#all of a sudden it's there and he's like—what is this what do i do with it

[bywons]

AFTER THE STORM ✿ 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗋𝗀𝗎𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝗁𝗒𝗉𝖾𝗇

𝗔𝗟𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗡𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗩𝗘𝗟𝗬────𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝖺𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋

❪ 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐂𝒾𝐒 ❫ ｡ 𝖾𝗇𝗁𝗒𝗉𝖾𝗇 𝗑 𝖿!𝗋 1496wc 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍 ✿ 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 𝖼𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 贅沢 ／ 𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐙𝐈𝐍𝐄

★REBLOG4KISS

LEE HEESEUNG

“so, you won’t talk to me at all?” heeseung pouts, staring at your back as you sit away from him on the couch, busy on some magazines. you flip through a page, the glossy sound a poor cover for the ache in your heart.

he sighs soft and slow, you hear the rustle of his socks against the carpet as he inches closer.

“y/n…” heeseung’s voice cracks as he calls out your name like a prayer, “i didn’t mean to lash out. i was angry— no, i was dumb. and i hurt you, i know.”

you stiffen, his words cutting deeper through you than he intended. heeseung notices.

he walks around, kneeling in front of you on the couch as his warm palms make contact with your knees, which pulls a gasp out of you. his eyes search your face—eyes rimmed with regret, his brows drawn together. “please look at me.”

your lips tremble, “you said that i make everything harder. that i’m exhausting.”

heeseung’s face crumples, heart beating faster in his ears as he feels his throat going dry, “i didn’t mean it. i was overwhelmed, but that doesn’t excuse anything.” he rests his forehead on your lap. “i love you. even when things are messy. especially then.”

you hesitate. then slowly tread your fingers through his hair. his grip around your waist tightens, “i’m never letting you go.”

PARK JONGSEONG

jay makes sure his footsteps are soft enough as he enters the kitchen like a cat— sneaking up behind you and wrapping your waist with his hands, his head resting on your shoulders.

“jay, what—” you gasp at his suddenness, pausing all your actions, “let go jay, i’m working.”

“i could help,” he whispers softly against your neck, lips warm on your skin, “tell you that i’m sorry?”

you lean into his touch involuntarily, his hair tickling your cheeks, “you always do this.”

“and i mean it everytime,” jay sighs. he guides your own hands as he holds them in his, slowly slicing the apples on the counter. “i’m sorry, darling. i meant none of it, i was just tired and well, i was being a jerk.”

you breathe in the sight, it’s impossible to stay angry at park jongseong. “and what if i’m still not impressed?”

jay laughs, sending a sweet vibration through your body as he presses soft kisses along your shoulders and neck, upto your jaw.

“then i’ll keep apologizing,” he murmurs, nuzzling closer, “until you are.”

you turn your head slightly, lips brushing his in the softest kiss, lingering.

“you’re such a menace,” you whisper.

“your menace,” jay smiles against your mouth, arms never letting go, the fruit knife long forgotten.

SIM JAEYUN

you glance at the collection of tulips,.baby breath, roses and what not. bouquets on your desk, on the bed, even a trail leading to where he stands.

“what is all this?” you ask, crossing your arms, your brows furrowed, refusing to let the flowers soften you just yet, “you think flowers can fix however you acted last night?”

jake shifts in his place, clearly uncomfortable of his behaviour. slowly, he takes a step towards you, “no, of course not. but i was afraid of approaching you.”

you roll your eyes, trying to ignore his pleading eyes and your favourite flowers laid out in front of you.

he swiftly picks up a single red rose from a bunch, and towers in front of you in no time. you don’t dare to look at him, and he prays to the universe that you do.

jake slowly gets down on one knee, holding the rose out to you with both hands like it’s everything he has.

“i messed up,” he murmurs, gaze unwavering. “but i swear, i’ll never let my temper speak louder than my love for you again.”

your breath hitches. he offers the rose gently. “please… just don’t walk away from me.”

you take the rose, eyes finally meeting his—and in that quiet beat, he stands up, pressing the softest kiss to your lips.

“i’m still mad,” you whisper.

he smiles. “i know.”

PARK SUNGHOON

sunghoon inches closer to you as the bed dips under his weight, waking you up.

“why- why are you here?” you groan in your drowsy state, hair disheveled as you look at sunghoon next to you— eyes puffy, lips swollen with a tired smile playing on it.

he was crying. “i couldn’t sleep,” he confesses, pushing a strand of hair behind your ears, “and… i missed you. come back to our bed?”

you sigh, heart softening at the sight of him—eyes red, voice fragile.

“hoon…” you whisper, reaching up to cup his cheek, thumb brushing beneath his eye. “don’t cry.”

“i messed up,” he murmurs, leaning into your touch, eyes fluttering closed. “i said awful things. i hate myself for it.”

you shift closer, wrapping your arms around him, pulling him down beside you. “you’re here now,” you whisper, forehead pressing to his. “we’re okay.”

he exhales shakily, arms curling around your waist as he buries his face in your neck.

“i’m sorry,” he whispers again, lips brushing your skin as he holds you tight. prepping kisses all over as he traces shapes on your back, “i’m so sorry, princess. i love you, so so much.”

KIM SUNOO

“but you don’t like chocolate,” you murmur softly as you pick around the ice cream with your spoon.

“anything for you,” sunoo says, giving you a smile which was both nervous and hopeful, “i think i deserve this punishment.” he takes a bite out of his own chocolate ice cream.

he scoops a bite of his chocolate ice cream and eats it, face scrunching immediately at the bitterness.

you try to suppress your laughter, but it comes out anyways as you punch his forearm, “sunoo! you don’t have to suffer through chocolate for me—”

“oh, no,” sunoo scoffs, pulling the bowl of chocolate closer to him in desperation, “i made you angry and…called you mean, i deserve this.”

you stifle a laugh. “you look like you’re in pain.”

“i am,” he says dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. “but i’d rather eat a hundred bowls of this than go another minute with you mad at me.”

you set your spoon down and reach for his hand across the table. “you don’t need to suffer through chocolate, dummy. you just need to be honest with me next time.”

his fingers curl around yours, a soft sigh leaving his lips.

“deal,” he whispers, leaning in to gently kiss your knuckles.

YANG JUNGWON

“i can’t stand you crying,” jungwon gulps, his own throat aching as he notices your tear-stricken cheeks. “drink some water, please?”

you sniffle, taking the water bottle from him as he sits down beside you. “can i touch you?”

you want to say no after the argument you had with him, after he made you sob on your own. but god, it’s the way he never lets you go through anything alone, and it's the way he notices everything— melts your heart every time.

“yes,” you whisper.

jungwon sighs out of relief, not wasting a second before he pulls you into his lap, surprising you, as he wraps his arms tightly around you.

“i’m sorry,” he breathes, barely louder than the hum of your shaky breaths. “i should’ve listened. i should’ve stayed.”

you stay quiet, the comfort of his hold unraveling the tight knot in your chest.

“i hate that i made you cry,” he whispers, arms tightening slightly around your waist. “i know sorry isn’t enough, but... i’ll make it right. just don’t shut me out, please.”

his voice cracks at the end, and you turn your head slightly, just enough to see the sorrow in his eyes.

your lips meet his in a soft, trembling kiss—slow, searching, tender. his hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing a tear away as he kisses you again, like a silent vow.

NISHIMURA RIKI

“the punching bag didn’t upset you, did it?” riki gets startled by your words, turning quickly on his heels to meet you.

“y/n?” he whispers, almost running towards you as he towers over your nervous and disturbed figure. “are you finally… not mad at me?”

you huff, hesitating to touch him. “if i didn’t come to you, all this useless boxing would go on forever.”

riki knows that. he hates himself the most when you’re mad at him, and finds his solace in overworking himself. “do you..still hate me?” his voice cracks.

“no, riki. we solved it already,” you give in and cup his face, “we were both messed up and, i forgot about it. i let it go.”

riki leans into your touch, walking closer as he kisses the corner of your lips. once, twice and then you lose count as he pulls you in by the waist. “i’m still sorry though,” he whispers, voice full of guilt, “let me make it up to you, doll?”

스루 ܃ couldn’t sleep, so i locked in for this. heh .. can’t have sru nation starving 💌

© bywons, 2025 div ctto —taglist open ! nets. @/k-labels @kflixnet @k-films

[ang3ltine]

"𝐓𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐨𝐥𝐭𝐬?"- Bucky barnes x freader

An unexpected surprise awaits you when Bucky shows up at your house with a group of strangers

a.n - no spoilers for now

warnings - John walker, dark humour and major fluff!!

Short teaser for upcoming fic!

"You gotta be kidding me, were not seriously bringing Bob with us are we?"

"Look Captain America, if it weren't for Bob we wouldn't have made it out of that death trap of a lab alive!" Yelena replies sternly. "Besides, he seems to have more discipline than you'd ever have."

This seemed to tick John off as the two of them started shouting back and forth, while Bob sat between the two of them awkwardly.

"Ok uhm...can we maybe...not fight?" He mutters under his breath but was completely ignored.

Ava rolls her eyes at the childish scene before her and flickers her gaze down towards the nervous man. Silently telling him that it wasn't worth wasting his breath.

Surprisingly enough, he understood rather quickly and kept his mouth shut.

Bucky groans in annoyance at the bickering in the backseats, and it didn't help either when a large man was snoring away next to him.

But swiftly brushes it off after pulling into a familiar driveway. He hadn't been back at this house for about a week now, so he was dreading what awaited him when he opened the doors.

Especially since he has four other guests with him, who he quite recently found acquaintanceship with just a few days ago.

"Listen up, we're staying at this place for a while until things die down. So please, don't make this harder for me than it already is." Bucky states as the the group follows him down the pathway towards a red brick secluded house that was tucked in a small corner of New York City.

They all exchanged confused looks before reluctantly nodding at the grumpy man, with a few grunts and hushed responses. Honestly they were just really tired and their bodies were sore so there was no use in complaining.

"God - I hope she's in a good mood..." Bucky mumbles before reaching into his pocket to fish out his keys and was about to put it into the keyhole. Only to be interrupted midway as he hears the sound of another car pulling up behind him.

"Bucky honey? Is that you?!"

Everyone turned around at the sudden mention of 'Bucky' and 'honey' in the same sentence. All but Bucky himself as he walks back down the pathway towards you.

"Did I hear that right? There's no way Mr. Congressman would have a girlfriend." Ava whispers to the others as they all watched him walk past the minivan, disappearing from their sight. There were mixed reactions as they all talked amongst themselves, trying to figure out who you might be.

You were pretty confused as well since there was a dirty minivan parked in your driveway. As soon as you step out of your car to examine the vehicle, you catch a glimpse of a figure in the corner of your eye.

Adrenaline kicked in almost immediately, thinking maybe this was going to be a robbery. I mean you do live in a pretty sketchy neighbourhood so it was possible. The sun was setting so it was pretty difficult to see who it could be, you had your fighting stance ready as the person steps out of the shadows.

"God Bucky! You could've said something instead of sneaking up on me like that!" You yelled and tried calming yourself since your heart was practically hammering against your chest.

"Yeah sorry 'bout that doll, didn't mean to scare you," Bucky drawls as he pulls you into his arm for a warm embrace. A sigh of relief escaped your lips as you bury your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the strong scent of gasoline mixed with his cologne.

There was sand mixed with dirt on his tough leather jacket, but you didn't question it since he had finished a mission. Honestly speaking, you were just glad he was home again.

You peeked over Bucky's shoulder and finally noticed the rugged group of individuals standing in your porch. They wanted to see what all the fuss was about so they snuck up on the couple and spied on them from behind the van.

You were about to open your mouth to say something before spotting a familiar face amongst them. She had short and slightly messy bob cut and an oddly cute frown on her face.

Yelena steps forward hesitantly while examining your face at the same time, seemingly trying to figure out where she had seen you before.

Then it clicks, you were her older sisters best friend. She remembers how kind and comforting you acted towards her whenever she'd come to visit her sister.

You opened your arms for her and without hesitation, Yelena falls into your embrace.

"Its good to see you 'lena," you murmured into her hair while she smiles at the mention of her nickname.

" 's good to see you too..."

Bucky joins the rest of the group, a small smile tugged at his lips as they all watched the heartwarming scene unfold before them.

He's not sure what waited them past this, but for now, he just wants this disfunctional group of anti-heroes to find some sort of peace while they stayed here.

Taglist: @marianastudiesart

@ordelixx

@starktonyx

@hisredheadedgoddess28

@avatarobsessedgirly

[springintosummerxx]

❀ downbad for you ❀

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌op81 x reader

in which oscar changes in little and big ways. aka oscar's downbad for you

warnings: suggestive, fluff, bit of pining, humour

word count: 1.9 k

masterlist

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌nicole piastri was not an impatient woman. she raised four kids, all of them talented, intelligent and painfully oblivious in some way or another.

so when oscar had started travelling on his own and barely - rarely - picked up phone calls or checked texts, she learned to wait for him to come to her. very reasonable, in her opinion.

but when she called him, early in the morning hoping to catch him before a sprint race, she was surprised to find that he actually picked up.

"hello?" he asked, tone a little eager and not it's usual monotone.

"oscar," she replied, a little startled.

"oh. hey, mum." he answered absentmindedly.

now she was suspicious, "why are you answering your calls all of a sudden?"

"didn't you call me?" he asked, with that born-nonchalance that made her want to rip her hair out sometimes.

"yeah, just checking in. everything good for the weekend?"

"sure, everything's fine. listen mum, i'm actually waiting on another call. i'll call you again after the sprint, okay? thanks."

then her own son, the one she'd painfully pushed - okay, that was a bit gross, but she was a little offended.

then it clicked.

the question she should be asking, instead of rolling her eyes over her firstborn's antics, is who is he waiting on?

nicole calls hattie next, who answers reliably on the first ring.

"is your brother seeing someone?"

"woah, mum. hello to you too," her eldest daughter huffs, "and yes, i think so."

she nearly jumps up in excitement, "who?"

"that, i have no idea. but he's been answering his texts so quick lately, and he asked me about what flowers were suitable for a first date."

"finally," nicole sighed, and then perking up, "when do you think he'll bring her home?"

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌lando is staring at oscar as he puts on suncream.

he looks so...serious, squeezing out lotion from a bottle that looks way too tiny in his hands, concentrating on the thin white lines that coat three of his fingers.

"what?" he then is rubbing it into his face, and lando is scared.

"mate, what the fuck?"

"i'm protecting my skin," the australian answers, straight-faced.

he is 100% sure he's never seen oscar put on sunscreen, ever. especially not in the middle of the day, right between filming videos outside.

it's probably a good idea, if they don't want to get sunburnt; oscar, especially, with his pale complexion.

and who is lando to judge? he used to love it when his ex-girlfriend's did his skincare or forced him to exfoliate - wait.

before he can think through what he's going to say, he blurts, "do you have a girlfriend?"

oscar stares at him, and the faint, pink blush that's rising from his neck is enough of an answer.

"oh, my days you do!" he gasps. oscar shakes his head, the corners tipping up despite himself.

lando watches him, half-disgusted and half-proud.

his teammate has an absolutely shit-eating grin on his face, eyes bright. he leans back in the chair, looking dorky in his team kit and a little bit of sunscreen not blended in at his jaw.

lando could say with full confidence, after watching oscar not flinch at turns or crashes, that this reaction means that he is in love.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌the first time oscar brings you around (and hard-launches both of you to the moon) is during the miami gp.

the two of you, your smaller hand tucked into the crook of his arm, make your way across the green turf of the paddock.

he's aware of the cameras and eyes; it's kind of hard not to be, but he doesn't mind like he usually does.

it's probably gross and neanderthal, and he will definitely deny it if you bring it up, but he's so proud to have you on his arm.

the two of you met a months ago, in monaco, where you were starting the second year of your doctorate degree.

you were (and are, in his opinion) way too smart for him, drop-dead gorgeous with a dry sense of humour.

although monaco was known for hosting f1 drivers you weren't super well-versed in the sport.

he likes that about you, and even more the way you ask him to tell you about it as you run your fingers through his hair, when the two of you are out on a date in some little cafe.

"okay?" he murmurs, and you squeeze your fingers around his bicep once.

"hmm," he can tell you're a little overwhelmed by the crease between your brows that he smoothes out with his thumb, "m'okay."

the little yellow sundress you're wearing makes your skin glow under the florida sun, and he wants to press his nose to your shoulder.

"it'll get better when we're not-"

"hard-launching at one of your races? you sure go big or go home, baby."

however many times you use that nickname, whether in the early morning when you're bribing him with coffee or hushed as he presses himself into you late at night, it never fails to make him flush.

it sounds so pretty from your lips, so personal and intimate his stomach lurches still when he hears that pet name.

"yeah," he laughs, "can't help it though. want to show you off."

this time, it's your turn to be flustered.

he can't believe someone as put together and elegant as you turns into a pile of mush for someone as unromantic as him.

but perhaps he's changed, he thinks as you twist your mouth and brush a hand over your sun and love-warmed cheeks.

"god, oscar. you can't say things like that. i'm going to turn into a liquid."

"a very beautiful liquid," he offers, his free hand grabbing the yours that's tucked into his elbow.

he moves you to his other side, the one closer to the cafés and motorhomes as more people start flooding into the paddock.

"c'mere," he murmurs, pressing a kiss into your forehead.

normally, he would be against any sort of pda. but you look so relaxed under the sun, skin glowing as you watch him behind a pair of sunglasses that he can't help himself.

oscar hears the shutters of cameras, and he rests his cheek on yours.

"love you," he grins boyishly.

"love you, baby. good luck."

he wants a real kiss, one that makes you whimper the way he likes, but he's pushed his luck enough.

someone from the team leads you to the back of the garage to find a headset.

later that night, when the both of you are laying in bed, faces damp with skincare, he comes across an edit of you on tiktok.

there's some thirst-trappy song in the back and an annoying filter that makes everything a bit blurry, but he watches it three times anyways.

the first clip is of you in the garage, standing towards the back, fingers fluttering over your papaya headset. you look serious (though he thinks you do look a little confused, adorably so) with your eyes locked on the t.v. broadcasting his onboard.

the little skysports banner pops up, citing you as his partner.

oscar piastri's partner, it reads in block letters.

his heart warms in his chest, and he has to rub at it because of how intense he feels for you; you are so much more than that, and he can't wait for people to realize.

the next clip is you with alexandra, who you knew from someone's neighbor. or cousin. monaco was small, after all.

the two of you are laughing, striding with leo between your legs.

lastly, oscar watches with attentive eyes as the videos of you and him together come up.

it's undeniable that you guys look good together; he's smiling more than he probably has, ever, and you look up at him, adoringly as you blend some smeared sunscreen under his ear.

the sound of the tiktok has repeated four times by then, and you slide yourself into his embrace, wiggling up his chest.

he tilts his phone to you so you can see, and you bury your face in his neck.

"help," your breath warm on his skin, "i'm being perceived."

he laughs, pulling you up to kiss him, for real on the mouth, "thank you. for coming with me."

"of course," you say, a little surprised at how sincere he sounds, "anytime, baby."

now it's his turn to bury his face into your neck.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

"he's never like this," hattie tells you.

"what?" you ask, smiling as your boyfriend's sister hands you a drink.

"he's so...touchy. it would be kind of gross, if you guys weren't so cute."

"yeah," edie pipes in, sipping her own drink, "it's freaky. unnatural."

"are you talking about me?" oscar asks drily as he slides into the seat next to yours.

frowning at the distance in between your chair and his, he wraps one large hand around the leg of yours and tugs until you're close enough for his to rest his arm to loop behind you.

mae shudders comically, just as edie pretends to gag. hattie hoots in laughter.

oscar, cheeks pink, unabashedly rolls his eyes as his parents take their seats around the table in their backyard.

it's nice seeing him in his natural habitat, teasing his sisters, helping his mum carry dishes to the dining table.

you insist on helping nicole wash up after dinner, and as you dry the dishes she hands you, she says something you don't expect.

"thank you," she tells you, "for taking care of him."

before you can respond, she goes on, "he's never been too good at taking care of himself. you know, he used to put his washing in the oven?"

you laugh, imagining oscar, on the cusp of adulthood, crouched over a oven with wet socks in his hands.

"but i can tell he's been well. so, thank you."

you blush, "i don't think it's anything to do with me."

she snorts, an easy smile on her face as she nudges you with her shoulder, "he's been calling more, he's eating well. i don't think he's been sunburnt or gone without fresh laundry for months."

you hum, "he takes care of me too, and i should thank you for raising a good man."

"i've got to stop leaving you alone with my family members." oscar sidles next to you, peering at his mum.

she brushes your cheek and pats his shoulder before wandering off to find his sisters.

"hi," he whispers into your hair, turning you around so he can crowd you into the kitchen counter.

"hi, baby."

he groans, burying his face into your neck. you feel him press a kiss to your shoulder, and you grin.

"okay?" you ask quietly.

"more than okay," he responds, smile content and squinty, "it's nice. to see you here, with my family. they love you."

"i love them," caressing his cheek, you press a kiss to his nose.

"this is probably weird for them," he hums, leaning into your hand, "to see me like this."

"i'm not going anywhere, so i think they'll get used to you being all gross and down bad."

"not downbad," oscar mutters, wrapping his arms around your waist in a hug and swaying the two of you back and forth, "just in love."

"downbad," you giggle, and he doesn't disagree, not when it makes you smile, so lovingly and soft at him.

maybe he is downbad.

[eufezco]

A PLACE FOR YELENA 𓂃 𓈒 ❀

bucky x pregnant!fem!reader

synopsis — after disappearing for weeks, consumed by her own darkness, yelena shows up in your house unexpectedly and decides to reach out to you and bucky, her best friends, just to find out that you're pregnant and you wanted her in your baby's life.

fluff. angst

marvel masterlist

you wiped your hands on a towel, the sweet scent of the coffee and cocoa still on your fingers. the kitchen smelled amazing, garlic and tomato from the bubbling lasagna in the oven mixing with the tiramisu you'd just finished layering. you'd been home all day, but not alone. the gentle kicks and soft stirring inside you reminded you that your tiny companion was always there with you. a little smile appeared in your lips as your hands moved to your bump.

bucky left early this morning, pressing a kiss to your forehead and another to your belly, promising he'd be back in time for dinner. so you'd spent all day doing this and that around the house, folding the tiny clothes, each one making you pause and imagine the little body that would soon fill it, playing bucky's old records and napping on the couch, a blanket over your legs and a hand resting protectively on your belly.

the timer on the oven beeped and you opened the door. a wave of the heat and the rich cheesy scent hit you all at one. you closed your eyes and hummed. the baby also seemed to loved because a soft kick nudged at your side. you pulled the lasagna out to take it to the living room table, but when you turned around, you froze.

—oh my god!—you exclaimed, eyes wide as your breath caught in your throat. your heart pounded so hard against your chest, —yelena... hi.

she quickly stood up from the chair, her usual confidence slipping as her blue eyes stared onto your belly. you didn't give her enough time to analyze you because once you placed the lasagna right in the center of the table, you wrapped your arms around her in a tight sudden hug. she hesitated before she hugged you back, like you were made of glass. her arms circled around you but she didn't dare to press her body against yours, like the roundness of your belly was sacred.

—you're pregnant, —she said when you broke away from the hug. her voice was soft, almost in disbelief.

you smiled, —yeah, i am. surprise, —the delicious smell of the food filled the space but yelena's eyes never left your bump.

—but like, so pregnant, oh my god.

you giggled, —that's usually how it works, yeah.

—no, seriously, how far along are you? you're glowing. it's weird. you're glowing and soft and... —she swallowed and waved her hands vaguely in front of your bump, —so pregnant, shit.

you let out a laugh. —i'm eight months but i'm still me. just... slower, rounder and slightly more emotional.

—more emotional? so crying over commercials and talking to plants?

—try crying over baby socks and talking to lasagna.

she nodded, pressing her lips together, trying to keep a straight face. you shifted your weight slightly as the pressure in your lower back appeared again. you put one of your hands behind you, trying to relieve the ache but yelena was quick to notice and without a word, she placed the chair she was previously sitting in behind you.

—thanks, —you said with a sigh as you sat. —what are you doing here? did you talk to bucky? he said he's been trying to reach you, —asking how'd she got into your house felt pointless. if yelena wanted in, no locked doors were going to stop her, yet you didn't mind, she wasn't a threat, not to you at least.

yelena shook her head. —haven't talk to your man in months. i was... just in my apartment and decided to drop by. i don't know, —she muttered, shrugging like it could erase the weight of her words. —i thought about you. about both of you. and i guess i just... showed up.

there was a pause. a real one. you knew what being in her apartment meant for her, especially at this time of the night. she was probably alone, thinking of getting drunk, staring at nothing and trying to hold it together until she couldn't anymore. you slowly nodded but didn't say anything about it. —well, it's your lucky day, there's lasagna for the four of us, —you rubbed your belly, —and the tiramisu is in the fridge.

she blinked, —oh, no. i was just... i just came to see you. i don't want to be a bother.

you tilted your head, —you broke into my house, sat at my table, and commented on my belly. you're already bothering me, you might as well stay for dinner.

you managed to get a laugh from her. in that moment, the front door opened and bucky stepped inside. —babe? i'm h... —but he froze mid-sentence when he saw yelena at the table. it was surprise in his face but there was something warmer too, like he'd just walked into something unexpected but not unwelcome. —either this food smells good enough to summon ghosts or i've officially lost track of who has a spare key.

—yelena's here! —you announced as if he hadn't just noticed her.

—and i bet she didn't come in through the door like a normal person.

yelena just pressed her lips into a guilty smile.

bucky approached you after hanging up his jacket and dropping his keys into the bowl by the door. he leaned in, supporting the weight of his body with a hand behind you on the chair and he kissed your lips. you hummed when he leaned in further and kissed your belly over your pajama shirt.

—you know? you should answer my calls or texts sometime, —he said to yelena. —missed you today, baby. this smells amazing, —he said to you as he kissed your lips one more time.

—i've been busy, —yelena said as she bit the inside of her cheeks.

bucky tilted his head slightly and looked at her, narrowing his eyes. he'd been there, done all of it before he met you. the quiet disappearing with empty explanations, not answering to sam's messages, letting voicemails pile up, just ignoring everything that reminded him that he existed outside the limits of his own perception. so yeah, bucky knew yelena was lying.

—right, —he just said. —just don't disappear.

—i didn't disappear. i just needed a minute.

—a minute's fine, —bucky said. he made his way into the kitchen and pulled out another plate, a glass, a fork and a knife. he returned and set them in front of the empty seat beside yelena. —but you vanish and we worry. she worries.

you nodded, assuring her that you did worry about her.

—i didn't mean to worry anyone.

—you don't have to mean it for it to happen.

yelena finally gave a small nod in return to bucky's words. he met her eyes and slowly nodded back. they were never much of words, the two of them. you had taught bucky how to open up overtime, he used to struggle with it but he got better with your help. but his bond with yelena grew from a very different space, his relationship wasn't shaped by long talks or heartfelt confessions. a strange brother-sister dynamic that was built in the shared silences, exchanged glances, sarcastic jokes and the unspoken comfort of just being there.

bucky stepped back into the kitchen.

—but the important thing, —you gently nudged her chair out, inviting her to sit at the table. —is that you are here now with us.

she finally sat down, her hands resting in her lap as she looked around the table. bucky came back from the kitchen, casually placing a bottle beside yelena's plate. it was her favorite spicy sauce, the one brand she always reached for. she stared at the bottle and then she looked up at you, then at bucky. this and your words you just said did something to her. it wasn't just the sauce, it was the fact that you'd thought of her and left space for her. no one had ever waited for her before, not like that.

—okay, let's eat, —you said, grabbing the big serving spoon. you grabbed yelena's plate, guests first, and served her a generous portion of lasagna. then you turned to bucky's plate and yours last.

yelena grabbed the sauce almost immediately, twisting off the cap and pouring it over her food. she hummed as she took another bite, eyes closing for a second. bucky slid his hand across the table and laced his metal fingers through yours, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles.

—how did that happen? —she pointed at your belly with her fork.

—you wanna know while we're having dinner? —bucky asked as he raised his eyebrows.

you kicked him softly under the table and yelena rolled her eyes, —no, not that. i mean, how? why now? you guys have been solid for years.

you glanced at bucky, who met your eyes with a little knowing smile, the kind that said, we've been through hell but made it out together. —well, it didn't feel terrifying to think about the future anymore.

bucky gave your hand a gentle squeeze, his metal thumb drawing circles over your skin. yelena didn't say anything right away, she just looked at the two of you for a long moment, like she was trying to decide whether to make a joke or actually feel something. —i was not prepared for all this emotions with my lasagna, —she finally said.

—sorry. hormones, —you let out a breathy laugh.

—she cried over baby socks last week, —bucky said looking at yelena.

—they were so tiny, —you added defensively. —and pink.

yelena's eyes widened as she turned to bucky. she leaned back after finishing her food, folding her arms as if she needed to process that. —pink? bucky barnes... a girl dad?

—terrifying, right?

—ugh, don't listen to him. he's gonna be the best dad. he already is, —you said. bucky smiled as he got up from the table and stacked his, yelena's and your plate to take them to the kitchen. —she's got him wrapped around her little finger already.

—that's the most terrifying part, —he made his way back with the tiramisu, carrying it like it was a treasure. he slid another plate in front of each of you.

during the dessert, you told yelena how bucky spent in the baby aisle what felt like an eternity, trying to choose between two tiny overalls, one with strawberries and the other one with ducks, just to end up buying both. you told her how he talked to your belly in a high pitched voice and how he had somehow ended up in a forum for modern girl dads which he checked every morning over coffee.

—you had gone soft, bucky, —yelena teased him.

—she's gonna need a tough aunt, —you said giggling, your voice casual, like the words had just slipped out without weight. but they hit yelena hard. you wanted her there? in your daughter's life? as her... aunt? she swallowed as she finished her tiramisu. it wasn't a title yelena had ever imagined for herself, not in the kind of life she had, not with everything she carried.

but there you were, offering it to her so easily like it was already decided and across the table, there was bucky, the very picture of someone who had dragged himself through the same kind of darkness she still found herself tangled in. his presence alone was a reminder that things could get better.

yelena shifted slightly in her seat. maybe, after all, she could be someone's aunt.

—this was delicious. did she like it? —bucky moved his hand to your belly, rubbing it gently with his thumb. he leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple. you placed your hand over his.

you placed your hand over his, —i think she did. she's been kicking all night, so i'd say it was a success.

yelena looked at your belly with wide, curious eyes and you noticed the moment her gaze softened, —come here, —you said to her, offering her your hand. she stood up and moved toward you, her steps uncertain. when she reached your side, she knelt beside you. bucky removed his hand to give yelena the space she needed. you placed her hand in the middle of your belly. for a moment, she was even scared to breath in case she hurt you or the baby, but then, a quick shy smile appeared on her lips.

—i can feel her, —her eyes brightened as she looked up at you. you nodded.

she stayed there for a bit, her fingers pressed against your belly, feeling the kicks against the palm of her hand as bucky took care of everything from the table and moved it to the kitchen. when the room quieted, yelena seemed to come back to herself. she hesitated but then she stood up. it was late, you and the baby needed to sleep.

—you staying for the night?

bucky irrupted in her thoughts and you sighed in relief he did. you and him knew that if she went back to her apartment, she'd be swallowed by the darkness that always seemed to follow her. her lips parted but bucky didn't give her the chance to pull away. —if the couch is okay with you... we've changed the guest room to the baby's room, so that's all we've got but it's all yours for the night.

yelena hesitated again, her eyes moving to the door almost like she was ready to leave, but something held her in place. maybe it was the comfort of not being alone, or the warmth that you two, now three of you, radiated to her. her shoulders relaxed, she thought she could let herself breath for one night. she nodded.

—the couch is fine, thank you.

—great! —you said, relieved that you've managed to keep her with you for a little longer and that fell like a small victory. —do you wanna listen to buck read the baby some bedtime stories? she goes crazy with his voice.

yelena looked at her friend with raised eyebrows, so a couple of months apart and now he was the kind of guy to read bedtime stories. bucky closed his eyes and shook his head, clearly realizing what was coming. —oh, i'd love that, yeah, —she finally said, knowing that bucky would die of embarrassment.

[lauraneedstochill]

can’t pretend

pairing: Jack Abbot x resident!reader summary: He is puzzled with you first, then vexed, and he can’t understand his feelings. In an attempt to get to know you better (or maybe to get you out of his head), Abbot accidentally crosses the line. (or, alternatively: what if Jack met someone similar to him in many ways. traumatic past included)

warnings: <rivals> to friends to lovers, slow burn, mentions of blood and injuries / I’m hinting at the age gap but you can ignore it / some complicated feelings and a LOT of Jack’s thoughts (his poor therapist will need a raise); assault. ANGST. / words: 7K author’s note: this is my first fic for “The Pitt”. I binge-watched the show in 2 days and didn’t plan on writing anything but my inspiration decided otherwise. I’ve never had a beta reader in my life, please be kind. ♡

Early at dawn, the sky is just the right color — the darkness slowly dissipates, deep purple at the edges, black fading into blue. If he squints and looks above the roofs, he can pretend he’s looking at the ocean. He’s been toying with the idea for some time but it’s more of a dream, a comforting mirage: him getting a small house by the beach, waves crashing softly in the distance, clean blue water blending into the bright blue sky. He’d wake up to the sunrise, take lugs full of cooling salty air, walk in the sand that glistens under the foaming swash. He’d probably adopt a dog — someone to pass his days with, just so the silence doesn’t get too heavy, doesn’t weigh on him when he can’t sleep at night.

A passing car honks down the street, loud and sudden, and Jack flinches, opening his eyes. That’s when the perfect image always falls apart. He is afraid he will get lonely with just a dog and with nothing to do, he will be going up the walls, bored out of his mind. But he doesn’t know how not to be alone. And some days he wishes that he did.

The air in Pittsburgh doesn’t carry any scents at this morning hour, and Jack’s gaze wanders down to the tree leaves writhing in the wind. He absentmindedly rubs his wrists when he hears the door creaking behind him.

“You know, security is getting worried about you,” Robby chuckles, his steps slow. “I heard the guys making bets on how many times a week you’ll come here.”

“Says the man who likes to brood in my spot,” Jack huffs without looking at him.

“Me, brooding? No idea what you are talking about.”

Robby gets to the roof edge but stays behind the railing, leans on it and slowly stretches his arms. His tone lets empathy in when he speaks up:

“Tough night?”

The sky is overcast, a mush of white and grey clouds the blue barely peeks through, and Jack sighs as he turns away. “Remember you told me about the kid who OD’d on Xanax laced with fentanyl? The parents sat by his bed hoping he’d wake up by some miracle,” Robby only nods when Jack throws him a glance. “I’m dealing with one of those.”

They both lost patients before, and both know that it doesn’t get easier with time. You have to tuck your grief away to walk into the room with their loved ones, offer apologies that carry little meaning, take even more grief in because this isn’t about you and this loss is not for you to carry. But they do carry it — Robby memorizes lifeless faces, Jack never forgets the names of everyone he couldn’t save.

“Brain dead?”

“Yep,” Jack drawls, hands gripping the metal rails. “He’s got three sisters, and all three were begging me. And I stood there feeling absolutely useless.”

Robby watches as his friend’s knuckles turn white. “If you couldn’t do anything then there was nothing that could’ve been done. And I’m really sorry.”

If only words could bring people back from the dead, Jack thinks bitterly but doesn’t say it out loud. He doesn’t want to sour Robby’s mood. And he can’t help but notice — it used to bother him way more, it sometimes would eat him alive; now Jack is mostly numb.

“I’ll sleep it off,” he mumbles.

“Not staying for the welcoming party?”

It takes a few seconds for the reminder to pop up in Jack’s head: a new senior resident, today is her first day. After Collins took maternity leave, Robby spent hours on the phone, glasses pressed to the bridge of his nose as he flipped through the applications, always unsure, never satisfied. And then he got a call and drove across the city to another hospital to meet her in person — he came back beaming. Jack must’ve zoned out so he didn’t catch the details.

“Don’t think I have a very welcoming face.”

“Should’ve seen the guys she worked with. I thought her chief of surgery would literally fist-fight me after I offered her the job,” Robby cackles.

It stirs Jack’s curiosity a bit. “She’s that good?”

“I believe she is. Skilled, confident, haven’t heard a single bad thing about her,” and even though his voice is certain, Robby dithers, bringing a hand to the back of his neck.

“But... ? I sense a but coming.”

“No-no, she’s great, really, and I made up my mind. It’s just that… She comes off as quite stubborn, and I feel like she is used to flying solo,” his eyes dart to Jack. “Reminds me of someone I know,” a smile grazes his lips, an unvoiced comparison he can’t help but draw.

Jack doesn’t see it, his gaze set somewhere on the horizon. “We all have to be team players here, that’s how it works,” he says dismissively. “I’m sure she’ll learn.”

The streets are getting busy, filling with people talking, rushing, making endless calls — and with more honking and more sounds that all merge into one unpleasant noise. And Jack is getting really tired.

“I should go back. Don’t want anyone to scare her off,” Robby puts a hand on Jack’s shoulder, a friendly but firm grip. “I’d also rather not waste my time on scraping your frail body off the pavement. Let me walk you out.”

“Frail body? You are three years older, you bag of bones,” Jack quips, and they share a laugh, and it warms up his heart a little.

But the warmth fades as they get inside, into the weave of corridors, into the crowd of nurses and other doctors pacing, the lighting bright and harsh, the smell of antiseptics clinging to the walls like mold. And it is not as overwhelming as it’s tiresome; once he is out on the street, Jack takes a few deep breaths. It’s hardly a relief.

As he passes by the park, exhaustion already on his heels, he suddenly picks up a sound, something between a whine and a small woof. Jack looks around to find the source peeping out from behind the bushes — brown eyes, wet nose, grey fluffy ears, one marked with a white spot. When Jack takes a step closer, the stray puppy immediately runs off.

On his way home he gets some dog treats and throws them in his bag. He tries thinking of pet names but nothing comes to mind. And when he falls into his cold bed, thick curtains not letting any light reach him, he dreams of standing on a long road framed with grass, a murmuring of waves heard through the mist. But he can’t see the ocean.

It keeps raining, and they have to close the roof — “Merely a precaution, sir, we don’t want anyone to slip. I heard the weather is supposed to clear up in a few days,” one of the guards assures Jack. His mood these days is just as gloomy as the sky. But he’s a man of habit, so every time Jack wants to get out to the roof, he instead gets more cases, drinks more coffee, barely a few words squeezed in between that aren’t work-related.

At first, he only catches glimpses of you.

On the days when your shifts overlap, he sees you tearing along the hallways, your hair up and your face focused, removing gowns to quickly put on fresh ones, your hands either in gloves or carrying the charts. You don’t speak much, and very few times Jack gets to walk past you, he is slightly puzzled by this combination of quiet and fast-paced.

Your first week is nearing its end when Dana prompts Jack to make a proper introduction. She calls him uncooperative and calls for you herself when she sees you leaving trauma#1. You swiftly come by the nurses' station and glance up at the board — and then you finally face Jack, your gaze so piercing, it catches him off guard. He clears his throat and manages a greeting, a bit coolly.

“Nice to meet you, Dr. Abbot,” you tell him calmly, offering a hand. And you don’t look away, and your handshake is firmer than he would expect. The next thing you are holding is another chart, eyes following the lines of words and numbers as you step away, Whitaker barely keeping up.

“She is so fast, she’s almost flying. Beautiful,” Princess notes approvingly, and Perlah hums in agreement.

Their voices snap him back into reality, and Jack inhales sharply, only now realizing his gaze is still on you. He looks down, pretending he needs to fix his watch. “What is this, a fan club?”

“Aw, no need to be so jealous. You will always be our favorite old white doctor,” Princess teases.

Perlah gives her a side-eye. “I thought Dr. Robby was our favorite.”

“Well, yes. But I have a soft spot for men in existential crisis,” Princess winks at him.

Perlah rolls her eyes. “They are all in existential crisis.”

“And I wonder why,” Jack deadpans, then picks a case just so he’s got an excuse to leave. And maybe an excuse to pass by the room you’re in, your gloved hands already stained with crimson.

He starts watching you more often, an impulse he can’t necessarily explain.

He’s careful, he’s not staring, but his hazel eyes always pick you out from the crowd. He’s taking mental notes: you lean on doors with your right shoulder when you rush in, you scan the injured head to toe in every case, hands moving quickly in tandem with your gaze. You never raise your voice but you keep eye contact — with the interns when you give instructions and with the patients to make sure they understand what’s going on. You are efficient with your work-ups, you’re the first one to come in and you stay late to turn your patients over to the night shift. You are meticulous and disciplined in a way he finds relatable; in three weeks' time there’s a foundation laid for him to grow respectful. But sometimes Jack can’t stop the thought: he is yet to see your smile. He is also yet to see you slip up, and that is bound to happen because no doctor is without fault.

A month in, he thinks you finally come close to failure.

A patient is wheeled in on a gurney, gesticulating, red in the face from how displeased or pained he is (probably both); still, as you talk to him, he makes pauses to listen. There’s blood on his chest and his speech is slurring, and Jack’s gaze follows you. From where he’s standing, he can see you clearly, so he can’t help but glance up a few times from his computer screen. It’s all the same routine and it seems to be working smoothly — but when he takes another peek, he sees you frozen.

Jack instantly draws near, alert and observing through the glass: the man is intubated, his shirt cut and chest bared — and with a nail sticking right out of where his heart should be. The monitors go off as the blood pressure drops. When Whitaker makes eye contact with him, Jack takes that as an invitation to come in.

“What do we got here?”

Whitaker looks half worried, half relieved. “Um-m, 41 years old male, nail to the chest, intracardiac. Prepped for the thoracotomy. Cardio is tied up with another surgery, and it’s at least 15 more minutes until we can get an O.R.”

Jack knows the patient doesn’t have that long. His gaze flickers to you but you do not meet it, and he can’t tell what you are looking at. There is no time to guess — if you’ve never cracked into someone’s chest, he’ll gladly guide you. And his guidance is assertive, if a little cocky.

“It’s not every day that you get to do a thoracotomy. And it can be daunting — also, pretty risky if you ask me—”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not asking,” you retort abruptly without even sparing him a glance.

And then you pick the scalpel and make the first incision, your hands steady and never hesitating, the confidence of a tsunami sweeping rocks away.

Jack has to take a step back because it would be childish to argue when someone’s life is hanging by a thread. And all his doubts are crushed before his very eyes the way ribs are under the pressure of a steel retractor you are holding, the metal sinking into flesh and blood to give you access to the heart. After the nail is out — long but intact, you deal with excess fluid and with the bleeding — and you are more nimble than he is, than he’s ever seen the other doctors be.

“Well, call me impressed,” Jack says earnestly.

The silence is a little awkward — a couple of seconds before you give reply: “Thank you, Dr. Abbot.”

He wonders if maybe his compliment might’ve come as patronizing. What he knows for sure is that you do not need his help. But when he backs away, he sees a glint out of the corner of his eye — dog tags left in the pile of the man’s belongings on the floor. Jack has the same tags hanging on a chain around his neck. He almost doesn’t feel the weight of them but the memories they bring are heavy — sometimes an image flashing through his mind, sometimes a nightmare stirring him awake. And mostly it’s the latter.

But today, as his shift goes on, he isn’t thinking of torn limbs and collapsing buildings and bombings that looked like firecrackers in the night. Those weren’t the reasons he kept going back — he never once craved violence, never really cared about the money. For him, it was the roar of the adrenaline and the belief that even amidst the death and ruins, he could make a change. He hasn’t felt that for a while: the rush, the determination, the power held in your hands when you are cutting into someone’s body, fixing the organs and sewing the skin together, bringing the life back in. He lacks that spark, he misses it, he wants to get it back. To prove to himself that he still can do that — or maybe not only to himself.

So now he isn’t watching you but studying, with a diligence of a man who once had to learn how to walk again.

He starts work earlier just so he can get more patients — but also to listen in on your case reports and trail your steps, peek into trauma rooms you run in and out of. He often finds himself holding back the questions: damn, how did you do that? How come you easily catch things others take so long to figure out? You take on complicated cases: a feeble woman who can’t hold her food down, her arms marked with a red rash; a young jogger who keeps fainting, short of breath; a man whose neck hurts, the pain radiating to his chest. And you examine them and pick the clues to solve the tangle of the symptoms — it’s Celiac disease, it’s kidney failure, it’s spondylodiscitis and you know exactly how to treat it. But Jack knows all these answers too. And even if they don’t click in his mind as quickly as they do in yours, it’s still a victory: he’s not as rusty as he thought he was, he is enjoying this. He can’t believe he almost let himself forget.

When he decides to try a day shift for a change, he’s met with Dana’s worried face, her wondering out loud if he feels okay. She then proceeds to ask the same question two more times, just to make sure.

“You on day shifts may be the thing that saves Robby from a heart attack, you know,” her face softens.

“Are you saying you guys get way more action than us night owls?”

Dana grins. “What, you are already reconsidering your choices?”

“Like hell I am,” one corner of his mouth hints at a smirk.

The day is busy, and he can barely catch a break, but it isn’t a chore: he’s equally enthusiastic about a road accident that left a guy with a skull fracture, an appendectomy, a stoned teenage with a knife stuck in his thigh, a street worker with a leg broken in two places. An hour before his shift ends, they get a lacrosse team of middle schoolers, and the staff shares an exasperated sigh; but not Jack. He fixes broken noses and split eyebrows and some nasty shoulder dislocations, then goes to talk to their coach — a woman in her fifties, robust and perhaps too loud with her scolding. But her blaring voice cracks as soon as the kids are out of her sight. At some point, Jack finds himself holding her hand in reassurance, and she jokes that she’d gladly marry him if only she didn’t have a wife. She also promises that all the kids' parents will give the hospital the highest ranking. And they do.

Jack clocks out when the sky is colored orange, the shadows bleeding on the pavement, and his limbs hum but this weariness is pleasant. He is content, he’s almost joyous — the almost comes from you having a day off. He got to work with so many people, why would your presence make a difference? Jack persuades himself it’s not the reason he takes a few more mornings.

But when he comes back the next time, and you’re already there, there is this weird feeling in his ribcage — a spill of heat, a flutter of his heart. He blames it on the caffeine. You stand with your eyes glued to the chart while Princess lets out a big yawn.

“If another lacrosse team comes in today, I might actually quit,” she laments.

“Send them my way,” you say with ease, without missing a beat.

“That’s ten people,” she punctuates, incredulous. “We got lucky they were just kids. Grown-up men who slam into each other while voluntarily chasing a ball scare me.”

“I’m not easily scared,” you carefully tap on the screen, scrolling through some case report, someone’s illnesses broken into signs and terms; but you do pay attention to what she’s saying. You glance up at the nurse, your voice kind: “If you ever need help, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

And then you look over your shoulder as if you can feel him watching — and it’s the same as the first time: your gaze startles him, like would a fire eruption or a ball lightning. But Jack’s greeting stays rooted in his mouth because Mateo sprints in:

“Hey, there’s something wrong with my patient’s veins, can someone take a look?”

And you are by his side and following him out of the hall in what feels like barely a second.

“I’m so grateful for you!” Princess calls after you. Then she spots Jack too, her face expression turning smug. “Oh, hello there, boss,” and she grins like she knows a secret Jack wasn’t let in on.

Turns out, Robby showed his gratitude by taking a sick leave, the first in three years (Jack would’ve sent him home himself if he heard Robby’s muffled coughing one more time). And it left Jack with way more shifts to cover. He readily gulps coffee from his to-go mug as he skims through the list of patients. The others join him soon: Mel smiles at everyone, the ever-optimistic one, Whitaker looks like hasn’t slept in months, and Santos teases him about something Jack doesn’t care to listen to. McKay is running late. Langton walks briskly to the nurses' station, taps on the tabletop right next to Jack.

“Ready to get back in the game?”

“I’ve been in the game for more years than you can count on your fingers,” Jack gives him a cold stare.

Frank sighs, his fingers drumming on the wooden surface, although he sounds barely concerned. “Love the positive attitude. Dr Robby surely won’t be missed.”

“As if you are such a pleasure to work with,” Dana cuts in, hands on her hips. “You guys should redirect that buzzing testosterone into your work. No one is getting paid for whining.”

“Preach,” Jack huffs as he steps away.

He stops himself from immediately going to check up on you. And twenty minutes later, he is glad that he did — you walk back, unruffled as you always are, Matteo tagging after you. His patient is an old lady with thrombocytopenia she probably ignored until it got too bad: there are bruises sprinkled on her arms and legs, a splotch of dried blood under her nose from how often it’s been bleeding. You gave her a platelet transfusion but you suspect it’s cancer; you order more blood tests and bring her a blanket before she even asks for it. Her eyes well up, voice shaking with heartfelt gratitude. And Jack has to remind himself that he can’t pick any favorites, he isn’t in it for the long run; but if he was to pick, it would’ve been an easy choice. And no one lags behind today — he’s got a well-coordinated team, like gears interlocking in a clock, the harmony built out of weeks of practice. They make jokes, share work stories and snacks; but every time Jack’s eyes get back to you, he can’t catch even a ghost of a smile.

He finds that you are very hard to read. And it unnerves him, maybe just a little.

He tries for his attempts to look brief and nonchalant — a kind word here and there, a quick approving look, a dry joke — and you offer nothing in return. As thorough as you are with diagnosing, you take no part in other conversations, you rarely take breaks or stand around. By the time the noon rolls in, Jack is fighting the urge to grab you by the shoulders: hey, take a seat and have something to eat. And tell me how can I cadge a laugh out of you, just one will be enough.

Dana waves a hand before his face, the phone up to her ear. “There’s been some gang fight at the North Side. Four victims coming in, two critical — one shot in the stomach, the other has his head smashed in. Don’t think they both will make it.”

Jack’s bet is on the first guy but it’s the head injury that’s fatal — the victim is pronounced dead, face so disfigured they’ll need a DNA test. Mel looks away in shock, and Santos frowns. Your stare is blank and unimpressed. You volunteer to take the third guy with a pelvic wound — he’s rambling incoherently, the tight bandage over his hip already soaked; you press your hand to it on the way to trauma. Jack leaves the worst case to himself.

“Who’s down for an ex-lap?”

“Can I run the bowel? I’ve never done it,” Santos asks, hopeful.

“Sure. Once we open the abdomen and remove the bullet, you can have your fun,” he offers, and she runs along with joy.

Although Jack can’t imagine a procedure less joyful. Yet, he is fueled by his new-found appreciation for his job so he walks her through the steps: identify the entry wound and cut in, look for the bleeding and what the bullet might’ve hit. It missed the liver by an inch; but to confirm the damage they need to evaluate the area by hand.

Perlah peeks into the room. “Is he stable?”

“Well, unless Dr. Santos gets too excited and makes a bow out of his intestines,” her hands stop, and Jack breathes out a chuckle. “I’m just joking, keep going. I’d say, his vitals do look promising.”

“Then you can keep him down here for a bit. We have a guy with a balloon in his aorta, he’s gotta go up first.”

Jack blinks at her once, twice, the meaning of her words settling in. “Did someone do a REBOA?”

“You bet she did. And it was awesome,” the nurse then scrunches her nose. “Apart from the amount of blood. And by the way, the fourth one only has a broken rib, so no miraculous procedures needed.”

He doesn’t find it funny and he can’t find the word for it: it’s something in between confusion and offence. As soon as Santos’s done with stitches, he strides out to find you.

His turmoil momentarily recedes when he sees one of the cubicle curtains stained, the deep red lurking through. Jack pulls at the material and barges in — and then he’s silenced at the sight. The area looks horrifying: bright streaks of blood left on the floor, the anesthesia trolley, the table with the instruments that you are now collecting, a few droplets smudged over your cheek. Before he’s even angry, there is another feeling — a thought, a pull: if only he could brush that splatter off your face, a few brief seconds for one briefest touch. Of course, he doesn’t.

Jack keeps his hands behind his back. “You didn’t think you should consult with anyone first before doing a damn REBOA?”

“Why would I?” your eyes are on the tools.

“Because it’s dangerous as hell and since I am the attending—”

“I do know protocol. But I also know how fast a human can bleed out. It was a truncal hemorrhage, and you were hands deep in someone’s abdomen. Was I supposed to wait?”

He wishes you were meaner, rougher, anything that would give him an excuse to snap. But you aren’t doing this to show off — your tone is measured and your reasoning is simple: a man was dying and you knew how to save him. Jack realizes it is the same logic he often uses. And he can’t tell what is it that bothers him so much. If Whitaker pulled off something like that, Jack would’ve chosen to commend him. The same goes for Santos, Javadi or King, for any other intern or resident that he can think of... Except, they would’ve asked for his opinion or his help. You didn’t even think to.

Well, Robby warned him you’d be stubborn.

“I want to be informed about any life-altering decisions. At least give me a heads-up so I am not blindsided when a nurse gushes over it in passing,” Jack insists, head tilted slightly so he can catch your gaze.

What he really wants is for you to look at him. You grant him that one wish.

“Will do,” you tell him simply.

But your eyes are still unreadable, a book written in a foreign language, a manuscript he doesn’t know how to decrypt.

And either out of incomprehension or rejection, his brain makes an assumption: maybe you believe that you are better, maybe you think the rules weren’t made for you. You never really gave him cause for rivalry — you are in your final year of residency, and Jack is put in charge. But you are so bluntly independent and reserved, his every try to understand you feels like leaping in the dark. Later that day he can’t help but glimpse into your file — there’s hardly anything of interest: you previously trained in a small clinic, in a nice neighborhood, your letters of recommendation all consist of praises.

What adds to his moroseness is that you fit really well with literally everybody else. Langdon tones down his sarcasm, listens to you like he only does to Robby. Santos discreetly brings you cases she needs advice on, McKay and Mel enjoy your company when you get a free minute. Whitaker seems to be your favorite although Jack isn’t sure why — he deems him soft and insecure; but Dennis does a better job under your guidance. On rare occasions when he’s got a day off, Javadi always takes his place.

Jack figures out everyone’s relationships by his fourth morning shift; he hasn’t gotten any closer to figuring you out. He’s fighting the grimace at how bitter his coffee is when Javadi pops out in the hall and you follow suit. He catches scraps of your conversation: something about a teen with a gashed forehead. Javadi rambles — until you ask her nonchalantly, unprompted. “You don’t like the sight of blood?”

“What? Oh no, it’s fine! I’m totally fine,” Victoria stumbles over the words, but her denial is too meek.

From how nervous she is, Jack guesses that she’s lying. He almost wants to laugh — before a thought comes to his mind: how come he never noticed her fear of blood?

“It’s just a little disturbing sometimes... But I only passed out, like, once or twice.”

“I used to be like that. Fainted many times during blood tests,” you tell her quietly while entering some data.

Jack is so caught in disbelief, he can’t help a glance in your direction. But your sincerity doesn’t seem feigned. Javadi gapes at you.

“And how did you... what did you do to overcome it?”

“I found myself in a situation where someone needed help and there was no one else around to help him,” you shrug. And Jack discerns the subtle reticence behind your tone.

It only spurs Javadi’s interest. “Was there a lot of blood? Like, a heavy bleeding, a deep wound?”

Your fingers freeze over the tablet screen, your facial profile not betraying your true feelings. But Jack swears he can see the tension crawling down your body. You don’t give the answer right away, you weigh the words carefully before you say them.

“A drug overdose, he still had a needle in his arm and I must’ve missed it. Took barely a minute of chest compressions for the needle to fly out across the room. It was a lot of blood to me.”

Javadi’s hopefulness grows dim. “Yeah, I don’t like needles too. I tried drawing blood a few times but the process kinda makes me nauseous, and I can’t force myself to —”

“It’s different when it’s someone you care about.”

Your comment slips out involuntarily — and immediately you look like you want to take it back. But you get it together and meet her eyes, your voice carrying just the right amount of firmness.

“Listen, I’m not suggesting you should torture your family members. But you may not always have attendings by your side or someone else to take your place in case you feel like fainting. If you fall, you can hurt your head, you can hurt a patient, you can disrupt a surgery when every minute counts. I think you have a good head on your shoulders, and I don’t want to downplay your efforts. But please, figure it out. Otherwise, you won’t make for a good surgeon.”

You reassure her you won’t tell anyone her secret. Javadi manages a small smile, a hushed “thank you”. It is a sweet moment, a heart-to-heart chat you bond over; it’s also three times more words than you’ve spoken to Jack in weeks.

But he accepts your silence — as a challenge.

Jack keeps an eye on you, now critical, resisting the gravitation that’s been attracting him to you. Although it’s hard to find the reasons to be hard on you. Whenever he has questions — or more so when he can come up with some, you give detailed replies, and he’s left with nothing to complain about. Your patient satisfaction score is high, you are never facile or reckless with your judgment; with how smart you are, you can give odds to many doctors, him included. And Jack knows he is older, with years of experience under his belt — but he can’t in good faith wish for anyone to go through the same things he did to gain the same knowledge.

On his second week of day shifts he is still clueless about what to make of you. And Jack tells himself that he is simply looking for a connection — except, all his attempts look like he is trying to pick a fight.

“This is a teaching hospital. You are supposed to teach them things,” he grumbles as he meets you outside the trauma room. You got a guy who came in spitting blood — post-tonsillectomy hemorrhage, and things went south pretty quickly. He started choking, crashed, his airways flooded with liquid; you had to intubate him blindly. Whitaker spent an hour by your side, his questions endless — to which you did give answers, barely ever breaking focus, but you only allowed him to use suction.

“He’ll learn plenty if he is attentive enough,” you say, throwing away the gown, trying to put some distance in between you.

Jack doesn’t like it, he keeps pace with you. “Whitaker needs more practice, as much as he can get. He’s not supposed to stand there like some deer who wandered into the yard.”

You whirl around, so fast that Jack comes to a stop when you are separated by merely an inch. And your gaze burns, like lava seeping through the mountain’s restrain.

“And I needed the patient not to die on the table,” you bite back, then breathe in — and then add more coolly. “Dennis will get his chance to shine.”

“And when exactly is that gonna happen?”

“That’s for me to decide,” you state, like you would do a fact that can’t be questioned. “Thank you for your input, Dr. Abbot, but I have to get back to work.”

You turn your back to him and leave him standing there, and Jack almost feels helpless. And that’s the feeling he can’t stand. It simmers in him, it must be the reason his cheeks suddenly feel hot.

Dana tsks as she comes near, her brows furrowed and face visibly concerned.

“You know how I’ve been calling Robby a sad boy? I’m gonna start calling you a pissy boy.”

“Not the worst thing I’ve been called,” he dismisses, a humorless escape attempt. But her fingers grab at his elbow, and he pauses with an annoyed exhale.

“I’ve been watching you hammering away at her for days,” Dana makes sure to lower her voice. “If she was a student, I’d maybe let it slide, but she is a resident, a senior one. And nothing I am seeing suggests she isn’t doing well.”

His eyes dart to her hand; then he glares stubbornly at her. She looks unfazed.

“Jack, you will take it too far one day — and you will regret it,” Dana tries to reason. “She is a good kid and she’s really good at her job. Just let her be.”

“Thank you for your input, Evans. I’d prefer to get back to work,” he frees his arm, and she allows it. But Jack can feel her worried gaze as he walks away.

He doesn’t come home until the twilight hugs the sky, until he feels like he’ll pass out on the next step. Jack wastes hours on attempts to wear himself out: he walks the entire park three times, peeping about in case the puppy comes again. It doesn’t. He stops by the bar he hasn’t been to in a few weeks, orders a beer and sips on it, his musings soon drowned out by the blasting music. The alcohol tastes weird, and the bass guitar gives him a pounding headache. He takes a walk instead of taking a bus home, two miles on foot in hopes he falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.

But the thought of you cuts into his mind as easily as a nail does into a human body, and it stays there, vexing and robbing him of whatever little peace he’s had.

He barely gets any sleep.

And his nights are dreamless.

It’s just another Friday, and these bring in a lot of drunks — from parties and family gatherings, from business meetings that ran late and tense until someone reached for whiskey. Jack stays behind for paperwork, a tedious pastime that keeps him pinned to an uncomfortable chair. He briefly takes eyes off the screen, stretching his neck — and then a noise catches his attention. It’s someone talking in a raised voice, someone who sounds too wasted to be reasoned with. Which sounds like a problem.

Jack finds the source with ease — the nurses all glance in the direction of the trauma room, and in support of their agitation Mateo all but flies out, his face hardened at the edges. Jack gets up and gets closer, his ears open and eyes watchful.

“Should we call security?” Dana asks warily.

Mateo brushes the suggestion off. “No, it’s fine,” — but it sounds like it’s not. “I just need a short break.”

“What’s wrong?” Jack interrupts.

And it isn’t a question but a demand for explanation Mateo can’t reject. He lets out a tired sigh.

“The guy got drunk and couldn’t hold his liquor, some passersby saw him sprawled out in an alley and called the ambulance. Came in with a nasty arm fracture. He’ll live though,” Mateo looks back at the room with obvious disdain. “Unfortunately.”

Jack promptly moves forward. “I will deal with it.”

“Hold on, Rambo,” Dana interjects. And she keeps her eyes on him while she talks to Mateo. “Did he get physical?”

“Nah, he’s too inebriated. Keeps trying to get up from the gurney but mostly he’s all talk.”

More can be heard from where they are standing — it’s some drunken yelling, a disarticulated chain of curse words. And then they hear something break, a dull sound of an object hitting a wall.

In a few seconds comes another one.

“I can’t just let him trash all of our equipment,” Jack gives Dana a pointed look.

She clucks her tongue at his persistence. “It’s not the equipment that I fear for.”

“Rest assured, Evans, I won’t give him another arm fracture.”

“I didn’t think you would, but now that you suggested it so easily—”

“Finally someone decided to take action instead of all this talking,” Perlah remarks, her gaze isn’t on either one of them. And Jack turns to follow it just in time to catch you running right into the room.

His heart falls. Why the hell are you even still here?

And it’s barely three heartbeats before a realization strikes: you can’t go there alone. He can’t let you.

Jack bolts to you without waiting for anyone’s permission. He comes in just in time to see you dodge the trolley the patient pushed at you — it slams into the wall and rolls over, the instruments scattering loudly across the floor. You don’t seem scared, but you are all tensed up, gaze fixed on the guy who’s screaming his lungs out.

“You won’t trick me! I won’t let you experiment on me!”

And you don’t look away once but you must’ve noticed Jack; your voice comes out low. “I think he’s having an episode. He needs benzodiazepines but I can’t get close to administer them.”

“And you should not,” Jack retorts, eyeing the guy with discontent. “You absolutely shouldn’t deal with him on your own. Not when he’s flapping around and yelling like a fucking psycho.”

“Silently watching him wreck the room didn’t seem like a good tactic either.”

In an instant Jack’s gaze is drawn to you, pulse racing as he is struggling to bite down his emotions: why would you put yourself in danger, why can’t you ever back down, why can’t he stay away? And unexpectedly you look at him, and your gaze isn’t a puzzle or a dare but an explanation: you can’t be mad at me for the thing you would’ve done yourself. I know you would have.

The room goes quiet but only for a moment — before another cry comes, and the patient lunges straight at you. Jack’s eye catches the movement, and at the very last second, he moves to stand in the guy’s way.

The drunkard crashes into him, hands swatting at the air, too uncoordinated to land a proper punch. And then all of a sudden he headbutts Jack. The pain is sharp, shooting toward his nose, but Jack manages to stay upright. He can’t see you stopping cold or the security approaching in a hurry and in worry.

Because Jack is only seeing red.

He breathes in through the mouth and grabs the man with both hands, rough and unflinching. Jack pushes him back to the gurney, then throws him on it, face flat against the pillow; his angry cries tone down to weak whimpers.

“Shut the fuck up. Stop moving,” Jack hisses into his ear.

He can taste the blood that oozed down to his lips and he can hear the sound of footsteps in the room. But he doesn’t let go.

Jack feels a hand on his shoulder — he turns to see one of the guards, Ahmad. “Man, let us handle this. C’mon, step away.”

Begrudgingly, Jack does. Ahmad quickly takes his place, he and two other guards strapping the patient down; Mateo wriggles in the middle to sedate the guy. He dozes off, a dark purple bruise already blooming on his forehead, drool at the corner of his mouth.

You are still standing at the exact same spot, but then your eyes land on Jack’s blooded nose, and you immediately fall out of the stupor. You rummage through the nearest drawer and get a few clean cloths, then call for Dana to bring an ice pack. The guards leave but Mateo hangs back; he pulls up a chair for Jack to sit on.

“Are you okay? Any headache or dizziness or—”

“I’m fine, no need to coddle me,” Jack waves off his concerns crankily. Mateo looks at you for some support.

“He needs a head CT,” you say, gaze glued to Jack. “Ask the radiology if they can squeeze him in.”

Mateo nods and takes off with no other questions asked. The silence is now laced with tension, and while Jack’s pain gradually subsides, his anger doesn’t. He’s not the one for chit-chats, and it’s not a 'thank you' that he wants — but an admission: he was right, and you were careless, and maybe this is the one time you can agree with him.

You lean over wordlessly and wipe the dried-up blood, pushing his head back to examine his nose. Your touch is light, fleeting, but his skin heats up under your hands. You take a penlight to check for septal hematoma; then your thumbs move from his cheekbones to his nostrils. Jack doesn’t wince or look away, eyes dark and boring into you, unblinking. You put a finger to his nose and move it slowly from side to side, watching closely as his gaze follows it.

And then you pull away, and something cracks in him, a line formed on the ocean floor after it’s shaken by an earthquake, a force that pushes waves to crash onto the shore. And all his feelings surge up, unstoppable like a tsunami.

You look for more cloths, and only with your back to him, you finally decide to speak:

“Doesn’t look like a fracture but—”

“Are you out of your mind?!” Jack bursts out, the stridency of his voice barely contained.

Your hands flinch at the sound. Jack misses it or maybe chooses to ignore it, too adamant in his displeasure, too wrapped up in it.

“Do you realize how dangerous it was for you to go here alone? What could’ve happened to you if security came late? Or do you just assume it’s not a big deal if you get hurt? Can you for at least a second consider the consequences of your relentlessness, can you imagine how dire they might be? And what it’s like for someone else to throw themselves between danger and you?”

But then you turn to him, and his tirade breaks off, the anger ebbing instantly as he sees your face expression.

It would be easy to assume he must’ve hit a nerve. Except, it looks way worse than that.

Your gaze is swept with pain, eyes wide and bright with tears you are holding back. An inhale quivers at your lips, chest heaving like you are scarcely managing to curb your feelings. Like there’s been a wall you’ve built meticulously over the years, and he didn’t just put a crack in it — no, he tore it down completely, drove through it with a bulldozer, only a mess of rubble left behind. And he knows that’s not something an apology will fix.

Jack feels the guilt already swirling in his chest as he sits straighter, eyes not leaving yours.

“Listen, I didn’t—”

“I heard you loud and clear, Dr. Abbot,” your voice is lacerating, a blade you’ve armed yourself with, steel that cuts him deep. “If my company displeases you so much, I will make sure to limit our interactions. Apologies for any inconvenience.”

You turn away, and when he sees you wipe your cheeks with one quick motion, Jack knows he is the only one to blame. But you don’t let him see your tears nor do you wait for him to talk again. You rush out of the doors, and the words he catches aren’t meant for him:

“Dana, please help Dr. Abbot with the ice pack.”

He hears her coming in and he’s almost ashamed to look — Dana meets his gaze with arms crossed over her chest, shaking her head in disapproval. She doesn’t say a thing and puts ice on his nose with a face that looks like she would rather punch him. Jack doesn’t even try to come up with excuses — he knows that he has none.

He fails to find you after the shift ends: you must’ve sneaked out to avoid him, and he can’t say that he’s surprised. Jack walks home in the rain, not bothering to open the umbrella, the street lights drowning in the puddles underfoot, the wind biting his wet face. He can barely feel it. And in the privacy of his apartment — a cold, half-empty space, walls void of any color — a thought that has been lurking in his mind finally takes shape:

Jack loathes being alone.

And he messed up so badly.

🎵 the title is a quote from Tom Odell’s “Can’t pretend” (the song is just so Jack-coded to me! highly recommend you give it a listen. the small part from 1:29 to 1:49 gives me heart palpitations and is very fitting for this chapter lol).

by “rivals” I meant it’s all in Jack’s head, he’s silly like that 😩 you’ll learn about the reader’s past in the next chapter!

I didn’t specify how big the age gap is exactly. google search told me you get into residency when you are in your 30s, and Abbot is def over 40. but some like to imagine the reader younger, so I didn’t want to ruin that for you.

there are definitely some medical inaccuracies (pretty sure ex-lap isn’t performed in the ER) but I am begging you to ignore that.

dividers by me & plum98.

» I plan on writing 3 parts in total (a prayer circle for my inspiration to stay with me, PLEASE). of course, there will be smut... they just have to learn how to talk to each other first. » read on AO3 » English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes. reblogs and comments are very appreciated! tell me if you want to be tagged ♡

[humanjarvis]

nurse for a day

synopsis: who knew a sick doctor could be such a handful? 

tags: stubborn zayne who hates being sick, reader takes care of him anyway, sleepy delirious zayne, fluff fluff fluff, humor(?), suggestive for .5 seconds word count: 2k 

a/n: i personally think i ate with this one 

It was quiet. Too quiet. 

As you slink through the seemingly empty house, ducking into shadows like you’re on a stealth mission, you really wish your boyfriend weren’t so damn stubborn. 

On your earlier phone call, Zayne had tried admirably hard to mask the nasally tone in his voice—to pretend like his frequent coughs were simply him “clearing his throat.” But you knew better.

He doesn’t get sick often—what with knowing exactly how to prevent it, and all—but when he does, he detests it for several reasons. The most pressing one, at the moment? You love when Zayne is sick.

Not because you think he deserves it, not because you want to see him suffer, but because you get to play nurse. After so many days being taken care of and scolded by the best doctor in Linkon, you finally get to return the favor. 

Except Zayne isn’t particularly…appreciative of the favor. You’re a very strict nurse, he’s frowned at you several times before. You tell him over and over again that you only want him to feel better, but that doesn’t stop him from holing up in a bunker every time he comes down with something. It’s the only time he avoids you. 

And now, he’s hiding from you. In his own home. 

You know he’s here. When you arrived, his freshly washed car was sparkling in the driveway, a full mug of jasmine tea was still steaming on the kitchen countertop, and various office supplies were left scattered across the coffee table. As if he’d heard you coming and frantically abandoned ship. 

You’d searched the usual spots: his empty bedroom, so pristine it looked like a hotel cleaning crew had stopped by; the walk-in closet, to make sure he hadn’t disguised himself among the hangers; and his study, where there’d been nothing but heaps of paperwork threatening the desk’s structural integrity. 

He’s being extra sneaky this time, you scoff to yourself as you tiptoe around upstairs. Room after room, and no endearingly, adorably, annoyingly stubborn doctor inside. 

But then, pressing your ear to the laundry room door, you hear it. 

The unmistakable crinkle of a candy wrapper.

You’ve never felt so lucky that Zayne reserves his self-control for you and not sweets. 

With a deep breath and a crack of your knuckles, you jiggle the doorknob slightly before bursting into the room. The man inside, hunched over the floor next to a tissue box, jumps at the sudden noise before freezing in place. And then, slowly, shyly, he spins to face you with the wide eyes and stuffed cheeks of a disgruntled hamster. 

Zayne has spent enough time with you to know what the unimpressed look on your face means: Explain yourself. 

“I don’t remember you knocking,” he sniffles curtly, unable to hide the way his stuffy nose constricts his throat. The rosy blush on his cheeks is the only indication of his guilt. 

“I don’t remember signing up to date an escape artist,” you shoot back, satisfied with his resulting wince. “What are you doing all the way in here? Was the space under the desk in your study not suitable this time?” 

“Just wanted a—”sniff—“change of scenery,” he jokes lamely, gesturing to the sleek washer and dryer towering over him. 

Sighing, you crouch down in front of him, taking in the wall of chocolate wrappers barricading him in. “Is the idea of me taking care of you really that bad? I’m just trying to help.” 

“That’s exactly it,” he says dryly. “You always help more than what’s needed.” 

At that, your eyes narrow into slits sharp enough to cut through bone. His bones, if he’s not careful. “Excuse me?” 

“I mean,” he clears his throat, grimacing at the dull burn in his sinuses, “You always help me exactly how I need it, and more.” 

“That’s what I thought you said. Now, come downstairs so I can give you the medicine you need, Dr. Zayne. And hand over the candy.” 

It was no secret that Zayne loved sweet things. The confiscated tub of chocolates sitting on the counter was evidence enough. 

But as you look down at his frowning face, cup of chemically red liquid in hand, you can’t help but wonder if it’s because Zayne loves sweet things that he hates taking medicine. 

Once he’d finally trudged into the kitchen, you’d sat him down on a barstool before fishing the dreaded bottle out of the cabinet. “Why not a lozenge instead?” he’d asked. “One of the citrus ones.” 

You hadn’t fallen for his trap, of course. But as he eyes you like he’ll make a break for it any second now, a weary part of you wishes you had. 

“You know,” you lean in conspiratorially, “they say if you plug your nose, you won’t taste it as much.” 

“Illness doesn’t make me a fool,” he mutters bitterly. “I, more than anyone, know how fruitless that trick often is. It doesn’t even work on the kids in the pediatric ward anymore.” 

“And why would a 27-year-old man need the same encouragement as sick children, I wonder?” you crack slyly. 

Zayne looks away, taking a sudden interest in the floor tiles. 

Snorting, you double-check the dosage in the medicine cup and hold it out to him. He regards it with abject misery, his big, hazel eyes staring up at you pleadingly, and you feel a crack in your resolve.

“Fine,” you grumble, pivoting to raid the pantry behind you. Retrieving the most acceptable pastry you can find—there are about 7 different options—you set the blueberry muffin on the island in front of him. 

At the peace offering, those hazel eyes light up slightly, driving out some of the pallor on his face. With a deep breath, Zayne grunts softly before downing the liquid like a shot, shuddering at the aftertaste. Eyes closed in a lasting grimace, he reaches blindly for the muffin before you push it into his grasp, and he sighs in contentment when he bites into it.

Running a hand through his dark hair, you can’t help but grin fondly. 

If only the pediatric ward could see him now. 

After Zayne recovered from the horrors of modern medicine, he’d sullenly asked for more tea, since the batch he’d made earlier was cold now. Pinching his cheek, you’d sent him to sulk on the living room couch so you could keep an eye on him. Which had worked, for several minutes. You’d gathered the ingredients, and he’d flipped blankly through a journal, intermittent sniffles reassuring you of his presence. 

But as you gawk at the abandoned sofa, you realize he must have ducked you while your back was turned. 

Yep. Definitely an escape artist.

With a frustrated growl, you hurriedly plunk the tea bag in and listen for signs of movement. Hearing the faint clicks of a keyboard, you stomp up the stairs to his study, not caring if the drink in hand sloshes over the rim of his favorite penguin mug. Serves him right.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you snap, setting the cup on his desk to put your hands on your hips.

“Working,” he answers with an innocent upturn of his lips. 

“I mean,” you clarify, “what do you think you’re doing when you should be resting?”

Too distracted to keep typing, Zayne switches his attention to the stack of papers before him. “I feel much better already,” he lies flatly, breaking eye contact when yours bore into his. 

As an incredulous laugh escapes you, you throw your hands up in exasperation. “What would you say to one of your patients if they tried to work through an illness?” 

“I’d say that as a medical professional, I only have the jurisdiction to advise them on the best course of treatment. Once out of hospital care, it’s up to them to exercise judgment and decide if they’re able to work or not. Like I’m doing now,” he retorts, and you almost commend his ability to bullshit such a polished answer.

“Right, of course,” you entertain him sweetly. “So is that why you just scrawled your signature through the bottom of that confidentiality agreement?”

With sluggish alarm, Zayne jerks his head down to survey the damage, and sure enough, his swooping penmanship has rendered the contract illegible.

“How could I have missed the signature line?” he whispers, face aghast with disbelief. “I…I don’t even know what…”

“I do,” you sing triumphantly, walking around to haul him up from his armchair. “I know exactly what’s wrong.” 

The main reason Zayne hates being sick isn’t the symptoms. It isn’t the unneeded pity, the inopportune sick days, or even the insidious slide of what tastes like poison down his throat.  

No. Unfortunately, for your stubborn snowman of a boyfriend, the main reason Zayne hates being sick is simply of his nature: cold medicine makes him terribly drowsy. 

Its heightened effect on him is just like his alcohol intolerance—something in his genes just can’t handle outside influences. 

So as you lead him back to rest on the sofa, laying his head across your lap, it becomes clear you’re now dealing with an oversized koala. 

“You smell nice. I think. I can’t really smell anything,” he murmurs into your navel, tickling your skin with his rhythmic deep breaths. 

“Mm. You smell nice too, under the medicine scent. Like jasmine tea.”

As you gently massage his scalp, he burrows into your stomach, lifting his head up seconds later as if remembering something. 

“Did you d’something different with your hair today? Looks nice,” he slurs, blinking at you with sleep-laced eyes. 

“Yep!” Nope. “Thank you for noticing, Zaynie. So observant even when you’re sick,” you coo, rubbing soothing circles into his back. 

With a delirious hum, he smiles softly at the praise before his gaze lands on your chest, rising and falling above him. “You’re very…warm,” he whispers, baby pink tongue wetting his lips. But just as he leans up to nuzzle into you, you stop him halfway. 

“Oh no, you don’t,” you chide, catching him by the scruff. “Not right now, at least.” 

A quiet sigh is his only resistance, and as he slumps back down, he brings a hand around your waist to leave a lingering kiss on your stomach. 

“Are you tired, Zayne?” you ask, cradling his head in your palms to meet his clouded gaze.

“Mm. I’d like to go to bed now.”

As you turn off the bedside lamp, preparing to leave Zayne in peace for the night, feverishly warm hands pull you down onto the mattress. Lying beside him, you flutter your eyes closed as he presses a tender kiss to your cheek. 

“Aren’t you worried about getting me sick?” you question, raising a brow in the moonlight. 

Chuckling, he shakes his head languidly. “Sinus infections aren’t contagious,” he yawns. “But even if they were, transmission would only give me the chance to look after you in return.”

“Are you sure? Someone once told me I’m too stern of a nurse. I’d hate to be the same way as a patient.” 

Zayne frowns contemplatively as he rests a hand on your hip. “Even though your methods are…involved,” he swallows, “I appreciate the consideration you’ve shown me today. Thank you for taking care of me.” 

“Approval from the illustrious Dr. Zayne,” you whisper, gently tapping his reddened nose. “I hope this means he won’t hide from me next time.” 

As he winces, you can almost see the events of this afternoon replaying in his mind. “If he can help it, there won’t be a next time. But yes, I won’t hide from you again. I truly do feel better with you here beside me.” 

“And you’ll feel even better with proper rest,” you remind him. “Sleep. I’ll stay right here until you do.”

Finally relenting, he turns on his side, holding you to him like a child with a teddy bear. 

And though he’s never believed in them before, when Zayne wakes the next morning, nose clear and fever broken, he thinks you might be a miracle worker. 

[mattybsgroupie]

— FUCKING MATT IN PUBLIC

“can we… wait?” matt asks as soon as you adjust yourself on your sit, ready to get up. you furrow your eyebrows, silently asking matt to explain himself. “i c-can’t get up” he confesses, crossing his arms together.

“what do you mean you can’t get up?” you say, tilting your head. matt chews on his bottom lip, and you take a good look at him. maybe he ate too much, or was feeling uncomfortable. but as your eyes scan through matt’s body, you notice what he was trying to hide — a boner.

you chuckle at him, you fingers going to the back of his head, gently tugging on his hair. “would you mind explaining?” you ask, and matt lets out a heavy sigh at your sweet tone. “you just look so good” he admits, “d-dunno… just got excited”

you nod, your gaze flickering between the restaurant and his growing erection. you move closer to him, resting one of your hands on his thigh, groping his flesh. matt chokes on a moan due the sudden contact, trying to cover his reaction with a cough.

he hides his face on the crook of your neck, pretending to press a kiss onto your skin. “please, it hurts” he says, thrusting his hips upwards, begging for a bit of friction. you reach for his crotch, palming his cock over his clothes and gradually increasing the pressure, allowing matt to grind against your hand.

matt muffles on your ear, trying to form a proper sentence. “you’re not gonna cum in your pants like a virgin little boy are you?” you tease, receiving a long whine in response — of course he was. “really? wouldn’t you rather fuck mama right in that alley we passed by before entering?” you ask, and matt immediately stops his movements. he pulls away, widening his blue orbs and gulping, nodding eagerly. he looks down at his pants, realizing there was no way could hide his hardened dick.

he timidly gets up, following your steps through the front door. matt’s cheeks are burning red, embarrassment taking over him as he walks out with a pathetic boner between his legs.

you drag matt to the nearest alley, slamming his body against the brick wall. you trail kisses over his collarbone as you unbutton his shirt, leaving a huge mark on his pale skin. “my needy needy boy” you coo, noticing matt grinding against your thigh once more.

your fingers travel to his waistband, unzipping his jeans and entering his underwear. matt gasps as you wrap your knuckles around his shaft, twisting your fist in a quick pace. his mouth falls open, a perfect ‘o’ shape as he throws his head back. it’s all too much — your voice, your touch, the fear and risk of getting caught.

“inside” he moans. contrary to his pillow prince instincts, matt holds your hips closer to him, tightening his grip. “need inside mama please” matt begs, his tone a little too loud. you chuckle at his desperation before lifting your skirt and removing your panties, hearing matt whining at the sight. and you know he’s not going to shut up any time soon.

“shhh” you shush him, glueing your chest against his. you cup his cheeks, gently caressing his skin with your thumb. matt nods, eager to please you. “you wanna get caught don’t you?” you ask as you lower yourself on his cock.

matt’s whimpers turn into small cries as you start to move, feeling his dick fill you up entirely. his oozing, swollen tip hits your cervix and your pussy immediately contracts around his girth, a loud moan escaping from the back of his throat. you roll your eyes, both form pleasure and annoyance. matt won’t remain quiet, but a solution comes to your mind.

you grab your wet — soaked — panties, taking advantage of matt’s submission. you shove the fabric inside his mouth, and matt groans since he can no longer speak. he’s intoxicated by your taste, your scent taking over his senses.

“much better” you praise, bouncing on his cock. you can feel the knot in your lower tummy tightening, your approaching orgasm causing your legs to tremble. matt wraps his large, cold palms around your thighs, keeping your balance. he thrusts into you, bruising your sweet spot countless times. “wan cum baby boy? fill me up real good?” you ask as matt drools on your panties, completely drenching them.

it doesn’t take long until matt’s orgasm washes over him, his warm, thick cum spurting painting your walls in white. you cum soon after, your leaking juices coating his girth in wetness.

matt pulls out, panting heavily. a naughty, satisfied smile dancing across his face. “let’s go you loud, needy boy… i’m gonna finish taking care of you at home” you say as you finally remove your panties from his mouth, placing a kiss on his lips before putting them on again.

DAY TWO! thank you so much for the overwhelming support on this project 🤍 i’m glad you guys are enjoying it so much! if you would like to be added to the taglist, please comment on this post! love yall sm mwah

[chuxmy]

Can you do advice 3? I really liked the 1 and 2 and i cant get enough

Advice.. III

Pairings: Geum Seongje x Fem!Reader

Summary: The guys want to find out who got you smiling like that, but they were way too close to find out.

Warnings: physical violence, unwanted touching, harrasment, strong language

A/N: I’m reallyyyy happy that you like it 💕 Enjoooy

☜︎ Prev Next ☞︎

You were barely hearing anything around you.

The guys were talking, joking, throwing half-hearted punches, nudging each other like usual. You were sitting with Sieun, Juntae, Baku and Gotak outside a small convenience store near school. An empty ramen cup steamed at your side. Someone handed you a drink. You nodded, murmured thanks.

But your mind was elsewhere.

Still back in that quiet corner of the hallway where Geum Seongje had kissed you for the first time.

The memory clung to your skin like static

His hand curled behind your neck, the warm pressure of his lips brushing yours, hesitant for only a second before deepening, as if he’d been holding back for too long.

The way he said , “You make it hard to ignore you.”

You were still feeling it. The flush in your chest, the phantom pressure on your lips. You couldn’t stop biting them, brushing your fingers over your mouth like the kiss had left something visible.

“Yo.”

You blinked.

Gotak was looking at you from across the bench. “You good?”

“Yeah,” you said too quickly. “I’m fine.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’ve been zoning out the whole time. You look like you’re hiding something.”

“I’m not.”

“You smiled at your water bottle just now.”

You froze.

Sieun looked up briefly from his phone. “Is it a guy?”

You nearly choked. “W-What?”

Baku snorted. “It is a guy! Look at her face!”

You covered your mouth with your hand. “It’s not—! No. You’re all seeing things.”

Gotak leaned back with a teasing grin. “Let’s guess who it is. Someone from school?”

“No,” you said quickly. Too quickly.

“Someone we know?”

You stiffened.

Juntae watched you carefully. “Wait… wait a second. Is it… someone you shouldn’t be with?”

You stared straight at the ground, heart pounding.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket.

You pulled it out without thinking.

[Unknown Contact]

Rooftop. 7 PM. Don’t be late.

No name. Just the message. But you knew who it was. Knew that texting you at all was risky for him. Knew that your fingers were already curling tighter around the phone as your stomach twisted with nervous excitement.

You looked up and realized Juntae had seen the screen.

His brow furrowed. “Who’s texting you without a name?”

You locked the phone and slipped it back in your pocket. “Nobody.”

“It’s not nobody if you’re about to pass out blushing.”

You stood abruptly. “I’ve gotta go.”

“All of a sudden?”

“Yeah. Homework.”

“No, you don’t,” Baku said.

But you were already walking away, ignoring their voices behind you, hoping they wouldn’t follow. Hoping they wouldn’t put the pieces together.

Because how could you explain to them that you kissed the last guy in the world you were supposed to?

That Seongje of all people had kissed you like he meant it. Like he’d never done it before.

That your heart still hadn’t slowed down since.

The sky had turned amber, streaked with gold and charcoal as the sun began to set. The air was warm, humming with the lazy energy of a spring evening. You sat beside Geum Seongje on the rooftop of an empty school building, legs dangling over the edge. You’d been there for an hour, just talking. Or more like… he listened to you talk.

Seongje never talked much unless he had something smart to say. But when you were alone with him, he didn’t always need words. Sometimes he just looked at you, his expression softer than the one he wore around others less armor, more curiosity.

You turned your head, catching him watching you again.

“What?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He looked away, lips twitching. “You’ve got something on your face.”

You wiped your cheek instinctively. “Where?”

“There,” he pointed vaguely, then leaned in without warning. He kissed the spot instead light, deliberate his lips brushing just beneath your cheekbone. “Got it.”

You glared at him, blushing. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“I know,” he said smugly, but his voice dropped as he added, “but you still like me.”

You bumped his shoulder. “Barely.”

He chuckled under his breath. But then he leaned back on his elbows, gazing at the sky, his face unreadable again.

You lay back beside him, looking up too. For a moment, you just breathed together. Quiet. Peaceful. Like he didn’t have ties to something dangerous.

Eventually, you sighed and sat up. “I should go. The guys are probably wondering where I went.”

He didn’t move for a beat. Then he stood, brushing off his jeans. “Want me to walk you?”

You smiled. “No. Someone might see.”

He nodded slowly, and you knew what he wasn’t saying It’s not safe. But I won’t risk getting you involved.

So you left alone, the ghost of his kiss still lingering on your skin.

You took a shortcut home, familiar alleyways between apartment blocks, the concrete lit by weak orange streetlamps. You didn’t think twice. Not until you turned the corner and realized you weren’t alone.

A group of older boys stood there. About six of them, leaned casually against crates and stairs, smoking, laughing, whispering too low for you to hear. They didn’t look like strangers. Their uniforms were unbuttoned, slouched. And when one of them turned and made eye contact with you, your stomach dropped.

Oh oh.

You tried to back away, quietly. But your shoe scuffed the pavement.

They all looked up.

One of them stepped forward, dark eyes narrowing. “Yo,” he said. “You lost, little thing?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You felt your throat close.

Another leaned into the circle, amused. “She’s cute. You followin’ someone? You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I didn’t know,” you said quickly. “I was just walking home, wrong turn, I’ll go back.”

“Not so fast,” the first one said, stepping in front of you. “You heard anything? Saw anything?”

“I don’t even know who you are—”

Wrong answer.

The boy grabbed your wrist roughly. “Liar. You don’t end up here by accident.”

“I swear—!”

Another boy joined, arms crossed. “Who are you? Say your name.”

You shook your head. “It doesn’t matter please, just let me go—”

He raised a hand. Not to wave.

To strike.

And it landed.

The slap cracked across your face, hot and loud. Your head snapped sideways, cheek stinging. You stumbled, nearly falling.

The world tilted. Your eyes watered not from the pain, but the fear.

And then—

“What the fuck are you doing?”

That voice. His voice.

It came like a growl, low and furious.

All heads turned.

And Geum Seongje was there.

He stepped into the circle like he didn’t care there were six of them. Like it didn’t matter if they were Union or not. His eyes were locked on you, and when he saw the red mark blooming across your face, his entire body tensed like a loaded weapon.

The boy who slapped you looked confused for half a second.

“Seongje? She didn’t say who she was we were just—”

Seongje punched him so hard he dropped.

No hesitation. No words.

Just a fist straight to the jaw, the sound of bone on bone, and then the boy was on the ground groaning. Blood smeared his lip.

The rest of the group moved instantly but Seongje turned, face cold as ice.

“Anyone else want to explain why you laid a hand on her?” he said, voice low and deadly.

They froze.

One of them tried to speak. “We didn’t know she was yours—”

“She’s not property,” he snapped. “She’s off-limits. That should’ve been obvious the second you saw her face.”

You stood frozen, still holding your cheek, your breath shallow and quick. Seongje walked straight to you. You saw the change happen in him again the fury draining into something sharp and quiet as he looked you over. His hand came up slowly, carefully, fingers brushing your chin to tilt your face toward the light.

When he saw the red print, he swore under his breath.

“You okay?” he asked, low.

You nodded shakily. “I didn’t mean to come here— I didn’t know—”

“Shhh,” he murmured, stepping in closer. “It’s not your fault.”

Then he turned back to the boy still groaning on the ground.

But you grabbed his sleeve. “Don’t. Please. You’ve already done enough.”

He stilled.

For a second, it looked like he might fight you on it. His hands flexed, still twitching with anger.

Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and snapped a photo of the guy’s bloody face.

“You tell the others,” he said to the group. “Anyone touches her, they deal with me. Got it?”

They all nodded, dead silent.

Seongje looked at you again. “Come on.”

He led you out of the alley without another word. You didn’t speak until the lights of the main street hit your face, soft and safe.

He finally stopped, pulling you gently to face him.

His eyes scanned you again checking every inch, like he was trying to make sure you were still whole.

“I told you not to walk alone,” he muttered.

“I didn’t know they’d be there.”

“You shouldn’t have had to worry about that.”

Silence stretched between you.

You whispered, “You were really going to kill him, weren’t you?”

“I still might,” he said darkly. Then softer “No one touches you. Ever.”

You looked up at him. “Why do you care so much?”

He stared at you for a second then pulled you into him suddenly, fiercely. His arms locked around you, his chin resting in your hair. You felt him breathe in slow, steady, like he needed to remind himself you were real.

“I don’t know how to do this right,” he whispered. “But I know I can’t lose you.”

You held him tighter.

And for the first time in all the chaos, you felt safe.

[jaylaxies]

JEALOUSY LOOKS GOOD ON ME!

PAIRING: yang jungwon x fem!reader

GENRE/CW: smut, angst, unprotected sex, jealousy, possessiveness, mentions of calling someone mid sex, mentions of nicknames, mentions of jay.

WORD COUNT: 4349 words.

SYNOPSIS: It was supposed to be just friends with benefits—no strings attached, no feelings, no late-night jealousy, but all it took was one party, one touch from someone else, and it sent Jungwon unraveling into something darker, and deeper. Now, he’s not asking who you belong to—he’s showing you, and the world.

WARNING: 18+ content, minors dni.

A/N: hihi, angels! i finally wrote a jungwon fic aaa this was supposed to be 1k words long but here we are <3 i hope y’all enjoy reading it <33 all likes, comments, reblogs are highly appreciated! it keeps me motivated! iloveyou all and happy reading <33

“You always look the prettiest when you’re about to walk away from me, huh?” 

You paused mid-way applying your lip gloss, jaw clenching at the sudden intrusion which you didn’t appreciate one bit. You could see him through the mirrors clearly as he leaned against the doorframe of your room, arms crossed as he stared at you with dark eyes. 

His voice was calm—almost sounding lazy to you, yet it slithered into your spine like a warning. 

He looked good—too good for your liking, clad in his casual blue jeans and a black button up, sleeves rolled up casually as his dark permed hair covered his forehead, jaw tight as he waited for your reply. 

You weren’t sure why he was here, but then again, you were the one who gave him the passkey to your apartment, hence, you’ll be facing the consequences. 

“What?” You asked, keeping your voice in check, not bothering to turn around. 

His expression was unreadable, eyes stuck on your figure, raking you up and down, especially paying attention to your little black dress that hugged your body a little too well for his liking, “you’re going to the party dressed like that?” 

You twisted the cap of the gloss shut, taking your time with it as you replied, “hm, why wouldn’t I?” 

“Jay will be there.”

That’s it, that’s the reason why he’s here. The reason behind your tension that’s been eating you both throughout the day, enough for you to turn around and face Jungwon now, heart pounding despite your efforts to appear confident. 

“So?” You challenged him. 

He scoffed, pushing himself off of the doorframe, taking slow steps towards you, “so—he’s been all over you lately.” 

“Is that jealousy, Jungwon?” You scoffed as he stood close to you, a little too close for your liking as he towered over your figure, “because the last time I checked, you’re not my boyfriend.”

“Yeah, I know. But he’s not yours either.”

The silence after that is thick as you glare at him with anger bubbling up inside of you, “so what exactly are you implying here?”

He swiped his tongue on his bottom lip, hesitating slightly—the first crack in his masked, nonchalant persona. 

“Y’know, I just think it’s funny. You say that we’re just fucking, but the second someone else even looks your way—I fucking lose it, I can’t breathe.” Jungwon seethes out. 

You blink, almost stunned at his sudden confession.

He shook his head though, replacing the melancholic look on his face with a devilish smirk, “but, hey! Jay might just be a better match for you, right? He’d probably remember to text you back, and maybe he won’t leave the second you fall asleep, right?” He taunted you, leaning down enough for his nose to brush faintly against yours. 

Your breath hitched, his words hitting you harder than you expected. 

“Fuck you,” you whisper, full of rage. 

“You already do, kitten,” he chuckled. 

You move back, throwing your lip gloss on him on your way out the room, which he catches with ease, a bitter laugh escaping his throat, “yeah, go ahead! Run to him. At least then we won’t be pretending that this thing between us doesn’t mean something.”

You hate him for saying it like that. For turning it into your fault when he’s the one who built the walls first. He’s the one who laid out the rules.

“You made the rules, Jungwon,” you snapped, “don’t you dare get mad at me for playing the game you clearly started.” 

His face almost twitched into an angry snarl, but he held himself back—his words? Emotions? He wasn’t sure either. 

“See yourself out once you’re done,” you muttered, leaving him standing alone in your room. 

And just like that, you’re gone. Like Jungwon said, you looked pretty—pretty to the point that he couldn’t leave you at the party alone. So, he did what he had to—follow you. 

Maybe being at a party wasn’t the brightest of the ideas for your distraction. The lights were glowing far too much for your liking, heat too high, broken laughter and the smell of perfumes all melting into one beneath the pulsating lights. The steady bass seemed to be in tune with everyone’s heartbeat and you were already out of sync. 

You stood at the end corner of the room, watching the chaos unfold, your face showing slight interest as to not seem out of place. However, your eyes keep wandering around in search of something—in search of him. 

It was a promise you made as you left, that you wouldn’t look for him, that you came here to forget the fight and to prove to yourself that you were unaffected—that nothing you shared with Jungwon meant anything. 

It was as if your body was wired to his presence, you could feel it before you even spotted him in the crowd. He was here. Jungwon. 

Leaning against the farthest wall to you, one arm lazily draped over the edge of the counter, head tilted in a way which made him look maddeningly attractive, still clad in his black shirt, a few top buttons undone, enough to show his clavicle where a gold chain rested perfectly. 

He hadn’t seen you yet. 

Or maybe he had, and just chose not to react, which was more hurtful, stinging you harder than it should. 

“Damn,” a voice interrupted your massive train of thoughts, “didn’t expect you to show up looking like this,” Jay said, his usual warm smirk plastered onto his face, coming close to stand next to you. 

You managed to put a lazy smile on your face, turning to look his way, your laugh light but automatic, “hm? And what does this look like?”

Jay chuckles, far too attractive for his own good, “like you’re here to ruin people.”

“Maybe I am,” you say, taking a sip of your drink, something sugary, cold, numbing. 

Jay’s hand brushes against your lower back, simply testing how far you’ll allow him to go. So you don’t stop him, you let him be. 

You’re aware of his body heat, the way his eyes look you up and down. You’re also aware that across the room, Jungwon has finally decided to pay you attention. Now, he’s watching, his gaze locked on the way Jay is leaning into you, how your hand casually rested on Jay’s chest as he said something in your ear to make you laugh. 

What makes him mad is how you keep your eyes solely on Jungwon, well knowing he’s watching your every move, his stare burning into you like a brand. 

His expression was unreadable at first, almost calm before he found himself gripping the glass a little too hard around the rim, a tic visible in his jaw, a slow swipe of his tongue on his bottom lip as if he was preparing himself for a mission. He looked as if he’d break something. 

The second you smile and lean into Jay, Jungwon starts walking towards you, not rushed, but with burning anger as if he tried to contain himself, only for him to explode instead. His presence hits you first—hot, almost electric. 

“Y/N.” He takes your name, voice full of spite and authority. 

“Hey, man—” 

“Not talking to you,” Jungwon cuts in, not letting Jay say a word to him, eyes fixated on your face. His tone is eerily calm, the kind that comes before the storm that shatters everything. 

You stiffen, “what are you doing here?”

He chuckles darkly, “I could ask you the same thing,” he says, staring at your waist, where Jay’s hand rested so naturally, “but I already know,” he clicks his tongue, shaking his head before looking up again. 

“You don’t get to do this,” you seethe out, “you don’t get to show up and act like—”

“Like what?” He challenges, brows raised, stepping further into your space, “like I care?” 

You go still, his words hitting you harder than ever, a low blow indeed, which only makes him lean in closer, “you wanted me to see you? I did. Wanted me to watch while he put his hands on you like he’ll ever have you the way I do?” 

Jay shifts besides you, tension rising as if the room had turned ten degrees hotter all of a sudden. 

“Is he bothering you?” Jay asked, Jungwon’s eyes flicking to him, jaw tightening. 

“You should leave,” he said. 

“Or what?”

“Or you’ll find out why she never makes those sounds for you, yeah?” Jungwon felt like a madman, challenging Jay as if he was nothing. 

“Fucking stop it, Jungwon!” You shout. 

He doesn’t move, doesn’t even bother blinking, eyes locked onto yours. 

“I don’t know what your problem is dude—”

“My problem,” Jungwon says slowly, turning to Jay, “is that you’re touching something that belongs to me.”

Your face is on fire by now, heartbeat erratic at his words. It shouldn’t feel this way, you should hate him, “I’m not a fucking thing.” 

“You’re mine.” He said in a beat, words soft and final, hitting you harder than they should. 

Jay’s jaw clenches, “don’t talk to her like that.”

“Oh she lets me do it alright. Don’t talk like you know what we are.”

You stop breathing. We. That’s the first time he’s said it. 

“Is it true?” Jay asks you. 

You open your mouth to speak, only for no words to come out of them, because in all honesty—you didn’t even know anything anymore. 

Then Jungwon scoffs, leaning into you again. 

“Tell me,” he practically growls, “do his hands feel better than mine?”

Your throat tightens, heat creeping up your neck as you try your best to look unbothered, “you don’t get to ask me that.”

“Oh fucking hell I don’t,” he snaps, “you show up here with him, dressed like that, smiling as if you’ve never known better, huh? I do get to ask, kitten.”

That cursed nickname again, it’s enough to send a shiver down your spine, but you cross your arms instead, nails digging into your own skin. 

“You’re the one who leaves, did you forget?”

“You pushed.”

“Because I was the only one feeling anything, Jungwon. You were fine as long as I stayed quiet, stayed casual. But the second I wanted more—”

“I never fucking said I didn’t want more.”

“No, of course! You just made sure I never expected it.” The air between you is thick, suffocating.

He steps closer. You don’t bother moving.

“You let him touch you,” he says tightly, “you let him look at you like he could ever fucking have you.”

“Maybe I wanted him to.” Your voice is quieter now, but it hits harder.

He stares at you, his expression twisting, “don’t.”

“Maybe I wanted to know what it felt like,” you continue, forcing the words past the knot in your chest. “To be wanted without being hidden. To be chosen.”

He looks like you just punched the air out of him.

You hate how good that makes you feel.

You hate how much it hurts.

“Maybe I wanted him to kiss me.”

The muscle in his jaw twitches.

“Say it again.”

You swallow, “Maybe I still want him to.”

That does it.

He grabs your wrist—not to hurt, not to pull—just to feel that you’re real. That you’re still here.

“Say it looking at me, go on.”

You do, and for the first time all night, neither of you blink. 

“I want him to kiss me.”

The lie hangs there. Heavy. Bitter. You’re shaking, he sees it, “then why are you still here?” he asks.

A moment. A pause in the noise. A second where the floor feels like it might crack open. You stare up at him, heart thudding, then you smile up at him with a smirk.

“Solid question.”

And you turn, you walk away. You feel the silence snap behind you like a whip. You don’t get far. You’re five steps out when he comes after you, his fingers wrap around your wrist and yank you back, your back hits the wall around the corner—shadowed, dark, loud music muffled—and his body cages yours in.

Eyes wild, darker than ever. You had never seen him this mad—this desperate.

“You really thought I’d let you walk away?”

“You always do.”

“Not this time.” He’s breathing like he ran through fire to get to you, “you wanted a reaction?” he breathes out, “fuck—congratulations because you got one.”

You say nothing.

His hands rest against the wall on either side of your face. He leans in, his mouth a breath from yours.

“You think he could make you feel what I do? You think he’d know how to touch you without you teaching him from scratch?”

You close your eyes, throat burning as you mumble out, “God—fuck you.”

“You’ve tried,” he whispers, “and you keep coming back.”

You open your eyes.

“So what? Are you going to drag me out of here now?” You mean it as a challenge.

But Jungwon’s eyes—they flick down to your lips, and something in him just breaks. You see it happen, no hesitation, no warning.

Just movement.

He grabs your wrist, the same one Jay touched, and pulls—hard. You stumble, breath catching, but his grip only tightens. He doesn’t speak, he doesn’t look at anyone, not even you—It’s like he can’t.

Like if he meets your eyes, he’ll lose the thin thread of control keeping him from tearing your clothes off right here. He weaves through the crowd like a storm parting the sea. You hear someone call after you—Jay’s voice, confused, concerned. Jungwon doesn’t even blink.

The front door bursts open with how angry he is. Cold air caresses your skin harshly, and he still doesn’t bother stopping, hauling you down the steps, across the sidewalk, to his car like a man possessed.

You open your mouth to speak, only to be cut off, “Jungwon—”

“Don’t,” he mutters. 

“Wait—”

“Don’t talk to me right now,” his voice is low, rough, almost shaking with the jealousy burning him alive. “If you say one more word, I swear I’ll fuck you in the backseat just to shut you up.”

Your stomach flips, your legs barely keep up as he unlocks the door, yanks it open, and practically shoves you inside. Not violently—but with purpose. Like if he doesn’t touch you, own you, now, he might lose what’s left of himself.

He gets in. Slams the door, followed by utter and complete silence, to the point you were scared of breathing too loud, your thighs rubbing against one another with anticipation? Anxiety? You didn’t know anymore. 

You glance at him—his jaw tight, nostrils flared, fingers white knuckled around the steering wheel.

“Jungwon,” you whisper.

He turns his head slowly, looking at you like he’s seeing nothing but red, “I don’t care if you hate me after this,” he mutters. “I don’t care if you scream and fight and curse my name.”

A pause, a deep breath, a statement that left no room for argument, “but you’re coming home with me.”

That’s when you realize that right now—there’s no reasoning with him. He’s not hearing anything anymore, not your protests, not your pain, not your fear or want or anger.

He’s hearing everything you didn’t say.

All the begging between the words, all the need in the silence, all confessions you never dared speak.

The engine roars to life, tires screeching as he drives—fast, so determined, his hand gripping the wheel as the other one curled into a fist, holding himself back. 

You don’t speak again.

Because, now, you want Jungwon’s actions to speak louder than his words. 

The moment the door slams shut behind you, silence drops, you barely got time to take a breath before Jungwon’s hands were on you—pushing you, grabbing you, dragging you back by the wrist before you can take a single step deeper into the apartment.

“You want to piss me off?” he seethes, lips near your ear, “you want to talk about Jay?”

He spins you, slams your back against the wall.

You gasp—but you’re not afraid of him. You’re afraid of what’s to come, lit from the inside, burning with everything you didn’t get to say, everything you couldn’t scream back at him at the party.

His breath fans across your cheek, hot and shaking from anger, from the need of wanting you, “you knew what you were doing,” he growls, eyes locked on yours, “wearing that dress—laughing with him. Letting him put his hand on your waist.”

“So what?” you snap. “You didn’t want me there anyway, right?” You shove at his chest, he doesn’t budge.

“You said you didn’t care. You said it was just sex. So why do you care now?”

His jaw flexes. His silence is deafening.

“Answer me,” you spit.

“Because I’ve been going fucking insane,” he explodes.

His fist slams into the wall beside your head—not too close, but enough that you feel the vibration in your ribs.

“Because every time I close my eyes, I see you with him.” He leans in—nose brushing yours, lips barely an inch away, “and I want to kill him for touching what’s mine.”

The word echoes between you. Heavy. Final.

You let out a shaky breath.

“You don’t own me,” you whisper.

“No?” he breathes, hand sliding up your throat to cup your jaw. “Then why are you here?”

You glare at him.

“Because you dragged me—”

“Oh no, baby. You could’ve walked away.” His thumb brushes your bottom lip, “but you didn’t.”

He kisses you. It’s not sweet. Not soft. It’s brutal. A crash of mouths and breath and bruised desperation. You kiss him back harder, messy enough for you two to gasp for air. 

Your hands tangle in his hair, his teeth scrape your bottom lip, agitating you enough for you to bite him, he groans into your mouth like it hurts, bleeding slightly, letting you taste himself at its worst. 

“You said you wanted Jay to kiss you,” he murmurs against your lips. “Say it again.”

You hesitate.

“Go on.”

You look him dead in the eye as you say, “I did,” pushing for a second to let him react to this information. 

His pupils blow wide, only darkness in them and a reflection of your lying self. 

“Wrong fucking answer, princess.” He throws your phone on the bed, “you want to mess with me?”

He grabs your waist, lifts you, throws you onto the mattress as you let out a yelp, trying your best to adjust into the new position but Jungwon was faster. 

“Let’s see how far you’re willing to go.”

You scramble to sit up, but he’s already on you, hands hot and heavy on your thighs, forcing them apart, his gaze trails down your body like he’s starving.

“You don’t get to say things like that,” he growls. “Not after everything we’ve done. Not after everything I’ve given you.”

Your breath catches as his fingers dig into your hips.

“You belong to me,” he says, voice low and lethal. “And I’m done pretending otherwise.”

“Jungwon—”

“No. Shut the fuck up, kitten.”

He grabs your face—softly, but firm enough to make you feel it, to make you feel every bit of emotion that coursed through his body. 

“You talk too much when you’re scared.”

You blink up at him, heart hammering.

“I’m not scared.”

“Good.”

He leans in—lips brushing your ear.

“Then remember this,” he whispers. “Every moan. Every scream. Every time I fuck you so deep you forget your own name—”

His hand slides under your dress.

“You remember who did it to you, yeah?”

You shudder beneath him, and in that moment, there’s nothing left to say, his words are final, and you’re at his mercy. 

Just the sound of your breathing. The tension in his hands. The ache that’s been building for months and is finally—finally—about to break.

“Say it,” he demanded, voice low and ragged. “Say you liked him touching you.”

You opened your mouth—hesitated, yet you wanted to test his limits, your mouth working faster than your mind when you finally said it, “maybe I did.”

His whole body went still, you stared up at him, chest heaving, watching him lose the last bit of sanity that was holding him together, the snap of the thread breaking wasn’t real, but you heard it anyway. 

“You wanna play games?” he sneered, “fine, kitten.” He reached for your phone on the bedside table, where you had thrown your bag, he unlocked it with a flick, knowing your passcode, and tapped a contact.

“What are you—”

“Let’s call him.”

You froze, he couldn’t be serious about it, could he?

“Jungwon—”

“No, let’s fucking call him and show him exactly who you fucking belong to.”

Your heart dropped into your stomach, your mouth opening to say something, to stop him, but you didn’t. 

Because deep inside, you knew you wanted this, you needed this—to see how far he would go to prove himself this time. 

The phone rang once. Twice.

“Hello?” Jay’s smooth voice answered your call, as if he was waiting to hear from you. 

Jungwon locked eyes with you, his hips grinding between your legs, his hands working faster than ever to free his cock from the restraints of his pants, the thickness making you gasp as he covered himself with your sweet juices, rubbing his cock on your cunt. 

“Moan,” he said, mouth against your ear. “Let him hear you.”

You whimpered, your body arching into his as he finally lost control, fucking his dick into your ever so inviting, tight little cunt. 

“Jungwon—”

“Louder.” He ordered as he thrusted into you, and the sound that tore from your throat was filthy, helpless, humiliating.

Jay said something on the other end—confused, almost startled.

“She’s busy,” Jungwon said darkly into the phone, “busy moaning my name.”

You gasped again as he pistoned harder, thumb rubbing your clit in slow circles. 

“Wanna know why?” he asked, his voice deadly calm. “Because you’ll never touch her like this, never fuck her like this, never ever fucking own her the way I do.”

Your fingers dug into his back as he pushed deeper, his eyes locked on yours.

“You think she wanted your hands on her?” he asked out loud, “you think she wanted your mouth?” This particular thrust was harder, making you cry out louder, toes curling with the need to have him closer to you, impossibly so.  

“Then why is she cumming on my cock right now?” He chuckled, almost evilly. 

You broke, shattered completely with the overwhelming need to cum, to prove Jungwon right, to prove that nothing else truly mattered but him, humiliation thrown aside as you let Jay hear you without any ounce of self control holding you back. 

Jungwon watched you unravel under him, then calmly ended the call and tossed the phone to the floor, but making sure to tell Jay before he cut the call, “hope you enjoyed hearing her pretty fucking voices, because it’s the first and the very fucking last time you’ll get to hear her.”

“No one touches you but me,” he practically growled into your skin, panting against your neck. “No one gets to see you like this.”

“Jungwon—” you whimpered, crying and shaking, but Jungwon was far from done.

He pulled out, only to flip you over and drag you back by the hips.

“You want to tease me, huh?” he rasped, breathing hot against your shoulder, “want to pretend I’m nothing to you?”

You whimpered as he pushed back inside, deeper this time, agonizingly slow, full of something else now. It wasn’t just fury—it was his emotions, too much of it. 

“You’re everything,” he whispered, the words choking out of him. “You’re fucking everything.”

You turned your head, trying to see him, but he buried his face in your neck, “I love you.” He mumbled, voice broken. 

You froze.

His hands trembled on your hips.

“I love you,” he said again, quieter. “I didn’t want to—I didn’t mean to, but lord I fucking do.”

You turned beneath him, wrapping your legs around his waist, your mind fuzzy, heart erratic, a confusing mix of hurt and warmth spreading through your body. 

He looked down at you—eyes red, lips parted, body still tense with unshed rage and desperation.

“Then say it again,” you whispered, not knowing what else to say. You wanted confirmation, you wanted to hear it, you needed to hear it. 

He pushed into you, slower now, reverent, “I love you.”

Again.

“I love you.”

And again, with each thrust, he poured his love into you, “I’ve loved you every fucking night you stayed over. Every time you made morning coffee wearing my shirt. Every time I heard your laugh and thought, ‘God, I can’t lose this.’”

Your heart cracked wide open at his brutally honest confession. 

Jungwon was in love with you—you meant something to him, and that was enough for you to cry out, his lips catching every stray tear that cascaded down your face, every bit of tears that came from the hurt he caused you. 

“You’re mine,” he said again, kissing your cheeks, your mouth, your collarbones. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you whispered. “Fuck—I’ve always been yours.”

His hips moved again—slow, deep, building you both up together now. Not punishment. Not anger. Just raw, terrifying honesty.

You cried out again, overwhelmed by the pleasure, by the weight of everything he was finally giving you.

“Stay,” he whispered.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

And when you came again, shaking and sobbing into his skin, you knew this was it.

Not friends with benefits.

Not casual, not pretend, not anything else. 

Just you and him.

Molten into one—into each other.

His body stilled inside you one last time, and he collapsed over you, arms locked around your waist like he never wanted to let go.

You didn’t say anything.

You just stayed there.

Tangled.

Breathing.

His confession still rings in your ears.

“I love you.”

And you believed him, for real this time. 

THANK YOU FOR READING!

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[thepencilnerd]

Hi! I absolutely adore all your Dr. Robby fics! 🥰 I have a request if you don’t mind.

Reader is a day shift nurse, and she and Robby have been in an established relationship for a while. It’s a particularly brutal shift, and towards the end of the night, Robby ends up unintentionally snapping at her. When he goes to apologize, he finds that she’s already clocked out for the night without telling him. Some angst in the beginning, but then lots of fluff as he tries to make it up to her 🥺

apologies for getting to this so late ㅠㅠ thank you for your patience and for sending in the request <3

It was a hellish day.

Twelve hours of sheer chaos: two back-to-back codes before noon, a combative patient who’d bitten a tech and tried to throw a chair, and a skeleton crew so threadbare it felt like a cruel joke. By mid-morning, you were running on caffeine and sheer momentum, your half-drunk coffee from 7 a.m. long gone cold, abandoned somewhere near the nurses’ station.

You’d had your hand halfway in a med drawer when someone shouted your name for a second rapid response. Your feet ached. Your head throbbed. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d peed.

And Robby? He was just as underwater. The ER looked like a war zone—gurneys crammed into hallways, the hum of vitals monitors overlapping with the chaos of overhead pages. Overworked residents flitted between trauma rooms like ghosts, their eyes wide, their hands shaking.

At some point around 3 p.m., a fresh intern had the misfortune of asking Robby if he had a minute.

"Does it look like I have a goddamn minute?" he snapped without even turning around, yanking open a cabinet that was, of course, empty.

Later, someone from pharmacy stopped him in the hallway. "Dr. Robby, I was told you wanted—"

"I wanted meds that were actually on the floor, not more red tape and excuses. You want to help? Then help. Otherwise, get out of the way."

Langdon raised an eyebrow at him in passing. "You bite anyone yet today, or just barking?"

Robby didn’t answer. Just muttered something under his breath and kept moving, fists clenched at his sides.

He was a live wire, every nerve lit up with frustration, and no matter how he tried to keep it in check, the stress kept leaking out upside-down and sideways.

By hour eleven, everyone’s nerves were raw. You were charting in a rush outside Trauma One when Robby passed by, muttering something low and sharp about the meds being out again.

"Sorry?" you called after him, brow furrowed, not quite catching it.

He turned fast, jaw clenched, voice clipped. "Forget it. I’ll do it myself."

You blinked, stung by the sudden bite in his tone. For a second, you just stood there, fingers frozen above the tablet. Robby looked at you—just for a split second, eyes tight with something you couldn’t place—before spinning on his heel and storming off down the hall, the back of his scrub top disappearing around the corner.

You swallowed the lump rising in your throat, blinked hard, and forced yourself to keep moving. He didn’t mean it, you told yourself. It was the stress. The shift from hell. Still, it lodged somewhere deep. Tight.

You didn’t stop by to say goodbye at the end of the night. Didn’t look for him. You badged out without a word, shoved your hoodie over your scrubs, and walked straight out.

—

Robby noticed the silence as soon as it hit. No goodbye wave, no shoulder tap before you headed back home—always before him, never after—and no text saying you got back safe.

"Hey," he stopped Mel in passing. "Have you seen Y/N?"

Mel raised a brow. "She left fifteen minutes ago. Is everything okay?"

He barely had time to mutter a curse before Dana walked past, eyeing him. "What happened? She looked upset."

"None of your business," Robby snapped.

Mel widened her eyes ever so slightly and bid the two of you a quick goodnight before speed-walking off. 

Dana's eyebrows shot up. "Jesus, just asking."

Jack, who’d been scribbling something onto a chart nearby, looked up. "Don’t take it out on her. Or anyone else."

"I’m not—" Robby started, but Jack cut him off with a sharp look.

"Then maybe figure out where she went and why she left without saying goodbye. It's usually good to know those things."

The weight of it hit Robby square in the chest. His stomach twisted.

"Shit," he muttered again, already fishing his phone out of his pocket.

You were already on your couch by the time he texted.

[9:12PM] Robby: Hey baby [9:13PM] Robby: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap earlier. [9:14PM] Robby: You didn't deserve that. 

You didn’t answer.

When he knocked twenty minutes later, you were in sweats, face freshly washed, still nursing the dull ache behind your eyes. You hovered by the door for a moment before opening it—slowly, cautiously.

He looked wrecked. More than tired—haunted. Like the guilt had been gnawing at him since the minute his eyes left yours.

"Hey," he said, voice low, hands jammed deep in his jacket pockets like he was bracing for impact.

You leaned against the doorframe, saying nothing. Your silence did more damage than any yelling ever could.

He swallowed hard. "I know I messed up. I was short with everyone, but with you... You didn’t deserve that."

Still, you didn’t move.

"I kept playing it back in my head," he continued. "The way you looked at me when I dismissed you like you didn’t matter—I’ve never wanted to take something back faster."

Your arms stayed folded, but your expression cracked just slightly. "I get that it was a bad day. But I’m not just someone you can snap at and ignore. No one is, Robby. Especially on days like today."

"I know," he whispered. "You’re not just anything. You’re—you’re it for me."

That hit you somewhere deep, but you held firm. "You didn’t even look at me. Not once."

He stepped forward carefully, like you might bolt. "That’s on me. I was spiraling and stupid and blind to the one person who never deserves to be collateral."

You didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him—quiet and unreadable.

"I kept thinking," he said softly, "that maybe you'd still be there when I looked back. But you weren’t. And that scared the hell out of me."

Still nothing. But your shoulders had loosened, just a little.

"I hate that I made you feel small," he added, voice almost breaking. "You never are. You're—god, you're the only part of my day that ever makes sense. And I blew it."

His gaze dropped. "You don’t owe me anything. I just... I needed you to know that. I needed to say it."

He pressed his forehead against the doorframe for a moment, eyes squeezed shut like he could will himself into being better. Into being enough. 

"You mean everything to me," he murmured, barely audible. "And I keep proving it the wrong way."

When he looked up again, his eyes were glassy. "Even if you slam the door in my face, I’m still yours. I’ve always been."

You stayed quiet for a long moment, your jaw tense, thumb brushing the edge of the door.

"It really hurt," you said finally, voice low. "Not just what you said—but how easy it was for you to walk away after. Like it didn’t matter. Like *I *didn't matter."

He flinched. "You matter more than anything. And I hate that I made you question that. I don’t want to be that person—not with you. Not ever."

Another pause. Then, softly, carefully, "I forgive you," you said, not quite looking at him. "But don’t do that again. Don’t shut me out when I’m the one who sees you the clearest."

His chest deflated with visible relief. "I won’t. I swear. I promise," he added, extending his pinky toward you like an olive branch.

You stared at it for a second, then slowly reached out and hooked yours around his.

"Good," you said, your voice dry but edged with something fond. "Because if you do, I’m getting Jack to rough you up. Maybe Dana. Or worse—I'll tell Myrna you actually look forward to seeing her every morning."

He barked a laugh, pinky still locked with yours. "Cruel. Ruthless. A fitting punishment."

You didn’t let go. Not yet.

A beat passed. Then another.

He reached into his bag. "I brought soup," he said gently, like it might fix everything. "And those weird cookies you like. The crunchy ones that taste like cardboard?"

A breath hitched in your chest. You tried not to laugh. Failed.

"Jesus, you're pathetic," you muttered, looking away, lips twitching.

Robby’s knees buckled in exaggerated relief, like someone had just absolved him of sin. He dropped his head back and looked up at the ceiling, hands still clutching the soup and cookies.

"Thank God," he groaned. "I know we don’t talk much, big guy, but seriously—thank you."

Then, looking at you with an almost bashful smile, he added, "I am pathetic. Completely. And I’m more than happy to admit it—if it means I get to keep earning your forgiveness, one cardboard cookie at a time."

He didn’t move until you finally stepped back and opened the door a little wider.

You didn’t say anything else—just turned and padded toward the kitchen, barely suppressing a smile.

He followed like a puppy, food in hand, like they were offerings to a deity he'd wronged and was now desperate to please.

While you unpacked the food onto the counter, Robby hovered close behind you. Without a word, he wrapped his arms tightly around your waist, pressing his chest to your back like he couldn’t stand another inch of space between you. His nose nudged gently into the curve of your neck as he peppered light kisses from your cheek down to your shoulder.

"Don’t think buttering me up means I forgive you entirely," you murmured, not turning around. "I’m still bummed."

Robby hummed against your skin, voice low and sheepish. "I know. I don’t deserve it yet. But what ever shall I do to earn your forgiveness, my love? Shall I cook every meal this week? Rub your feet? Write a strongly worded apology letter signed in my own tears?"

You snorted, biting back a grin. "The tears are tempting."

He nuzzled closer. "Just wait till you see my handwriting."

—

Later, curled on the couch under your shared weighted blanket, your head tucked beneath his chin, Robby breathed in the smell of your shampoo like it grounded him. He kissed the top of your head, slow and lingering.

"I’m lucky you love me even when I’m an ass," he whispered.

You poked his side. "Always love, only sometimes an ass."

He let out a quiet laugh, voice muffled by your hair. "Fair."

There was a stillness then, the kind only earned after a storm—when everything’s been said, and the only thing left is the gentle rise and fall of shared breathing. His hand rubbed small circles against your back, steady and warm.

Then his voice, quieter this time: "Earlier... when I said you were it for me—I meant it. Every word. I’ve known it for a while now. I just didn’t realize how badly I could mess things up until tonight."

You shifted slightly to look up at him.

"You see right through me. Always have. And I think some part of me is still getting used to what it means to be fully seen. And loved." His words felt like velvet against the warm ambience.

He pondered his next words, throat bobbing as his lips parted to think, to try. You pressed your forehead to his, silently telling himself to let go. That it was okay. "You deserve to be loved, Michael."

He tightened his arms around you, grounding himself in the weight of your words and presence. "Only by you," he murmured. "I don’t think I ever really believed I deserved someone like you—but I’m done running from it. I'm all in."

You didn’t speak, just let your fingers trace idle patterns on his chest.

"You’ve seen me at my worst and still stayed," he said quietly. "If that’s not love, I don’t know what is. And I swear, I’ll never make you question it again." 

He kissed your temple, voice thick. "You have all of me. Even the messy parts."

"Especially the messy parts," you mumbled, only partially joking. 

He gave a half-laugh, half-sigh. "I don’t know how I got so damn lucky."

His hand on yours, warm and steady, drawing soft shapes against your knuckles like he was trying to memorize every line. A tender ritual—quiet, reverent—like he was mapping constellations only he could see, and each star was a promise he intended to keep.

"But I do know I’m not letting go of it. Not for anything."

The air was heavy with everything unspoken and everything already said. You leaned in, pressing a slow, soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. One that poured everything you didn’t have the words for—gratitude, exhaustion, love—into a single moment.

Another beat passed. Then he added, a little lighter, "I was serious about the apology letter, by the way. Could even laminate it. Put it on the fridge. Frame it next to your diplomas."

You chuckled against his chest. "You’re whipped, Robinavitch."

"For you? Always."

And even though you’d had the kind of day that wrung you out and left you hollow, his arms made you feel full again. Safe. Like maybe, just maybe, love really was enough on days like this.

[ari-ana-bel-la]

hi honey, i absolutely love your fics, they've made me smile, laugh, cry and scream in cuteness. i was wondering if you could do this trend:

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMB7Aupdp/

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMB7D47xE/

but with the drivers and their daughters/sons, like driver says 'im so hungry i could eat a child' and their kids reactions... if you dont want to, there's no problem at all. love 🩷🩷

Only Kidding

It was a slow Friday at the paddock—calm skies, mild temperatures, and everything running on time for once. Lando sat back in the team hospitality lounge, his race suit unzipped down to his waist and tied at his hips, a plain white T-shirt clinging slightly from the heat. But he didn’t care about that.

All his attention was on the small girl curled in his lap, playing with the braided bracelets on his wrist.

“Careful,” he said gently, watching her fingers tangle a little too tight. “That one’s from Monaco. I like that one.”

Yn looked up at him with the same big brown eyes that made people double take whenever they walked by. “I’m being careful, Daddy.”

“I know you are,” he said with a smile, brushing his hand over her curls.

She looked so much like him it was a little ridiculous sometimes. Same nose, same smile, same stubborn little pout. His heart squeezed just looking at her. Five years old and already the most important thing in his world—no contest.

Max walked into the lounge with a cold drink in one hand and a slightly mischievous grin. “Mate, she’s gonna braid those onto your face if you don’t stop her soon.”

“She can do whatever she wants,” Lando replied without hesitation. “She’s the boss.”

Yn beamed proudly and held up his arm. “I’m decorating!”

From the couch beside them, Ria laughed. “You’re doing a great job, love.”

Lando leaned his head back with a soft sigh. “God, I’m starving. I could eat a whole child.”

There was a pause.

A very small, very deliberate pause.

Yn froze. Her tiny fingers stopped playing with his bracelets. Slowly, she looked up at him, wide-eyed.

“You could… what?” she asked, voice quiet and slightly horrified.

Max choked on his drink.

Lando blinked, confused by her sudden stillness. “What?”

Yn carefully slid off his lap, step by step, not breaking eye contact.

“Baby?” he said, raising a brow.

She didn’t answer.

She walked—no, tiptoed—straight to Ria and climbed into her lap without a word, still looking at Lando like he had grown fangs.

Ria burst out laughing the moment Yn clutched her like a safety blanket.

“Oh my god,” Max wheezed. “She thinks you’re gonna eat her!”

“I was kidding!” Lando said, now cracking up too. “Yn, baby, I swear—I was joking!”

Yn blinked slowly at him, her little hands fisted in Ria’s hoodie.

“Why would you say that?” she asked seriously, as if this was a courtroom and he was on trial.

“I was hungry! It’s just a joke people say sometimes!”

“You said you could eat a child,” she repeated, dramatically betrayed.

Ria was shaking with laughter now. “Honestly, I’d go hide too if my dad said that.”

Lando leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Come here, monkey. I promise I’m not gonna eat you. You’re my whole heart, remember?”

She hesitated, still snuggled against Ria.

“You said you were hungry.”

“I was. But I meant I could eat, like, a really big sandwich. Or a mountain of pasta. Not you.”

Max threw in, “Yeah, I don’t think you’d taste very good anyway.”

“Max!” Ria hissed, laughing harder.

Yn’s mouth twitched.

Lando noticed. “Uh oh. Is that a smile?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“No.” She turned her face into Ria’s shoulder, giggling quietly.

“I got you,” Ria said softly, kissing her head. “We’ll protect you from the Big Bad Hungry Dad.”

“I’m not the Big Bad anything!” Lando insisted, dramatically affronted. “I’m your dad! I read you bedtime stories and make dinosaur-shaped pancakes!”

“You do,” Yn admitted shyly.

“And I sing terribly in the car just to make you laugh.”

She nodded again.

“So can I please have my snuggle-bug back?”

She finally looked at him properly, serious again. “You really won’t eat me?”

“Not even a nibble.”

“Not even a toe?”

“Not even a toe.”

Yn wriggled out of Ria’s lap and padded back over. Lando opened his arms wide, and she dove into them like a little rocket. He hugged her tight, lifting her slightly onto his lap again.

“You scared me,” she said into his chest.

“I know, baby. I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful with my jokes, yeah?”

“Okay.”

From behind them, Max mumbled, “You know, if you just packed snacks like I told you—”

“Not the time, Max.”

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.

-🤍🦢

[magicaloneandmystery]

blush

pairing: Bucky Barnes x female!reader

summary: the five times Bucky made you blush and the one time you did.

warnings: AU where all Avengers are alive and live together as a family because I say so; lots of fluffy couply things because I'm In A Mood™; this is NOT proofread!!

1.

the two of you were new to this... relationship. not that it was an exclusive one. you were still figuring out whether you wanted to be a superhero's girlfriend and Bucky was still figuring out what modern dating looked like.

today was your third date, an evening to the new observatory, both of you excited to look at some stars together. New York could be suffocating without the glitter in the sky.

you were wearing a blue, full-sleeved top with a sweetheart neckline, paired with dark trousers. when you met Bucky in front of your door, he gave you a once over before a charming smile spread over his lips.

"I'm not sure whether I'll be able to focus on the stars if you look like that, doll."

it was the first time he had called you by a nickname. his words paired with him calling you doll in that low, teasing voice made heat crawl up your neck and face, your bashful smile directed at the ground as a sudden wave of butterflies swarmed your belly.

"th- thank you?" you said, not sure how to respond.

he chuckled warmly, holding out the helmet for you.

"and if you keep reacting so cutely, I'll have to call you doll more often," he remarked, meeting your eyes and winking at you.

damn him and his disarming smile.

2.

after an exciting time at the observatory, both of you were walking down the New York streets together to get some food to eat. his bike was still parked at the observatory, you two deciding to walk to the nearby quaint cafe instead.

walks with Bucky were one of your favourite things. despite his long strides and natural tendency to walk fast, he would consciously slow down to stroll behind you, your hands animatedly talking about a random topic and his staying in his pockets.

when a rowdy friend group suddenly crowded the sidewalk, Bucky's hands immediately found yours, pulling you close to him as you two passed them.

it was the first time he had held your hand, his big, calloused hand almost enveloping yours. somehow, they fit perfectly, like two jigsaw pieces.

it was a weird sensation holding his hand. good weird.

you could feel his steady hold grounding you to the present despite the way your insides were melting at the contact.

when the path cleared, you expected him to let go of your hand.

instead, it loosened slightly but still held on, now a more casual grip than the protective one it mimicked earlier.

you continued to talk about your favourite Latin phrases while he walked on as usual, the other hand in his pocket.

your hands intertwined together felt natural.

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3.

you had heard about the glamourous, over the top Tony Stark Galas. everyone had heard of them. never in a million years would you have thought you'll be invited to one.

so when Bucky asked "would you be my date for the Stark thing?" it took you a few moments to understand what he was saying.

"Stark thing? like, the Tony Stark Charity Gala?" your voice had raised by two octaves, excitement bleeding from your voice.

"yeah, that," Bucky's nonchalance gave way to amusement at your reaction.

you squealed in delight. "will Captain America be there? I mean Steve and Sam both. Black Widow? Thor?"

you started pacing in front of him, his eyes following you.

"I don't know what to wear, but wait- what if I make a fool in front of them?"

"you do realise these are all people I work with."

you turned around with a flurry that had Bucky concerned about whiplash. "wait so... we'll be going together?"

"... yes?"

"no, like. together together?"

"doll, you need to be clearer."

you shook your head, standing directly in front of him, your feet touching his as you looked up to him.

"I'll be your date." you stated, as if that was supposed to clear things up for Bucky.

"yes," he nodded, still giving you a confused smile.

"you'll introduce me as your...?"

"date?" he responded, his eyebrows scrunching in a cute but dumbfounded way.

you groaned. "Bucky this is the first time I'll be meeting your friends!" exasperation laced your tone. "that's... that's a huge step for us, right?" your hands found each other, fiddling with each other.

"do you not want to?" he asked, suddenly nervous. had he pushed you too far? Sam had given him the 'don't take things too fast' talk when he had ventured into dating in the 21st century.

"no, I want to," you clarified quickly. "I just want to make sure we're on the same page. you're ready for this, yeah?"

"of course," he stated, tugging you closer by your hands, his arms wrapping around your frame. "I get to show you off and prove to Romanoff that I can get girls to go out with me."

the sentence brought you back to your earlier predicament. "oh my god Bucky I don't have anything to wear! and my hair! and makeup! this is an Avengers affair! what if I embarrass myself?! what if I embarrass you!"

"doll," he tightened his hold on you, kissing you to shut you up.

your mind came to a stop, your focus shifting on his lips.

"it'll be fine," he promised. "you'll be great. you'll look pretty - there's no way you could look ugly even if you tried - and I'll make sure to punch anyone who dares say anything against you. yeah?"

"okay," you said in a daze, looking up at his eyes, finding comfort in the ocean staring back at you. "but no punching."

"no promises."

✿✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠

when the big day was here, you were surprised at how good you looked. after all the panic and indecision, the begging your girl gang to help you get ready, the shopping and the borrowing of dress, accessories, and everything else, you were satisfied when you looked in the mirror. you looked pretty.

you hoped Bucky would think the same.

so when you opened your apartment door and saw him standing outside in a dark blue suit, the jacket hugging his biceps, the shirt underneath outlining his chest, and the tie adding a delicious flair, with his thick thighs being on full display with the slacks...

your breath hitched. you felt familiar heat up your neck, a blush forming on your face by just looking at him.

you didn't have energy to focus on your insecurities when you could focus on Bucky and how downright decision he looked.

"you look exquisite, doll," he said, a single white tulip in his hands. you had strictly banned him from getting bouquets for some time, after he filled your apartment with flowers and you were running out of vases. but he couldn't not get you a flower. especially for an occasion such as this. your first public appearance together.

"Bucky, you look..." you breathed out, mind working in overdrive to find a word that would describe the effect he has on you. your mind was also distracted by his slicked hair and clean shaven face, the way his eyes sparkled when he looked at you, the way his muscles bulged when he moved his arms. "simply delicious." you settled.

well, so much for being coherent.

he chuckled. "I could say the same about you."

4.

he held out the flower in front of you, giving you a wide grin as you narrowed your eyes at him.

"you said no bouquets," he winked.

you sighed, shaking your head.

he assessed your hairstyle before you could take the flower, deeming it good enough for his next actions.

he tucked the flower behind your ear.

Bucky Barnes, the feared assassin, tucked a tulip in his date's hair.

like a lovesick fool.

you blushed even more profusely at his actions.

"it goes well with the dress," he concluded, giving you a once over, taking your hand in his. he pulled you closer, his other hand settling on your waist. "did I tell you how beautiful you look?"

"yes," you said, still in awe of the man in front of you. "did I tell you how handsome you look?"

he chuckled, kissing you, careful of your lipstick.

"are you two ever getting out of here? I have a takeout box and Netflix waiting for me at home," your best friend said from behind you.

"right," you pulled away from Bucky, turning around. "thank you for the help," you hugged her goodbye.

5.

the gala was... overwhelming. both in a good and bad way.

the Avengers were everything you hoped for. a delight.

the attention, on the other hand...

but Bucky was always there, a hand on your back or around your waist. if he left, it was to bring you a drink or talk to someone about some superhero-y thing. classified and top secret. but he was never out of your reach for too long.

in the rare moments he was, his team members kept you company.

Steve and Sam were teasing but respectful, trying to get you to tell them embarrassing stories about Bucky. Wanda and Natasha were friendly, letting you be comfortable in their presence and dishing out gossip to you as if you three were a clique. Pepper and Jane occasionally joined the three of you. Thor was... booming. loud. his presence demanded attention, which made sense. he was a god, after all. Loki, on the other hand, was a shadow. he would occasionally prank someone in a small way, but nothing too major or serious. he was a refreshing presence. Tony was the star, the one that got everyone to act like a group. a united front, and all that. he was both charming and disarming, intimidating to an outsider like you at first, but his warmth was noticeable after some time.

the team welcomed you into their group easily. so much so, they even welcomed you at the after party.

when Bucky returned with your drink, he heard the end of your conversation with Tony.

"think about it, we could use a mind like you," Tony was saying, nodding his head at Barnes in acknowledgement.

"are you poaching my girl, Stark?" Bucky asked, pulling you closer.

"just offering her a better pay, right sweetheart?" he said.

you laughed, nodding. "I'll think about your offer."

"you know where to contact me," he raised his glass, swiftly siding away in response. you frowned in confusion.

"I actually don't know that..."

"are you having fun?" Bucky asked.

"yeah, your friends are nice. do you think they like me?" you played with the lapels on his coat.

"you're their new darling," he said, stealing a kiss. "I think they'll be fighting me for your attention."

"Bucky!" you said, slapping his shoulder. "don't kiss me, we're in front of the Avengers." you whispered the last phrase.

"so?" he laughed. "I'm one of them."

"yeah but you're... you. I know you."

"do you, now?" he raised his eyebrows. you could practically feel the teasing remark on his lips.

"I know you well enough to know you're not gonna stop kissing me in front of your friends."

"damn right," he said, leaning down to give you a proper kiss. the one that left you in a breathless daze afterwards. with a slow motion of your lips, the taste from your drinks mingling with each other. faintly, you could hear Sam shouting a teasing remark that only made Bucky pull you closer to his chest.

when you pulled away, your lipstick was smudged on his lips, but he seemed to not mind.

you could barely meet anyone's eyes for the next ten minutes, cheeks and neck flushed at the memory of Bucky's very public display of affection.

✿✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠✿⁠

6.

you were sprawled out on Bucky's chest, the movie playing in front of you, but it was well in the background of your perception. your mind was clouded with new information about your relationship with Bucky, unable to focus on anything else, not even the way his fingers made patterns on your back as he held you.

he could sense you were distracted.

"is everything okay?" his voice pulled you out of your thoughts.

you wondered whether to share the information with him or not. would it help your relationship? it could make or break your future, effectively changing your life forever.

your thoughts were a jumbled mess.

"I came across some new information about our relationship," you said, finally.

that made Bucky sit up, pausing the movie to give you his full attention.

"I think this could make or break us," you repeated your thoughts out loud.

"okay..." Bucky said slowly, not sure what you were getting at. "what kind of information?"

"feelings," you said simply, looking at him expectantly.

"feelings?"

you nodded.

"you've stopped making sense again," he stated simply.

"the information has to do with feelings," you clarified.

"uh... still not making sense."

"I think I love you," you clarified further.

"you- what?" Bucky spluttered, not expecting that.

"I think about you all day, I dream about our future. you make me feel safe, warm, and excited about life. you've made it really hard to not fall for you, you know that? from your compliments to your gestures to your looks. it's a little frustrating how perfect you are."

for the first time, you saw a blush creep up Bucky's neck, a pink tint to his skin.

it was a beautiful thing - everything about this man was - the way his eyes darted around with a sheepish smile, the way his hand wrung together with nerves in a way you've never seen him. Bucky Barnes didn't blush or lose control.

apparently, he did now.

"do you mean all of that?" he said, his voice a whisper you had to strain to listen.

"yeah. every word. I love you, Bucky," you repeated. "you can take your time to say it back, or whatever, I don't really know. I- I just don't want this to ruin what we-"

your words were cut off with an oof escaping your lips before they were covered by his. this time, his kiss was deeper, his tongue fighting with yours for dominance before you gave way. he languidly explored your mouth, his hands gripping the side of your face, his fingers stroking your cheek.

your hands were on his neck, feeling his heat.

when you both broke away, you smiled at him.

"Bucky, you're blushing," you gushed, kissing his cheeks, adoration swelling in your chest.

"shut up," he grumbled, no real heat behind his words.

"make me?" you said.

he kissed you again. and again and again.

when the two of you were done kissing each other, he rested his forehead against yours. he was looking at you, eyes intense and focused only on you.

"I love you, too," he said finally, letting his walls crumble around you, letting you hold him safely.

tears welled in your eyes, the rush of feelings washing over you.

"I love you, Bucky," you repeated.

you spent the night intertwined with each other.

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated! thank you so much for reading :D

[my-castles-crumbling]

renegade - may 3 - jegulus - @taylorswiftmicrofic - word count: 376

In the wake of Voldemort’s demise, rumors were flying everywhere. Who had been the spy? Who had been the renegade Death Eater that had saved them all? While James knew the answer to one of those questions, he could only hope desperately that his heart had been right about the answer to the other.

Chest still aching at Peter’s betrayal, he went to the next Order meeting feeling like the whole thing was a dream. Feeling like he would wake up in a few minutes, terrified and on the lookout for an attack or a headline or a body..

But when he stepped into the building, the air seemed light. There was chatter and jovial shouts and laughter coming from the room where they were meeting. And for one wild moment, James almost thought he felt his presence through the door.

Shaking with all of the emotions that threatened to overcome him, he entered.

“Prongs!”

Immediately, Sirius and Remus swept in into a group hug, Lily and Mary, who had been locked in an embrace, joining in almost at once. The comfort made the tears he’d been holding back suddenly spring forth once again, slowly moving down his cheeks as he met Sirius’s gaze. 

“Peter was–” he choked out.

“I know. But it’s over. We’re safe. It’s over,” Sirius grinned, his own face, covered in stubble and worry lines, breaking into a smile. “And guess what? Guess who helped figure out about Voldemort? It was–” 

But as the group hug dispersed James saw him. And he acted without thinking. Without worrying about hiding the feelings both of them had cleverly kept a secret from everyone else since Hogwarts.

“Regulus,” he gasped, jolting forward and pulling the other man into a kiss so fierce, so sudden, so passionate, the conversation in the room lulled.

But as they came up for air, all James could do was look into those gray eyes and whisper, “I knew it. I knew it was you. I knew you were good.”

And Regulus, who looked exhausted and beaten up and even paler than usual, but who was safe, in James’s arms, after so many years, smiled just a bit, and murmured, “You always did believe in me, Potter,” before pulling him into another kiss.

[gnar-slabdash]

The most important things about Viewing Order imo:

The Wedding Job. With the Wedding Job as #7 (airing order), it seems like Sophie is totally fine with the way things are going and then all of a sudden flips her lid about wanting a relationship. It feels like they just suddenly decided to insert drama by making her hysterical. But with the Wedding Job as number 3 it makes perfect sense: When Nate walked back into her life she must have made the totally reasonable assumption that they were going to have a relationship, and by episode three she's realizing that things are not going the way she expected. So then they have it out and she understands that he is interested but that it will take time, and that's pretty much the footing they're on for the rest of the season.

The Two Horse Job. Introducing Sterling is a big fun way of introducing something new to the mix, a way to upset the usual formula by bringing in somebody who actually has a chance against them. Broadcast order puts this as #3 which means it happens before you even have a chance to get used to the REGULAR formula. So it has less impact AND makes it harder to really get into the flow of the show, since so much is changing off the bat.

The 12-Step Job. It flows SO well into the First David Job, since 12-Step ends with quitting rehab and First David starts with the "intervention." Once you see that, it's obvious that 12 Step was MEANT to set that up and get us moving into the finale. Instead the broadcast order jams Juror #6 in between them, which is a very different tone and focus and loses that whole momentum.

The Juror #6 Job. I don't want to take credit for this, I saw SOMEBODY bring it up but I'm not sure if it was on this post or what. But anyway. If you put Juror #6 back where it belongs, it goes after the Stork Job. Which means we've just had a pretty dark Parker episode and seen how bad she is at people. So it makes sense to follow that with a more hopeful episode for her and it makes sense to insist that she needs to go do this to improve her people skills, since we've just seen that that's an issue.

Anyone: *is watching Leverage for the first time*

Me: have you heard about watch order? Do you know the watch order? Hey. Hey. Are you aware that season one is out of order and requires a specific watching order. Hey. Hey. Hey. Have I told you about watch order yet?

[rafesbimbo]

I've been seeing other works with sexist!rafe, can you do your own version of him?

- 🐾 anon

pairing: sexist!rafe cameron x crybaby!reader

warnings: degradation, power imbalance, condescending dirty talk, crying kink, dumbification, dubcon vibes, unprotected sex

a/n: this is fantasy!! dont take this the wrong way!! and i think @cameronsbabydoll came up with the concept!! (lmk if u want me to remove this!!)

you were crying again. of course you were.

rafe barely looked up from the engine he was working on, his voice dripping with irritation masked as amusement. “you seriously fucked with the wires?”

“i—I thought i could help,” you whimpered from the garage doorway, hands wringing nervously in the sleeves of your little cardigan. “you said you wanted it done by today and i just—”

he stood up, slow and deliberate, wiping his greasy hands on a rag as he turned toward you. you flinched under the weight of his stare, even as your breath caught in your throat.

“you thought,” he repeated flatly. “now that’s your first problem, baby. thinking.”

the smirk on his face was infuriating, all cocky and cruel. he walked toward you, each step loud against the concrete floor. you instinctively stepped back, but he caught you by the jaw, fingers digging in just a little too hard.

“you don’t think. that’s not what you’re here for.” he tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes.

“you’re here to smile and look pretty and sit your sweet little ass on the hood while i do the work. that’s all you’re good for.”

your eyes welled up again, bottom lip trembling like a kicked puppy. he loved it. ate it up like candy.

“aw, don’t cry now,” he cooed mockingly, rubbing his thumb over your cheek like he gave a damn. “this is why girls like you don’t belong in a garage. or a boardroom. or a toolbox, for that matter. your brain’s full of fluff and lip gloss.”

you choked on a sob, and he laughed—really laughed, the sound was rich and mean. “god, look at you. can’t even take a little criticism without falling apart. what’re you gonna do, cry all over my dick too?”

your thighs pressed together instinctively, and his eyes dropped immediately, catching the motion.

“yeah… that’s more like it,” he muttered, yanking you by the sweater until your chest bumped his. “why don’t you make yourself useful now, sweetheart?”

he didn’t wait for an answer. his hands were on your hips, spinning you around and bending you over the workbench in one fluid motion. you gasped, trying to catch your balance, but he was already yanking your shorts down, panties twisted halfway to your knees before you could say a word.

“please, rafe—”

“i said don’t think,” he growled, slapping the inside of your thigh hard enough to make you jolt. “not a single fucking thought in that head of yours. just feel, cry, and cum. that’s your job now.”

you sobbed again—whether from the sting, the shame, or the heat pooling in your belly, you didn’t know. maybe it was all three.

he didn’t bother with prep. just spat in his hand, rubbed himself once, and pushed in slow, mean, deliberate.

your body seized up, the stretch sudden and too much, too fast.

“fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, holding your hips in place while he bottomed out. “guess your dumb little pussy knows its place better than your brain does.”

you were already crying in earnest, bottom lip quivering and mascara streaking down your cheeks. but your hips rocked back into him anyway—stupid, needy, desperate.

“that’s it. knew you were just a little doll deep down,” he rasped, picking up the pace. each thrust sent your body jolting forward, your hands scrabbling for purchase. “all that whining, and now you’re drippin' my cock like a bitch in heat.”

“rafe—” you cried out, voice high and cracking. “please, i can’t—”

“can’t what? handle getting fucked? you wanted to be useful, right?” he leaned over you, pressing his chest to your back, one hand gripping your throat, the other reaching around to rub your clit in rough, practiced circles. “cry harder. let me feel how sorry you are.”

you came like that—helpless and humiliated, gasping his name like it was a prayer and a curse all at once. your body clenched down around him, and he hissed, fucking you through it with ruthless strokes.

“fucking pathetic,” he groaned, snapping his hips forward until he bottomed out again, holding there, deep and unrelenting. “crying all over my cock and still cumming like a needy little toy.”

he didn’t pull out.

you gasped when you felt it, the warm rush of him spilling inside you, thick and messy.

rafe chuckled darkly, grabbing your jaw and tilting your tear-streaked face back to look at him.

“now that’s what i call helping.”

[lastofdanny]

under your skin | part two

pairing: manny alvarez x f!reader, enemies to lovers

summary: tension fills the air as you and manny struggle with your feelings after the kiss.

a/n: thanks to everyone who read and liked part 1!! ♡ reader is kinda annoying in this and i loved writing manny as a softie (that couldn't be more far from reality lol. why is he so hot???? really like WHY) anyway, i had never written something so long in english before since its not my first language so i struggled a bit w this ending and for that i want to thank @littlemsramirez for the suggestion to the story ! i hope you all enjoy. i have a few other manny fics coming soon, so if anyone has ideas/requests u can send them to me ♡

part one

After the kiss with Manny, everything had shifted. Sure, you hadn’t talked about it. You didn’t really know how to. But every glance, every touch, even the smallest brush of your hands against his seemed to carry a different weight now. 

But the worst part? You couldn’t stop thinking about him. And with it came flashes of the first days with Manny: how smug he was when he first introduced himself, calling you cariño before even knowing your name, the way he always found a reason to sit too close or brush past you with that infuriating grin.

You remembered thinking he was the most annoying person you'd ever met — loud, cocky, relentless. But even then, before you’d admit it, part of you had started to look forward to seeing him. Maybe that’s what made it all so confusing — maybe the kiss wasn’t so sudden after all. You couldn’t help but wonder if it had always been something more, something deeper you hadn’t been willing to face. 

The thought left you unsettled, and you quickly shook it off. Whatever it was — whatever it had become — you needed to stay away from him before it got even messier.

But the worst part is that Manny wasn’t the type to just let it go.

“Morning, mi amor,” Manny’s voice sounded behind you as you walked into the base one morning. The familiarity of it made you tense up before you could stop yourself. You didn’t even bother turning around, keeping your eyes fixed on the ground as you grabbed your gear.

“I’m busy,” you muttered, trying to keep your voice neutral.

“Is that so?” Manny asked, feigning confusion. “You didn’t look busy when you were staring at the floor there. Maybe you were just thinking about that kiss, huh?”

You clenched your jaw, your heart skipping a beat at the mention of it. You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, but you refused to let him see it.

Your hand gripped the strap of your bag a little tighter. “You need to stop.”

“Make me.” His words were casual, but the challenge was there, in the way he spoke.

You ignored him, walking away as quickly as you could without running. But as you did, you could feel his gaze on you. As always. 

The next few days were an endless loop. You did everything you could to avoid Manny’s teasing, even making a point to take different routes to patrol, staying busy with paperwork or helping others with tasks. But no matter what you did, his words and presence still lingered in the back of your mind.

You could feel the tension between you two every time he was near. It wasn’t just the teasing or the flirtation. It was the unspoken understanding that there was something more. Something neither of you were willing to admit.

"I see you’re trying to avoid me now, huh?" Manny said one afternoon, leaning against the wall as you passed. His voice was light, but the challenge in his eyes was unmistakable.

You gritted your teeth. "And yet, here you are, annoying me again."

He chuckled, and said, "You know, if you want to pick up where we left off, all you have to do is ask."

Days later, the two of you were alone in the woods, in a patrol you tried your best to escape from, but didn't succeed. Manny’s boots crunched behind you, obnoxiously loud on purpose.

“You’re really gonna pretend it didn’t happen,” he said casually, “or are you just waiting for me to bring it up?”

You didn’t turn around. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“That kiss. Y’know. The one where you practically melted into me.”

You shot him a quick look, heart pounding. “Manny, don’t start.”

“Too late.” He picked up the pace until he was at your side, grinning. “I mean, technically, you started it. You’re the one who pulled me in.”

“You kissed me,” you snapped without looking at him. He ducked under it, still talking. 

“Oh, sure, but only after you gave me that look. You know, the one  like you were two seconds from tearing my shirt off.”

You rolled your eyes. “It was a mistake.”

“Ouch.” He followed, voice dropping into something slower. “Didn’t feel like a mistake. Felt like something you’ve been dying to do for a while.”

You stopped walking. So did he.

“That was just adrenaline,” you said flatly. 

He stepped in front of you now, cocking his head. “Right. Adrenaline. Just a little life-or-death make out session. Totally casual. Happens all the time.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“Then why are you getting all tense every time I get close to you?”

“I’m not tense.”

You scowled, trying to brush past him, but he shifted, blocking your path.

“Just admit that you’ve been thinking about it. About how good it felt.”

You stayed quiet.

“I know I have,” he added, a little softer now. “More than I should.”

Your heart betrayed you with a hard, stupid thump.

“I haven’t,” you lied.

“Sure. Keep telling yourself that. But you're not fooling anyone.” 

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a playful whisper. 

“Adrenaline, huh? I’ll keep that in mind for next time we’re in a life-or-death situation. Maybe I’ll kiss you again — you know, just to test the theory.”

You stood in front of the roster board the next day, eyes scanning the new patrol assignments. When you saw Derek’s name next to yours, a strange mix of relief and anxiety settled in your chest. The tension with Manny had been building, and switching partners had seemed like the only option to avoid it. But as you stood there, the weight of your decision hit you.

“What’s this? You've got a new partner today, cariño?”

You turned to find Manny walking up to you, his usual grin firmly in place, though this time, there was something sharper in his eyes.

You didn’t answer.

Derek showed up a minute later, all eager confidence. “Hey — guess we’re paired up today. Should be an easy loop.”

“Who put this on the board?” Manny asked, his eyes never leaving you.

“I volunteered,” Derek said. “She wanted to switch.”

Manny’s gaze now flicked between you and Derek, his eyes narrowing just slightly as he leaned in a little, keeping his tone casual but laced with an undercurrent of something much deeper. 

“I see. You sure he’s the best choice?” he asked. “I mean, after our... incident the other day, I thought you’d want to spend some more time with me. You know, to work things out.”

Your cheeks flushed at the mention of it, but you refused to look at him. “It’s just patrol, Manny,” you said, a little too defensively.

“Right,” he said, dragging the word out. “Big step. Hope you warned him you have a thing for kissing your patrol partners.”

“Manny.”

“What?” He grinned. “Just trying to keep the new guy informed. Wouldn’t want him getting caught off guard when you lean in all dramatic at sunset or whatever.”

You crossed your arms, your face burning. “Please. It was just a kiss.”

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping just for you. “Yeah. A mistake, I know.. Just adrenaline. But you keep running from it. Are you afraid it might have been more than that, cariño?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Manny just smirked, straightened, and gave Derek a mock-salute.

“Have fun with him. Just try not to spend the whole time thinking about me.”

With that, he turned and walked off, hands in his pockets — but not before throwing one last glance over his shoulder. That look said everything his teasing didn’t: he cared. Maybe more than he wanted to show.

After the shift ended, you were walking back to the trucks when you heard his voice.

“You’re really doing this, huh?” Manny’s voice had a sharp edge now, and you could feel the weight of his frustration in the air.

You stopped, but didn’t look at him. “Doing what, Manny?”

He stepped in front of you, blocking your path, forcing you to meet his eyes. The tension in his jaw was unmistakable, and his usual easy smile was completely gone. “Acting like I don't exist. Switching partners like it's nothing.”

“You thought I wouldn’t notice?” he pressed, his voice low and edged with something you couldn’t quite place. “You thought I wouldn’t care?”

You swallowed hard, your fingers curling around the hem of your sleeve. You hadn’t expected him to bring it up — not like this, not out here where everything felt too quiet, too exposed.

You swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean-”

“Don’t lie to me,” he said. “You did it on purpose. You’ve been dodging me for weeks. No check-ins, no eye contact. Running away every chance you get. Saying it didn’t mean anything to you, when we both know it did.”

You finally looked up. The hurt in his eyes was worse than the accusation. He wasn’t just mad — he was confused, maybe even a little heartbroken.

“I just thought it’d be easier,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“For who?” he asked. “Because it sure as hell hasn’t been for me.”

Manny stepped closer, his boots scraping the dirt underfoot. “I don’t get it,” he continued, softer this time. “What are you so afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid of anything” you lied, your voice coming out more shaky than you intended.

“Then what is it?” he asked, voice quiet now, like he was waiting for an answer you couldn’t give.

“Nothing!” You said it louder than you intended, but the words came out before you could stop them. “I just... I need space.”

Manny stepped closer, his face softening, but the intensity of his gaze didn’t let up. “I don’t want space,” he said quietly. “I want you. I don’t know how many times I’ll have to say it.”

You took a shaky breath, trying to collect your thoughts, but Manny's eyes, so steady, so unwavering, held you captive.

His hand reached up, fingers brushing your cheek as you felt the warmth of his touch, the tenderness in the movement, and it made your breath hitch. Your heart beat harder, faster, like it was trying to tell you something, something you weren’t ready to hear — or maybe you were just afraid to.

“Manny,” you whispered again, but this time, your voice was softer, uncertain. Your mouth went dry, and you felt exposed in a way that both terrified and thrilled you.

“I know you feel it too."

The air between you pulsed with tension, with closeness, with the weight of every unsaid thing. And then, suddenly, it broke — he leaned in and kissed you.

The kiss wasn’t hesitant this time. It was firm, full of everything he hadn’t said aloud. His hands cradled your face and his mouth moved against yours like he was trying to convince you that whatever you were running from didn’t have to win.

The pressure of his lips became more urgent, more sure. His hands found your waist, pulling you just a little closer, as if he couldn’t bear the distance between you for even a second longer. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, caught in the warmth of the moment, the intensity of everything left unsaid.

When the kiss finally broke, your chest heaved, both of you gasping for air. Manny’s gaze softened but didn’t lose that same intensity.

“Let me know when you want to stop pretending,” he murmured, his voice low, almost defeated. “I’ll be waiting.”

Then he turned and walked away, leaving you standing there, the weight of his words settling in the quiet space between you.

The days following that confrontation were long and silent. Manny’s words echoed in your mind, a constant reminder of everything you’d been avoiding. But no matter how hard you tried to ignore them, the reality set in: you couldn’t run forever.

You didn’t see him much after that — the missions kept him busy, and you distracted yourself with your own work, hoping that the distance would somehow make the confusion go away. It didn’t. If anything, it only made the ache in your chest grow sharper.

Then, the message came.

Manny's hurt. He’s not coming back with the rest of the group. When you heard it, all the words you hadn’t been able to say to him came rushing back, and the urge to find him, to make sure he was really okay, was too strong to ignore.

You reached the rendezvous point, your heart pounding as you scanned the area. The place was too quiet, and you felt a spike of panic rise up your spine, but then you saw him — sitting against a rock, looking far too calm for someone who’d supposedly been injured.

His shirt was ripped, a trail of blood ran down his cheek, and a few scrapes marked his arms — but nothing too serious. You crossed your arms, masking the rush of relief with a sharp tone.

“What the hell, Manny? They said you were hurt! What are you doing just sitting here?"

Manny chuckled, not even bothering to get up. “Oh, you know. Just a few scratches. Nothing I can’t handle.” He raised an eyebrow as he looked up at you, clearly enjoying the fact that you were so flustered. “Though I gotta admit I knew you’d come look for me, cariño.”

You felt your heart pound in your chest. “I wasn’t looking for you,” you shot back, trying to keep your composure. “I was just… checking up on you. You know, because they said you were hurt.”

He leaned back against the rock, a cocky smirk on his lips. “Sure you weren’t." He gave you a once-over, his eyes lingering just a little longer than necessary.

“How’d you know?” you asked.

“What?”

“That I’d come look for you.”

“I knew it was only a matter of time til you got tired of running from me. You weren’t fooling anyone trying to push me away.”

“I wasn’t—” You started, but he cut you off.

“Yeah, you were,” he teased, a knowing glint in his eyes. “You’ve been doing it for weeks, pretending like you don’t care. But I could tell. It was written all over your face. Then I’d figured it wouldn’t be long til you came to it.”

You swallowed hard, his words hitting you harder than you expected. He was right. 

“I’m sorry,” you said before you could stop yourself. “I didn’t mean to push you away. I just didn’t know what to do.”

Manny raised an eyebrow. “What’s this? A confession? Are you about to pour your heart out to me, cariño?”

“Shut up.”

“Too late,” he murmured. “I’m listening.”

You sighed, the words trembling on your tongue. “I was just scared. Because it all did mean something. It always has. And I didn’t know how to deal with it.” 

Manny was quiet for a second, his gaze softening. Then his lips tugged into a slow, teasing smile. “So you do like me. Interesting.”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “Can’t you be serious for a second?”

“No, no — this is important.” His voice was weak but playful. “I want to hear you say it. For the record.”

You leaned down slowly, pressing your forehead to his, feeling his breath fan warm against your lips.

“I like you,” you whispered. “And if you ever do something that reckless again without me there to yell at you after, I’ll..”

“You gonna punish me, cariño?”

You raised an eyebrow, your lips curling into a teasing smile. “Maybe.”

He chuckled, “Mmm, I think I’ll take my chances. I’m kind of looking forward to seeing what you have in mind.”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you closed the distance between you and pressed your lips to his, silencing that smug grin in the best way you knew how. The kiss was warm, firm, and laced with everything you’d been holding back. His hand found the small of your back, pulling you closer with a low, pleased hum. When you finally pulled away, his eyes were half-lidded, his smile softer but no less playful.

“Took you long enough,” he teased, his voice light. “But hey, I’m not complaining. About time you realized what I knew since day one.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. “You’re really proud of yourself right now, huh?”

Manny leaned in just a little, his grin lazy and smug. “Of course I am. I always knew you’d come around eventually. I’m very persuasive.”

“Oh, is that what we’re calling your constant flirting and ridiculous nicknames?”

“Worked, didn’t it?”

He softened then, just enough to let the truth slip through. “I’m also in love with you. In case it wasn’t obvious.”

Your breath caught. 

He shrugged, but there was nothing casual in his eyes. “Just putting it out there, cariño. You don’t get to be the only one making dramatic romantic confessions.”

Despite your best efforts to stay annoyed, a smile tugged at your lips. “You’re impossible.”

“To resist, yes” he teased, his lips brushing against your neck. 

You sighed dramatically, but your heart betrayed you, speeding up at his proximity. “I guess you’ve got me, then.”

“Good. Cause I’m all yours, cariño.”

tag: @littlemsramirez @sithdaya ♡