#this post is for me and for me only probably | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mrsvante · 2 days ago

Text

Rules of Engagement

pairing: hoseok x reader

genre: idol au, ex-fwb to lovers, angst, pfp

summary: you were never just a fling, he just didn’t say it in time. now he’s back with a different haircut, the same eyes, and too many things left unsaid between you.

there’s no guidebook for this. for how to love someone who only figured it out after you walked away. for how to forgive the kind of silence that hurt more than goodbye. but his voice still makes something in you unravel, and he’s finally ready to say everything.

warnings: military discharge, yearning, oral f!receiving, fingering, creampies, overstimulation, crying during sex, praise kink, soft dom!hobi, a dangerously high concentration of I love you’s 🥰

word count: 7,372

a message from our sponsors 💁🏽‍♀️: i figured let’s round out the group and give everyone a military discharge drabble. i wasn’t posting tumblr when hobi & jin were discharged, nor had i written anything on the platforms i was previously on. so here we are, and of course i had to give someone some mild angst. who better than my fellow aquarius 😊 hope you enjoy!!

The cameras flashed before he even stepped out the gate.

Hoseok kept smiling.

The uniform fit him well, his shoulders had filled out more over the last year and a half, the lines of his jaw sharpened by routine and discipline.

Though he looked calm, he definitely didn’t feel it.

The familiar weight of military issue boots thudded across the pavement, steady and rehearsed. The press line was shorter than expected, just a handful of reporters with polite voices and professional posture. He bowed and smiled, and raised his hand to wave. Let them snap their photos, and ask the easy questions.

“What was the first thing you thought about when you woke up this morning?”

“Cake,” he said brightly, and everyone laughed.

But it was a lie.

The first thing he thought about was you.

That last night.

The slam of your voice against his kitchen walls. The way your eyes had gone so heartbreakingly still after he stumbled through his answer—if it could even be called that.

‘It’s not about you being gone. It’s about the fact that I could be your everything and you’d still call it casual.’

He hadn’t replied fast enough.

Hadn’t fought hard enough.

You’d stood up quietly, told him to take care of himself, and walked out without looking back.

He still hadn’t forgiven himself for that.

And you hadn’t answered a single letter.

Not one.

“Any words for fans who’ve waited for you?”

“I missed you all so much,” he answered, waving again. “Thank you for your patience. I’ll be back soon.”

Another lie. Or at least a misdirection.

Because the one person he really wanted to say that to wasn’t here. And probably wouldn’t ever be.

He kept his expression bright as he was ushered into the black van waiting at the curb by his manager. The door clicked shut and the noise from the press fell away instantly. Just the hum of the engine and the soft scent of fabric softener from his pressed uniform.

He sat back and finally let his smile fade while the ride home passed in a blur.

Every streetlight blurred with memory. Every turn retraced a pattern he knew too well. His phone buzzed in his pocket, messages from the guys, an old group selfie from Jin’s welcome party with a ‘You’re next, hyung!!’ caption that made him smile.

But he didn’t open the thread from your old contact.

He didn’t dare.

He hadn’t deleted it, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at the last thing you ever said. ‘Don’t wait on me to figure it out for you.’

By the time the car pulled into the driveway of his parent’s home, the ache had knotted itself between his ribs.

But the second he stepped inside, all of it had to disappear.

“Oh, my boy!!”

His mother’s voice rang through the hall like sunlight.

His sister barreled toward him next, arms flung wide, cheeks already damp with tears. His father was behind her, already clapping and joking about how short Hoseok’s hair still was.

And then the cake.

White frosting, strawberries, the homemade sponge his mother always swore she’d never get quite right but always did.

He smiled and laughed, letting them pull him into the kitchen. Let himself be hugged and fussed over, handed chopsticks and spoonfuls of side dishes between stories.

He really was happy to see them. But the thing about Hoseok was this, he had never needed to look sad to be sad.

It was somewhere in the pause between his laughter. In the way he lingered too long at the kitchen window. In the way he reached for his phone twice that night and put it back both times without checking.

They didn’t notice. Or if they did, they let him have his silence.

By the time he showered and finally settled into bed back at his apartment, he finally let himself exhale. There’d still been no word from you. Not even a ghost of a reply. And as he lay there in the dark, he realized the thing he’d feared most wasn’t that you’d moved on.

It was that you hadn’t and he’d burned the bridge too badly for either of you to cross it again.

—

The practice room was quiet, the lights overhead illuminating the seemingly endless space, the familiar black walls felt like home.

Hoseok sat cross legged on the hardwood floor, a towel draped over his shoulder, chest still rising and falling from the cooldown stretches they’d just finished. Jin was a few feet away, sprawled out on his back like a starfish, arms thrown dramatically overhead.

“I’m getting old,” Jin muttered. “My knees made six separate noises getting into that squat.”

“You’re the one who wanted to stretch to ballads,” Hoseok shot back, grinning faintly.

Jin didn’t answer immediately. Just let the silence stretch.

“Have you heard anything?”

Hoseok’s breath stalled at the sound of your name, and that fraction of a second of hesitation told Jin everything.

“Aish,” he sighed, sitting up slowly and rubbing the back of his neck. “Nothing then, huh?”

Hoseok looked down at his hands, flexed his fingers, watched the faint sheen of sweat dry on his forearms.

“I messed it up,” he said, voice low.

Jin didn’t push, just waited patiently.

“We were… it wasn’t serious. But it felt serious, you know? Years of that. Her crashing at my place after working late. Me picking up her favorite snacks without thinking about it. Waking up with her in my arms like it was the most normal thing in the world.”

He paused.

“A few days before I left, she asked me what we were. And I didn’t… I didn’t have an answer. Not because I didn’t feel something, but because I had this whole plan. Military service, then my music. Solo projects. Touring. Branding. That was the order. I didn’t want to drag her through all of it.”

Jin tilted his head, watching him carefully. “Did you tell her that?”

“I tried hyung,” Hoseok said. “But it came out all wrong. She thought I was brushing her off. That she was just a warm bed and a good laugh. And maybe I didn’t say it out loud, but she wasn’t wrong to think that. I never gave her anything solid to hold onto.”

Another silence passed between them.

Then Jin shifted, sitting up straighter.

“Alright,” he said slowly. “Let’s say you follow your plan. You release music, you travel, you go on tour. You perform, and win awards, do your magazine spreads, maybe a drama cameo if you get bored.”

He looked Hoseok straight in the eye.

“Then when you’re finally done and decide now is the time, you go to her house. You knock on the door… and her boyfriend or worse, her husband answers.”

The words hit Hoseok like a gut punch, but Jin didn’t stop.

“Will that plan have been worth it then? Will it have been enough to know you stuck to the timeline in your head while she built a life with someone else?”

Hoseok couldn’t breathe. His jaw clenched as his chest tightened.

“Or maybe,” Jin continued, softer now, “maybe the real question is, isn’t she worth making room for in the plan? Because to be completely honest with you Hob-ah, you’ve looked miserable ever since you left the training camp. And I’m willing to bet she didn’t bring that conversation up without already having weighed every pro and con.”

The room went quiet again.

No music, none of his excuses to get back to practicing. Just the faint hum of the building’s ventilation and the sound of Hoseok’s heart pounding in his ears.

He hadn’t let himself imagine you with anyone else. Not really. Not until now.

And the image of some faceless man opening your front door, your laughter echoing down the hall behind him, a ring on your finger, a photo on the wall, made him feel like he was bleeding out without a mark on his skin.

He scrubbed a hand down his face.

“Shit,” he whispered.

Jin stood and clapped a hand on his shoulder, firm and steady. “I’m not saying you have to blow up your career for love. But maybe… just maybe… this plan of yours would be a hell of a lot better if you stopped assuming she doesn’t belong in it.”

—

The sky was streaked in pink and gold when Hoseok reached your apartment building.

He stood in front of the gate, hands deep in his pockets, pulse pounding. The world was quiet around him for once. No paparazzi, no press, no fans screaming his name. Just the slow exhale of the city winding down for the night, and the sound of his own nerves buzzing behind his ribs.

He pressed the call button.

It rang once.

Twice.

And then your voice, warmer than he remembered, but so much colder than he’d ever heard it directed at him.

“…Why are you here?”

His throat tightened. “I just—I want to talk.”

A pause. Long enough to sting.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Please.” His voice cracked. “Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking. You don’t have to say anything. Just let me say what I should’ve said back then.”

Silence again.

Then, with a click, the gate buzzed open and he stepped inside. Quickly heading up to your apartment.

Your door was already ajar when he reached it, but the tension wrapped around the apartment like fog. You didn’t greet him, didn’t look at him. Just turned and walked toward the living room, leaving the door open behind you.

Hoseok followed.

The space hadn’t changed, not really. Same plants on the windowsill, same soft lighting, same throw pillows he used to steal for neck support whenever he crashed here after long nights in the studio.

But it felt different.

Colder.

You sat on the far side of the couch with your shoulders squared, legs crossed, gaze guarded.

And he hated how quickly his mind played back every time he’d walked in here before laughing, tossing his jacket on the back of a chair, leaning in to kiss you before he even finished his sentence. This wasn’t that. You weren’t that.

You were steel now. Quiet fire wrapped in armor.

He sat across from you, careful not to take up more space than necessary.

You unlocked your phone, tapped something, then set it face up on the coffee table between you.

A timer.

Five minutes exactly.

“Go.”

His hands clenched in his lap.

“I… have no idea how to do this,” he admitted. “But I’ve been thinking about it for over a year. Every night. Every letter I sent you. I didn’t know what to say back then, but that was never your fault. That was me, me being stupid, and scared, and selfish.”

You didn’t speak, didn’t even look at him. Just stared at the timer, eyes rimmed with that quiet fire.

Hoseok swallowed hard.

“I had this plan,” he said. “Music. Touring. Performing. Building something permanent. I thought love, real love, would be a distraction. Something I’d have to work around instead of build with.”

His voice wavered. “And then I lost you. And I realized I hadn’t been building anything. I’d been hiding. From you. From what we had. From what I wanted to have but was too much of a coward to name.”

Your jaw clenched.

“I reread your last text more times than I can count. I memorized it. Played it like a song in my head. And I still couldn’t figure out how to answer it.”

You interrupted his frantic confession with a shuddered inhale. Your eyes burned, lips trembling. “Please…Hoseok. Please don’t do this to me.”

He froze.

“You can’t just walk back in here and start saying things like that,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Not after everything. I can’t get pulled back into that loop, I won’t. I love being with you, I—I love you, but that’s not enough if it’s just going to be the same thing all over again.”

Panic flickered across his face. He moved forward, hands open, like he wanted to touch you but didn’t dare.

“I love you, too,” he said, fast and rough. “I always have. I was just too stupid to say it. Too busy thinking I had time.”

Your breath caught.

He took a shaky breath, voice trembling but growing stronger with every word.

“If I’m everyone’s hope, you’re my peace. You’re my love. You’re my light, and my strength, and the only thing that ever made me feel like a person, not just a name on a stage. You grounded me. You loved me before I ever figured out how to love myself.”

You pressed a hand to your forehead, something else already on the tip of your tongue, but he pushed on.

“And if the chance is gone, I’ll live with that. I’ll deserve it. Because you do deserve the world. And I was too stupid and too naive to realize you were already offering me yours.”

Tears rolled down your cheeks.

“But if there’s even the slightest chance, just a speck that we could try again… I’ll take it. I’ll take it and I’ll run with it, because I swear to you, I am committed. To you. To our future. To whatever the hell comes next. All of it.”

His voice cracked at the end, chest heaving with every breath.

“Because I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can’t dance or breathe or live without you. You’re in every corner of my head, every beat of every song, every dream I wake up from sweating and reaching for something that isn’t there.”

The timer buzzed.

Neither of you moved.

He stared at you, shaking. “You don’t have to say anything. But I had to say it. I had to.”

The room went silent again, except for the sound of your shaky breath, the faint sniffle you tried, and failed, to swallow.

And when your eyes finally met his, wet and wide, Hoseok’s heart clenched so hard it hurt.

You didn’t mean to cry.

You really, really didn’t.

But it was like his words cracked something open beneath your ribs. Not just sadness… grief. The kind that had been sitting, dormant and heavy, since the night you walked out of his apartment. Grief for what never was, what almost was. What still could be, if only it didn’t hurt so goddamn much to hope again.

You dropped your head into your hands and sobbed.

Shoulders shaking, lips trembling, breath catching in your throat, eyes blurry and burning. Messy and open, and absolutely heartbreaking.

The coffee table between you vanished in a blur. One second you were across from him, fists clenched in your lap, and the next, Hoseok was kneeling in front of you. His arms wrapping tight around your body, pulling you into him like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice splintering. “I’m so sorry. I love you—I love you so much—I’m so sorry.”

You clung to him like a lifeline, your tears soaking his collar as he rocked you gently, whispering everything he should’ve said months ago into your hair.

“I should’ve fought for you,” he said softly, over and over. “I should’ve seen you. I should’ve said something—anything.”

“I waited for you,” you choked out, voice muffled in his shirt. “I wanted so much for it to mean something.”

“It did,” he said, clutching you tighter. “It does. I was just too scared to let myself admit it.”

The air between you throbbed with everything unsaid. You didn’t know how long you sat there pressed into his chest, his arms looped around your waist, his cheek resting against the crown of your head, but eventually the sobs softened. The shaking stopped. You exhaled, chest hollowed out and sore, eyes swollen and raw.

You pulled back just enough to look at him. And then without thinking, you slapped his arm. So hard your hand throbbed, and it went ignored, overcome by your anger and frustration.

Then you punched his chest.

“You asshole,” you cried, voice thick and cracking. “I hate it…I fucking hate how easy it is for me to forgive you!”

Hoseok blinked, then laughed, wet and hoarse, forehead tipping forward to rest against yours.

“I’ll get on my knees if you want,” he murmured, eyes shining. “Swear to God, I’ll grovel. I’ll do it in the hallway. In the lobby. In traffic.”

You smacked his shoulder again, hiccupping through your frustration. “You should! You should be on your goddamn knees begging.”

“I am,” he said softly, brushing his thumb beneath your eye. “Right now. In every way that counts.”

You stared at him.

This ridiculous, beautiful, broken man.

With tears still threatening to spill, your lips trembling, and heart pounding. And damn it, no one could save you now… because a piece of you already believed him.

—

You were still fuming, eyes puffy and blinking back tears when he leaned in.

Still unsure where you’d land, torn between punching him again and pulling him impossibly close. But then his hand came up, cradling your cheek, thumb brushing the edge of your mouth like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you again.

And when he kissed you—oh, when he kissed you—It was like coming home to a place you thought had burned down long ago.

His lips were warm and frantic, soft in some places and needy in others. He kissed you like he needed to taste everything he’d been starving for. Like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth all over again.

His hands slipped behind your neck and waist, pulling you closer, guiding your body into his lap as the kiss deepened. Hot and wet and broken open by the sound of his voice trembling between your mouths.

“I missed you, pretty girl,” he whispered against your lips. “So much—fuck, you have no idea—I love you, I love you so much.”

You whimpered into the kiss, nails curling in his shirt as he licked into your mouth, moaning at the taste. His hands were everywhere, cradling your face, gripping your hips, sliding beneath your top like he couldn’t get enough of your skin. You tugged his hoodie off over his head, desperate to touch more of him, to feel more of him, to have him.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he groaned, tugging your shirt over your head and tossing it aside. His eyes darkened as he took you in, chest heaving, still flushed from crying. “Fuck, baby…”

He pressed kisses down your throat, wet and open mouthed, his palms warm as they cupped your breasts through your bra. “I missed you,” he muttered, breath hot against your skin. “Missed the way you sound when I touch you here…”

He slipped the straps down slowly, teasing with his mouth until your bra was on the floor and his hands were full. Fingers and tongue lavishing every inch, licking over your nipples until you gasped and rocked against him.

“Perfect,” he breathed. “You’re fucking perfect.”

You moaned, body arching into him, and he lost the last of his restraint.

He laid you down across the couch in one fluid motion, long fingers tugging at the band of your leggings as he dropped to his knees between your thighs, eyes blown wide with lust and adoration.

“Oh my God,” he choked, staring. “Look at you.”

You were spread out before him in absolutely nothing, chest flushed and heaving, legs parted in invitation, and the hunger on his face almost hurt to look at.

“I never thought I’d get to see you like this again,” he whispered, slipping your panties down your legs with trembling hands. “Being right here. Just like this. You—waiting for me—like I’m something you want. It feels like a dream.”

He tossed your panties aside and dove in, kissing down your belly, licking slow and filthy up your inner thigh.

Then his fingers found your pussy, slick and warm and already dripping.

“Oh, baby,” he groaned, sliding one finger inside, then two. “You’re so wet. Fuck, it’s been too long—too fucking long.”

You gasped, legs falling open wider as his fingers curled just right, his breath hot and shaky against your core.

“I need to feel you cum around me,” he murmured, mouth hovering just above you. “Need to taste everything I’ve missed.”

And when he finally lowered his mouth to your pussy, tongue flattening against your clit as his fingers pumped deep and slow, it was like everything cracked wide open.

His apologies.

His promises.

And the ache you’d both been carrying for far too long.

Hoseok didn’t rush. He stayed there between your thighs, breath heavy, fingers slow, watching you like you were something fragile and untouchable. Even as you trembled under him, dripping and desperate.

His tongue made the first pass over your clit languid and slow, the tip curling slightly, coaxing a strangled moan from your lips. Then he pulled back to murmur against you, his voice low and fraying at the edges.

“Still so sensitive for me…” His fingers moved inside you again, gentle, unrelenting, curling just right with every thrust. “Still open for me, like your body remembers who I am.”

You whimpered, hips rolling toward his mouth as he dragged the flat of his tongue over you again, lapping softly, teasing. He moaned like he could taste your need.

“I missed this so much,” he breathed. “I used to lie in bed thinking about this—you—the way you sound when you cum. The way you taste when you’re close. Fuck…”

His tongue circled your clit with maddening precision, while his fingers sank deeper, fucking into you. You could barely think, barely breathe as your hands buried in his hair, your thighs tightening around his shoulders.

“You like that?” he murmured between kisses, his lips sticky with you. “Like how I’m making you feel, baby?”

You gasped out something like his name. Half broken, half begging and he smiled against your pussy, pressing a kiss to your clit.

“That’s it,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Give it to me, pretty girl. Cum on my fingers. Let me feel it.”

He slipped a third finger in, curling all of them just right, pressing against that sweet spot while he sucked your clit softly, messily, humming encouragement into your skin.

“Let me have it. You’ve been so good for me. So perfect. Let go.”

And you did.

Your orgasm washed over you like a wave. Your back arched off the couch, mouth open in a silent cry, thighs shaking as he held you down, kept licking you, coaxing every last pulse of pleasure from you like he couldn’t stand to let any of it go to waste.

Even when your hips twitched from overstimulation, he didn’t stop, not completely. Just slowed his pace a little. Let his fingers ease out of you, licking them clean one by one like you were a feast he’d only just begun.

When you finally opened your eyes, breath still ragged, you found him hovering above you, pupils blown, lips wet, a look on his face that made your stomach flutter all over again.

“You should see yourself right now,” he whispered, cupping your cheek. “You’re… fuck, you’re unreal.”

You reached for him instinctively, and he leaned down to kiss you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. You moaned into his mouth, and he groaned right back, grinding his hips into the couch.

“I need to be inside you,” he whispered, voice shaking now. “But not until you tell me to. I’ll wait forever if I have to.”

Your body was already arching into him again, heat rising between your legs, slick and aching and ready.

“Please,” you whispered.

He kissed you again. “Say it. I need to hear you say it, baby.”

“I want you inside me.”

His breath stuttered. “Then I’m yours.”

—

He didn’t let you go for long.

One final kiss and then he was pulling back just enough to strip. Roughly shoving his sweatpants down, boxers with them, his cock flushed and hard, standing proud against his stomach. Your gaze caught there and lingered, and he caught you watching, a breathy laugh slipping from his lips.

“You always stare,” he murmured, bending to kiss you again, voice teasing but thick with heat. “You’d think you’d have gotten used to me by now.”

“Never,” you whispered.

He groaned, forehead resting against yours. “Fuck, I love you.”

Then he lined himself up, fist wrapped around the base of his cock, rubbing the head through your slick folds, spreading the mess he made of you.

You gasped, hips canting forward.

“Still so wet for me,” he whispered. “You ready?”

“Please.”

And then he was pressing in.

The stretch was perfect. The familiar feeling of being so full, of him reaching so deep inside you was grounding.

You both gasped at the contact, at the slow slide of him inching inside after so long. Your walls clung to him like you remembered, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct as he bottomed out with a shudder.

“Fuck,” he rasped, voice raw. “You feel even better than I remembered. How is that even possible?”

He held still for a moment. Just breathing, adjusting, letting you adjust. His arms trembled where they braced on either side of your head.

Then he started to move.

Long, slow strokes. A pace that made your body throb and your eyes roll back. The kind of rhythm that made you feel owned, wanted, cherished. His hands curled under your knees to open you wider for him, his chest pressed to yours, his lips barely leaving your skin as he whispered through every thrust.

“I missed you—missed this—missed us.”

You whimpered beneath him, fingers clutching his back.

“You were always more than a hookup. Always. I just couldn’t admit it. Couldn’t say it because I didn’t think I deserved you.”

“Hoseok—”

“I do now,” he whispered, rolling his hips deeper. “I’m not letting you go again. Never again.”

The kiss he gave you then was messy and desperate, more breath than lip, more need than finesse. He was shaking with how hard he was holding back, fighting to keep the rhythm steady even as your walls clenched tighter around him.

“I’m close,” he groaned. “But I need you to cum first. Want to feel you fall apart on me. Wanna know you still trust me with your body, your heart, everything.”

You were right there teetering on the edge, your legs wrapped around his waist, your nails digging into his back.

“Hoseok, please,” you whispered.

That was all he needed.

One hand slipped between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight little circles as he fucked you deeper and a little harder now, chasing your release.

“You’re mine,” he moaned. “You’ve always been mine.”

Your orgasm hit like a pulse of light, sending your back arching, voice catching in your throat, pussy clenching tight around him as you shattered all over again. Hoseok followed not long after, unable to resist the quakes of your walls around him, hips jerking as he spilled inside you with a cry, burying himself as deep as he could go.

The aftershocks rolled through both of you, breathless and heavy, tangled in each other like you didn’t know where one ended and the other began.

And then silence.

The familiar weight of safety falling over you both, full with the vulnerability of your love.

He kissed your shoulder, your cheeks, your temple. “I love you,” he murmured. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Your eyes fluttered shut, arms winding around him.

—

You were still trying to catch your breath when Hoseok leaned down, and kissed you again before sliding his arms under your thighs.

“What are you—oh my God,” you gasped as he stood, lifting you with ease.

Your arms flung around his shoulders as he started walking, still buried inside you, still thick and getting harder with every step.

“Oh fuck, Hoseok,” you moaned, voice catching with every subtle bounce of your body against his. His cock dragged along your walls lazily with each stride, sending jolts of overstimulated pleasure through your core.

“You didn’t think we were done, did you?” he grunted, gaze locked on the hallway ahead. “It’s been almost two years since I was inside you, baby. We’re not even close.”

You could feel it, how quickly he was getting hard again inside you, the thick swell of him pressing deeper with each careful, deliberate step toward the bedroom.

By the time he reached the bed, he was fully hard, his breath ragged and jaw clenched like he was barely keeping it together.

He laid you down gently and hovered above you for just a moment to take in your flushed, dazed face spread across the sheets.

Then he snapped.

There was no more hesitation. No more holding back.

He pulled back and drove into you again, his fingers digging into your hips as he started fucking you like he had something to prove.

“Mine,” he growled, watching the way your body arched into him. “Always been mine, my pretty girl.”

You cried out, the force of his thrusts jolting you up the mattress. Hoseok caught your legs, hooked them over his shoulders, and bent forward to fuck you deeper. Slamming into you with enough force to make the headboard creak.

“Missed this pussy,” he gasped, sweat slicking his chest. “Missed how tight you get when I talk dirty to you, how fucking wet you get.”

His hand slipped between your legs, rubbing over your clit as he pounded into you.

“You feel that?” he moaned. “That’s how much I love you. Every fucking inch. Every thrust. Every word I didn’t say before—I’m saying it now.”

You were close again. Could feel it building in your core, a fire climbing higher and higher.

And then, suddenly, he pulled out.

“Hoseok why’d—”

He flipped you over before you could finish, hands gripping your waist and hauling your ass up in one smooth motion.

“Need to see it,” he panted, lining himself up behind you. “Need to watch it.”

And then he was inside you again. Slamming deep, groaning as your walls clenched around him. His eyes were locked on the way your ass bounced with every thrust, his hand gripping your hip so tight it bordered on bruising.

“Fuck, look at you,” he growled, voice cracked and desperate. “You’re taking it so well, just like you always did. Always so fucking good for me.”

You moaned, fingers clawing at the sheets as he fucked you harder, deeper, and filthier than he ever had before.

“You don’t even know,” he panted. “How many nights I fucked my hand thinking about you. Bent over like this and bouncing on my cock. Moaning my name like you were still mine.”

You sobbed his name into the sheets.

“Say it,” he growled. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped, back arching as your orgasm threatened to crash down again. “Hoseok, I’m yours—always yours.”

He slammed into you once, twice, then again, each thrust sharper than the last.

“I love you,” he groaned. “I fucking love you. You’re everything—my girl, my future, my fucking forever.”

You came with a scream. Your legs shaking, walls pulsing around him pulling him over the she with you. Hips jerking as he emptied inside you with a low, strangled moan that sounded like pure relief.

He didn’t pull out right away.

Just collapsed over you, chest to your back, mouth pressed to your spine as his breath slowed.

“You okay?” he murmured, breathless and tender.

You nodded, still trembling.

He kissed your shoulder. “Good, because I’m not letting you go again. Ever.”

Your heart was still pounding, body boneless beneath him, when he leaned in and kissed the space between your shoulder blades softly, lips lingering.

He stayed like that for a moment. Just breathing and letting the heat of your skin settle against his, his cock still twitching inside you as your body pulsed gently around him. It was messy and slick with both of you, but he hadn’t moved, hadn’t pulled away.

And then he did, only to flip you on to your back.

His hands were warm and slow as he turned you onto your back, guiding your limbs like you were breakable, like he was afraid to lose the moment too quickly. You blinked up at him, eyes glassy, lips parted, chest still hammering as he hovered over you. His hair was startling to curl around his temples, damp with sweat, chest glistening and his expression soft in a way that made your breath catch.

He lined himself up again, eyes locked to yours.

And he pressed back inside.

“Fuck,” he gasped, voice trembling. “You’re so warm—so fucking soft…”

Your legs curled around his waist, your hands ghosting up his arms as your body accepted him again, all wet heat and slippery tension. His hips stilled when he was fully seated inside you, his cock stretching you open, filling you slow and deep.

But he didn’t move, just breathed.

Forehead pressed to yours. Eyes fluttering closed.

“Feels like I’m dreaming,” he whispered. “You… letting me have this again. Letting me love you like this.”

You touched his cheek, your thumb brushing the edge of his bottom lip.

“I never stopped loving you,” you whispered back.

He kissed you, lips barely moving over yours as his hips began to rock. So shallow it almost didn’t register at first. Just a subtle shift of weight. The smallest pull and push.

And it was everything.

Every movement savored. Every glide of his cock through your soaked, swollen heat dragging shudders from your body. Hoseok kissed you again, then your throat, the slope of your collarbone, the swell of your breast. He took his time, tonguing over your nipple, breathing hot and low against your skin.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured. “So fucking beautiful. I don’t deserve you.”

You moaned softly, your fingers threading into his hair.

“But I’m gonna try,” he breathed, thrusts slow and deep and steady. “Every day. I’m gonna spend every damn day proving to you that I was worth the chance you gave me.”

Your eyes burned again.

“I’m gonna spoil you. Worship you. Make sure there’s never a moment—not one second—where you question what you mean to me, pretty girl.”

His hand slipped between your bodies again, fingertips finding your clit and circling it gently. Oh so careful, so patient.

“You’re everything,” he whispered. “You’ve always been everything.”

The tears slipped down your cheeks before you could stop them.

Hoseok kissed them away, then said the thing that made your body shiver all over again.

“Let go for me, baby. Cum for me, just like this.”

And you did.

Quietly, completely, body arching into his as you came with a soft cry, everything tightening and then unraveling as he rocked you through it.

His thrusts became erratic as you constricted around him, his breath stuttering as he thrust one last time and buried himself deep, cumming with a low groan of your name like it meant something different now.

Like it meant forever.

When the tremors eased and he collapsed on top of you, his arms folded tightly around your waist, you curled your legs around him and held him there. Not just because you wanted him close.

Because you didn’t want the moment to end.

And neither did he.

—

Your body still hummed with the aftershocks of everything, sex, the rush of emotions, the surrendering of your heart when Hoseok gently eased himself out of bed.

You whimpered a little at the loss, clinging to the pillow he left behind as he eased off the bed as slid on his sweatpants. He leaned down and kissed your temple.

“Don’t move,” he whispered. “I’ll be right back.”

You heard the bathroom faucet run, then a pause. Then the shuffle of feet across your apartment and the soft sound of cabinets opening in the kitchen.

When he returned, he came armed with two bottles of water tucked under one arm, a handful of snack packs, a bag of kettle chips, and a half opened granola bar already in his mouth.

You laughed as he climbed back into bed. “You still know where everything is?”

“I lived here, remember?” he said through a mouthful of granola. “I could find the peanut butter blindfolded.”

He handed you the water first, then slipped between your legs to clean you up, murmuring softly as he worked. Afterward, he grabbed the snacks from the nightstand and set them between you, flicking on the TV. He flipped through the channels lazily until he landed on a bizarre Japanese game show. It had both of you raising your eyebrows before bursting into giggles like kids.

He curled around you from behind, his chest warm against your back, one leg tangled between yours while his fingers traced slow, aimless shapes into the skin of your thigh. Hearts. Spirals. The occasional teasing tap whenever someone on the show did something ridiculous.

His lips pressed light kisses to your shoulder. Then your neck. Then the soft curve beneath your ear.

You hummed, settling deeper into his touch, the snack bag crinkling in your hand forgotten.

He got quiet for a moment. Like something in him had shifted again.

“Come with me to L.A.”

Your brow furrowed. “What?”

He leaned up slightly, eyes still soft but voice firm. “I’m leaving in a few days. To work on music. Prep for tour. I’ll be out there for a while.”

You sat up a little. “Hoseok—”

“I know it sounds fast. And I know we just… found our way back to each other. But I can’t go that far away from you again. Not after eighteen months without you.”

Your mouth opened, ready to offer something—probably something safe, something cautious—but he cut you off gently, reading you like a book.

“If it’s work, I’ll make sure there’s an office in the house I rent. I’ll have whatever you need shipped over. You won’t even have to unpack the kitchen unless you want to.”

Your heart thudded.

“You’ve really thought about this,” you whispered.

“I had eighteen months,” he said with a sheepish smile. “It’s all I did. Think about ways to make it right. How to earn your trust and your love back.”

You hesitated.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to go.

It was the weight of everything. The unknown. How quickly the future had arrived.

“How long will you be there?” you asked softly.

“About a month. Maybe five weeks.”

You swallowed, trying not to overthink it. A month. With Hoseok. No excuses. No distance. Just… time.

And when you met his gaze, steady and hopeful and barely blinking, the answer was easier than you expected.

“So I get you all to myself for a whole month?” you said, a little smile tugging at your lips.

His eyes lit up. “Yes. You’ll come?”

You nodded, slow but certain.

He beamed, full body, pure sunshine, and practically tackled you back into the pillows, showering your face in kisses.

“You’re not gonna regret it,” he whispered, laughing as he kissed your cheeks, your nose, your forehead. “I swear, I’ll make it the best month of your life—just us, music, good food, cuddles—maybe some sex. Just a little.”

You smacked his chest, giggling.

Then, like a switch flipped, he looked at you seriously.

“I love you,” he said. “So much.”

You paused, nerves and warmth rising in equal waves.

And then you finally said it back, really said it back.

“I love you too.”

The room stilled. He stared for a moment, like he was afraid he’d imagined it. And then his whole face cracked open. Eyes wide, lips parted in stunned joy.

“Say it again,” he whispered, crawling closer, nose brushing yours. “Please. Just one more.”

You laughed softly, eyes misting as you cupped his face.

“I love you.”

He kissed you, deep and slow and overwhelming, and between kisses, you said it again.

“I love you.”

He pressed one to your shoulder.

“I love you.”

To your chest.

“I love you.”

To your cheek.

“I love you.”

And that was how you fell asleep. Lips swollen, arms tangled, laughter fading beneath whispers of love that neither of you planned to stop saying anytime soon.

— — —

Los Angeles smelled like jasmine and exhaust.

The sun had dipped low by the time the car pulled to a stop in front of a low, nondescript building on a corner that looked like nothing special from the outside. You shifted in your seat, looking out the window, then back at Hoseok.

He was smiling softly, hood pulled up, sunglasses pushed into his hair.

“Where are we?”

“You’ll see.”

You followed him through the front doors, past a few quiet corridors and up a short flight of stairs. Every hallway smelled like old leather and wood polish, warm in a way you didn’t expect. He moved like he’d walked this path a hundred times before. Relaxed, unhurried, casual in a way that only came from familiarity.

You were still wondering where, exactly, this place fell on the list of his plans when he opened the last door.

Inside was a recording room.

Two men stood when you both entered, one with headphones around his neck, the other with a notepad in his lap. Hoseok greeted them casually, pulling off his hoodie in one smooth motion before waving over his translator, who’d followed close behind.

They all began to talk in soft, rapid bursts of Korean and English, sorting logistics and cueing up files, the rhythm of studio life already in motion.

Then Hoseok gestured toward you without looking.

“This is my translator,” he said, motioning to the woman at your side. “And this—” He turned to you. “—is my girlfriend.”

Your heart stuttered.

Girlfriend.

The word danced in your chest like a sparkler. You bit back a smile as warmth pooled under your skin. He said it so casually, so plainly, like it had always been true.

You gave a small nod to the producers as they greeted you, settling onto the low couch behind the glass. Hoseok squeezed your shoulder briefly before stepping into the booth. You could feel his palm lingering on you even after he let go.

From where you sat, the studio looked soft lit and cinematic. The kind of place where something real happens. Where magic sneaks into music.

And then the beat started.

Sensual vocals over soft chords. You didn’t recognize it at first, maybe something new, or something old but when Hoseok leaned into the mic and began to sing, it took you a second to breathe again.

You the only cover that I need when I'm cold

You can have my body, with my heart and my soul

You light up my life, you're like a diamond

Shinin', shinin', shinin', yeah

And we might never get to sleep tonight

I'll give you everything you need tonight

This kind of love, I guarantee for life

Dreams gonna be sweet tonight

His voice was low, honeyed. Steady. But it was his eyes that got you. He was looking straight at you through the glass.

Like this song had been for you all along.

And as the track rolled on, verse after verse, you felt it build. The weight of his love, layered into the rhythm. All the words he’d missed saying before, woven into melody, whispered in harmony.

By the time he reached the final chorus, you had one hand pressed to your chest, like it might hold the pieces of you still being rearranged.

You’d been serenaded before, but never like this.

And as the last note rang out, Hoseok pulled the headphones off slowly, eyes never leaving yours.

He didn’t smile.

Not right away.

He just looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that ever made sense.

masterlist

#bts #bts army #bangtanarmynet #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #bts au #bts angst #bts smut #bts jung hoseok #bts hoseok #bts jhope #bts hobi #bts military service #military discharge #fwb to lovers #angst with a happy ending #Spotify

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beka-tiddalik · 18 hours ago

Text

The first computer I sat in front of had a black screen with bright green writing. I remember sitting on my mother's lap to play Pong and some game that used various letters and symbols from the keyboard as graphics. No one else we knew had a computer.

By the time I was in primary school everyone in class was taught how to use search engines, and why the results were often problematic. We were told to trust nothing and no one we found on the internet without verifying facts with books. We were told we all needed to learn to touch type because computers were the future.

By early high-school i had a motorola brick phone that i shared with my siblings. Typing text messages required multiple presses of number buttons to get to the letter you wanted, and texts were paid for by the character, so everyone used acronyms.

In early high-school I finally learnt how to touch type using MSN messenger. It was a strong recommendation that no one share any kind of identifying details with people you didn't know IRL. I made a MySpace page but never actually bothered sharing it with people so my only MySpace friend was Tom 🤷‍♂️

In late high-school suddenly everyone was on Facebook and putting up photos from parties on there. There are probably still unflattering photos of me up there informing AI datasets.

Fast forward to now and I have posted zero pictures of my kids online outside of birth announcements. I have more friends online than offline. I work remotely. I've done so part time since 2017 so I got to watch organisations go from being largely unreceptive to it to suddenly supporting it wholeheartedly for 3 years and then some places backsliding back to demanding everyone come back to the office, or removing the physical office altogether with little in between.

the older I get, the more the technological changes I've lived through as a millennial feel bizarre to me. we had computers in my primary school classroom; I first learned to type on a typewriter. I had a cellphone as a teenager, but still needed a physical train timetable. my parents listened to LP records when I was growing up; meanwhile, my childhood cassette tape collection became a CD collection, until I started downloading mp3s on kazaa over our 56k modem internet connection to play in winamp on my desktop computer, and now my laptop doesn't even have a disc tray. I used to save my word documents on floppy discs. I grew up using the rotary phone at my grandparents' house and our wall-connected landline; my mother's first cellphone was so big, we called it The Brick. I once took my desktop computer - monitor, tower and all - on the train to attend a LAN party at a friend's house where we had to connect to the internet with physical cables to play together, and where one friend's massive CRT monitor wouldn't fit on any available table. as kids, we used to make concertina caterpillars in class with the punctured and perforated paper strips that were left over whenever anything was printed on the room's dot matrix printer, which was outdated by the time I was in high school. VHS tapes became DVDs, and you could still rent both at the local video store when I was first married, but those shops all died out within the next six years. my facebook account predates the iphone camera - I used to carry around a separate digital camera and manually upload photos to the computer in order to post them; there are rolls of undeveloped film from my childhood still in envelopes from the chemist's in my childhood photo albums. I have a photo album from my wedding, but no physical albums of my child; by then, we were all posting online, and now that's a decade's worth of pictures I'd have to sort through manually in order to create one. there are video games I tell my son about but can't ever show him because the consoles they used to run on are all obsolete and the games were never remastered for the new ones that don't have the requisite backwards compatibility. I used to have a walkman for car trips as a kid; then I had a discman and a plastic hardshell case of CDs to carry around as a teenager; later, a friend gave my husband and I engraved matching ipods as a wedding present, and we used them both until they stopped working; now they're obsolete. today I texted my mother, who was born in 1950, a tiktok upload of an instructional video for girls from 1956 on how to look after their hair and nails and fold their clothes. my father was born four years after the invention of colour televison; he worked in radio and print journalism, and in the years before his health declined, even though he logically understood that newspapers existed online, he would clip out articles from the physical paper, put them in an envelope and mail them to me overseas if he wanted me to read them. and now I hold the world in a glass-faced rectangle, and I have access to everything and ownership of nothing, and everything I write online can potentially be wiped out at the drop of a hat by the ego of an idiot manchild billionaire. as a child, I wore a watch, but like most of my generation, I stopped when cellphones started telling us the time and they became redundant. now, my son wears a smartwatch so we can call him home from playing in the neighbourhood park, and there's a tanline on his wrist ike the one I haven't had since the age of fifteen. and I wonder: what will 2030 look like?

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hargreeves-duncan · 3 days ago

Text

⎯⎯ IT HAD TO BE YOU

visual is for vibes only, reader’s appearance is nondescript!

pairing: 1940s!Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

summary: Bucky turns into a clutz when he realises he’s not the only one with eyes for the 107th’s new nurse

warnings: mentions of minor injuries

word count: 2.4k

a/n: an absolute cliche but i finally watched thunderbolts* and have fallen back into a marvel phase!! enjoy

The first time it happened, it was an accident.

Bucky had been stationed at his post for almost four months and he always, made sure to avoid an injury.

Of course, you might say that any sane man would but everyone in the 107th knew the nurses were a total nightmare, even if your leg was hanging off.

They’re weren’t motherly, nor sweet. Just mean, worn-out old women who’d patched up more men than they could count and didn’t have an ounce of sympathy left in them.

The boys joked that you came out of the nurse’s tent worse than you came in.

So, when Bucky took a fist to the face during a scuffle with one of the guys, he went in expecting a scolding, a rag soaked in antiseptic that burnt like hell and a half-hour long guilt trip about wasting supplies.

He was dreading it.

Until he saw you.

You couldn’t have been more than twenty-three. Fresh out of nursing school and too clean for a place like this. Hell, this was probably your first posting.

Your hands were gloved and steady, but your voice was soft and crisp like a toffee apple, as you tended to one of the men in the beds.

He was missing a good portion of his leg but you were smiling and laughing as you spoke to him like all was well.

It was shocking to see you so attentive to what Bucky knew was a pretty grim sight. The other nurses wouldn’t have been so kind about it, that was sure.

Bucky blinked.

You gave a gentle squeeze to the man’s forearm, before getting up from his side.

As you walked back to your station, your eyes met Bucky and your lips parted softly, “Oh! Hello there, I didn’t see you. Are you alright?”

Bucky had been caught staring.

He cleared his throat, laughing awkwardly as he gestured to his shining bruise around his eye, “Uh, yeah, hi, sorry, I needed some help.”

You clicked your tongue softly, walking over. You cupped his face, looking it over with a small sigh, “Nothing much we can do for a black eye, but we’ll get some ice on it.”

Then, with a gentle nudge to his arm, you added, “Come sit.”

Bucky obeyed without thinking, sinking down into the nearest cot.

He watched you move around the tent with practised precision, your apron was stained from the last guy but your sleeves were still white and clean.

Your hair was pinned up and curled, like most of the girls he knew back home, and your nails were painted a beautiful baby pink.

That was a luxury.

Which meant one of two things: either you had no one waiting back home and liked to treat yourself or you had a husband somewhere footing the bill.

You were pretty, really pretty. He hoped it wasn’t the latter.

You weren’t wearing a ring - most of the other nurses wore them on string around their necks, but you didn’t have one anywhere he could see. That was a good sign.

Just then, you returned to his side, a bundle of ice wrapped in cloth in your hands.

“Close your eyes for me,” you said softly, pressing it against his cheek.

He shut his eyes, rolling his shoulders as he tried to settle himself. He was suddenly all too aware of your eyes on him.

“How’d you do this anyhow?”

He cracked one eye open to look at you, the corner of his mouth twitching, “Would you believe me if I said I tripped over a rock?”

You raised a brow, letting out an amused snort, “I would not, no.”

Bucky chuckled, “Yeah, didn’t think so.”

He let out a breath and leaned back against the cot frame. You gently adjusted the ice on his cheek as he added, “Got into it with one of the guys. Things got… not so friendly.”

“Hmm,” you hummed, reaching for some gauze to dab at the scrape above his eyebrow, “And who started it?”

He hesitated.

“…Probably him.”

You laughed and it lit him up from the inside out. Your presence had a warmth he knew better than to depend on, and yet, he could already feel himself doing so.

“Well,” you mused, cupping his face and giving the cut one last swipe, “next time, try to keep your face out of the way, would you?”

He smirked, “Can’t make any promises, doll.”

You sat back, amused, tossing the bloody cotton pad into the bin, “Why am I not surprised?”

You reached for the ice again, then pressed it lightly to his eye. With your other hand, you took his and guided it into place, “Hold this for me…”

Your eyes flicked down to the name stitched into his uniform, “Sergeant Barnes.”

His heart did something stupid at the way you said it - a giddy grin spreading over his face before he could stop it.

“Yes, ma’am. And you?” he asked hurriedly, eyebrows raised, “I mean, do I, uh… get to know your name?”

You smiled to yourself as you scribbled something down on your clipboard, “Lieutenant Y/N L/N.”

His brows shot up, “Lieutenant?”

“It’s standard rank for nurses,” you said with a small laugh, setting the clipboard down again.

“Really?” Bucky leaned back with a whistle, “I should’ve gone into nursing.”

“Mhm,” you smiled coyly, standing up again, “Alright, Sergeant. Hang tight and let me know when you’re feeling alright to head back out.”

“I will, doll,” he promised, grinning as he settled back into the cot.

You only shook your head with a faint smile before heading off to check on your other patients.

Bucky stayed that way - nursing his injury and watching you go about your business for an hour or so. And the longer he stayed, the more smitten he became.

He’d known you not even a day and he could already see what a sweet soul you were.

And when he finally stepped out of the nurse’s tent later that evening, it was clear he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed.

Camp was buzzing. Word had spread fast of a new nurse on base, kind and pretty in a way that none of the 107th’s soldiers had seen in a long time.

A strangely possessive shiver ran down Bucky’s spine.

He’d have to do something about that chatter.

Sooner, rather than later.

The next morning had started out quiet.

There were drills, same as always but something quickly caught Bucky’s attention.

Injuries. A lot of them. And they were springing up out of nowhere.

They were running laps when Miller suddenly rolled his ankle.

During push-ups, Jones, who was notorious for doing a hundred without breaking a sweat, collapsed face-first into the dirt and split his chin.

By lunch, it was Simmons’ turn.

In the middle of the dining hall, he tripped over a bench with Oscar-worthy theatrics, clutching his arm like it had been torn clean from the socket.

“Doc!” he shouted, gritting his teeth like he was about to lose the limb, “I think I’ve broken it… it’s real bad.”

Bucky looked up from his seat on a crate, narrowing his eyes.

Simmons was a lot of things: loud, clumsy, a bit of a show-off and, it turned out, a terrible actor. He hadn’t started clutching his arm until he’d spotted someone watching from the medical tent.

You.

Nonetheless, you emerged from the flap a moment later, brows furrowed with concern.

“Alright, Sergeant,” you gushed, hurrying over to meet Simmons halfway, “That looks pretty painful, let’s get you looked at. Come on.”

Bucky watched as the guy practically melted under your touch, slinging himself over your front with dramatic flair.

You didn’t flinch, just steadied him and nodded along as he rattled off a long, unruly list of symptoms that weren’t even half-true.

Bucky’s jaw tightened.

“You alright there, Buck?” Steve asked, catching his scowl, “You’re crushing that spoon.”

Bucky looked down. The handle was bent right in half between his fingers.

“Damn,” Bucky muttered, tossing it aside. Those things were useless, made of tin anyways.

Steve raised a brow, following his line of sight. Then, slowly, a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh,” he said, drawing the word out as he nodded, “I get it.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He just stood up, brushing the dirt from his pants.

It was time he found himself another bruise. Something small. Believable.

But enough to earn himself another few minutes in that tent, with you.

Before someone like Simmons beat him to it.

He quickly devised a plan, ruling out anything that would get him sent home. That meant minor injuries only.

After lunch, the boys were always ordered to clean up their gear. After all, taking care of your weapon was half the job and pride of being a soldier.

With bayonets on the end of their guns, it was almost too easy for him to injure himself.

Bucky joined in like normal, bantering with the other guys as he polished his gun. Then, with one theatrically clumsy swipe, he managed to slice open the palm of his hand.

He let out a low hiss, glancing down at it like he hadn’t just pressed his palm a little harder into the blade on purpose seconds ago.

It stung like hell, much more than he’d anticipated.

It was perfect.

Wrapping the wound in a makeshift bandage, he made a beeline for the medical tent, already rehearsing the look he’d have on his face: sheepish, stoic but brave.

The kind of look that made women swoon.

Bucky pushed through the tent’s flap, hand held up carefully, as if it were a trophy of his misfortune.

You were knelt down beside a cabinet of medicines, quietly counting stock. You would intermittently mark something down on the clipboard that seemed permanently attached to your hands, as the other nurses worked around you.

Bucky cleared his throat, rocking back on his heels to look casual.

You looked up at the sound, a dry smile tugging at your lips, “Sergeant Barnes? Back so soon?”

He held out his bleeding palm to you, “Afraid so, ma’am.”

“Looks fresh,” you hummed, tracing the edges of the cut, “How’d you do this one?”

“Bayonet slipped while I was cleanin’ her,” he admitted gruffly, running his good hand through his hair.

You tutted softly, “Come sit down, Sergeant. You’re beginning to gather quite the collection of little injuries, you ought to take better care of yourself.”

Bucky laughed, sliding into the cot, just as he had done yesterday, “No idea what you mean, Lieutenant.”

“Mhm,” you replied, clearly not convinced. Pressing a cloth into his palm, you applied a gentle pressure to stop the bleeding.

You were silent for a moment, holding the cloth firmly against his palm before giving him a knowing look, voice soft but teasing, “I have a feeling this wasn’t an accident.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“Need me to send a welfare check on you? Make sure you’re holding up alright?” you added jokingly with a sly smile.

He chuckled, shaking his head, “No need, Lieutenant. I got it.”

“Good,” you hummed, tapping his wrist gently as you let it go. You rolled across the floor on your stool and tore open a fresh dressing.

“If you’re trying to get my attention, you’ve already done it,” you said simply, applying the dressing to his palm.

Bucky’s heart soared.

“That gift you left me this morning was more than enough to do so.”

And then it plummeted right back down.

“Gift? I didn’t leave you any gift, doll.” Bucky blinked, caught slightly off guard.

“You didn’t?” a smirk crept across your face as you smoothed the corners of the dressing on his hand.

“Huh. Well, then it seems like you have some competition, Sarge.” you nodded towards a collection of wildflowers sitting atop one of the cabinets in a thin vase.

Bucky had nearly screamed.

He didn’t, at least not out loud.

But inside? He was fuming.

Wildflowers. A whole damn bouquet of them. Where’d that idiot even find wildflowers out here? It wasn’t like they were growing beside the mess hall. Someone had gone looking. That meant planning. That meant intention.

It meant competition.

The idea that you could be smiling at someone else the way you smiled at him, come next week, lit a fire under his skin that burned well into the night.

By morning, he was running on no sleep and pure resolve. He’d fake one more injury. Nothing major. Just enough to get him back into your orbit.

So when the transport trucks rolled in with the weekly supplies at 11, Bucky seized the opportunity.

He picked up a heavy crate, made a show of wobbling under its weight and then let it drop directly onto the arch of his boot.

He dropped to the ground with a perfectly-timed curse, clutching his ankle.

“Jesus, Buck… you alright?” Steve asked, looking over him anxiously.

Despite the throbbing pain developing in his ankle, all Bucky could do was nod through gritted teeth, “Yeah, I’m all good, no problem.”

“I better head to the med tent though, just to be on the safe side of things.”

He was up before anyone could question it.

As he pulled back the tent’s curtain, you looked up from the supplies you were sorting, already smirking, “Again?”

He winced, “Crate jumped me.”

“Uh-huh,” you smiled, setting your pen down and already on your feet, “Let’s get that boot off, Sergeant.”

Bucky shuffled toward the cot like a wounded hero, groaning for good measure, “You’re starting to recognise my footsteps, huh?”

“I’m starting to wonder if you’re doing this for attention,” you teased, crouching down and unlacing his boot for him to examine his red, swollen ankle.

“Would it be a crime if I was?”

You wrapped some ice up and pressed it against the bruising skin, “That depends. Attention from me or from the other nurses?”

He didn’t even hesitate, “Just you.”

Your hands paused for a moment on his ankle.

“Alright then,” you said quietly, voice growing shy, “I think I can forgive you this once.”

A slow smile spread across Bucky’s face, “You know,” he said, sitting up straighter as he watched you work, “all jokes aside, I‘ve been wondering…”

You raised an eyebrow, watching him carefully.

“If I promised not to fake any more injuries,” he continued, “would you let me take you to dinner sometime? After the war, of course.”

You blinked, surprised, then smiled, that warm smile he was already falling for.

“I’d like that very much, Sergeant Barnes.”

He felt like he was walking on air as you carefully wrapped his ankle up, “You would?”

“Mhm,” you said, patting his calf and smiling coyly, “Just keep looking out for this country and you’ll find a date waiting for you when you come home, Sergeant.”

That was all the motivation that he needed.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #marvel #marvel mcu #captain america the first avenger #fanfic #fanfiction #sebastian stan #james buchanan barnes #james buchanan barnes x reader

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thatonegrimm · 6 hours ago

Text

✨50 Follower Special 2k✨

💍Accidental Marriage Pact💍

Summary: You were just messing around with a summoning circle you found online—red eyeliner, half-burnt candles, some fake Latin—and accidentally proposed to a demon. Now one of the Saja Boys is magically soul-bonded to you. The underworld thinks you’re married. The rest of the boys? Absolutely losing it.

Pairing: Saja Boys x Reader (Romance-focused)

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You only meant to do it as a joke.

It had been a weird week. Your ex posted a sappy engagement announcement, your boss rescheduled your review for the fourth time, and your microwave caught fire trying to reheat soup. So yeah—you might’ve cracked a little. You’d spent the evening scrolling through cursed forums, laughing at summoning memes until you found one tagged: “💍DEMON HUSBAND BINDING CIRCLE (REAL??)” with 372 upvotes and one terrifyingly enthusiastic comment.

The summoning circle was drawn in red eyeliner, the candles were half-melted from last year’s Halloween decor, and the chant was... well, more vibes than Latin. You didn’t even pronounce half the syllables correctly. You were laughing when you said it. Mostly.

It was supposed to be funny.

So when the air in your apartment shifted—really shifted, like pressure dropping before a storm—and a circle of pale red sigils burned into your floor, your first instinct wasn’t fear.

It was: oh no.

And then: my landlord’s gonna kill me.

--------------------------------------------

The smoke cleared with a sharp crack, like static jumping across glass.

And standing in the middle of your living room—very tall, very glowing, and very shirtless—was a man who absolutely did not exist thirty seconds ago.

Your brain short-circuited. First at the glow. Then at the abs. Then at the expression on his face: half-curious, half-amused, like he'd been woken up for something both annoying and interesting.

“Whoa,” he said, blinking slowly like he was surfacing from a dream. “Did you just propose to me?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. “No?! I think?!”

He tilted his head. His eyes were too gold. Too bright. Like sunlight bent the wrong way through stained glass. “Because I felt a soul-bond click. Which is usually what happens when someone proposes in the language of blood.”

“I got it from Reddit!”

He stepped out of the summoning circle like it meant absolutely nothing to him. It probably didn’t.

“Cute,” he said, smiling with far too many teeth. “You’re mine now.”

“WHAT.”

-----------------------------------

The front door kicked open with enough force to rattle the hinges.

Jinu stormed into the apartment like a one-man emergency response team—panting, shirt rumpled, glowing blue sigil already pulsing against his chest like a warning beacon. His eyes scanned the room once before locking onto the summoning circle and the tall shirtless demon currently looming over you like he owned the place.

“I told you not to mess with sigil tags!” he snapped, voice already climbing. “Who gave you the blood-ink packet?!”

You pointed at Romance with zero hesitation. “He proposed to me!”

“She proposed to me,” Romance corrected smoothly, wrapping a casual arm around your shoulder like this was a sitcom. “Very romantic. Her soul whispered to mine.”

Your mouth opened in sheer betrayal. “I was quoting a Taylor Swift lyric!”

Romance smirked, unbothered. “She said, ‘I’d marry you in another life.’ But turns out, this life works fine too.”

You considered screaming. Or setting something on fire. Maybe both.

You tried to back away, but Romance had already slung his arm around your shoulder like you were at prom. His palm was warm—unreasonably so—and a faint red glow pulsed from the center of his chest.

Jinu noticed it instantly. “Is that a flame-mark?”

Romance grinned. “Mmhm.”

“You soul-marked her?”

“It’s not my fault!” you yelled. “I didn’t even say it seriously!”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jinu groaned. “It doesn’t matter if it’s a joke or a karaoke lyric. If you say it in binding tongue and your intent is even slightly sincere—”

“I liked his face! That’s not the same as marriage!”

-----------------------------------

A gust of flame burst in through the open window. Derpy landed first, blue tail curling in the air like smoke.

Abby followed a second later, pulling himself over the balcony with the ease of someone who could bench-press a fridge, his face was creased with concern. He clocked the sigils on the floor, the mark glowing on Romance’s chest—and your very frozen, very cursed expression.

“…Are you okay?” he asked you gently, stepping forward.

“No,” you said. “No, I am absolutely not.”

Romance held up your hand like a trophy. “Actually, we’re married now.”

Abby paused. His brow furrowed. “Is this... real married or weird spell married?”

“Both,” Romance offered cheerfully.

There was a flicker in the hallway mirror. Mystery emerged without a word. He looked at you. Then at Romance. Then slowly blinked, reaching into his hoodie. A tarot card fluttered out and landed at your feet.

The Lovers.

You stared. “Why is it wet?!”

“It bled,” he said, and promptly walked through the kitchen wall.

You were still processing that when Baby wandered in, expression unreadable, eyes already scanning the room like he was calculating threat levels.

He looked at the soul mark. Then at Romance. Then at you.

“…You got soul-bound to him?” he said flatly, popping a chip into his mouth. “Huh.”

“I didn’t mean to!” you shouted.

Baby shrugged. “Sure, but you still did it.”

But it was no use. The mark was real. The sigils had already burned into the underworld registry. You had, somehow, accidentally married a demon boyband member.

Romance leaned in again, brushing his nose against your temple like it was nothing. “You know... I’m free next week. We could do a honeymoon thing. I hear Jeju’s nice.”

“You are not taking her to Jeju!” Jinu snapped. “We are breaking the bond and restoring her human status. Tonight.”

Romance sighed, clearly bored already. “Typical bureaucratic interference.”

“I can hear you,” Jinu growled.

---------------------------------------

The living room had become a disaster zone of magical debris, demonic bureaucracy, and emotional denial. A perfect storm.

Abby lit a cinnamon candle “for energy” and set it gently next to the toaster, which Mystery had brought back unprompted and placed in the middle of the salt circle like it belonged there. It wasn’t plugged in. You weren’t sure it could be.

No one asked.

Jinu muttered under his breath as he sketched out a perfect pentagram on the carpet in glowing chalk, occasionally scowling at the scorch marks Romance had left in the floor.

You sat on the couch, clutching a throw pillow like it could protect you from your new life choices, watching Baby test the structural limits of your ceiling fan by hanging upside down from it like a very muscular gargoyle.

“I thought marriage came with a registry,” you mumbled. “Towels. Gift cards. Not hellflame and legal consequences.”

“You married Romance,” Jinu snapped. “This is the lightweight version.”

Romance, still lounging beside you with all the grace of a smug cat who knew exactly what he'd done, let his hand rest lightly on your knee. His thumb moved in slow, lazy circles, like he had every right to touch you like this.

“For the record,” he said, voice dropping just enough to lose the joking edge, “I’d pick you again. Even without the binding tongue.”

You turned your head toward him, searching for the usual teasing glint in his eyes—but it wasn’t there. Not entirely, anyway. Something softer lurked beneath the flirtation. Something quieter.

“You met me thirty minutes ago,” you said, trying to steady your voice. “You don’t even know my last name.”

“And it was the best thirty minutes of my very long afterlife,” he murmured, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “You don’t need a last name to know when something fits.”

Your heart stuttered. Just a little.

You buried your face in your hands. “Someone sedate him.”

“I can knock him out,” Baby offered without looking up.

“No one is knocking me out,” Romance said calmly, brushing his thumb farther down your thigh. “Especially not my adorable spouse’s little attack chihuahua.”

Baby growled. Literally. Deep and guttural.

Mystery wandered past and dropped a new tarot card on the table with deliberate slowness. This one read Judgement, and it was still faintly smoking.

------------------------------

Eventually, the circle was ready.

Jinu triple-checked the sigils, muttering under his breath like a man on the verge of a breakdown. Abby stood nearby with salt and bandages. Mystery lit one of the cinnamon candles again. Baby leaned in the doorway, arms crossed.

You and Romance stood across from each other inside the glowing pentagram, your palms just inches apart. Not touching. That had been a rule.

Romance frowned. “Do we have to hold hands? We held hands during the ritual.”

“We don’t,” you said too fast, your voice slightly higher than usual.

“Shame,” he murmured, but didn’t press.

Jinu began to chant. The air thickened almost immediately—magic spiraling like pressure before a storm. You felt it coiling around your ankles, wrapping up your spine, humming in your teeth. The soul-mark on Romance’s chest began to dim.

It was working.

And that’s when he looked at you. Really looked.

His voice cut through the thick air, low and clear: “Do you want it undone?”

You blinked. You hadn’t expected a question. A choice.

This was a joke. A mistake. A curse that needed undoing. Right?

Right?

“I…” The words caught on your tongue like ash.

Romance tilted his head, golden demon eyes slit and steady. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t smiling. Just watching. Waiting.

And gods help you—some part of you liked it. The mark. The madness. The idea that in all this chaos…

Someone had picked you.

---------------------------------

You stared at Romance, heart thudding in time with the energy pulsing between you.

“I don’t know yet,” you whispered. The words came out raw, quieter than you meant, but somehow louder than everything else. “But... I think I’d like the option to choose.”

To choose love. Or connection. Or chaos, maybe. But to choose it on your own terms—not because you messed up a Reddit chant in red eyeliner. Not because your soul said yes before your brain did.

Romance didn’t smile. Not yet. But something softened in him—like the tension in his chest had finally uncoiled. Like your answer had been enough.

The soul-thread shimmered once, a brief glow between you, then... settled. Dimmed but not gone.

Jinu blinked. “The bond isn’t breaking. It’s... stabilizing.”

Romance exhaled a soft, quiet laugh. “Told you. Meant to be.”

Jinu cursed in three languages. Abby clapped politely. Baby muttered, “I’m still gonna kill him if he cheats.”

Mystery held up one last tarot card from the couch.

The Star.

It glowed.

-----------------------------------

You let out a long, tired sigh and stepped out of the circle. The magical hum began to fade, leaving the room buzzing faintly like it had just exhaled.

Romance reached for your hand again—no fanfare, no flourish. Just open fingers and the smallest curve of a smile.

This time, you didn’t pull away.

His hand was still too warm. His soul-mark still faintly glowed against his chest. But his grip was steady, not possessive. Like a promise, not a chain.

“Fine,” you muttered, voice dry. “But we’re doing this slow. I want ground rules. Normal dating. And you’re helping me pay for the carpet.”

He brightened like you’d said something romantic. “Deal, wife.”

You rolled your eyes and punched him in the shoulder, half-strength. He barely reacted, except to look so smug you nearly reconsidered.

But his fingers didn’t let go.

And for once, the underworld was quiet.

------------------------------------

✧ BONUS SCENE: The Underworld Registry

Somewhere deep in the seventh tier of the Underworld, in an office carved from molten obsidian and bureaucratic despair, a paperwork demon clicked his pen and sighed.

The nameplate on his desk read: AZRAN, SOUL-BOND PROCESSING, THIRD CIRCLE, UNHOLY MATRIMONIAL DIVISION.

Stacks of parchment hovered around him in a lazy circle, each one bound with a ribbon of glowing thread. Marriage pacts, eternal contracts, soul-melds, blood-bound vows—he’d seen it all. He was dead inside. That helped with the job.

He reached for the next file. A thin red thread glowed faintly along the edge.

Azran narrowed his eyes.

Case #AB-77391: Initiator: HUMAN, FEMALE, MORTAL PLANE Target: ROMANCE, DEMON CLASS III Catalyst: Improvised ritual using red eyeliner, spoiled tea candles, partial Latin, and Taylor Swift lyrics Bond Status: ACTIVE – UNINTENTIONALLY MUTUAL

Azran exhaled through his nose.

“…Not again.”

He stamped the contract with a flaming sigil, shoved it in a drawer labeled ‘ROMANCE-RELATED INCIDENTS’, and scribbled a note to file an alert with Soulbond Oversight.

Then he wrote in all caps: “THIS IS WHY WE DON’T LET CHARMING DEMONS DATE UNSUPERVISED.”

The drawer smoked. Azran popped a headache candy and reached for the next file.

-----------------------------

M-List

AN: Jinu is stressed, Mystery is judgmentally spooky, Baby is showing his feral side, Abby just wants everyone to hydrate, and Romance is one ceremony away from printing matching shirts. Reader absolutely did not mean to summon a husband, but here we are. Shoutout to the toaster, who played a vital role in the spellwork despite not being plugged in.

#kpdh x reader #saja boys x reader #abby x reader #baby x reader #jinu x reader #mystery x reader #romance x reader #kpop demon hunters #kpdh #follower special

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notnowtobey · 22 hours ago

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I’m back with more “Buck and Tommy are seeing each other again, but Buck thinks they’re just friends and Tommy thinks they’re back together” aka “Buck friend-zoning his boyfriend Tommy,” this time with some light angst sprinkled in 🤗

(Thank you to everyone for the positive feedback!! This is my first time posting stuff like this, and I’m blown away that even one of y’all liked it!)

—

When Tommy asked to go on a trip together, Buck was imagining connected rooms, a night or two drinking beer at the hotel bar, and splitting the bill on a nice meal. You know, typical friend stuff. Because they’re friends. Just friends.

What he absolutely did not expect was for the hotel to be a lodge and for their room to be a cabin. It was…private. With a lovely view of a small lake, the lights of the lodge barely glowing in the distance. Some might say it was very, very, very romantic. But not Buck! He had vowed to keep his thoughts totally platonic, and so far he was succeeding. Maybe not totally, but definitely mostly.

It wasn’t helping that there was only one bed, that felt like the focal point of the whole cabin. Or maybe Buck felt that way because he couldn’t stop focusing on the red rose petals that were dusted all over the lush looking comforter. When he first noticed the roses, his eyes shot to Tommy, who looked awed by the whole setup.

Tommy glanced at him, and with a shy smile said, “It’s not too much, right? I think it’s all part of the package.”

“No, it’s, uh, so great. Very…fragrant? I’m sure it’s a big hit with all the guests. And I love roses, so. Really, it’s perfect.”

At that, Tommy blushed. Blushed! Buck was proud to admit he remained standing. Because friends don’t drop to their knees for their other friends, unless maybe they’re picking up a pen they dropped.

They decided to freshen up and try a restaurant Tommy found, with an outdoor seating area complete with twinkle lights and a small band playing. After they settled at their table, Buck was once again struck by the thought that all of this could be considered romantic by some. But Buck was built different.

“You know, I was a little surprised you agreed to this. I was worried it would be too much, too fast,” Tommy admitted after they finished their meal. He gazed at Buck, and Buck couldn’t help but gaze back. Friends gazed at each other, right?

“I, uh, I’m a little surprised you asked me, to be honest. I know you said you always wanted to bring someone here, so I’m honored you picked me,” he said as his eyes dropped to the glass of wine he was twirling in his hand. “I hope this trip is everything you want it to be,” Buck murmured.

“It’s already so much more, Evan,” Tommy said on an exhale. “I really, I think it’s going to be good. For us.”

Buck felt his strictly platonic resolve melting as he felt his cheeks blush. The restaurant was romantic enough in its own, but now Tommy was saying things that could definitely be considered romantic. If not for the fact that he was saying them to his friend. Maybe Tommy doesn’t realize? Does he talk to all his friends like that?

Buck desperately needed a distraction.

“Do you want to check out the band? They sound pretty good,” Buck nodded over to the corner of the deck with a small stage set up. There was an area cleared for dancing, with some couples already dancing. Buck wondered if any of them were just friends.

Tommy stood and extended his hand, “Can I have this dance?” Buck swallowed and took his hand, allowing him to lead them to the dance floor. He stumbled a little as Tommy suddenly stopped and turned around, and he caught himself with one hand on Tommy’s shoulder. Tommy took his other hand and pulled him even closer, and placed his own at Buck’s waist. He hummed quietly to the music as they began to slowly spin around the floor.

Buck could barely breath, let alone think. He was closer to Tommy than he had been in months. Probably since that last night they spent together, before he messed it all up the next morning. He was trying so hard to be good, to keep his feelings in check, but he missed this so much. His eyes slipped closed as he leaned his temple against Tommy’s. Time seemed to slow, and the music faded. He was with Tommy, and that was all that really mattered.

After what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, Buck felt Tommy lean back and his eyes fluttered open. Tommy looked at him softly and his breath hitched as Tommy swayed toward him, nudging their noses together before pressing their lips together. Buck immediately and completely melted into the kiss, wrapping his arms around Tommy’s lower back. One of Tommy’s hand settled on Buck’s neck, and he carded his the fingers of the other through Buck’s curls.

Buck pushed into him harder, trusting Tommy to keep them upright. He wanted him to pull on his hair, wanted him to leave marks, so in the morning he would know this wasn’t all just a dream. He was kissing Tommy again. Kissing Tommy, his—Buck reared back. No, no, no, no, no.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Buck felt so frustrated with himself he could cry. He was going to lose Tommy again.

“I, I, we shouldn’t have done that. I’m so sorry. I should, I need to—“ Buck gestured over his shoulder and spun around, taking off for the exit.

Leaving Tommy, his friend, alone on the dance floor.

—

Tagging some peeps, I hope you like it 💕

(please let me know if you don’t want to be tagged)

@politenotice @andrew-dwyer @comfortingevanbuckley @aringofsalt @here-there-be-fics @derangedsynthpop @obitez @kinardnatural @beckym2001 @dornigetulpe @fierybuck @hcrm @partofthelouniverse

#911 abc #911 on abc #evan buckley #tommy kinard #bucktommy #tevan #bucktommy fic #bucktommy Drabble

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nights-at-crystarium · 3 hours ago

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Okay this's a long post, but I'm BEGGING you to slow down and read the above stuff. The general sentiment's bleak and depressing, though, whether you're a creator or a reader, we're all stuck in this current reality.

In our xiv corner, I noticed that some people actually begin to look up to my work as an inspiration and a success story. While this "success" keeps being shaky and uncertain, I have to keep promoting my work like cursed in order to stay in the same place, I AM able to work on Fragments full time and have a home and eat, so I guess that qualifies as success these days. I hope this doesn't come across as bragging, in face of horrors I simply want to provide a positive example, to acknowledge how lucky and privileged I am that, despite everything, there are still enough people that love and support Fragments.

I'm in my 30s, but I've never had any real comic aspirations, no ocs that I dreamt of since I was a child. So, while I emotionally resonate with the jaded creators in this post, my story's a bit different. I'm forever a fanartist, a fandom dweller that tried making something out of pure love, and it happened to be in a fandom large and active enough to pick up.

It began in 2022, in the hellish post-apocalyptic socmed landscape that I've been able to navigate only because I have a decently analytical, "seller" mindset, and a lot of spite for the evil that took away MY internet. They shit all over my home, now I'm fighting tooth and nail to keep the tiny island that keeps shrinking every year (the censorship, the algorithms, the conservative and purist idiots). Audience becomes more and more shallow, hard to please (the oversaturation, everyone's an artist now), hard to grab (everything has to be FLASHY!!!!! Bite-sized, instant gratification), trained by twitter and tiktok to consume without giving anything back.

Making a comic (or fics, or regular art, anything) isn't hard. It's nice and fun. It's more accessible than ever now! But getting it out there? Will you have enough mental fortitude to keep pushing your work, day after day, for months, for years? If you stop showing up on people's feeds, you're forgotten. But what if there isn't enough new material to show? Not everyone can churn out a new art every day. Recycling old stuff? A part of you dies whenever you do that. Creators are also scared to interact and support each other due to the cancel culture, so everyone's on their own now. At least I am. I write, I draw, I publish, I promote. To say it's exhausting is to say nothing.

You have to conform. To make attention-grabbing visuals, to sterilize what words you type (unless you're on tumblr, bless) so that your post isn't dumped to trash by algorithm for having "support" or "dead" or "fuck" in it. Even if you jumped through all of those hoops, there's still a risk that people don't care for some reason. Try again.

One of the above posters expressed that to make comics is to be punk again, and boy does it resonate with me. I have so much anger and frustration and spite in me, I'll fight and retaliate until it literally kills me. My way of fighting is holding onto the one good thing that I have in my life, working on Fragments and then being a freak about it with my readers. Fragments is a mature work, it has the ~problematic~ shit that'll make the tiktok-brainrotted people clutch their pearls. Good. It doesn't even conform to the classic comic/manga layout, it's something else entirely, not even because I'm so desperate to be original, but because I do what works for me, what's easier to draw, what brings me joy. The entire comic's punk as hell in every way imaginable. And yet, it managed to find enough other punks that love it just the way it is. It's been 3 years, and I'm still blown away.

I'm a confident person, I know what I'm doing, I LOVE what I'm doing, I HAVE FUN (until I have to promote the goddamn thing again). My work's unusual and it'll probably never stop being niche. However, it's got just enough vibe to attract my tribe, for which I'm grateful. Just wanted to say don't give up, random person thinking of making a comic, be yourself, do whatever the fuck you want, prepare to endure a lot and then some more, but it might just work out for you even in 2025.

P.S. One last thing!! Never give in to the perfectionism. Done is better than perfect. Draw and move on, even if you feel dissatisfied with it. Chances are, you're your harshest critic, and no one else will notice the thing that drives you crazy. Don't get caught up in the loop of doom where you wanna redraw/rewrite what you've already published. MOVE THE FUCK ON. KEEP WALKING FORWARD.

In your view/experience. is the rate of "incompleteness" among webcomics more or less the nature of online personal projects as a whole? Or is there something specific to webcomics like laboriousness, audience expectations, relative medium infancy or whatnot?

well for one thing webcomics has changed significantly in the last ten years. it used to have a much lower barrier for entry, just get a smackjeeves account or set up a website with a wordpress plugin. starting a webcomic when i started my webcomic vs starting a webcomic now are totally different experiences.

so i can only speak to people who started their webcomics roughly ten years ago. and roughly ten years ago a lot of us were a whole lot younger with a lot more time and energy to spend on a comic for free. this part is probably still somewhat true for new artists.

but then you get older. your ideas change. your skill develops and the old stuff isn't as good. or you don't have as much time, you got a day job. unless you're one of like five people on earth your webcomic is not paying your rent. you need to make money. your shoulder hurts. you're 30 now. you're struggling to make updates on time between whatever else makes you happy and what else you need to do to live. you wrote this story when you were 21, you don't relate to it anymore, you have different ideas, you've grown up, your audience has noticeably dropped off from the peak, social media managing is hard, you have to go to work, you're so tired, all the time.

it's a lot of things.

#i'll probably wanna come back to this post so i need to tag it uhhhhhh #comics #text post #long post

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strangerstilinski · 22 hours ago

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𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: Person A falls first, Person B falls harder — With a slightly more literal approach. [ 5.7k ]

𝗰𝘄: fluff, hurt/comfort, gender neutral reader (but pls lmk if i missed anything), eddie does call reader "pretty" & "gorgeous", possibly probably incorrect dnd references, minor head injury, i am not a medical professional so don't yell at me, reader is mentioned to have flyaways but no other hair descriptions. don't mess w eddie bcos he can & will prank you <3

𝗮/𝗻: initially based off of this post but, oops! somewhere along the line the og plot ran away from me. still might fuck around and write a version more similar to the original post in the future! :)

divider by @/hellfiremunsonn

Eddie's head throbs with the kind of strength that feels a little bit like he's been hit by a car. Or a semi-truck. Or a fucking train, maybe— Because holy shit, it fucking hurts.

His lips part on a strangled gasp. He manages to pry his eyes open just long enough for the sun to pierce his retinas like a goddamn knitting needle being stabbed straight through his skull and quickly pinches them shut again with a pained groan. He's cursing like a sailor through clenched teeth, dirt and grass rubbing into his clothes when he rolls to one side, feels a stupid dandelion tickling at his nose, and then promptly rolls onto his back again. Jesus, are his ears ringing? He can barely hear the sound of his own expletives over the rush of blood in his veins.

Jesus, he is such an idiot. He'd actually walked straight into a fucking lamppost. Like some bumbling imbesile in the Sunday Funnies. Eddie doesn't know where you are now — in any other situation he'd be desperately hoping that any bystanders somehow missed the painfully (ha) embarrassing blunder — But the only thing he can spare the brainpower to think about is the ache blooming sharply at the front of his skull.

Then he feels the stupid, scaldingly bright sun warm him until the back of his neck prickles with sweat, and for just a moment in his melodramatic heart—Eddie knows.

He knows he's a deadman. He's sure of it, in fact.

No point in driving himself to Hawkins Memorial to wait around in the ER, he was already a goner. As good as dead. His gravestone would read: Here lies Edward Munson, killed by his infatuation with the relative stranger who sits behind him in Economics and his own short attention span. (But in his humble defense, your smile is bright enough to rival the sun itself, and Holy hell you looked gorgeous today. Sue him if he'd wanted to stare at you just a little longer.)

Eddie is still rocking side to side in the grass when the sunlight over his body thins with a shadow. As if to add insult to injury, something knocks him in the ribs only a moment later. Eddie is still grumbling profanities when the fog in his ears clears enough to hear another voice, distantly familiar and so much nicer than the sound of his own.

He dares to open his eyes again, fighting against the pain in his head to squint against the harsh glare of the sun shining out from behind the–

Huh. He really must be dead.

Because Eddie is pretty sure there is an honest-to-god angel kneeling over him. Shit.

Five Minutes Earlier

You're sitting outside during your free period on one of the first few truly warm days of spring in Hawkins, trying to soak up as much fresh air as you can before the cold snap of 40 and 50 degree days the coming week has in store can wring out the final dregs of winter in the midwest.

The past weekend had been a beautiful respite. Friday it had been sunny and seventy-five by lunchtime. It was a tease of what's to come, so close you can practically taste it.

Finals, graduation, summer.

Today is much the same, so by the time the bell rings to signal the start of your free period, you’re already outside basking in the warm weather and attempting to make use of your good mood by finishing the reading for your English assignment, dull as the material may be.

You nearly drop the book cradled in your lap when the doors to the school suddenly burst open just ten feet from your sunshine-y spot in the grass outside the Hawkins High School science wing. The slam of metal hitting brick is jarringly loud. You flinch in surprise, gaze snapping toward the disruption as your heart rate works frantically to re-settle in your chest.

Your eyes find Eddie Munson.

He's standing tall in the doorway, his favorite leather jacket forgone with the warm weather, but he still has his seemingly very well-loved denim vest layered over a tshirt. His eyes are wild, his footing restless. His body seems to be thrumming with unsettled kinetic energy, leaving him wavering in place. He's searching for.. something — that much you can tell. His mouth presses anxiously against his knuckles as he spins in a jerky circle, cursing under his breath while the heavy doors slam shut once again behind him.

You watch as Eddie looks longingly to the edge of the student parking lot, just barely visible around the corner of the building. His face scrunches up in deliberation for a moment before his head jerks to the side, as if listening to some noise beyond the doors that doesn't quite reach you. He turns toward the line of bushes along the side of the building, just a few feet from where he still hovers at the side entrance. It seems as if he's debating something to himself before he gives an unsure shake of his head, and then suddenly Eddie is diving into the greenery headfirst.

The sight has you nearly choking on a gasp-turned-laugh. You watch the scene beginning to play out, feeling a bit like you must've been transported straight onto the set of I Love Lucy— like at any moment all color will fade from the world around you and leave behind only shades of gray. Cue the tinny laughter of a live studio audience.

The doors are slamming open once more before you can so much as blink. The jarring sound of metal colliding with the brick wall again meets your ears just as the last bit of Eddie's denim-clad leg disappears within the thicket of poorly tended branches and leaves. You take in the sudden barrage of green, white, and gold that emerges from the building. Letterman jackets hang loose over the shoulders of the two jocks who have stormed out after Eddie, deep scowls on their faces, expressions pinched and nostrils flared in annoyance.

“Damn it! We lost him-”

“Where the hell did he go?”

“How should I know? Shit, how's the freak so fucking fast?”

You huff a quiet laugh of amusement, shaking your head as you attempt to refocus on the book in your hands. You've barely finished re-reading the start of the paragraph you’d unwillingly abandoned during Eddie's dramatic exit when a voice slices through your focus.

“Hey!” One of the guys calls out.

You catch the way he relaxes his posture into something less intimidating the moment your gaze settles on him. One hand raises above his head in a halfhearted wave, a gentle smile on his face that you're familiar enough with to not fall for — It's dripping with the same faux-charm that you've seen rake in unprecedented extensions for late assignments or subservient smiles in the place of tardy slips. He fixes that same smile on you now, the kind of efficacy that could probably land the guy a leading role in the upcoming Drama Club production.

“–You, uh, you seen Munson around?”

Your own acting skills are put to the test when the bushes rustle just slightly at the mere mention of his name. It's an honest-to-God challenge to swallow down the laughter that threatens to spill from your lips. You do your best to paste on an look of confused nonchalance, taking a moment to school your expression while you slide your bookmark into place and valiantly fight the urge to flick your eyes toward the white, rubber soles poking out from beneath the shrubbery beside them.

“No, sorry.” The lie itself comes easy — The feigned apology etched into your expression, however, proves a little more difficult, “Haven't seen him.”

The guys look to one another with clear frustration. They begin to mutter back and forth, too quietly for you to make out their words, but from the obvious anger between them, you're able to put the pieces together fairly well. You've watched Eddie Munson piss off more than enough people from afar to make an educated guess as to the motive behind their current hunt.

The ever-magnetic Eddie Munson.

A majority of the time it's far more difficult for you to not get sucked into his tirades and rants than it is for you to simply allow your attention to be drawn straight toward him. The captivating boy with wild brown curls, and dimpled cheeks, and expressive eyes, and a laugh brighter than life itself.

You don't know Eddie, per say. You've never actually had a conversation longer than a few mundane interactions. During one of the more memorable ones, Eddie asked to borrow a pencil that he never actually returned — Instead he'd fixed you with an all-too-charming, lopsided grin at the end of the class and asked if he could use it for the rest of the day, seeing as he couldn't find his. Because apparently he owned only one pencil or something-

And Eddie had sauntered into class every day for the next few weeks with that very same pencil tucked behind his ear. His teeth carved little indents into the soft wood when he gently gnawed on it in thought. He'd drummed the eraser softly on his desk during quizzes, fidgeting with it teeter-tottering between his fingers while he pondered over multiple choice. The utensil whittled down more and more each time you saw him, until it was a mere stub shorter in length than Eddie's thumb — but still, he continued to use it even then. His dedication to keeping track of it for so long was endearing enough that you’d never once asked for it back.

Point is, Eddie is kind of a secret sweetheart. And you do think you know enough to be confident in the assessment that even Eddie's craziest stunts are nearly always some sort of retaliation in defense of those he deems in need of his protection. The losers and the freaks and the outcasts. Those who would normally allow the abuse and ridicule from their classmates without putting up any real fight. Because if there is one thing you’re certain of, it's that under all of that bravado — hidden beneath layers of leather, ripped denim, and the illegal ink scratched into his skin — Eddie Munson is quite possibly the most genuine, well-meaning person you've ever encountered.

While you're sure he'd be loath to hear it… Eddie Munson is cute. There's something real that sparkles in that easy charm he turns on the teachers when he wanders into the classroom ten minutes late, or on the lunch ladies when he's angling for an extra scoop of mac and cheese.

And sometime around December Eddie had begun leaving little doodles beside the red pen marking your grade on quizzes and assignments— Adorably disturbing animations of otherwise cute animals, a smiley face adorned with devil horns, a surprisingly detailed hand displaying a thumbs up, a stick figure with the same bald head and frizzy hair around his ears as your teacher. Whatever he could get away with scribbling in thirty seconds or so before continuing to pass the stack of day-old papers back.

There's a sweetly endearing boy threatening to sneak through the cracks in his facade — You'd noticed, and you've been quietly and embarrassingly smitten ever since.

Which is to say, you're well-versed enough in his antics to know that while Eddie has surely gone out of his way and done something- He probably doesn't actually deserve the brutal ass-kicking that these two obviously have in store.

“But-” You call out suddenly when one of the guys teeters a small, unintentional step in the direction of the metalhead's current hiding spot, “I've heard he sometimes hides out from Principal Higgins in the track and field shed,” You fib easily. “Maybe you could check there?”

The guys seem to perk up at the suggestion, shooting you grateful smiles and waving as they bid you goodbye with a quick: “Yeah, we'll go give it a look! Thanks for the tip!”

It only takes approximately five seconds from the moment the heavy door slams shut behind them for Eddie to tumble out onto the grass just beyond the line of shrubbery. He curses up a storm all the while, letting out a little yelp when he has to kick one of his feet free from a tangle of low-hanging branches. You can just make out a few of his grumbled expletives along with the tinkling of the chain wallet clipped to his belt loop, the sound of metal on metal and twigs snapping making their way to you despite sitting at the far end of the grassy knoll.

He scrambles back to his feet in a rush, cheeks pink, wide-eyes flitting about in the distance until his gaze settles on you. Eddie's blush only darkens at the realization that you've seen his fall, but then his cheeks are dimpling with a wide, earnest grin, one hand coming up to shoot you a grateful wave as he takes just a few long strides in your direction.

“Hey, hi, it's you!” He calls out, kicking at the ground below him bashfully as his hands fall to his hips. “I mean. I, uh, thanks for the assist, there.”

“Oh, no problem,” You laugh, “Happy to help.”

“Well, ah… Just, let it be known that your gentle misdirection was greatly appreciated,” He finishes with a gracious little bow, and feels silly for about half a second before he hears you laugh softly at his theatrics and then any and all traces of insecurity immediately fly from his head to make room for the abundance of affection and puppy love that fills his chest.

As your laughter tapers out, a small beat of silence settles in the vast space between you.

“Right.” Eddie nods to himself as he speaks, waving once more when he begins to backpedal toward the parking lot a few yards behind him. “Well, don't tell anyone, but I'm cutting last period, so-”

You mime twisting a key to lock your lips, “Mum's the word.”

“Oh, mum, you say? Shit, here I thought you'd just send anyone else who asks after me on a futile side-quest to the track and field shed.” Eddie jokes, moving another two steps back toward the sidewalk. “My own personal mastermind rogue.”

The reference goes over your head, but the grin Eddie shoots you as he says it is enough of a thrill to have your stomach erupting with a small swarm of butterflies.

“I'm practically aiding and abetting,” You tease, rewarded with a sharp laugh that has Eddie's eyes glittering even from a distance. “Better be careful. Too many people come looking for you and I just might have to start keeping a tally.”

A hand flies up to his own chest, clutching at the fabric of his shirt, “Oh, but of course!” Eddie grins. “Merely name the time and place and I'd be more than happy to repay any and all debts owed.”

“I’ll keep you updated.”

You find yourself smiling back— can't seem to stop smiling, actually. You sort of wish he'd invite you to skip class with him, English assignment be damned. He won't, of course, it's not as if you're friends, but… The longing is there all the same.

“Right. I, uh.. Thanks again. I'll.. see you around?”

Does he look reluctant to leave or is your mind playing tricks?

“Yeah,” You pause for just a beat, “See you.”

Reluctant to look away from you just yet Eddie keeps moving backwards, his sneaker catching on cement for half a second before he steps up onto the curb behind him with only a small stumble.

He laughs good-naturedly at his own clumsiness, hands joined at his lower back as he breaks the lingering eye contact with an embarrassed bow of his head.

You watch with bated breath as Eddie nears a lamppost at the edge of the lot. Your lips part on a warning that proves to be about half a second too late.

Because Eddie has already turned on his heel and suddenly finds himself too close and moving far too fast to avoid walking into it— facefirst, at full-speed. Your entire body jolts just watching the impact from afar, your own yelp in your ears nearly drowning out the awful sound of his head colliding with metal.

You're scrambling to your feet as Eddie staggers back a step on wobbly legs, and you're abandoning your things to rush in his direction as his knees give out and he lands on his backside in the grass with a choked-off gasp of pain and surprise.

By the time you drop to your knees beside him, Eddie's already cursing up a storm. He's rolling side to side in the grass, long legs kicking out as if the constant movement might actually be able to siphon some of the pain from his head. Your knee catches him in the ribs in all of his thrashing, but Eddie seems too caught up in his hurt and his own dramatics to have even noticed.

“Fucking–” Eddie cuts off with a groan, long and drawn out as it rumbles in his throat. “Stupid piece of– What a stupid fucking place to put a god damn pole. Jesus H. Fucking Christ! Ouch–!”

“Oh god! Are.. Are You okay?” You manage to get in over the sound of his breathy expletives.

All of Eddie's writhing and flailing comes to a halt as he casts a look up in your direction, big brown eyes settling just long enough to be blinded by the sun behind you. He squints hard against the sheer brightness, his gaze instantly gone a little hazy. He looks at you for about half a second, empty gaze flitting over your face like he’s never seen you a day in his life.

“Ah.. Oh, damn it, you're pretty.” He manages before his eyes pinch shut against the onslaught of light penetrating his corneas with another curse, “Real pretty. Ah shit, did I fuckin’.. Am I honestly dead right now? Fuck.”

At least, you're mostly sure that's what he says. He's grumbling under his breath more than speaking, really. Regardless, you're going to reassure him, lips already parting to do just that, but Eddie hardly gives a moment of pause before babbling on faintly, words coming out worryingly garbled to your untrained ears.

“I-I mean, don't get me wrong, angel, alright?” Eddie’s words slur together, “I am, uh, pleasantly surprised if it's you welcoming me to eternity.” It sounds as if each word is heavy on his tongue, or perhaps, like each one is being forcibly dragged from the depths of his chest and they've lost some of their clarity by the time they reach his lips. “‘m sure you know I'm not exactly in a place to turn away a free pass into heaven, but, uh, Jesus- Or, sorry- Ow.” He finishes inarticulately.

You reach out cautiously, making for the area of skin hidden away beneath his fluffy bangs. Eddie startles the moment your fingers brush the welt forming on his forehead, despite how deliberately gentle you are with the movement. There's a bump, swollen under your fingertips and warm to the touch already, the injured skin flushed with heat — If the poor guy comes out of this with lasting brain damage, you're going to be seriously riddled with guilt for just existing to distract him in the first place.

“Fuck.” Eddie grumbles again in discomfort, halfheartedly swatting at your hand until it retreats from beneath his bangs.

His warm knuckles are such a stark contrast to your own, his fingers curling around the edge of your palm before you can fully retreat back into your own space. You ignore the way the metal of the ring on his middle finger pinches your skin when he squeezes your hand. You return his grip just as solidly while Eddie's head falls back to the ground with a dull thunk, your thumb swiping anxiously over the jut of his knuckle as he begins another round of disconcerting grumbling.

“Ohh, if I die, my– My uncle is gonna be pissed, man.”

He sure is babbling a lot for someone with a head injury. You wonder if that's normal — If it's a good sign or a horribly bad one.

You pull in a shaky breath, “You're not dy–”

Eddie doesn't seem to hear you over the light ringing in his ears. Rather, he's continuing on before you can finish, “Shit, he's gonna move ’imself back into my room ‘nd.. ‘N he'll see the state of my mattress. God. He's gonna see the shit stuffed under my mattress–”

You bypass the more obvious implications of his second statement (read: porno mags, drugs) despite your piqued interest, but you're far too stumped and curious to bite back a question regarding the prior.

“What's wrong with your mattress?”

It comes out quiet, but still, this time your voice works like magic at pulling Eddie's attention back on you lightning fast, as if he's noticing your presence for the first time all over again.

Like some sort of divine intervention, a thin cloud passes over the sky then. The filtered sunlight allows Eddie's gaze to fully catch yours, wide brown eyes meeting your open, blissfully honest expression of curiosity.

You're momentarily stunned by the way the molten chocolate of his eyes goes honeyed in the light, his irises glowing with an enchanting mosaic of brown and gold.

Eddie, himself, is still squinting against the light, but this time the brightness doesn't hit him with the immediate need to pinch his eyes shut again. Instead, his brain goes blissfully blank, distracted by the way the sky seems to cast a halo around your head. A few of your flyaways sway in the breeze, sparkling so pretty in the sunlight. He murmurs as much, the words nearly incomprehensible aside from the quiet utterance of ‘pretty’ that you catch slip from his lips for a second time.

“Eddie?”

You cut through his tumultuous inner monologue with a soft voice, worry etched into your expression. You can't help the way you scrunch the denim lapel at his neck in your anxious fist. You pull, just a little. His shoulder lifts an inch or so off the ground before you’re releasing him again, smoothing the fabric out over his clavicle with gentle fingers.

He still hasn't responded by the time you’re finished, so you try again.

“Hey, Eddie..”

His eyes drop from where they've been stuck somewhere just above your own, trailing slow down the length of your torso. You watch him finally take in the extent of your proximity bit by bit; your hand in his own, your knees in the grass beside him, the way your folded legs brush his hip, the fingers you have resting where his shoulder meets his neck, the little flap of denim at the collar of his battle vest caught between your fingers.

“What?” Eddie croaks after a few seconds of silence, the sound of your name falling from his lips immediately afterward fills you with a sense of relief the strength of which you've never quite experienced. “You.. Sorry. Uh, what’d you say?”

Still recovering from Eddie saying your name in that low, grumbly tone, your mouth quirks up at the corners of its own accord, a soft smile gracing your lips.

“You said something about the state of your m-” The words trail off, hand not currently trapped in his grip finding their way to the space between his brows. The pads of your fingertips brush featherlight over the microscopic hairs above the bridge of his nose, ever cautious in their ascent upward. “Nevermind. I just- Eddie.. Seriously. Are you okay?”

“I, uh.. Honestly, angel?” He cracks open just one eye, shooting you a playful grin, “Think I might be concussed.”

You laugh but it’s more in relief at his cognizance than genuine amusement.

“Here, let me-” You reach out a hand and Eddie allows you to slowly help him to his feet with minimal resistance. He sways precariously for only a moment in a struggle to regain his balance, but your hands are right there on his chest to help hold him aloft.

You carefully usher him back toward where you'd been reading in solitude earlier. Slowly, lest the metalhead suddenly collapse to the ground. You guide him by the hand, eyes flitting between Eddie's pain etched face and where his calloused palm is pressed firmly to your own.

As the two of you reach your abandoned belongings, you release his hand to drop to the ground and unzip your bookbag. It only takes a moment of rifling through your things, you find what you’d been looking for: a half-frozen ice pack, tattered kitchen towel still wrapped around it to protect your sandwich from going soggy.

You remove the towel now, turning to face Eddie right as he plops down in the grass beside you. He stretches out, long legs extended in front of him, leaning back on his hands with a casual coolness that makes your head spin. He's lounging next to you as if this is a totally normal occurrence. Like he skipped class and actually chose to come spend that time with you, of all people. Like he's not currently pretending there isn't a sharp ache in his head.

“For you.” You hold the ice pack out in offering, the plastic already beading with condensation in the warm air. “It's not frozen-frozen, but it's still pretty cold. I could run to the nurses office real quick, though, if you-”

“Nah. No need, sweetheart. No, this is great-” He takes the proffered item, fingers brushing yours again, “A Mastermind Rogue and a Healer. How lucky I am to have stumbled into your path this morning.”

He flashes you that entirely too charming smile again, cheeks dimpling in a way that sends your heartbeat into overdrive. You can't quite believe that before today you'd never really looked at him this close. Plenty of class periods have been spent staring at the back of his head studying the pattern of his frizzy curls — Far more time than you've ever spent actually looking at the blackboard at the front of the room. But now you've gotten close enough to notice the freckles dotting the bridge of his nose, the long lines of his eyebrows usually hidden away beneath his bangs, the short, clean stubs of his fingernails and the green tint staining the skin underneath the ring on his index finger.

You doubt you'll ever be able to overlook him again after this.

Eddie must take your momentary silence for confusion, because he immediately delves into an explanation into DnD classifications. He uses simple terms, laying it out in a way that would make sense even if you had no prior knowledge of the game. It's no wonder he's in charge of the after school club, because while he’s boisterous and loud and sometimes a little bit wild and scary on purpose — He can also be so gentle and patient when the situation calls for it, especially when he thinks no one of consequence is paying attention.

But you're paying attention. You're watching the way his full lips move. The way his one free hand gesticulates while he talks. You're watching a bead of water from the ice pack drip down the soft line of his nose. You're listening as his rambling explanation bleeds seamlessly into the concept for the summer campaign he's planning. You find yourself caught up in the whirlwind of his attention and his excitement and the sound of his fucking voice.

Eddie's rambling pauses suddenly, and when he begins speaking again, his words come with a deliberate slowness. “Sorry, I- Sometimes I get going and I don't really know when to stop.” He smiles again but this one is more of a bashful grimace as he scratches at his head awkwardly. “You can just tell me to shut up and I won't even be offended. Promise. I, uh-”

A little bit of the light has dimmed from his eyes, and you can't fucking stand it. You don't want to tell him to shut up. Actually, you'd be far more inclined to sit right here listening to him talk about anything and everything until the final bell of the day rings out, hell until the sun dips below the horizon-

There's so much more nuance to Eddie than you'd expected when he mosied into Economics on that first day at the start of the school year and dropped unceremoniously into the desk in front of you. He is so much more than just a seemingly lacksadasal indifference to his education, or the wild storm of the constant chaos that seems to erupt in his wake.

And speaking of that chaos…

“Hey, um. Can I ask…” You hesitate for only half a second before he’s urging you to continue.

“Yeah, ‘course, anything. Go on.”

“What did you do? To piss those guys off earlier, I mean.”

Eddie drops the ice pack to his lap and twists his body toward you in a rush of excitement, leaning his shoulder against the trunk of the tree and grinning at you until you turn slightly to match him. His cheeks dimple again, eyes filled with a giddy mischief that tells you whatever tale of hijinks he’s about to bestow upon you is going to be good. Or, maybe, bad?

Eddie makes a show of dropping his voice into a low murmur, “You ever smelled a hard boiled egg after it's been sitting in a hot car?”

Your lips quirk, “Can't say I have.”

“Nah, ‘course not,” Eddie replies easily. “Well, you're not the only one, apparently. Swear to God. I, for one, cannot imagine how bad those idiots’ jock-straps must reek… I don't think they even bothered looking for the source of the damn smell ‘til yesterday afternoon.”

You try to hold back your laughter, but you don't quite manage it, and Eddie's own grin melts into something all-too pleased at the sound.

“So, how long was the egg in his car then?” You ask in a hushed voice.

Eddie matches your tone, leans in like he's revealing some great secret. His cheeks dimple, the freckles on his nose standing out in his proximity.

“Remember that real hot day we had? Cracked 80 or so?”

You nod, eyes wide. “That was Friday… Right?” Three days ago, your mind supplies.

Eddie’s still grinning, “Yep. Stuffed it into the pocket on the back of his driver’s seat Thursday during lunch.” He says it proudly.

“You broke into his car before the weekend-” Another laugh, but you can't help it, not when Eddie's looking at you like that. “And you just… hid a hard boiled egg?”

“Well, see, it wasn’t locked, is the thing-” He divulges, “So… The way I see it, anyone could’ve done it. Could’a been one of the guys on the math team, or drama club, maybe a spurned cheerleader-”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” You laugh at the unlikeliness of such a thing. An angry cheerleader, maybe, but the other two suggestions are outright preposterous. “Hell, maybe Mrs. O'Donnell did it.”

Eddie throws his head back with a cackle, clapping his hands together in excitement.

“Fucking O'Donnell!” He laughs, “Shit, Yes! Absolutely. You are absolutely right! Yep, O'Donnell’s behind it. Nothing more than a mean old woman's revenge.”

You try not to get too caught up in the heady fog of approval that rolls over you with every peel of Eddie’s laughter, the joy in his voice, the sparkle in his eyes.

“Lucky for you, I happened to witness the whole thing, so-”

“Oh, so you've got my back, is what you're saying?” Eddie teases, bumping your shoulder with his own. “I can count on you to plead my innocence?”

“I'll insist on your innocence,” You promise slyly. “Someone comes asking questions and I'll throw O'Donnell right under the bus. And anyone looking for you specifically will be sent straight to the track and field shed with the rest of the Munson manhunt. Obviously.”

Eddie clutches a hand over his heart, “Damn, sweetheart. I'm not sure I can afford the interest rates on a favor like that.”

You take a deep breath to steel yourself. “I guess you'll just have to think of another way to pay me back.”

“Oh yeah?” Eddie leans back a touch, his eyes assessing, unsure.

He looks almost… Nervous?

“Yeah.” You swallow around the lump of anxiety building in your own throat before speaking again. “I, uh, well. I'm not busy Friday night.” You offer over the sound of your heart pounding in your ears.

“No shit?” Eddie laughs quietly, mostly to himself. “You know what? It looks like I do happen to have plans on Friday.”

“Oh?” Oh. You try to smile despite your heart plummeting to your stomach. It’s fine. It’s fine, you’re fine-

“Yeah, uh… Dinner and a movie?”

Your lips part in confusion, and Eddie seems to mentally replay his own words before shaking his head. His curls whip around wildly with the movement, one hand coming up to press the ice pack to his forehead once more.

“Jesus, sorry, I- Shit, I'm fucking this up.” Eddie curses. “What I meant was uh, you wanna to go to dinner and a movie? …With me!” He adds after a moment. The embarrassment on his face looks almost pained. “Fuck. Would you like to-”

“Eddie?” You interrupt.

“I… Yeah?”

“Yes.”

#i don't know if anyone is even online rn but i have a new library book i wanna read soooo #here it is!!! 🤗#eddie munson #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson hurt/comfort #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x gn!reader #eddie munson x gender neutral reader #*

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danidrabbles · 1 day ago

Text

Pulling a Double

Michael “Dr. Robby” Robinavitch x f!reader x unnamed f!resident | 11.6k words | explicit.

Summary: When Doctor Abbot breaks his collarbone, you come in from Presby to cover as attending on PTMC’s night shift until he’s fit to come back. During your time there, you meet Robby and one of his female residents. After a couple of tense situations, you pitch an idea to Robby on your last day.

Tags/Warnings: fem reader (female anatomy, has at least shoulder-length hair, bisexual), canon typical medical jargon and emergency department horrors (including car accidents, head trauma, drug overdoses, death of a child (mention), water ski accidents, injuries from glass) (but it’s me just saying shit because I’m not a doctor), alcohol consumption, power imbalance (two attendings vs. one resident), smut (including f/f/m threesome, protected piv, dirty talk, spitting and more) - let me know if I missed anyhthing!

Notes: Woke up one day and thought: What if Robby and Reader double teamed a pretty resident? One thing about me is I will find a way to serve the bisexual agenda. Big thank you as always to @javier-pena for jumping at every chance to read this, serving as my very speedy editor and leaving comments that make my writing better, and to @robinavich, not just for enthusiasm but also for reminding me Abbot probably had fall training as a former military medic...

– – – – –

It's Monday morning, on your day off, when you get a call about filling in for Jack Abbot.

Apparently, he tripped and fell post-shift on the roof of the hospital. Landed on his shoulder. Split his collarbone clean in half.

Turns out that accidents happen, even if you've had military fall training–though 5'9"ish is probably nowhere near the altitude he trained at.

It's nice as far as breaks go; needs no surgery, just a sling and some rest. He's out for at least six weeks. Most likely twelve.

The call surprises you, considering you work for a different hospital, but they've given you the all clear if you want the job.

UPMC Presbyterian has enough personnel, they can absolutely afford to miss you, but they’re usually more hesitant about temporary replacements. Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center is… struggling, not just with the general nursing shortage and budget cuts, but rumours have long been flying about the hospital “being up for sale”, and that doesn’t exactly make physicians want to apply for a job there. Your best guess is that Presby’s only lending an attending out because they’re not fully prepared for the swarm of patients it will bring to them should PTMC’s emergency department really shut down over staff shortages.

You wonder if they know you’re personally invested.

You met Jack when you did a rotation at the VA years ago, when you were in medical school and he was a military medic freshly torn apart by war. His medical background made him a little different from the other vets you’d met up to that point, and he had a certain calm around him, even though he had every right to want to curse the world. Throughout your rotation, he told you both the best and most harrowing stories about emergency medicine in the field. If you were being honest, it’s probably what inspired you to pursue the specialty.

Though it might be best he never knows, he already won’t stop saying he has “permanent stock in your medical degree” after helping you with a particularly tricky biochemistry exam.

With that in mind, and considering there's a chance, albeit a very slim one, it might shut him up, you accept the offer.

– – – – –

You meet Robby on your second day at PTMC.

It’s right before change of shift, when you’re swamped with two separate patients in Trauma 1 and 2. You’re making your way from one trauma bay (26-year-old female, car vs. pedestrian, then face vs. pavement, A and O with good vitals, but significant facial fractures) back into the other (42-year-old male, ataxic breathing, nasal discharge, and a dorsal head wound after a fall down the stairs during a sleepwalking episode), and bump into him. Or rather, your shoulders bump when you try to take the same place by the bed to assess the next steps.

Once you figure your patient is probably bleeding more than expected because he’s anticoagulated, Robby orders history and a four-factor PCC to be on standby before you can even speak.

Then he asks what’s in it.

You don’t reply, figuring his question is for one of the residents surrounding you and focusing on the atrial fibrillation on the monitor instead. But then he nudges you, “Today if you can. This is a teaching hospital, so let’s hear it.”

“I’m not a– I’m the attending taking over for Abbot,” you say.

He takes you in, trailing from your crown to your toes, then back up to your eyes. You curse inwardly when you realize your badge is hidden beneath the disposable white scrubs you have on over your regular ones. “Could have fooled me,” Robby says, before raising an eyebrow as if to say, Anyway, what’s in the four-factor PCC?

“Clotting factors two, seven, nine, and ten,” you grit out, because there’s no time, and because you might have just worked a 12-hour shift, but you could answer that in your sleep.

“Excellent,” is all he says.

And you both get back to work.

After, when your patients are in the clear, shipped off to reconstructive surgery and neurosurgery respectively, you get properly introduced and Robby realizes you are in fact the attending taking over for Abbot. He apologizes for his slip-up and compliments your work on the trauma patients. He does so with his hands buried in the pockets of a hoodie he wears over his scrubs, his shoulders drawn up to his ears and a set of brown eyes that silently ask for you to accept his apology.

It’s not worth the argument; you’re too fucking tired and his apology seems genuine, like he’s a hardass purely for teaching purposes and not because he actually enjoys grinding people down, unlike some other doctors you’ve come across.

“Don’t worry about it.” Learn to live with it, learn to accept it, and find balance if you can–you heard that somewhere once. “Comes with emergency department chaos, right? And with first–fuck, no, second days,” you correct with a shake of your head.

Robby looks at you with a quick narrowing of his eyes, a corner of his mouth turning up and his eyes crinkling around a careful smile. Finally, his shoulders slump, a little relaxation slipping into his frame as he exhales.

The board overhead flickers with change, and both your heads turn up to read it – test results from someone in Central 6 that are back – probably a UTI, nothing too exciting. Robby makes his way to one of the computers to check, fishing a pair of round reading glasses from his pocket along the way. Setting them on his nose when he arrives, he clicks around a couple times with the computer mouse, before leaning down on his forearms to look at the results.

“All right,” you say, dragging a hand down your face. “Time to go home. Have a good shift, Doctor Robinavitch.”

“Just Robby,” he reminds you, eyes still slipping from left to right as he reads.

“Right. Robby,” you nod.

“I’ll let you know if it was a good one,” he sighs, before pocketing his glasses again and finding his back with his hands, shoulders drawing together as he straightens. When you frown, he elaborates, “This shift, I mean… When I see you tonight at the next change of shift? I did see you on the schedule, right?”

“Yes. I am on schedule. Sorry about the brain fog.” You yawn, covering your mouth with the back of your hand, then using the same hand to point a finger at the ceiling with a twirling motion. “Must be the 12 hours of flickering lights, and screaming, and… general fucking agony.”

Robby snorts. “Trust me, I know the feeling.”

You both look up when an announcement message echoes through the emergency department. “Attention, code STEMI. Attention, code STEMI. ETA 3 minutes.”

Something immediately changes in Robby’s demeanour, eyes flicking towards the ambulance bay before excusing himself to make his way to Dana, no doubt to figure out what room’s open.

“Get some sleep!” he shouts over his shoulder.

Aye aye, captain…

– – – – –

You quickly fall into a routine of three on, four off, and every morning after work, you come home exhausted, but also weirdly satisfied. During one of your three’s, you’re asked to pull a double; Robby spoke at some conference in Chicago two days ago, his flight has a significant delay, PTMC is swamped…

You like the idea of it – as much as one can like the idea of being in the emergency department for that long. It’s just that everything at PTMC is a rush in a way things at Presby aren’t. Presby is safe. Everything is by the books–everything. But emergency medicine can’t operate that way and it’s like everyone at PTMC knows that, takes calculated, sometimes even creative, risks, and gets results.

So, you agree to the double. It’s not like anyone’s waiting for you at home, anyway.

As night shift becomes day shift, you meet her. Or rather, you see her.

She comes sailing by on a gurney, on top of a patient, face scrunched up with effort as she delivers deep, steady chest compressions, presenting to you all the while as you rush after her (32-year-old male, came in with chest pain, collapsed as soon as he walked into the waiting room, no pulse).

As soon as he’s rolled into one of the rooms, you help her off him, one of the med students taking over on compressions. Everyone works fast, you hear yourself yelling out for a crash cart, one of the nurses hooks the patient up to check vitals, and as soon as you identify his rhythm as v-tach she is next to you, on standby with the paddles and waiting for the charge, voice steady when she says, “Clear.”

It’s all it takes to get him back into normal sinus.

Over the course of the day, you discover the morning isn’t a one-off. She’s a third year resident, quick to react, smart as hell, a bit of a blabbermouth, which she needs to work on as a professional but it mostly just makes you laugh. She sticks close in the Trauma rooms, seems to know exactly when to step in and when to let you take the reins. While waiting for surgery to come down, you talk her through an emergency REBOA on a guy with NCTH after a car accident, and she aces it.

By the end of shift, you’re running on fumes, discussing the state of the department with Shen when he arrives to relieve you, your voice rough from all the talking you did today. When you finish up with Shen, you do a quick round to make sure your dayshift is getting relieved, and find your R3 in Central 8. She’s finishing up her stitches on a guy who fell through a glass door. You take in her slumped frame, her frazzled hair, and the heavy blink of her eyes.

Knowing when to quit is something she also needs to work on.

You pluck one of the med students from the hall, verbally walk her through bandaging the patient up and handling the discharge with Doctor Shen, then poke your head back in the door of Central 8.

“Sir, we’ll have one of the student doctors finish up with you, is that all right?” you ask, giving the girl a little push inside when he agrees. You turn your attention to your resident. “You got a minute?”

She nods, switches places with the student, and drags a hand over her face once she’s out of her patient’s view.

“Thanks. Thought this day would never end…,” she says as you lead her into the empty hallway. She looks at you then, like she suddenly realizes she said that to someone who has been here for over 24 hours. “Shit, sorry–”

“Don’t sweat it,” you say with a wave and a chuckle. “I did come to make sure you get some rest. And because I wanted to let you know that I think you’ve done a fantastic job today.”

She perks up, shoulders dropping, eyes wide as saucers. “You think so?” she asks. Her voice is laced with a little too much enthusiasm to just be from the adrenaline of the day. “Thank you.”

You nod, “You really impressed me.”

And, oh, the addition might be a mistake. Because after you say it, she flashes you a bright smile, like all the effort she put into today has suddenly become worth it because of your praise. She’s fucking gorgeous. You already noticed before, but it’s worse this close up; freckles dusted along her nose and cheeks, a set of sparkling, green eyes set on you. You wonder if she knows, or if she’s one of those women who have no idea how beautiful they are. And then she blushes. It’s devastating.

You can’t help yourself. Delirious on being on the receiving end of all of that, and on the hours you’ve worked, you feed her ego further, “Sorry, is Robby– Does he not tell you how great you are at this?”

“Oh, no, no, don’t worry! He does, but in his own… disgruntled way,” she laughs, then takes a step in your direction. “But I um, I really like hearing it from you.”

You wobble where you stand, wanting to step back, but feeling like doing so gives this more weight than it should have. More than she might mean. Though deep down… you know, have gotten better at sussing it out over the years. You can tell from her airy little laugh, the hairs on her arms standing up straight, goosebumps disappearing under the sleeves of her scrubs, the way she bats her lashes while waiting for what you’ll say: she’s flirting with you.

“From both of you.”

It unlocks something–something your fried brain can’t really provide you with a name for. Instantly, you wonder how many times a week that face gives Robby pause. How often he is on the receiving end of that smile and, fuck, this is bad. You need to keep your head on straight, you can’t let your co-workers get to you like this.

Just teach. You are teaching. This is a teaching hospital.

With a heavy blink, you pick your conversation back up. “But you do um, need to know when to take a break, all right? At the end of shift, find someone to take over for you. Don’t run yourself dry.”

She swallows thickly, then nods.

“Okay, so–”

“When’s your next shift?” she cuts in.

You bite your cheek, then say, “I don’t plan on making a habit of being on the day shift.”

She hums, sweet, high pitched, then clicks her tongue. “That’s a shame, I really like…,” she pauses, has the audacity to bite her lip and narrow her eyes at you as she scans your face, “...your teaching style.”

Christ, you’ve accidentally unleashed a monster. Or, well, not exactly accidentally, but it’s hard to hold yourself responsible when you’re spread so thin after such a long day. And when you have a pretty thing like her making advances at you. You like it, though. Like the back and forth–like it a little too much. And so does she, you can sense it radiating off of her, and you have to end this before you do something stupid, like find a rare, empty on-call room to show her exactly what your teaching style could do for her.

“That’s great to hear,” you say instead. “I’ll be sure to give Doctor Robby some pointers.”

“I’d like that,” she says.

“I bet,” you huff out, too much of a mumble for her to hear. “All right, get out of here, it’s end of shift. Go get some sleep,” you say, gathering your composure and sending her off with a jerk of your head.

As she walks away, you realize that Robby will be back tomorrow, even more disgruntled after his conference, his delayed flight, the general stress of the emergency department… and he’ll have to deal with that.

Maybe you should pity him, but you find yourself smiling instead.

– – – – –

Labour Day weekend is a shitshow. While dealing with all the madness a regular night shift entails, including a feverish toddler whose screams reach decibels previously unknown to man, and a burn victim from a house fire, there’s also the dozen or so attendees from an end of summer houseparty, where some ritalin pills were spiked with fentanyl. You see enough naloxone to last you at least a month – a lifetime if you’re honest. Four accidental overdoses don’t make it to sunrise.

One of them is the 8-year-old brother of one of the partygoers, who had been asleep upstairs, snuck down, and most likely mistook the pill for candy.

Right before change of shift, you spot Robby by the central hub, a hand rubbing at the back of his neck while assessing the damage of the night via the board above him. Once you’ve updated him on everyone, you ask, “Do you need me to step in and help?”

He scoffs, because of course he does, especially now that he knows exactly what’s waiting for him this morning. He folds his arms in that way he always does, where they don’t quite cross and he holds one of his elbows. “Should tell you to go home.”

You open your mouth–

“But I won’t,” he says pointedly, leaning down a little to be at eye-level. “Two med students called in sick, there’s still no beds upstairs, it’s…,” he gestures at the board, “...a fucking nightmare here. Could really use an extra pair of capable hands.”

“Thought so. I’ll stay,” you nod.

Before you walk off, he grabs your arm, and when you turn… he asks if you��re okay. It catches you completely off guard. Not the question itself, but the way he asks; in a voice that’s so genuine and soft it cracks on every word, and with a little squeeze of his hand that makes the reassuring warmth of his palm bleed through your scrubs. Tears spring into your eyes, making Robby’s go soft in return.

“The night was um, rough,” you admit, blinking rapidly.

“Thought so,” he echoes. Then, carefully, “You should… let yourself feel it, it’s better if you let it out.”

Your head tips down with a knowing sigh. It’s not new information, but the reminder is nice. And, in a way, it’s a relief that you still haven’t become desensitized to all of this despite how many hours you’ve spent doing this job.

“Go get some cold water from the fridge in the staff lounge, sit, and don’t come back until at least an hour from now. And if you still want to stay, you can stay.”

You concede, nodding and inhaling slowly. “Thank you.”

“Hey,” he squeezes your arm, makes you look at him, eyes widening when he says, “Come find me, if you need me.”

It’s decidedly a declaration, and not a question. You blink up at him, hold his gaze for longer than necessary–longer than you should, because you can practically feel Dana’s stare and you don’t want her babying you all day because she’s worried.

“I will,” you promise.

Robby releases you, turning back to the board, and you make your way to the break room.

Exactly one hour later, you’re back on the floor.

Robby’s talking to Dana, hands in the pockets of his pants, nodding along to something she reads off her iPad. When he spots you, he cranes his neck and gives you a look. You give him a thumbs up in return and a fake smile, something that says, I’m still not okay, but doing well enough to be able to work. His reply comes in the form of a narrowing of his eyes and a huffed out breath. As soon as Dana is finished up with him, he approaches you until you’re standing shoulder to shoulder by the ambulance bay.

“We’ve got two en route, waterski vs. waterski,” Robby says.

You roll your shoulders and nod once. “I’ll take Trauma 1, you take Trauma 2?”

From the corner of your eye, you see his head turn to you, and you swear he smiles.

It’s a whirlwind after that, of screams and orders, blood, fractures, trauma. It’s a miracle you get your guy’s vitals to stabilise. The other room’s still frantic, and when you sail through the sliding doors between Trauma 1 and 2, you find it’s mostly because of how packed it is; there’s two nurses, an R1 on the phone, a med student taking notes, Robby’s listening in as Garcia from surgery fires away questions at Mr. Waterski 2, with his R3 by his side.

You announce yourself by saying. “Other room’s stable, what can I do to h–”

“Got the blood!” comes from behind you. Another med student walks in, puts a brake on the speed with which he enters the room a little too late, and he steps on the back of your shoe as he hands the bag to one of the nurses.

You trip– or, rather, you’re shoved up against Robby’s resident. She squeaks out an, oh! when you collide with her, and your hands find her waist to keep yourself from tumbling over further. It’s no use. You’re like two dominos, your shared momentum making you crash into Robby. Her hands land on his chest to keep her own balance, and Robby stumbles backwards into the wall, a tray of medical supplies clattering to the floor. Your front is pressed against her back, your hold on her tightening as you essentially pin her up against Robby. His hands are up, blue gloved digits trembling slightly as he looks down at her, his pupils dilating, his next intake of breath sharp between his teeth.

“Whoops,” she says between you, voice breathy, and you might have laughed, even just from the tense nerves fluttering through your body, if Robby hadn’t chosen that moment to flick his eyes up to yours over her head.

A deep, dark flush colours his cheeks, the tip of his nose, creeps down the protruding tendons in his neck and into the collar of the shirt he wears under his scrubs. Without your permission, your lip finds its way between your teeth, unable to look away from how affected he is.

Guess you aren’t the only one nursing a little crush.

But duty calls, and you untangle from each other as fast as you’d gotten pressed together. Robby sends the med student away with a curse and a barked out order that’s a little too sharp for the poor guy.

The alarms around you are still blaring, doing wonders to tuck your collision somewhere in the back of your mind and snap you back into attending physician mode. Taking the head of the bed, you keep Robby and his residents updated on vitals as they work on figuring out why they’re dropping.

Both water skiers make it.

– – – – –

After 12 weeks of alternating the night shift with Shen, you find yourself in one of the bars down the street, where the usual post-shift drink had turned into somewhat of an unofficial going away party. It's early evening and the mood is mellow, with people trickling in and out all night depending on change of shift.

Halfway through the night, when things have significantly quieted down, you spot Robby by the bar, freshly showered by the looks of it. It’s the first time you see him out of his scrubs. He’s swiveled around on his stool, bottle of beer in his hand. The moment your eyes find his, he turns his gaze away, staring straight ahead instead. He looks sad, but not in his usual puppy dog way, more like he’s… pining. When you follow his line of sight, it lands directly on–

Of course.

Before you know it, you’re making your way over with quick strides, a grin you can’t hide plastered on your face. When you reach him, you open your mouth–

“Don’t,” he begins with a scoff, “even start.”

“What?” you say innocently, tucking yourself between him and the open stool next to him, leaning back against the bar. “I didn’t even say anything.”

“Saw the little…,” he gestures at your feet, “...pep in your step as you came over. Can’t imagine what’s swirling around that head of yours.”

“Can't help it, you have no idea what working the night shift with Ellis and Walsh as much as I have does to a person.”

“I do, that’s what’s got me worried,” he laughs. “You only have Mohan down there to keep you sane.”

Air puffs out your nose at that. “Speaking of.. What’s her deal? Sometimes she gets this… look on her face; Ellis describes it as looking like she just made the saddest realization.”

“She works in the emergency department,” Robby reasons.

“No, it’s more than that.”

Robby sets his beer down with a hum, then folds his arms like he’s hugging himself and closes one eye in thought, “Is it after someone brings up Abbot?”

Your time to think. “Now that you mention it…,” you say, going over your interactions in your head, “yes.”

He picks his bottle back up with a knowing nod. “She switched to the night shift a couple weeks before Abbot’s accident, looked real sad about his injury and the prospect of not seeing him for months. Think she’s harbouring some… warm feelings.”

“What about you?”

Robby grins. “I do not harbour warm feelings for Doctor Abbot.”

You give him an exaggerated fake laugh. “Just for someone else.”

Robby takes a swig from his bottle, giving you a long look and swallowing thickly. It’s enough to make you straighten up, confused eyes narrowing before you use them to gesture at his resident.

“Are you gonna make a move on her, or are you just gonna keep staring at her?”

He sighs deeply, like he knows better than to answer, but he does it anyway, “It alllll depends.”

“Oh, yeah?” You bring your drink up to your mouth. “On what?”

“If you are going to make a move on her.”

It makes you spit your sip back into your glass with a choked sound. Fuck, okay, he’s more observant than you gave him credit for, noted. Robby smiles against the rim of the beer bottle pressed against his lips.

You gather your composure with a shrug. “It is my last day.”

“That it is,” he says with a slow nod.

Silence stretches between you when your mind prompts you with something–something you haven’t been able to stop thinking about since Labour Day weekend. This is kind of the perfect day to bring it up, to gauge Robby’s temperature and act on the tension that’s been present between the three of you ever since the incident.

You need an extra sip of your drink first, though.

As you do, you flick your eyes to the side and find Robby fidgeting with the collar of the brown button down he’s wearing.

“We could both make a move on her,” you broach carefully.

“Absolutely not,” Robby snorts immediately, turning his head to face you. Then, more seriously, “We are not… competing over one of our residents.”

“Why? Afraid you’ll lose?” you ask, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Pff, my job, maybe,” he puffs out quietly.

“C’mon, you were with Heather and that didn’t cost you your job.”

“How do you even..? That was diff–” Realizing he took your bait, he licks his top lip, then swipes a hand down his face, scratching nervously at his beard before pointing back and forth between the two of you, “Because we’re not 20-somethings in med school, that’s why.”

You roll your eyes, take another sip. Like you need the reminder. “No one said anything about being each other’s competition.”

That catches him off-guard. The hand holding his beer hovers in the air, forgotten in its journey from his lap to his mouth.

You continue, “We could, I don’t know… double team he–”

“Please, don’t– Fuck. We can not fucking,” he lowers his voice to a hiss, “double team her.”

Your eyes widen, and you throw your hands up in a way that says, Sorry I even considered it! With a large gulp, you finish your drink and put the glass on the bar behind you, willing the dent he put in your ego away. If Robby doesn’t want this, that’s fine, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have fun. “Message received. I’ll make my move then.”

After two steps, a firm hand closes around your bicep, slowly dragging you back. Your pulse jumps as he twists you around.

“Wait… a minute. I just…” Robby’s gaze darts between her and you, and back. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable because I’m there.”

He signals with his eyes, implies… something, but what, you have no idea. Puzzled, you look at him, your brain going over the possibilities as your tongue passes over your bottom lip. If it’s not about you, and not about her, is it a self-esteem thing? Does he not know his whole… well, everything, does it for a lot of people?

A little flush creeps up his face the longer you wait, until he can’t take it anymore. “Oh, for the love of– I’m a man.”

Air escapes out of your nose at the comment. He can't even look at you after he says it. A smile threatens to curl at your lips, and you bite the inside of your cheek to keep it from morphing into a full blown grin; you don’t want to make him feel bad because god, that’s actually really fucking cute…

“Robby,” you begin, stepping closer so that you’re standing in between his legs. You reach up, take the folded-over collar of his shirt between your fingers to feel if the fabric is as soft as it looks (it is). Robby’s breath hitches when you do, eyes flicking to your exploring hand for a moment. “Man, woman, anything in between… I don’t care, I like everything.”

Something changes in his eyes, like your words flip a switch in him, but not the usual switch that flips in men when you tell them you’re bisexual. This isn’t excitement over the prospect of potentially seeing you with another woman, even though that is on the table right now. It’s more about… the realization that you’re attracted to him, that you are included in the deal. It makes you shiver, more so when his eyes drop to your mouth, only for a second.

“So, unless you’re this slow in bed,” you tease, “should I go present our case to her?”

The hand around your bicep tightens, and you swear he growls. “No. I’ll settle our tabs and then I’ll fucking go to her. You go say your little goodbyes to everyone, it'd be rude not to.” He’s so close you can feel his warm breath fan out over your lips, “And once we get to yours, or mine, or hers–I don’t care where, I will show you exactly–”

“Easy,” you say, dragging the word out with a chuckle, his change in demeanour making you feel warm. “She goes first. And then we’ll see what happens.”

– – – – –

“Are you sure you’re sure?” you ask her on the way.

Robby’s behind the wheel of her car, driving towards her address she rattled off to him; he put the two of you in the back to catch up on what he told her. He hums in agreement. “Cause I can just… drive you home, we’ll get a cab, it won’t be a big deal.”

“And let you two have all the fun without me?” she laughs. Her hand finds your thigh. Unfair. “No.”

You stop her. “I’m serious.”

“And I appreciate that,” she says, voice losing its teasing lilt, turning her hand under yours and taking it with a squeeze, “but I want it, so you can stop worrying and start kissing me.”

“Okay,” you nod, watching her as she cups your cheek and leans in, a waft of her perfume, or maybe it’s the shampoo she uses, making it to your nose. Focus. “But um, anytime you want–”

“I know. I will. Now, kiss me,” she whispers, close enough that her eyes cross a little. “Please?”

A deep sigh sails from you the moment you finally close the distance, weeks of piled up tension finally coming to this moment–clearly inevitable, now that it’s here. Her lips are soft, and when you swipe your tongue over the seam of her lips, you taste a hint of some fruit-flavoured drink she had earlier tonight. She parts for you immediately, moaning as you close your lips around her bottom one with a suck, before letting your tongue meet hers.

“Fuck.”

It comes from the front seat. Robby’s brown eyes look at you via the rearview mirror, flick to the road, and then back.

“Are we far out?” you ask, kissing down her neck, enjoying the way she sighs, cups the back of your head, and tilts hers to give you more room.

“Almost there,” comes the gruff reply.

“Then step on it.” You make your way back up to her mouth. “You’re gonna want in on this.”

– – – – –

Her apartment is cute, quaint in an old-fashioned way, and you like it, it suits her. You stumble into the living room positioned much like that day you crashed into them in the hospital; Robby walking backwards, led by her steps as much as her kisses, and you at her back, hands on her waist and pressing your lips to her neck, her shoulder.

Before you can fully consider if her bedroom is anything like the rest of her place, Robby trips, the three of you landing on the couch instead, and you realize you’re not gonna make it to the bed. It’s impractical with three people, but there’s gentle laughter and the soft, yellow light of a lamp she flicks on, and you make it work. She certainly makes up for it in eagerness, dividing her time between you equally.

Robby manoeuvres her against one of the armrests, pulling at her clothes until her bottom half is bare, and pushing her top up to expose her tits. In no time, they’re glistening in the dim light, the skin rubbed slightly raw from the time he spends with his face all over them. Just as you've pulled your shirt off and rolled your jeans down, Robby's satisfied with his work.

He pulls his hand from between her legs and drags you to them with a, “Got her nice and wet for you.” And as he starts unbuttoning his shirt, he moves back so you can take his place.

To say you’re dying to taste her might be a bit of an exaggeration, but you do feel spit pooling on your tongue at the idea. You make your way down her body, soothing Robby’s assault on her skin, pressing kisses to some of the cute little freckles scattered across her torso and then on the curls that cover her pussy.

Her legs widen to give you more room, and it really shouldn’t make you feel as smug as it does. Under other circumstances you would have taken some more time with her, but when you use two fingers to spread her open, your eyes glaze over a little at the sight of how Robby's prep has her dripping, and you can’t help yourself.

You drag your tongue up between the V of your fingers, flattening it against her opening with a groan to really taste her. She’s sweet, soft yet slippery in a way that makes your blood pump. And she’s vocal, a little sigh or moan escaping her lips with every pass of your mouth. But it’s nothing compared to the pleased grunt she lets out when you tell her how much you’ve wanted to taste her for weeks.

Robby hovers behind you, the sound of his clothes rustling after the clink of his belt buckle filling your ears. Then the couch dips, and slowly, he plants a knee between your legs, scooting forward until his thigh meets the fabric between your legs. You can feel the line of his boxers, the press of his bulge against your ass. His hands close over your hips, pulling you harder against him and then he just… stays there, holding you in place.

You slow down with a frown. It feels good, the little barrier between you beginning to soak through with the pressure, but–

“Just… keep going,” he says, fingers toying with the waistband of your underwear.

He’s using that voice, you realize. The kind of soothing tone that he’d use on a patient… right before pulling a dislocated shoulder back into place. He’s attempting to lull you into a false sense of security and it instantly has you on edge.

“Fuck, please, that feels amazing,” comes from in front of you when you gently circle the tight bud under your tonue. Her hand reaches down to cup your face and hold you in place, while the other pinches at her own nipple. “Stay right there.”

Giving her your best attempt at a nod, you concentrate on keeping your rhythm instead of on Robby’s dislocated shoulder voice, to give her enough to please, but not enough to get her off just yet. But it’s hard, because Robby is still toying with the elastic on your hips, fingers dipping underneath and back out in a pattern you can't quite discern, and it’s fucking distracting.

When your resident’s hips begin bucking up, Robby’s hand finds the back of your head, his whole palm big enough to cup it, which is also very hard to push from your mind. His fingers twist into your hair and move you until you’re shaking your head between her soaking thighs, your tongue lolled out as you pass it over her clit again and again.

It helps to get lost in her, how wet your chin is getting, how her arousal is smeared across your lips, your cheeks, your nose… until, without letting go, Robby shuffles back a little. You let out a whine, instantly chasing the pressure.

“Give me…,” he yanks your underwear down to mid thigh, “...a second,” then presses his bare thigh against your soaked folds.

You jerk against him, the surprised moan it tears from your throat filthy and loud, echoed by your resident only moments after. Robby chooses that exact moment to let go of your head, hands finding your waist to put an arch in your spine and angle you down using his bodyweight, and you’re helpless to stop it. It makes you slide along the hard muscle of his thigh, grinding you against him in a way that rubs your clit just right, and…

You come.

It isn’t anything big, just a steady throb that comes with the friction on your clit after all that continuous pressure. It does nothing to douse the twinge of arousal pooling in your belly–borders more on the painful side of pleasure. Most of all, it pisses you off.

“I said her first,” you snarl, your head snapping back at him as you let two fingers take over for your mouth.

“Could’ve just waited,” Robby shrugs, and he looks so annoyingly smug, smiling down at you, still holding you tight against him–he can probably feel you fluttering. “I can’t help it that you’ve got such an eager pussy.”

Jesus fucking Christ, maybe you underestimated him. Maybe you should have left him in the bar.

Then again, you’re more turned on than you ever remember being.

“When you get a taste of her you’ll see why it’s so hard to concentrate,” you attempt to quip.

“Make her come and I will,” Robby challenges, and this time when he pulls his leg back, it feels like relief.

With a huff, you turn your attention back to the woman in front of you, attempting to find your bearings by pouring equal parts arousal and frustration into doubling your efforts. Your middle finger slides inside of her with ease, and with the next thrust, you fold your ring finger over it and curl up to massage the soft walls of her cunt. The sound she makes in return is exactly what you were looking for, irritation making room for desire–to make her feel good, to make her come undone.

Having done this plenty of times, you don’t need any pointers, and you’ve barely started or she’s already begging for it. This is your favourite part, when they plead with you not to stop, ask for your mouth and “just a little more,” when you’ve got them on the precipice and it’s up to you to tip them over the edge. So, you do, sucking her clit back between your lips, and watching her intently while your fingers find that spot inside of her and push until she’s crying out.

You can feel Robby leaning over you, moving closer and closer, and if you weren’t so preoccupied with the grinding against the push of your tongue, you’d be able to come up with a clever comment about his reading glasses. After a few more passes, you pull back with a smack, her answering desperate sound music to your ears.

“Come here,” you say, and you reach for Robby, grabbing him by the jaw to draw him in.

Taking the spot to the left of you, he shuffles closer until her calf rests over his shoulder and you’re both on your stomach with a premium view. His large palm slowly travels along your back, sliding from left to right, fingers flitting over your ribs, using his grip to keep you pinned to his side. He’s helping you keep your balance, you realize, making sure you don’t roll off the side of the couch. It makes your eyes flutter when he takes advantage by letting his touch ghost along the side of your breast.

“It’s not every day you see something like that,” he says, effectively redirecting your attention from his wandering hand to the two fingers that are still curled inside your resident.

Carefully, you pull them out, the both of you watching as little strings of milky-clear arousal web between your digits. You use them to find her clit, mixing your saliva with her come, watching her spit-slick hole twitch when you do. She gasps, trying to squirm away, but quickly realizes she has nowhere to go when two different hands shoot up to keep her in place.

“Stop teasing,” she protests hoarsely.

It’s hard to take it to heart when she looks dizzy with arousal, her chest still rising and falling at a rapid pace, and makes a weak attempt at closing her legs.

“You’re fun to tease,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to the inside of her thigh that's both meant to soothe and to keep her spread open. It makes her muscles jump under your touch. “So sensitive.”

Robby lets out a shaky breath. “Can’t blame her after seeing what your mouth can do.”

The small victory makes something hum in your brain, but it’s short-lived when his fingers flex against you again.

“I want to see what your mouth can do,” you confess, head turning and watching as his jaw ticks. Your thumb strokes along his beard, nail scraping over some of the greys between the dark hair, and you struggle to fight a smirk when his lips part. “I can guarantee you she’ll love this.”

A soft little, Oh, please, sails up from above you, and you grin, using your grip on Robby to push him against her soaked folds.

He shuffles closer after the first contact, mouth falling open to engulf her pussy when you let go of him. Pinned in place, you watch with quiet curiosity as he gets to work.

Though there’s overlap, his technique is different from yours. Where you’re more about spit, long lines and swirled circles, using the flat of your tongue, he’s more… rigorous, harsh sucks to her clit that make her keen, quick flicks to it that he can keep up for an impressive amount of time before pushing his tongue inside of her.

Oh, he’s… He’s good at this.

Before you can think too hard about the added sensation of the bristle of his beard on her entrance, her hand fumbles for the back of your head, pushing you down when she gets a good grip. With a muffled Hmmmpf you collide with her, lips clumsily smearing over her wet skin, your smooth cheek pressed to Robby’s rough one. He grunts when you make contact with him, before pulling away from her clit with a suck and giving you better access.

“No,” she protests, whining as she motions for him to come back. “Together.”

You realize what exactly she’s asking for, and everyone is just fuuuuull of ideas today, apparently? Good ideas… You can't deny she’s kind of an evil genius for making this work so well for her.

It’s new territory for you, but you could spend the whole night between her legs and not complain, so you look at Robby, raising your eyebrow in question to see how he feels.

There’s a lazy grin on his face, and his head cocks with a shrug, “You’re the one who wanted to double team her.”

The chuckle you let out in response is mostly air, and you draw your lip between your teeth while shaking your head. He’s such a bastard for revealing this information to her now, when she’s spread out and desperate, all but begg–

“Fuck me,” she growls. “Then do it. Please.”

It takes a moment to find the right approach, to divide your attention equally without constantly getting in each other’s way.

You don't want to compare it to work, nothing about this is like dealing with trauma patients, but… it is kind of like it. Let's say it’s definitely a testament to how attuned to each other you have become that you make it work.

When he focuses his attention on her leaking entrance, your tongue finds her higher. When his mouth slides back up again, yours travels along the crease between her thigh and pelvis, down until you can suck a mark into the curve of her ass. It becomes this dance, but you're both leading, both anticipating each other's moves and adapting while your resident's moans rise in pitch.

Robby's arm curls around her thigh to keep her down when she arches up. “You wanted it like this…” he says when he pulls back, working his jaw and pursing his lips before spitting down on her, “...so take it.”

She shrieks at the action, cursing afterwards with a shudder in her voice.

Your body, naturally, reacts more like you just got shot in the gut; a pang of arousal in your stomach that pulses and twists, a surprised intake of your breath to match.

Who the fuck is he right now?

What the fuck he does next is chase the glob of saliva as it trickles down her clit.

But you're… locked in place, following his moves until he pulls away and twists his head to you like he's wondering where you are.

His eyes are hooded, pupils pushing out the brown of his irises, and his mouth hangs open, the bottom half of his face damp and shiny. It makes whatever's been brewing between you since the revelation in the bar impossible to ignore. In another momentary lapse of reason, and thinking more with another part of yourself than with your brain, you kiss him–it’s more of a collision really, hard pressed, but that’s what makes it so good–

“Fucking… finally,” Robby growls.

Correction, that’s what makes it so good.

You use the words to lick into his mouth with a slow flick and a sound you're not proud of, but it's all worth it when his tongue glides against yours, and you feel his facial hair brush your lips, and god, you'll never tell him but he's right, you should have done this sooner.

He tastes like her, and there’s a conflicting feeling to it; excitement at the notion that he can probably taste the same thing on you, but also something… possessive, like you want to keep kissing him until you taste him.

The quick reminder of her makes you slip your thumb between the slide of your tongues, before reaching blindly for her, letting Robby take control over your kiss as you press the wet digit against her clit.

“Just like that,” she sighs, her hand finding your wrist, guiding you where she needs it and keeping you there. “‘s gonna…gonna...”

But then Robby makes a protesting sound in reply.

He lets go of your side, pushing your hands away before cupping the back of your neck to direct you both back to her pussy. It’s a dizzying, three-way kiss; messy, and so slippery, and what the hell, for someone who shuddered at the words “double team”, Robby’s pretty fucking exceptional at it.

“Ohhhh, myfuckinggod,” she squeals, clearly in agreement, followed by a giggle that morphs into a groan. “It looks so fucking hot, please– Oh, please don’t stop, please make me come like this.”

The hand on your neck squeezes, holding you down so you can't do anything but work her together–not that you want this to stop anyway, it's a very, very clear winner in the Hottest thing that has ever happened to you-competition.

You keep going until your head is swimming, until you have no real idea whether your tongue curls around his, or around her pulsing clit. Vaguely, you register Robby’s fingers pumping in and out of her, but don’t have much time to wonder how you missed that, because when he pulls them out with a grunt, she’s coming.

You feel her orgasm more than you hear it, warm and wet as she desperately grinds herself against your faces; the vibration of Robby’s answering groan as his hold on you wavers; the thud of your knees against the floor as you slip off the couch, gravity forcing you off her as you heave a desperate gasp.

Robby manages to chuckle, eyes flicking down at you before dedicating himself to working her through the aftershocks of her orgasm.

“Holy shit. That was good. Thank you,” she pants, running a hand through his hair as he nips at her thigh.

She makes an attempt to reach for you, but her arm just rolls limply off the couch, joining the leg that came down with you.

“I need to lie flat. If only there was a doctor around…” she grins, “...it appears I've lost all sensation in my extremities.”

“I gotcha,” Robby laughs. He takes hold of her calf, wincing as he gets up on his knees, and yanks her closer to him.

A bright giggle bubbles up from her throat when she slides down, hair fanning out over the cushions. She’s glowing, with satisfaction and a thin sheen of sweat; she looks even more beautiful than she already was.

You're still kneeling next to the couch, watching as Robby does exactly what you would do: kiss his way up her body until he can press his mouth to hers. After, he whispers something you can’t hear, something that makes her cup his cheek and smile with a nod. He kisses her neck, little brushes of his mouth as he grinds himself against her.

He's still wearing his boxers. They must be ruined by now, if not from his own arousal then definitely from the way he's rutting up against her pussy. You want to see it. Mostly to see what's under it, because he felt big against your ass, and–

You pull your underwear from your legs, giving yourself more room to push a hand between your legs. You can already feel your arousal as your fingers inch up the inside of your thighs, slippery trails of where it’s leaked down in just the short time you’ve been kneeling.

“Get back on the couch,” Robby says suddenly, head turning to you.

“I kind of like the view,” you say, grinning when his eyes drop to where you're touching yourself.

He beckons you closer with a crook of his finger while moving to sit back on his haunches.

You shuffle closer, looking up at him. “I want to watch you fu–”

“I want that, too,” he assures you, and before you can scold him for never letting you finish a thought or a sentence, he's bending down to kiss you again, and your mind goes quiet. He holds you by the neck, thumb and ring finger at the corners of your jaw, pulling until you have no choice but to stand, then murmurs, “So would you just fucking… listen to me? Be good and sit on her face.”

Your shiver at the words, eyes flicking to her, and she responds by opening her mouth and showing you her tongue, and god, yeah, another great idea.

Your legs wobble, and Robby’s hands fly to your waist, guiding you to her with an amused look on his face that shouldn’t turn you on.

You can't believe you worked with these people for a good chunk of your 12 week stint at PTMC. Earlier, you wished you’d done this sooner. Now, you’re certain you wouldn’t have survived if you had.

You can’t help but hiss when your pussy makes contact with your resident’s perfect, warm tongue. She flicks at you once, twice, before she tugs you down on top of her, that mouth that has made you laugh so much opening under you to pull a deep moan from your throat instead.

“There you go,” Robby rasps as he lets go of you.

Their combined attention makes you melt, some of the tension that always comes with this position slipping away, making you slump and take a more firm seat. With your eyes cast down, and a hand cupping your own breast, you watch her, the pink of her tongue peeking out from between your legs every now and again.

After a couple passes of her tongue, she suddenly moans, nails digging into your thighs. Your eyes shoot up to watch Robby, slumped over, his little quiff matted down, one thumb hooking the waistband of his boxers down far enough to have taken himself out. The condom he rolled on while you were occupied gives his shaft a shine, like he’s already covered in her slick; the tip of him pressed to her entrance definitely is.

You were right when you felt him earlier, but maybe thick is a better word to describe him–thick in a way that… yeah, that would have you a little worried for her if you hadn’t spent the better part of this rendezvous with your tongues between her legs. Still, she squirms when he slips the head inside, one moan loud and clear in front of you, another trapped against your cunt.

Seeing them both so affected changes your demeanour, like no longer being the very center of attention is giving you more freedom to play with them a little. To be sure, you lift a knee, plant a foot into the cushions. She gasps when you lift off her, and you can’t help but smile at the way she arches up to chase after you.

“Are you okay, honey?” you ask, stroking her wet chin.

“Yes. It feels– It all feels too fucking good,” she manages.

“Hmm-hmm, I bet,” you nod. “But you can take it,” you say sweetly, before promptly sitting back down. The vibration of her muffled, surprised sound makes you sigh, but the answering moan comes from in front of you.

“Jesus,” Robby says, inching a little further into her. “I didn’t think you’d get… like that.”

You let out an amused huff, because the thing is, you’re not; not often, anyway. You’re content to adapt to what the situation asks of you, and this one has you floating, high on pleasure, on feeling wanted, and watched. And when you think about it, he made it this way.

Your hands find her chest, squeezing at her perfect, plush tits before using her as leverage to roll your hips along her eager mouth. Leaning forward, you let your lips meet that spot in the center of Robby’s chest, the spot where his perpetual flush seems to bloom up from.

“Like what?” you ask anyway, looking up at him through your lashes, dragging your mouth over the coarse hair that’s scattered all over his torso until your tongue flicks at his nipple.

“So…” He hisses when you bite him, hand fisting the hair at the back of your head to pull you off, “...fucking mean.”

“Takes one to know one,” you say, enjoying the way he uses his hold on you as leverage to fuck her, subconsciously matching the rhythm of your hips to his.

With a tug, he angles your head up, kissing a path down the center of your throat. “Got that fucking right,” he murmurs, before moving to where your neck and shoulders meet and biting at the juncture.

It hurts, but the good kind, where it’s on the tip of your tongue to aks for more. The thing is, he’s been creative so far, and you’re not sure you can handle another surprise. You can feel him grin when he pulls away, like he knows exactly what you were thinking, which, at this point, wouldn’t surprise you; he’s smart, should’ve known he’d be a quick study.

Under you, your resident moves one of her arms from under your thigh, reaching between her legs with a desperate sound. Robby’s not the only quick study; you’ve figured by now she needs the stimulation to come. It isn’t surprising, it's the same for you, but it is helpful information. You reach for her, grabbing her wrist and pinning it to her belly, just out of reach.

“Wait,” you tell her pointedly, shushing her whines and reveling in the way they vibrate against you. Heat begins pooling in your belly as she slides her tongue into you, making something promising simmer deep inside.

“Please,” she murmurs between mouthfuls of your pussy, her hand twitching in your grip. “Can I come?”

It takes everything in you to conceal how affected you are by her pleading when you look at Robby. “Ask him.”

Obediently she asks, “Please, can I come?”

A snarl flickers across his features as he contemplates his answer, and without looking away from you he says, “What was that?”

“Robby.” It doesn’t sound like her; an octave higher, drenched in desperation. “Please.”

He waits a second… two… three. “Yes,” he says, eyes glazing over with something darker when she thanks him.

In a flash, you bring your free hand up to your mouth, getting the pads of three fingers wet before using them to strum at her clit, rapid flicks from left to right that make her writhe under you, another shriek landing muffled against your cunt.

Robby’s reaching the end of his rope too, you can tell by the way his thighs shake as he frantically tries to keep fucking her.

You work together, looking down, leaning closer until your foreheads are pressed together, her little moans rising in pitch until she's shuddering beneath you, another orgasm pulling her under its current.

“Fuckfuckfuck, it's– She’s squeezing me so…” Robby trails off with a rumbling sound, eyes snapping shut before he pants out, “I’m gonna come. Tell me w–I need to know–oh.”

You sit up, giving her some reprieve and ask, “Where?”

“Fuck, come on my tits,” she says, pushing them together.

Robby pulls out of her, tearing his condom off with a snap!, scrambling to straddle her waist. He's red all over, his cock nearly purple at the tip, eyes glued to her chest as he strokes himself.

Your eyes zero in on the way his fist moves over his cock, quick, squelching flicks from root to tip. He’s leaking, steady drops of precome oozing from the head of his cock and the more you watch him, the greedier you get.

“Let me do it,” you say, tongue passing over your palm and reaching down.

His free hand catches it, voice straining with effort as he says, “Wait, I–”

“Robby, stop it,” you say, pulling yourself free. “Let me do it, I need to do it.”

Your hand has barely closed around his or he’s coming, a deep surprised moan tearing from somewhere deep in his chest as he twitches in your grip. Your eyes widen, tingles of excitement fluttering through you as the first thick rope of it shoots up against your belly, the rest ending up on your resident’s tits.

He exhales heavily, chest rising and falling at a rapid pace after. “I said wait,” he grits out after a couple of panting breaths, his hand slipping out from under yours.

“Could've just done that,” you retort, still milking him, enjoying the way he grunts as the last dribbles of come ooze from the head of his cock. “I can’t help it that you’re so sensitive.”

“Oh, fuck you.” It comes out half groan/half chuckle, and actually sounds like he's kind of impressed with you. Then suddenly, he's more serious, “Oh, you need to– Slower, slower,” a shaking hand closes around your wrist. “‘s too much.”

“Surprised you held out this long in the first place,” you smirk, following his instructions, slowing to a halt and letting go as he starts to soften in your hand. “Thought for sure I’d end up somehow having to finish the job.”

“Hmm, no, don’t have to worry about that with me,” he says, with a lazy grin. He redirects his attention to your resident. “You okay?”

“I’m fucking great,” she grins, still sounding a little dazed. She reaches for you, grabbing at your thighs. “I just need you to sit back down.”

Before you can properly prepare for it, you’re pulled back onto her mouth, a surprised huf sailing past your lips. Your eyes flutter shut as she laps at your swollen clit, your concern for your own pleasure rushing back to the font of your mind now that everyone else’s is taken care of.

You reach for her hand, leading it up your torso to your chest, where she squeezes your breast, massaging the soft skin before pinching at the peak. The sharp pain mixes perfectly with the swirls around your clit, and with every tweak and swipe, she makes you barrel towards the edge faster and faster.

Your eyes fly open when Robby’s hand cups your cheek. He says nothing, seemingly just… holds you to hold you. And he watches, lets his gaze rove over your face, eyes flicking down the length of your body and back up. “Feels good, huh?”

“Yeah. We–oh, f-fuck–made the right call with her.” You barely get the words out or she wiggles her hand between your legs to let two of her fingers slip inside you.

Robby hums, “We did.”

Slowly, you start rolling your hips, meeting the curl of her fingers. You bite your lip, a little frown forming between your brows when that familiar sense of pleasure starts blooming from somewhere deep inside of you. You don’t even really have to chase it–it’s more like it’s chasing you.

“Oh,” you gasp, clutching at Robby’s wrist to have something to hold on to. “Oh, you’re doing perfect, it’s gonna make me come.”

“Yeah?” Robby’s brow arches. “Gonna show me this time, hmm?”

Fuck. You nod as her tongue flicks faster and faster, making your hips twitch. It’s nothing like the first one–it’s the complete opposite, like it never stops building until it does, suddenly, in a way that seems to push all the air out of you as you gasp, gasp, gasp…

“C’mon, sweetheart,” Robby says, his grip on you forcing you to hold his gaze. “Show me how pretty you look when you come– There we go.”

Goddamn him.

It’s like an avalanche, a loud, vibrating groan rumbling out of your chest as your muscles clench and you push your hips down harder. It seems to reach you everywhere, your thighs quivering, heat tingling up your spine, and your hand scrambles to hold Robby by the shoulder to make sure you don’t topple over. His face becomes a little blurry as you try desperately to keep your eyes open, as the gentle strokes of her tongue start bordering on too much… until it actually becomes too much.

You scramble backwards, overstimulated, ducking down at an awkward angle towards her panting mouth and giving her a sloppy, upside-down kiss. She clutches onto you, licking into your mouth with enthusiasm as you pour praise down her throat, assuring her how good she made you feel, how beautiful she is. After a couple spit-slick kisses, you pull away, taking in her face and stroking a thumb along her freckled cheek, before kissing it and sitting back against the armrest.

Catching your breath, you watch as Robby hauls her up into a sitting position. She reaches for his face, pulling him into a kiss that’s almost chaste in comparison to the one you shared with her.

When they part, his eyes find yours over the top of her head. He calls you over in silence, repeatedly opening and closing his outstretched hand. You take it, and he pulls you closer until you’re kneeling behind her. Then, he brings the back of your hand to his mouth, presses a kiss to it and says, “Good job, team.”

It makes all of you laugh.

The aftermath isn’t as awkward as you feared. You drink a big glass of water, share a snack in her kitchen, take turns showering, listen to her and Robby discussing their schedules to figure out when they’ll see each other next… and then you move to the front door to say your goodbyes.

She kisses you on the mouth before you leave, thanks you as she pulls away.

When you part ways with Robby when you exit her apartment complex, he does the same.

– – – – –

It's Monday morning, a little over a week later, on your day off. You should use the time to sleep in, not to sit behind your laptop in your kitchen before 7am, but you were up the second you were awake. As you're putting the finishing touches on the sign off of the email you're writing, your phone buzzes.

It’s Robby.

That’s kind of freaky.

Ellis told me to tell you she misses you on the night shift, he writes.

the kids always miss the substitute once their teacher is back, you reply. how happy was samira to see abbot?

Had to talk her down from organizing a welcome back party.

A smile pulls at your lips. Of course she’d try that. Sweet. how was he? healed okay?

Busy trying not to smile too wide at the cake Samira brought in anyway. Then, Healed okay, just some expected general discomfort left. And, Why does Abbot say he has permanent stock in your medical degree?

You roll your eyes. So much for that. because he’s an asshole.

He doesn’t reply, and with a quick glance at the clock you realize his shift probably began and chaos is ensuing. You put your phone down, checking if your cover letter is in the attachment of the email, if you spelled PTMC correctly in the email address… and it looks like everything is in order.

Then your phone buzzes again. This time, Robby’s calling.

“Do you want to hear the story that badly?” you answer with a chuckle. “Because I promise it’s not that–”

“I absolutely want to hear it, but… not why I’m calling.” You wait for him to say more, and hear him sigh deeply before asking, “Can I see you this week?”

You suck in some air through your teeth. “Missing me already, Doctor Robinavitch?”

“I uh, had this dream about you, the kind where I…,” he pauses with a chuckle, and you kind of hate how you can picture him; head tipped down, hand scratching at the short hairs at the back of his head, “...had to do something about it when I woke up. Was almost late for work.”

Oh, fuck. You didn’t expect him to say that. Instantly, images flood your mind of a nondescript bedroom, Robby tangled in bed sheets, still sleepy, thinking about you, rutting against the mattress, maybe even with his hand around his–

“Jesus, Robby…,” you huff, snapping yourself out of it while your cheeks begin to feel warm. Then, you think about her, and you bite your lip before asking, “What about your R3?”

“Wasn’t in my dream,” he says simply. “She’s seeing someone from neuro. At least, I believe they're neuro.”

“So I’m just second choice all across the board, huh?” You aim for a joke, but oof, ouch, you actually kind of hurt yourself with that one… Closing your eyes with a sigh, you try to come up with a way to save it, but Robby’s already speaking.

“You know,” he begins, and he sounds amused, and you hate him, “someone as smart as you should know not to make assumptions.”

“Huh?”

“I’m calling you, not her,” he says, then adds quietly, “Ellis told me I looked… sad– Actually, she said I looked like I just made the saddest realization.”

Well, first of all, few times Robby doesn’t look like that. Second, and once again: Huh?

“After she brought you up to me,” he continues.

That makes something click in your brain: He’s talking about the Samira look, the look you told him about in the bar, about her harbouring– Wait. Your entire body goes rigid as the realization kicks in. And then it floods with something pleasant, something that tingles and makes you giddy…

Warm feelings.

Robby’s voice sounds a little unsteady on the other side of the line when he breaks the silence you put between you, “But you can just tell me the story, and we can pretend this conversation was just that. No hard feelings.”

“I’m free tonight, if you want to hear the story. You can come over after your shift, and…” with a hum, you pretend to think, letting your mouse hover over the ‘send’ button on your job application email, then continue, “...who knows what else I might spill should I be… How should I put it, properly motivated? Suitably loose? Nicely–”

“stuffed?” he finishes for you, voice soft, and deep, because he’s at work but he can’t help himself; he’s calling you about a wet dream he had about you that was so good he had to get himself off after, and making confessions, and the whole thing is actually really getting you goi– “Yeah, text me the address, I’ll fucking be there.”

Click.

He hangs up at the same time you press ‘send’.

– – – – –

Thanks for reading! Please come say hi and/or share your thoughts via ask/messages/reblogs/whatever you feel comfortable with! I originally wanted to post this for Pride Month, but evidently that didn't work out like I wanted, turns out I have a life and responsibilities (bummer...), but yes, anyway, happy belated Pride Month, friends 💖💜💙!

#dani writing #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt fic #the pitt x reader #the pitt x you #dr robby x reader #dr robby x you #michael robinavitch x reader #robby x reader #the pitt smut #michael robinavitch #x reader #f!reader

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