through a tickle in his throat, just barely blinking away how his eyes try to water as you approach him carefully. Dear lord, someone please help him–your voice. All you’ve said is his name and a simple, normal hello yet he’s already turning into a puddle of nothing.

“Oh, please. Everyone just calls me Robby,” he holds his hand out for you to shake but regrets it immediately at the spark that ignites when your palms touch. Clenching his teeth at the feeling, Robby masks his tight jaw with a warm smile. “You were just in my lecture, if I remember correctly.”

Robby feels dumb when he tags on the question at the end. There’s no doubt surrounding whether he’s remembering correctly, as he’ll never forget you or those shorts even if he were to try.

“Yeah, for Hummel’s class. I’m actually glad I ran into you again. I really enjoyed you coming to talk to us today. And I’m sorry, I feel like I should’ve said something before leaving class but I couldn’t think of any cool questions to ask you afterwards but, uh, yeah. Having an actual attending from an ED come to talk to you about using a mac versus a miller is much more pleasing than reading about it in some textbook at three in the morning.”

A small chuckle lightens his face. “That’s very kind of you, ‘m glad you liked it. Is ED your main interest?”

“One-hundred percent. I mean, I won’t even start my rotations for another year but that’s definitely the end goal.”

“Well, good. That’s good, um… sorry, one sec,” Robby’s cut off by the calling of his number, but raises a gentle hand with a pleasant smile in hopes that you’ll stay put. He mumbles a small thank you to the worker that slides him his bag, turning back to you with a lick to his lips. “Like I was saying, that’s great. We could always use more people like you in the ED.”

Wait. Shit. People like you? The man hasn’t even known you for that long and has talked to you for even less. He finds himself lucky when you decide not to think about the statement as hard as he does, accepting the compliment with a small grin.

“I appreciate that, Robby. Hopefully at least one of my clinicals ends up being in The Pitt. I can’t even imagine all the things I’d learn as your MS considering that all it took was a class of you speaking for me to fill up two pages of notes.”

Is he as red as he feels?

“Ah, hearing that, I’m sure you’d fit right in wherever you end up. Secretly kinda hoping it is in my ED at some point, though.” And not just because you’re a knockout and a half. “Just over the short time I’ve talked to you, you seem stellar. Good listener, pretty, cares about the details.”

Wait. Shit, that second one is a slip and much too obvious to just glaze over like his last one. You’re blinking at him in a way that itches his insides, and he exhales a rough breath. Shaking his head, he dips his nose in an embarrassed hang of his head.

“‘M sorry,” he starts with a breathy laugh because it’s all he can do. “That wasn’t appropriate of me, I’m sorry. Your good looks have nothin’ to do with your abilities.”

Suddenly, it feels like karma is having its way with Robby. Was there a door he should’ve held but didn’t? A thank you he forgot to tell someone? There must be because he’s usually quicker to control himself around someone that’s piqued his interests as much as you have.

When he tilts his gaze back to you, there’s something in your face hinting at something he doesn’t let himself attempt to decrypt.

“Jeez, I’m really eatin’ it today, aren’t I,” Robby squirms with a sheepish smile. “And that feels like my cue to leave you to you’re studying before I am forced to have you gag me.”

“Oh, I’m not studying. I mean, I should be but your answer to that one question Jeremiah asked has me knee deep in an article about the history of clinical airway management. Also, I didn’t take you to be into that kinda stuff, but I’ll make sure to be gentle if you really want me to.”

Brow line raising in a flutter of rousing excitement, Robby allows himself a full grin. You match the toothy-smile, leaning with something that looks like anticipation with another wring of your hands.

What a well-dressed, witty, gorgeous geek you’re proving yourself to be.

“I, uh, I actually know of a few other studies you might be interested in,” Robby suggests, a wave of poise centering his thoughts and reprioritizing his intentions. “...if you've got the time?”

The next sixty-ish minutes pass devastatingly fast. A few more people have populated the Panera dining room but Robby’s too high on your presence and one and a half cups of iced green tea to care.

“You’re making this up, you gotta be.”

“I swear, Robby,” you hold up your hands. “I will admit, losing to the ratbirds–at home, in OT–does tend to cloud one's judegment, but enough to think they have the upperhand against a metal lightpost? All Dad saw was red and I ended up waiting in the ER with him while he waited to get his fingers re-set. We we’re at chairs for a while and then brought to the back, and the thing I remember the most was this hum hanging in the air the entire time. Even though I was only around five, that shit was… addicting. Not as electric as a Steelers home game but pretty close. The nurse and my dad kept having to tell me to stay behind the curtain but, of course, I didn’t. ‘Cause, you know. Children. But watching all those people come in broken just to have people like you give their everything to try and fix them… that’s when I knew I wanted to be an emergency physician.”

The corner of Robby’s lips quirks up as he watches you. You stare back at him with held breath before ripping your eyes away to the half-eaten piece of brownie he’d offered you. A little dry but completely worth it with how your hands brushed when he passed you the sweet.

“So basically what I’m hearing is that the Baltimore Ravens are the reason you were able to find your purpose in life so early on…” Robby eases out, rubbing a hand across his beard in anticipation of the response he’s fishing for. He gets it and more when your face wrinkles into a cute grimace and you flinch with a shudder.

“You put it that way, and it almost makes me think I should drop outta med school to move to Canada.”

Your words pull a deep chuckle from Robby, who’s feeling warm at how the two of you are leaning and talking. Bodies relaxed and bellies content with sandwiches and baked goods, the dance you’re both performing is becoming more difficult by the second.

He’s starting to feel less and less sorry about how the side of his shoe keeps knocking against yours, even doing it once on purpose as a thanks for when you notify him of a loose crumb in his beard. The tips of your fingers keep creeping towards each other but Robby blames that on the smaller scale of the table he’s joined you at. You got up, once, for napkins and the man had to take in a deep breath at the swing of your hips. He’s not sure he looked away fast enough either. At least, that’s what the smirk that dashes across your face reveals to him.

“So,” Robby starts after a comfortable lull in the conversation, pausing to clear his throat. “Are all of Hummel’s students this awesome or did I just get lucky runnin’ into you again?”

Flattery. The age old tactic and Robby makes sure not to lay it on too thick. In all of his bumbling and slip ups from earlier, he’s maganed to regain some of his bravado. It returns to him slowly but surely as he starts to unravel you. Not by much but enough to finger out what makes you tick; which jokes to draw out, what subjects (medical or otherwise) gets you going, which throw of his timbre embellishes the shine in your eyes.

“Mm, most of them are pretty cool. Some are also the biggest assholes you’ll ever meet but what’s any place without a few of those?”

“Heaven,” Robby answers with an unbothered shrug of his shoulders and you bob your head in agreement.

“Preach,” you grin, popping a corner of brownie into your mouth. “They were on their best behavior today with you being there but trust me, they’re incapable of going twenty four hours without creaming their pants over making other people feel like shit.”

Wow. “Oh, yeah?”

“For sure. Dr. Hummel should have you come around more often, though. Maybe next time you can snap a few egos in check.”

You’re into whatever this is, Robby can feel it. It’s in your eyes, that don’t notice their lingering on the hair that’s peeking out at the top of his exposed chest. In your voice, that’s lilting in a manner that’s ringing through the thick fog he entered the building with to guide his ship closer to your sweet taunt.

Robby’s quicker than the hesitation his words want to bite back on, tilting his head to give you a quick once over before flicking them away with a grin that’s smugger than he means for it to be.

“Oh, that’s definitely something I’d consider as long as you're still sittin’ front row.”

Your lips curl upwards and Robby is buzzing at the win. It makes his chest puff a little, too, and his head starts to feel a little funny when he catches you staring again.

“Hey, uh,” just do it, Rob, “why don’t we exhancge numbers? You know, in case you ever feel like conversing more over slightly-stale bread and the best passion papaya iced green tea on this side of the Mississippi.”

Taking a second to think, you sniff.

“While I have had better passion… papaya iced green tea–” you recite the words with a subtle unsureness, laughing a little at the nod Robby encourages you with.

“You got it,” he reassures you, voice rasping with obvious amusement before letting you continue.

“–I’d love to keep picking your brain. I will warn you, though, since the age of eleven, I have somehow managed to, uh, shift every conversation I’ve been a part of to the topic of the Pittsburgh Steelers at some point, so if that’s not your thing, then…”

Your words melt into a stronger laugh than you expected to leave you, and it wraps arround the high-pitched giggle trickles out of Robby.

“Oh, I’ve dealt with worse, sweetheart,” he winks, pulling out his phone from his back pocket and opening it before sliding it your way. He holds his breath the entire time you add your contact, eyes flicking to his screen where he sees your name along with a simple :). He huffs at the sight, plucking the device back into his grip. “Much, much worse.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

You add a smirk and tip of your head with the question. Robby’s soaring.

The following hours prove to be just as indelible as your shorts, and it’s all because of you.

You’re more than special, and Robby sits undisputed in that fact as he commences the third round of the night. The slide into you is just as good as the first and the second. You’re on top this time, your hands clutching his face to rub at the thick of his beard while you sink down onto him.

Robby holds your waist, hands light but still there as he splits you open. A noise breaks from his throat when you sit fully, and he rests his forehead against yours. While you take a second to adjust, Robby peeks down past the pudge of his belly to where the two of you meet, groaning at the sight of you stretcehed around him.

Eyes flicking to yours, Robby tightens the arm he has around your waist to tug you until your breasts are flush against his chest. You cling to him at the shift, hips barely lifting before collapsing back down onto him with a shuggering grunt.

Your body keeps the same languid speed, Robby helping you just barely with a hand splayed just above your ass.

“Fuck, you’re so deep,” you pant out against his mouth. “And fucking huge. I should’ve known considering how you walked into class earlier, though.”

“Shit,” Robby moans. “Really?”

You bob your head, hand reaching to grab at Robby’s shoulder. The muscle holds strong under your squeeze, you answer him during another rock of your hips.

“Mmhm. You just… oh, fuck, you walk like it’s big. Which it totally is, by the way.”

“So you’ve said,” Robby ribs, adding a few bucks of his hips that yanks a squeak out of you. “Actually screamed it a few times, too.”

“Well, can you blame me–”

You’re interrupted by Robby, who surprises you with a steep roll to the side. Now hanging over you, Robby pants through a groan. He’s gonna feel that tomorrow but the chance of a strained back isn’t gonna stop him from trying to get you to keep making those sounds that have him seeing stars.

He takes the miracle of his cock remaining inside you even after the change of position, hitching both of your legs back as far as they’ll let him and jerking you with a thrust. It’s deep and driving, intentional enough to make you feel every inch and vein of his swollen member. You wail out right next to his ear and he smiles against the tattoo on your shoulder in victory. He still doesn’t know what it is. You won’t tell him and he got tired of guessing.

“No, I can’t,” Robby throws back, hips falling into a pattern of sharp thrusts. You feel bottomless and it makes his stomach clench. “Eyes on me, baby. Right here, okay?

Robby meets your stare as soon as you crack open your lids. He tightens the snap of his hips, allowing himself to indulge. Call it a habit but he likes to look… observe the way your mouth parts as you puff out air every time your clit hits his pelvis… how your brows pinch together and eyes water as he pounds into the spot it only took him a total of seven thrusts to find… how your hands reach for his neck, squeezing when you hear him flutter your name out on a gruttal moan.

You especially like him loud, he’s found. Not bold enough to ask for it, Robby had the pleasure of figuring the phenomenon out on his own. It didn’t take long, thankfully, as he got embarrassingly close to blowing a vocal cord when you tongued at his nipples and skillfully jerked out his cum onto your stomach. Afterwards, his taste buds found your slit a sopping mess of slick and cream, which he slurped away at until you tugged him up by the hair and kissed your juices from his mouth.

The first time he’d fucked you, it was slow. A loitering exploration of every indent and ripple inside your hole, every mole and freckle of your skin. You’d already come once against his tongue after he’d convinced you that no, you were not going to die if he didn’t kiss you right then.

(‘What about her, hm?’ He’d asked with a finger ghosting across your clit. ‘Nothin’ wrong with being a little greedy but I gotta show her some love, too, alright? She’s much too pretty to ignore, even with you givin’ me those eyes…’)

However, it’s the first time you peak around him that the sky parts. Heaven calls, singing songs of eternal delights but Robby declines the offer. His soul finds the symphony of you falling apart much more satisfying. Ever more gratifying, as it’s his name flooding from your lips. Not God’s or some boy in one of your classes in those cold ass rooms–his.

The second time you’d come around him hits both of you like a train. He’d gotten you trapped on your side, leg hanging in the air helplessly. Neck stretching, you’d bit at his tongue a few times when he’d upped the speed of his hips, warning Robby that you were gonna come again. After you added on a whine that you did not want him pulling out when he came, he flipped you into a rough prone bone, pounding you until your pussy creamed with his cum and your ears heard nothing but dial tones.

This time–the third time–Robby lets himself get lost in it. Uses his mind and body for the sole purpose of calling forth and tying your euphoria to his. A perfect ache is throbbing a pulse through his cock, and the man can only plunge himself in and out of you with mindless, hoarse grunts.

Robby executes it flawlessly, the seaming of the end of your climax grazing just over the start of his. You cry out unintelligible words, grabbing at him like he’ll disappear if you don’t and trembling as he works to milk out your release for as long as he can.

“That’s my–fuck… yeah, that’s my sweet girl,” Robby pants, still rocking you as his thrusts melt into a sloppy chasing of his own end. His sweet girl. That’s exactly what you are now, regardless of what happens after this. “Gonna fill you up again. Make you nice and full’a me.”

The only warning Robby’s able to give is a long, choked swear before he starts to spasm, sack twitching as he surges out rope after rope of a plentiful load. He uses a few more thrusts to fuck the cum deeper before joining your lips in a tired kiss. When you run your hands up his back to rake your nails through his hair, Robby groans.

Hips still, his softening cock remains a welcome intrusion. His eyes flicker shut at your appreciated touch across his scalp, the man melts completely into you, hoping it takes a long while for your breaths to return.

Robby’s mind is completely still. Numb, even, and there are only figures of you. Clenching his eyes, he sighs before mumbling something so muffled that he has to repeat it.

“I said,” he begins with a kiss to your jaw, “the Ravens might be my new favorite team.”

Robby feels your inhale pause and lifts his head to look in your eyes. A short laugh wheezes out of him when he finds you already staring back, your face a cross of complete and utter confusion and a little bit of hurt.

“What on earth could have possibly compelled you to say that to me?”

Your question starts strong but falls apart with giggles at how Robby keeps laughing. The two of you shake with stupid giggles, and Robby has to take a second to remember where he was going with this.

“Only ‘cause they led you to me. No Ravens, no angry dad. No angry dad, no ER visit. No ER visit, no grand revelation of wanting to become a doctor in emergency medicine. It’s simple, I’m a little surprised I had to explain it.”

“...you think you’re funny, don’t you?”

“Oh, baby, I know I am.”

“Hello?”

Robby blinks, and wants to glower at the fingers Jack snaps in front of his face until he remembers he’s supposed to be answering something. A question. He’s supposed to be answering a question.

Which question?

Fuck if he knows.

Who asked it?

Fuck if he knows.

It takes every part of Robby’s being to not look to the right because that’s where you’re sitting with a wide smile just barely hidden beneath your palm. Eyes boring into him, you stretch your crossed legs and reposition.

“E-even though that might have looked like a stroke, guys, it was not… I don’t think,” Jack picks up for Robby with a pat to the later man’s shoulder. “It’s actually something we in our profession call getting old, but please don’t worry. I’m going through it, too. Apparently, not as fast as this guy, though.”

The rest of the room lightens with a chuckle so Robby’s laughs along with them. It’s fake and ugly but the pause gives him a chance to zip his eyes your way and back.

And, of course, Jack catches him. Hell, he knows Robby well enough to have already seen the way that his hand clenches into a fist every time you move so much as an inch.

As Dr. Hummel attempts to return order to the slightly distracted class, Jack gives Robby a silent not bad, Rob. At all, though a little more decorum wouldn’t hurt.

Robby bites at his tongue, completely pink.

#the pitt x reader #the pitt x you #michael robinavitch smut #michael robinavitch x reader #michael robinavich x reader #dr robby smut #dr robby x reader #dr robby x you #robby robinavitch x reader #michael robby robinavitch #michael robinavitch #the pitt fic #the pitt hbo #noah wyle

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fawnoria · 4 days ago

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husband!nanami preemptively budgeting for your unborn baby

on the morning after your second positive test, your husband’s standing hunched over the kitchen table—he’d left bed quietly, with the soft deliberation he applied to most things in life. in front of him sits a mug of untouched coffee gone tepid. a yellow legal pad: column after column of figures in tidy script, annotated with 0.5 uni ball pen.

you hover in the doorway a moment, admiring his profile: barefoot in his slacks, hair slightly mussed. he doesn’t hear you until you shift your weight, floorboard creaking underfoot.

“seven weeks,” you say, by way of greeting.

“approximately,” his gaze drops back to the paper. “which, optimistically, gives us about seven months to account for the first year’s expenses.”

“did you know,” he murmurs, “the average cost of a child’s first year is nearly two million yen? that doesn’t include school fees. or medical insurance. or college tuition.”

you step closer, skimming the columns. food, childcare, emergency savings, medical contingencies. even a line labeled ‘adjusted parental leave income.’

“this one here,” he says, tapping his pen against a neat cell, “is a preliminary projection for an international preschool program. in the event we don’t stay in tokyo. though it’s still early.”

you blink. “ken. our child is the size of a blueberry.”

“irrelevant at this stage. what matters is equity of access.”

you fold yourself into the space between his chair and the table, arms looped around his neck, cheek pressed against his temple. his pen halts midstroke.

“i’m not worried,” he adds finally. “i just want to plan ahead. i don’t want you—or them—to ever need anything.”

you kiss the top of his head. “you’re gonna be a great dad.”

he hums, then under his breath, “do you think two air purifiers would be too much?”

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moon-fics · 1 month ago

Text

Pepper Spray Lovers

Pairings: Bob Floyd x Reader

Summary: You're a well-known bartender at the Hard Deck and friends with most of the pilots who enter through the doors. However, you've caught the eye of one specific weapon systems operator.

A/n: I'm going to need a break after this one. Holy shit.

It was the same every night for you. Serve drinks, clean cups, chat with pilots, and never give out your number. It was a loop that you found comforting and easy to follow. At the Hard Deck, there was a guaranteed safety with the amount of trained pilots around.

You never have to memorize names because the call signs they have are way too ridiculous to forget. They stand out, and based on their personality, you can match them easily. For Hangman, you chalk it up to him always talking to a woman at the bar, but never taking her home. For Rooster, it's because his mustache sometimes looks like a beak to a bird.

You treat each customer the same and smile when they order. You highly doubt any of them know your name, but why should they? You serve them drinks, and they pay their tab. That's all you need or want from them.

"Can I get a water?" A soft voice asks from behind you. You're cleaning a pile of cups while Penny takes orders. You aren't supposed to be bothered, but you assume Penny is busy. You can fetch some water and return back to your cleaning.

Without even looking at the person who ordered, you grab a clean cup and fill it with water from the water dispenser. You spin around and place the cup on the bar top. You only look up for a second but you immediately stop on him.

It's his smile that catches you off guard. It's almost silly how adorable a Top Gun pilot can look by just smiling. His hair is gelled back neatly, and his glasses are a little lower than where they should be.

"Thank you," He nods while taking the glass. His fingers graze yours, and you realize you're still holding the cup. Your hand flinches away automatically. "Busy night?"

You force yourself to speak because you cannot just stare at him. "Yeah, it's definitely busier than usual," You say while clearing your throat. He nods and takes a sip of his water. "There must be something huge happening for so many Top Gun pilots to be here." You glance around the room to see it practically filled with people wearing navy uniforms.

"I'd tell you if I could," He chuckles. "I'm Bob," He holds out his free hand to shake. You gladly take it, and there's a shiver that goes up your spine at how nice his arms look. Before you can respond, someone is calling him over. He gives a little wave as he parts from you.

Throughout the night, you catch him staring at you. Usually, you'd find it creepy or enough to cut him off, so he leaves. Instead, you try to catch him. It gives you some enjoyment to watch when he nervously looks away after getting caught. After a while, he understands the game and begins playing along.

It's closing time, and by now, everyone has left, including Penny. The beach waves are all you hear as you check the register and count the cash left over. There's still a smell of alcohol in the air, but it's mixed with salt and sunscreen.

After shutting the register and turning off the lights, you lock the doors. Right as you pull the key out, you hear rustling. No one should be out this late on base. So, either you have a wild animal nearby or someone is stalking you. Either way, it could mean trouble.

Silently and slowly, you reach for your pepper spray. You unlock the safety feature and press your thumb over the top of it. The rustling gets louder, and your body trembles from anxiety.

"Do you need someone to walk you to your car?" A familiar voice rings from behind you. On instinct, you swing around and aim the spray at them. "Hey, hey, wait!" The person yells while putting their hands up in surrender.

Your eyes adjust to the darkness to see Bob standing in front of you. You don't put the pepper spray down, but you remove your thumb from it.

"What are you doing? That was so scary!" You scold. One corner of his lips turns up in a half smile that is still charming.

"I just wanted to make sure you got home alright," He explains. He lowers his hands and puts one in his pocket. He looks concerned that you're going to spray him anyway, but you decide not to. "It's late, and I know that sometimes it can be dangerous on base." He mumbles.

"So, you waited out here for me to close up? It's been like an hour since I saw you leave the bar." You raise an eyebrow. There's no way he waited that long for you.

"I waited," He admits with a nod. You suck in your cheeks at how honest he is. It's refreshing but also a bit odd. "Sorry that I scared you. I thought you heard me walking up to you." He chuckles to himself.

"It's alright. Just, next time, announce yourself or maybe wear a bell." You smile.

He pushes his glasses up his nose, "I'll think about tying a bell around my belt next time."

"Next time?" You tease. You aren't sure what he means by it, because it could simply be a joke. You don't know if he'll be back at the bar because sometimes people show up once and never return.

He seems caught off guard by your repeating his words. "I mean, it's a popular bar. It's the best one on base, so I just assumed I'd come back," He clarifies while scratching at the top of his lip nervously.

"Would you walk me to my car every time?" His eyes practically twinkle at your question. As if your offer has brought a genuine joy inside him. "You did say it's dangerous on base at night."

"I'll walk you to your car as many times as you'd allow."

It takes longer than you expect to get home. Mostly because you're enchanted into a conversation with Bob way past curfew. Once you walk through your door, you get a sense of excitement for your next shift.

The music is loud, and so are the pilots. After a long day of training and sweating their asses off they've returned to the bar. Not that you mind anymore.

You get to continue your favorite game with Bob as he plays pool. Every time he makes a shot, he looks for you to see if you saw. When he gets a ball in one of the pockets, he waves. When he scratches, he talks to you until his turn again.

This continues until the end of the night, until he walks you to your car.

#robert bob floyd #bob floyd x y/n #bob floyd x reader #bob floyd #robert floyd x you #robert floyd imagine #robert floyd #top gun x reader #top gun maverick #top gun fanfiction #lewis pullman

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houseofhyde · 30 days ago

Text

last train home.

pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader mcu timeline. thunderbolts + tfatws flashbacks synopsis. hours after the void swallows half of new york city, bucky barnes finds himself breaking his #1 rule: don't show up at your door. warnings. no use of y/n, ex!reader, exes to ???, angst, suggestive, hurt with comfort that is proceeded by more hurt, pining, bucky is lowkey down bad and pathetic, descriptions of bruises, injuries, and choking (not the sexy kind, unfortunately), bucky is also kinda serving stalker realness (but its okay bc he's hot and in love), flashbacks via bucky's time in the void. thunderbolts spoilers!!! word count. 4k. hyde’s input. thunderbolts reawakened something dormant in me and threw me back into trenches i thought i'd clawed my way out of. idk if this can even be considered a serious fic because i wrote this like it was the ramblings of a madwoman, i can't even lie. no editing, we die like real (dumb) men. in true me fashion, i already have two more parts planned for this couple, including eventual sloppy sad smut bc why write about a man if i don't get to whore him out? read on ao3.

Bucky knows he shouldn’t be here.

Knows that his will not be a welcome face.

Knows that he’s around two years and a sincere apology too late.

The hour is late, the dials of his wristwatch already encroaching on midnight. The city’s starless sky is a darkness that pales in comparison to the heavy shadow he’d watched infect Manhattan earlier. A void of pain too many had vanished beneath, before he and his ragtag team of false heroes had no choice but to dive into it, one last ditched effort at bringing back the light. The madness truly began when the darkness spat them back out onto the chaos of the streets.

The relief of seeing the sun. The shamble of a press conference. The new Avengers.

And all he could think about was making it to this street. This door. You.

Bucky wishes he could say that the last time he saw you was last week, struggling beneath the weight of grocery bags. But that’s no longer true, because the last time he saw you was merely a few hours ago, trapped inside a time loop of his own making, his own memories, his own pain.

The room was colder than he remembered as he stepped in through a balcony door, sheer curtains billowing around him as a storm gathered outside.

At first, he wasn’t sure what memory this was, what new room he’d stepped into. All Bucky knew was he had made his way through the hell of Hydra’s experimentations, picked himself up from those traintracks, let himself soak in the scene of fighting Steve. Whatever haunted him in this bedroom of silence and sin, he was sure he could move through it and make his way to the door on the opposite side. Until a figure stirred beneath the sheets and he found himself frozen at the end of the bed.

Because there you were, eyes closed and head buried in the warmth of his own chest, blissfully unaware of the waking nightmare that awaited you.

He’s not used to crossing this street.

Not anymore.

Nowadays, his place is somewhere just across from you, two steps behind and a head hung low in hopes that you don’t notice him. Because he knows that it’s wrong, and he knows there are boundaries that have been drawn, but he just can’t seem to fall asleep at night if he doesn’t hop off that train a few stops early just to watch you come home safe.

He hadn’t meant to make it a habit. At first, it was just routine, muscle memory. He spent months making his way home to you, he needed more than a few weeks to get used to his new commute. But then he got in his own head, found himself sat in a train cart, knee bouncing out his stress as his mind tortured him with all the what ifs and nonexistent threats you could encounter on your way home alone. Who else could he trust but his own eyes to watch over you? So he let himself indulge, wander out from the subway below just in time to watch you turn a corner. Told himself it was okay, so long as he kept his distance. So long as he only observed, even when it killed him. The days it would rain and he’d fight the urge to shelter you beneath his umbrella. The times he’d notice a smiling stranger getting too close for comfort and remind himself it was no longer his place to ward them off with an arm around your waist. The way he’d catch the polished shine of a necklace resting at the base of your neck and suddenly remember why he could no longer call you his.

He should have noticed sooner. How the room smelt of your delicate perfume. How remnants of your clothes lay strewn across carpeted floors. How the scene before him was plucked perfectly from that trip.

A getaway of his own doing, heart swollen with a little more pride than he’d care to admit over simply figuring out how to book a vacation online. There was no real rhyme or reason for it, no birthday to celebrate or anniversary to commemorate. Bucky had simply felt happy. Blissfully, wholly, perfectly happy, for the first time in too long. In retrospect, that should have been the first warning sign.

But those razor sharp senses of his seemed to go blunt with the brightness of your smile, the tenderness of your kiss, the warmth of your voice. He believed you made him good. Made him right. Made him whole. He’d never stopped to wonder what he made you.

Until he made you hurt.

He’s standing outside your door.

Time seems irrelevant when everything is the same as he remembers it.

The lopsided apartment number. The faded welcome mat outside the door. The chipping paint you insist you don’t mind, all in the hopes of stopping Bucky from chewing out your landlord about another thing that needs fixing. Suddenly, it’s like he can feel the weight of your key in his pocket, waiting for him to fish it out and welcome himself home to the smell of burning incense and the taste of your skin.

His heart’s beating a little faster now. Maybe he shouldn’t have come. Maybe he should start learning to leave well enough alone. Maybe he should be trying to move on. But how can he move on with a life you made him want to live?

He’s fought battles, drawn blood, turned to dust and come back again. Yet this is a bridge he cannot seem to cross: knocking on your door.

All Bucky had registered back then was the soul-crushing weight of waking up to find what he’d done. Standing at the edge of the bed, a voyeur to his own harm, The Void granted him a full perspective of the events.

It began with muttering, foreign words falling from his sleeping lips. Then his head tossed, his leg twitched, his voice raised. You, eyes blinking away sleep and limbs untangling from his, woken up suddenly to his heart racing beneath you. He watched you watch the other him, a few seconds of his nightmarish sleeping, before finally you did what you thought was best, what any caring person would do if their partner was being haunted in their sleep.

You whispered his name, soothed a palm over his cheek, coaxed him out of whatever hell he was trapped in. But when his eyelids snapped open, there was no summer sky or calming river living in the iris but a steely blue, winter cold.

Metal clutched at your throat.

“James?”

Echoes of a past life sing in his ears as he feels himself freeze. His gaze meets the ground, where he spots an open door and a familiar pair of fluffy slippers, looking a little worse for wear than he remembers them being on that Christmas morning, sitting across from you with a stiff jaw and nervous eyes, watching you pull apart layers of wrapping paper. Now time has left its mark on them and Bucky can’t help but wonder how much longer until you replace them with something newer, something softer, something that’ll bring more comfort to your aching feet as you slip into them after a long day at the firm.

The firm. Your workplace. Two blocks down from the building that once stood as a symbol for everything Steve and the rest of the Avengers — the real Avengers — had achieved, a home still haunted by its previous owners whose footsteps Valentina expected him to tread over.

Bucky had stopped believing in God somewhere between the torture and the war against genocidal aliens but as that cloud of darkness rolled over the Manhattan skyline, vanishing people into shadows, he caught himself praying to someone, something, anything that you were okay. That you’d caught a stomach bug or the flu and had called in sick. That you’d been called out of state, sent to work elsewhere on a client’s case. That you’d been anywhere but trapped beneath the weight of The Void’s darkness; lonely, and scared, and reliving the cruelest memories your mind could conjure.

But as he finally looks at you, your face says it all. The troubled eyes, the weary smile, the trembling hands. The Void may have spat you back out alongside the rest of the city — he may have been able to save you from the looping pain, at least — but it left its mark all over you, whispers of fear still clinging to your skin.

Like a wave meets the shore, he crashes over you.

At first, Bucky couldn’t watch.

Eyes squeezed shut, back turned on the scene taking place upon the bed, he tried to block it all out. But then a door slammed, his eyes reopened, and the memory had started all over again. Your head on his chest, his tossing and turning. You waking him up, his hand around your neck. With an ache in his bones, he forced himself to bear witness.

To the way he looked right at you like you were a stranger, a threat, a mission. To the way the metal twisted and screamed as he tightened his grip. To the way your hand found his face. Not to scratch, not to push, not to fight back. But to mollify, the warmth of your palm resting on his icy cheek, tender in your touch even as he robbed you of breath.

And then he snapped out of it. Came to his senses. Ripped himself away from you and stumbled out the bed, hands — metal and flesh — scrambling for the scattered pieces of the same clothes he’d let you peel off of him only hours before, your eyes alive with the buzz of too much wine and his cheeks burning from too much sun and you. Undressing like every layer was an offense, just one more obstacle getting in the way as you both tumbled back into the hotel bed.

You are hesitant.

Arms glued to your side, you stand frozen in the unexpected embrace. He can’t find it in himself to blame you, not when he thinks of how scared you must feel with a weapon wound around your body once more, holding you close to him. The action is not only protective but possessive, too. An antidote to an unwarranted need that took root in his chest the moment he returned to the mania of Manhattan, freshly haunted by a visceral unpresent presence, desperate to confirm with more than just a glance from across a street that you were home. That you were safe. That you were here, even if he shouldn’t be.

Bucky just needs you to give him a moment. A second. To feel the slow rise of your chest against his, and to take in the fading scent of your perfume, and to caress his right hand over the back of your head. To hold you like he still has any right to your heart. Then he can go. Pull away, set you free, stagger back to his apartment. Collapse onto the familiar comforts of creaking floorboards, muster up the guts to return Sam’s fourteen missed calls and sink into a different layer of guilt to distract himself from the fact you’re not sleeping beside him, breathing beside him. That you haven’t been his for two years, no matter how much he’s still yours.

He pulls in a deep breath, tightens his arms around your frame, prepares himself for the inevitability of him pulling away and feeling the much deserved sting of your hand slapping his cheek and your voice spewing venomous words.

Any minute now, he’ll let go.

“Bucky…” it’s barely a whisper, but he hears it — feels it, as the ice in your bones thaws away and you melt into his embrace.

How could he possibly let go?

Bucky remembered struggling to breathe.

Ignoring your weak calls of his name, he dressed himself with so much haste half the buttons on his shirt remained undone. On the bed, you choked on heavy breaths of air, tears welling like the threat of an incoming downpour that was sure to drown him further beneath waves of guilt, shame, hatred. The vibranium virus attached to his left side seemed to mock him as he struggled to pull on his shoes, too blinded by panic to notice your approaching figure.

Bucky grabbed for the door and you grabbed for him, fingers almost curling around the wrist of his metal arm. He flinched out of your reach, head spinning round to take in the sight of you now at his side, shielded beneath bedsheets from the exposing light of the moon. His gaze flickered to your neck, replaying memories of where his mouth had laid claim over your skin and painted you in shades of his love. How many hours would it take for them to fade beneath the mold of his fingers, for the things Bucky hated most about himself to viscerally terrorise him as a bruise upon his most darling delicate?

You tried to reach for him, again. All he could manage was a quiet, “don’t.”

He never meant to slam the door as he left.

“Are you okay?”

He’s no stranger to late night fantasies, the inconsequential thoughts of an idealised life he’s free to play out when sleep eludes him, buds of anxious worry beginning to bloom within his chest. Before, all his what ifs and if onlys projected him back in time, where no draft came knocking at his door or any serum distorted his DNA. Then he met you and, gradually, his pining for the past morphed into dreaming of a future. All the possible firsts of your relationship: first date, first kiss, first holiday, first anniversary. He could relearn the world, reintroduce himself to the possibility of normality. He pondered moving, trading the city for a quieter life, where weekends would be reserved for exchanging body heat beneath the blankets of a bed he’d build for you, and Sunday gatherings with Sam and the rest of the Wilson’s.

Then, the dreams faded to grey, along with the rest of his world.

The past no longer enticed him, and a future seemed pointless without you. All that was left for him was to agonise, stare at his living room ceiling and watch the atrocities he’d committed play on repeat. The Starks’ car, Yori’s son, your neck. With therapy came amends, a booklet of names his conscience needed him to confront with an apology. Yours never made the cut. Because it wasn’t the Winter Soldier that had hurt you, it was him. No amount of therapised language intended to distance him from the harm would be a good enough excuse to lay at your feet, so he stayed away, kept his distance.

Not once had he fantasised he would be breaking no-contact like this.

“A little confused and contemplating why I’m still living in this city after years of it being a breeding ground for supernatural and extraterrestrial attacks, but I’m fine,” you reply at last, trailing off with a laugh that catches on your throat and breaks into a hiccup.

There’s a shake in your voice that nearly has him pulling back but your arms stop him, hold him closer. You shuffle your feet between his own and burrow your face away, out of sight, in the crook of his neck. A layer of ash still stains him, powder remnants of the rubble that had fallen during The Void's attack, but you don’t seem to care.

“I saw you on the news, Buck. Are you okay?”

The relationship was over in a matter of days.

You slept through the train ride home, leaving him with nothing but passing fields and troubled thoughts. Once back in the city, he carried your bags in his left hand while the fingers of his right one threaded with yours. You did most of the talking, comments of where you two could holiday next, if he’d spoken to Sam recently, and how your mother had mentioned in passing that you should bring Bucky with you next time you visit. The silence arrived as you both reached your front door, one glance at the bruise around your neck enough to let him know this was the end of the line.

An inbox of missed calls and unread texts later, he dropped your apartment key through the letterbox.

He blinked and suddenly the scene had reset, your lonesome frame crawling back onto the bed once more, fading away into two figures curled around one another beneath the sheets. Bucky watched it all unravel. And, when the door slammed and your tears fell, he watched it start again. Over and over, he watched himself poison the safe haven you made for him, pushing you away and rebuilding that wall around himself. Over and over, he watched you reach for him, a silent plea in your eyes begging him to stay.

He never did.

It was only when he joined you on the bed — after the other him had slammed the door — and pulled you into his longing embrace, mouth kissing apologies against your forehead as you drifted off to sleep, that the cycle came to a stop. One moment, he was holding some version of you for the first time in years, and, in the next, The Void sent him falling through the ceiling of an old Hydra lab.

He landed in the leather chair with a thud and, as a familiar device closed in around his head, he wished he was back in that hotel room, watching your heart break before his eyes, if only to see you a little longer.

With reluctance, he pulls back.

Not because he no longer needs to hold you, feel you breathing safely against him. But he needs to see you. Properly, as something more than a distant shape across the street. Inches apart now, the hole in his chest seems to scream it’s not close enough. When your eyes meet his and a tear slides down your face, not even Sentry could stop him from reaching up to catch it.

Comfort fills his soul as he feels your hand lay itself atop his own, holding it in place against your cheek. Your eyes slip shut and a sigh slips past your lips. Bucky can’t help but lean in, eyes shutting out the world around you. His forehead finds rest against yours, a gentle pressure against skin that feels more intimate than any kiss he could ever give. “Tell me you’re okay, Bucky,” a delicate whisper that possesses no threat to the quiet that surrounds you both.

For a moment, there is peace. Hope. Time has passed, his life has changed, and, while he’s no symbol of sanity, he saved people today — strangers. Bucky Barnes is officially a hero. An Avenger. So maybe things can be different. And maybe he can ask to take up space in your life again, to be part of your mornings and your evenings, your everyday. He can make amends and make you his.

Something meows and tears him out of his daydream.

A blur of white fur moves cautiously inside your apartment, weaving through a few house plants atop a shoe rack. But that isn’t what leaves him feeling foolish, feeling sick, feeling like he’s been sucker punched in the chest. It’s the pair of shoes carelessly discarded on the floor, shrugged off by someone too impatient to put them away if it means spending another moment away from you — Bucky would know, he used to do the same.

A pair of men’s shoes. “I should-” go, he can’t bring himself to say it. He doesn’t want to leave. “Don’t wanna miss the train.”

“James,” his name is a plea on your tongue, a question he’s forgotten how to answer.

“I’m sorry,” for hurting you, for not moving on, for showing up at your door. “I just needed to see you.”

The first step is still the hardest.

As the thought passes through him, a sense of deja vu comes over him. This hallway, your doorway. Turning his back on you, telling himself that it’s better this way. No matter how much it kills him, he can live with the pain of knowing you’ll be safer with someone else. Someone who was born at the right time, and has done all the right things in life that lead them to being rewarded with you. It’s best he goes, before that someone comes looking for you.

He can’t stomach the thought of seeing you with somebody else.

“For someone so good at the fight, you sure do love to choose flight,” your voice is soft yet he hears a bite of anger, a sprinkle of resentment. “Or is walking away a special trick you only use when it comes to me?”

“Don’t do that,” he turns back around to face you, and regrets it the moment he notices more tears threatening to spill. His hand itches to wipe them all away. “Don’t make it seem like leaving you was something I chose to do.”

“But you did!”

“Only because I had to!” Bucky never means to raise his voice, not at you. Things clearly haven’t changed enough for him to stop hurting you when he swears he won’t. “You know what I did to you.”

With a challenge on your face, your arms cross over your chest and you pop your hip out, leaning your body against the doorframe. “What exactly did you do, James?”

“I…” torture of the tongue, he needs to compose himself before he can say it. “I hurt you. With the same hand they gave me when they made me a weapon.”

“Except you didn’t. The Wakandans gave you that arm when they needed another hero on the battlefield.”

A pause, where anything but silence passes between you. “And I hurt you with it all the same.”

“You leaving me like I meant nothing hurt far more than whatever happened in that hotel room.”

“Meant nothing? Me leaving was because I lov-”

“I’ve just taken on a big case, they’ll be expecting me early in the office,” you’ve already got the door in your hand, half closed as your body retreats back into the safety of your apartment, away from the danger of Bucky’s confession. “You should go, James. Catch that train.”

Unlike him, you don’t slam doors.

He doesn’t bother returning to the subway, the time on his phone tells him all he needs to know. He’s missed that last train, and he’s not in the mood to figure out which line will get him closest to his apartment. He’ll just walk, and listen to the voicemail his phone claims Alexei has left in his inbox.

“Winter Soldier! Bucky! We all are drinking, to celebrate team’s first big win. You must join, we can talk more about being co-captains of The Thunderbolts-” “That is not our name, Alexei,” Yelena cuts him off faintly in the background.

Bucky shouldn’t have come home.

Back in the apartment, a sob is forced down.

The tears just keep coming, all you can do is surrender yourself to them, head leaned back against the door, some part of you hoping he’ll come back.

His hair is longer, new bruises mark his skin, yet the way he looks at you — like you are a sin he must atone for — is still the same.

“Was that Bucky I just heard? If yes, let me give him a piece of my mind and save ourselves a whole load of paperwork- Hey, you good?”

You pull in a breath and wipe both hands over your face before forcing a smile towards your guest.

“I’m fine, Sam,” you almost trip over his shoes in your haste to walk back into the living room. “Now come on, we have a lot of work to do if you’re serious about suing the Avengers.”

+ extra hyde !

· finished this instead of working on one of my final essays... priorities!

· idk if it anyone wants it but i'm working on a part 2, and trust i intend to not uphold the sambucky divorce from the post-credit scene

· if you're reading this and thinking "this doesn't look like the aemond fic update hyde's supposed to be posting" i'm sorry, i swear i'll be doing my best to post the next part soon! don't hate me!

#bucky barnes x reader #james buchanan barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #james buchanan barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes smut

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