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mercvry-glow · 2 months ago

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Get your sparkle on

parings. jack Abbot x Cheer-Coach!reader

summary. Jack's wife take a visit to the er after an eventful a.m. practice at her gym and trouble ensues with her gaggle of cheerleaders.

warnings. age-gap (jack late 40s reader late 20s/early 30s), reader gets hurt, hospital setting, nothing too serious or punchy, not so secret marriage, let me know if there's anything else!

notes. as an ex-cheerleader I loved writing this! cheer!mom and cheer!dad jack for the win, he's a lovable grump in this one.

wc. 2500+

You hadn’t expected your morning to end in the back of an ambulance, but, well... here you were.

It started like any other day — early practice at the gym, you in your cropped pink zip-up and leggings, hair in soft curls and an iced coffee in hand, helping the senior stunt group clean up their tosses. You were walking one of the newer flyers through a cradle when suddenly she fell on you.

A sharp pop, blinding pain, and suddenly you were on the mat clutching your leg, trying to smile so you wouldn’t scare any of the girls.

Now, laid out on a stretcher with your cheerleader Grace glued to your side, you were trying not to wince as the paramedics wheeled you through the sliding doors of PTMC.

Your badge reel—pink, glittery, and proudly reading Head Coach in sparkly letters—was still clipped to your hoodie. A nurse clocked it as you passed, raising an eyebrow but saying nothing.

Grace, on the other hand, was vibrating with nerves. “You’re okay, you’re okay,” she kept saying, gripping your hand with both of hers. “I mean you’re not, like, okay-okay, but you’re conscious, and you’re not dead, and Jack is totally gonna fix this—”

“Grace,” you said gently, voice calm despite the ache pulsing through your leg, “I’m fine. I promise. You don’t need to panic.”

“But I am panicking,” she whispered urgently. “And Jack’s gonna panic even harder when he finds out they didn’t get him immediately. Should I tell them? I should tell them.”

You gave her a look—the same one you used when the girls got too rowdy during warm-ups. “We talked about this. No, babe.”

“But—” she lowered her voice, glancing around the ER. “They don’t even know you’re his wife. Shouldn’t someone know? You’re in pain, and he’d want to—”

A nurse appeared with a wheelchair, her eyes flicking between you and Grace.

“She’s with me,” Grace said quickly, defensive and fierce. “She’s not just some random patient. This is really bad.”

The nurse gave her a polite smile and helped transfer you gently. “We’ll get her seen quickly, don’t worry.”

“She needs Jack,” Grace added, her voice cracking.

The nurse paused just slightly. “Jack…?”

You exhaled slowly. Here we go.

“She means Dr. Abbot,” you said, trying not to wince as you shifted. “He’s my—he’s… we know him.”

You really weren’t ready to deal with the full explanation right now. Not when your leg was screaming and you were trying to maintain some semblance of dignity in your glitter-covered socks.

The nurse’s brows lifted just slightly but didn’t push. “Let’s get you to a bed, then we’ll go from there.”

The ER was still waking up—lights bright but not blinding, a few residents gathered around the central station with coffee cups and clipboards. Your name hadn’t reached the gossip chain yet, and for now, that was a gift.

Grace hovered nearby like an over-caffeinated hummingbird. “Should I text him? Can I text him? He’s probably already here, right? I could just yell for—”

“Please don’t yell,” you groaned.

She fidgeted with her phone, visibly vibrating. “You don’t get it. If I don’t say something and he finds out we didn’t, he’s going to be all scary. You’ve seen him. You married him.”

The nurse’s head turned at that, but you closed your eyes and didn’t respond.

You were halfway through the triage when one of the residents popped his head in, chart in hand. “You’re the coach, right? Cheer gym injury? I’m Dr. Shen,”

You nodded. “Sounds about right.”

“Looks like they flagged ortho already,” he said. “But you’ve got some swelling, maybe a fibula fracture. We’ll get imaging, but I’ll do a quick exam.”

As he moved toward your leg, you heard Grace mutter under her breath, “This is taking too long.”

You gently grabbed her wrist. “Deep breaths, babe. I’m okay. I promise.”

She nodded quickly, eyes glassy. “You can’t promise that.”

And before you could stop her, she spun toward the hallway something (or someone) clearly catching her eye and called out, voice loud and panicked:

“Dr. Abbot! Jack!”

Several heads turned. A nurse dropped her pen. One of the younger med students actually gasped.

The resident paused mid-exam. “Wait, did she just say—?”

You groaned, throwing your arm over your eyes. “Yup.”

And like clockwork, heavy footsteps pounded down the hallway. Voices called after him—probably someone trying to tell him to slow down, but he wasn’t listening.

Then he appeared, scrubs wrinkled, expression somewhere between murder and panic.

His eyes found yours instantly. “You okay?”

“Jack—” you started, but he was already at your side, checking your vitals, his hand on your wrist like he needed to feel your pulse himself to believe it.

You could feel the stares. The whispers. The dawning realization.

Grace, finally satisfied, sat down next to your bed and crossed her arms. “Told you.”

Jack didn’t even look at her. He just leaned down and brushed a kiss to your forehead.

“I told you not to stunt without spotters,” he muttered.

“And I told her not to make a scene,” you replied, lips twitching.

He glanced around and finally noticed the stunned silence.

“What?”

No one answered.

You closed your eyes again, cheeks warm. “They didn’t know.”

“Oh.” He straightened, suddenly aware of the audience. “Well… now they do.”

You were trying not to laugh at the awkward silence hanging in the air.

Jack had one hand still loosely wrapped around your wrist, like he couldn’t stop checking your pulse — despite the fact that a monitor, a nurse, and an extremely flustered resident were already doing the exact same thing.

You cleared your throat gently. “Jack… they kind of need to examine me. Officially.”

“I am examining you,” he said, like that somehow settled the matter. “You’re in my ER. You’re my patient.”

From the chair in the corner, Grace scoffed under her breath. “That’s not how it works and you know it.”

Jack glanced sideways at her. “Grace.”

She blinked innocently. “What? I didn’t say you’re doing a bad job. Just that you're being a little overdramatic with the heart rate check. That monitor has it covered.”

“You want to go monitor something? Are you a doctor?” he asked, dry.

She threw her hands up. “Fine. I’m quiet. See?” She sealed her lips with an invisible zipper and sat back, but the worry in her eyes didn’t fade.

You smiled faintly at the whole scene. The tension in your leg was awful, a hot ache pulsing up through your thigh, but the comfort of familiarity made it all a little more bearable.

Jack turned back to you, this time softening slightly as he brushed his fingers lightly over your hand. “Pain level?”

“Six,” you said. “Seven when I move it. I think I heard something pop.”

“Not surprised.” He gave you a once-over, eyes sharper now. “You look pale.”

“Fluorescent lighting is no one’s friend,” you muttered. “And I skipped my second coffee.”

He raised a brow. “You were spotting girls on one coffee?”

“I didn’t plan to get hurt, Jack.”

Behind him, Grace made a wounded noise. “She didn’t even flinch when it happened. Just said, ‘Huh. I think I’m hurt.’ Like it was no big deal. We all thought she was fine until she couldn’t walk.”

Jack looked over his shoulder. “And you brought her in?”

“I called 911,” she said, defensive. “And I rode with her. And I told them like six times that she’s your wife, but they acted like I was crazy!.”

Jack snorted. “Can’t imagine why.”

She gave him a pointed look. “You probably never talk about her at work. You could’ve warned people.”

“I thought we liked keeping it private,” he said, glancing at you again.

You smiled up at him. “We do. You just outed us by kissing me.”

“They were taking too long,” he muttered.

From her chair, Grace nodded solemnly. “That’s what I said.”

Jack ignored her, stepping aside as a nurse rolled in the portable ultrasound to check for swelling. A med student followed behind, clearly trying to avoid staring but failing spectacularly.

Jack caught the lingering gaze and turned, tone clipped. “Yes, we’re married. Yes, we kept it private. No, I’m not answering questions. Go page ortho again.”

The kid turned tail so fast you almost felt bad for him.

Almost.

Grace waited until he left, then leaned forward with wide eyes. “Can I please be the one to break it to the rest of the team?”

“No,” you and Jack both said at the same time.

She slumped. “Worth a shot.”

Jack gave your chart a once-over, then carefully shifted the pillow beneath your leg. “We’ll confirm with imaging, but it’s probably your fibula. Hairline, best case.”

You winced. “Ugh. That means no gym for—?”

“Two weeks minimum,” he cut in firmly. “Longer if ortho’s being conservative.”

Grace perked up again. “But you can still come sit and yell at us, right?”

“We’ll see,” Jack answered for you. “She’s going to rest first.”

“She can rest and yell. Comp season is starting soon..”

“Grace.”

She sat back again, muttering something that sounded like, “Overprotective, overachieving power couple,” under her breath.

You gave her a fond look. “Thank you for staying with me.”

She shrugged like it was nothing, but her voice was quiet when she answered, “You’d do it for me.”

Jack glanced between the two of you, and something in his expression shifted — that deep-down kind of respect he rarely showed unless he meant it.

“Hey,” he said, aiming it at Grace. “You did good this morning.”

She perked up. “Really?”

“Really. You almost atayed calm, made the right call, got her here fast.” He looked at you briefly. “She’s not an easy one to boss around when she’s being stubborn.”

Grace nodded solemnly. “No, she is not.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling.

Just then, a nurse came in with your chart and glanced between you and Jack. “We, uh… need an attending on record. Someone not married to the patient.”

Jack finally stepped back, his hand lingering for one more second before dropping to his side. “Dr. Shen’s on call. I’ll send him in.”

“You really didn’t act like ‘just the husband,’” Grace whispered as he turned to go.

He didn’t answer, just shot her a knowing look and disappeared into the hallway.

You leaned back into the pillow, exhaling as the hum of the ER filled in the quiet again.

“Coach?”

“Yeah?”

“Next time, we should just call him first.”

You smiled at her, soft and full of love. “Only if you promise not to freak me out like that again.”

She squeezed your hand gently. “Deal.”

Now, a few weeks later you had barely made it halfway down the bleachers before your girls spotted you — which meant you’d barely made it halfway down the bleachers before you were swarmed.

“Coach!”

“Oh my god, did you see us?!”

“Grace hit the stunt and didn’t fall this time!”

“Wait, are you okay? You’re not supposed to be walking—JACK!”

That last one was, of course, shrieked by Grace, who was already bounding up the stairs two at a time. She reached you first, wrapping you in a hug like she hadn’t seen you in warm-ups just two hours ago. Jack steadied your other side as she pulled back, eyes wide.

“You really came,” she said, looking between the two of you. “Did you see everything?”

You smiled. “Every second.”

The rest of the team wasn’t far behind—a slightly more graceful stampede of ponytails, ribbons, and metallic jackets. They closed in fast, voices overlapping with the kind of energy that could only come from hitting a near-perfect routine.

“Coach, our pyramid hit—did you see it?”

“We didn’t drop anything!”

“My heel came loose halfway but I saved it—did you notice?”

Jack was trying to fade back into the bleachers, but you hooked a gentle hand through his elbow to keep him in place.

“Yes, we saw,” you said with a warm laugh. “You were all incredible.”

“She cried,” Jack added, totally betraying you.

“I teared up,” you corrected, swatting at his arm. “There’s a difference.”

“She definitely cried,” he said, dry as ever.

Grace grinned and looped her arm through yours. “Honestly? Valid.”

Someone finally noticed Jack.

“Dr. Abbot’s here!”

“Wait—he really came?”

“Can you check this bruise? I landed kinda weird—”

You raised your hand, cutting in before things spiraled. “Alright, easy. He’s here as my husband, not your medic.”

“But he’s both,” someone muttered.

Jack sighed. Loudly. “Why do you all know me?”

“You wrapped my ankle last winter,” one girl said brightly.

“You yelled at the urgent care nurse for me,” another added.

Grace nodded, clearly proud. “You fixed like half our ponytails that day too. So like… you’re practically part of the team.”

“And I resent that,” Jack mumbled.

But he didn’t pull away when one of your flyers handed him a glittery “PSE” sticker. He peeled it carefully and stuck it right on the inside of his jacket, just above his heart. You squeezed his arm affectionately.

You caught a few of the girls exchanging glances, and Grace turned to you with a knowing look.

“Did he cry too?”

“No,” Jack said immediately.

“Yes,” you and Grace said at the same time.

He gave you both an unimpressed look. But there was a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You settled back onto the bleachers as the girls dispersed, your crutch beside you and leaned into Jack’s side as the awards staging call echoed across the venue. Before the chaos of the impending awards resumed. You let your eyes sweep across the mat again, replaying the routine in your mind — the synchronized tumbling, the sharp formations, Grace’s flyer holding steady with laser focus.

“They were really good,” Jack said quietly, his voice close to your ear. “Like... actually impressive.”

You looked up at him. “Yeah?”

“I’ve seen a lot of broken legs from this stuff,” he replied, ever the ER doctor. “But that routine? That was clean.”

You smiled, proud and soft. “They worked hard.”

“They’ve got a good coach.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder. “You’re being sweet.”

“Don’t tell them,” he muttered.

Too late. Grace was already back, handing you an iced coffee and grabbing your clipboard like it was a baton.

“Staging’s happening now,” she said, already ushering the team into motion.

“Can Jack come with us to awards?” someone asked as she passed.

“No,” Jack said automatically.

“He can,” Grace whispered, smirking. “She’ll make the eyes.”

“I’m literally right here,” you said.

He gave you a look. “You want me to sit through cheer awards?”

You smiled up at him. “I broke my leg for this team.”

“…Fine,” he muttered. “But if someone tries to glitter me again—”

“No promises,” a voice called out.

You kissed his cheek, just under the jaw. “You’re the best husband.”

“I’m the only idiot who married you,” he said, voice dry.

Grace grinned. “So… team dad?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Too late,” a chorus of voices echoed.

And as they herded you both toward the staging area—a little whirlwind of adrenaline, glitter, and unfiltered joy—Jack followed close behind. Sticker still on his jacket. Hand still in yours.

And when someone dragged him into the team photo after awards, you caught the smallest, most reluctant smile on his face.

Not that he’d admit it, of course.

mercury-glow 2025

#the pitt #the pitt max #the pitt hbo #the pitt x reader #the pitt x you #jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x you #jack abbott #jack abbott x reader #jack abbott x you #dr. jack abbot #dr. jack abbot x reader #dr. jack abbot x you #dr. jack abbott #dr. jack abbott x reader #dr. jack abbott x you #shawn hatosy #❥ - Jack Abbot

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yanderenightmare · 10 months ago

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♡ TW: nsfw, noncon/dubcon, yandere, omegaverse, forced bonding, subjugation, some type of discrimination, elements of androgyny

♡ fem reader

Thinking about the big and burly behemoth Omega finally finding himself the cutest little Alpha to breed with…

He could never bring himself to breed with Alphas. Growing up, he developed a great disdain for them—all high and mighty rabid animals prone to violence, more often than not completely dimwitted to top it off, as if their massive ego had usurped the place of basic brain operation.

He couldn’t hate them more, yet he doesn’t correct anyone when they mistake him for one, either. In many ways, he wished he was born one instead of an Omega. It would make it easier to fulfill his desires that way. A dominant Omega isn’t all that normal, after all—and submissive Alphas are an even rarer breed to come by.

He hadn't found one yet. And other Omegas don’t really do it for him. They approach him, thinking he’s an Alpha, then feel disappointed when figuring out he’s not—which is fine, as he isn’t particularly interested in their scent either. Betas make for an okay compromise—they don’t care if he’s an Omega, it makes no difference to them—yet he could never really shake the feeling that something was missing when lying with them.

At the office, the scent of Alphas plagues him all day—how they strut around, stinking up the place with no concern for anyone else. This is a workplace, for fuck’s sake—can’t they have a little dignity and not treat it like a mating ground? He really hates them. All bigheaded assholes—

“Ow—” there’s bark and a hard thunk of something hitting the floor.

Someone just bumped into him—someone so small he hadn’t even seen them over the top of his clipboard. Looking down, he sees a fellow Omega—a pretty one. You must be as disoriented by the scent around you as he is—probably why you walked right into him—poor thing. He ought to help you up.

You hold your head in your hand, wincing at the sting of your rear—you’d fallen right on your tailbone. Looking up, you give the fellow Alpha who’d knocked you down a mean glare, “What the hell, asshole!”

His outstretched hand stiffens midway. That’s not a very Omega-like thing to say—especially not by one so small as you. No, wait… what’s that scent?

You ignore his hand and get up on your own, dusting down your pin-stripes with angry brushes—face pursed, almost pouty, but not quite, too stink-eyed as you lean in and jab a finger into his chest to punctuate your words, “Watch where you’re going next time, you…”

You soften up halfway through the sentence. It must have dawned on you as well. His scent. Not like other Alphas, but something else entirely—something that suddenly makes you blush all over, wide-eyed.

You don’t say another word, only giving a weak huff before turning tail and stomping away.

There’s something very cute about it—he’s left thinking while watching you, utterly stunned and still, replaying the events that just occurred over and over in his head—wondering how he’d never seen you before. You must work on a different floor.

Luckily, he’d made sure to read your name tag—pinned all properly on your chest like a badge of honor, neatly like the rest of you. Well put together from the top of your salon-styled hair down to the tips of your pointy black stilettos. Even with their added height, you must have been two heads shorter than him—no taller than any regular Omega.

It's no wonder he mistook you for one. You were as cute as one, too—like a doll he could put behind glass, up on a mantle, and keep forever. But oh my… that mouth on you and that awful snarl. Just like any other imposing Alpha, he supposed. Bratty and arrogant, quick to jump the gun and pick a fight instead of taking it for the simple accident it was.

He goes back and sets himself down by his desk—but he’s way too distracted to work now, too busy with the thought of you. That flushed face you showed him before teetering off was something he wouldn’t mind seeing again—also that cute scowl under certain circumstances and what type of expression you’d give him if he wiped it off.

He's lucky an office party came along so quickly. He wouldn’t usually go, but now he had a reason. He bet you’d be there—the way you were dressed when you’d bumped into him tells him you’re one to respect the memo—head to toe in such a neat suit, trying to come off as androgynous as if in desperation needing everyone to know you were an Alpha. It must be hard for you—looking like that but wanting to look… well, suppose more like him.

He's glad he never felt that way—wishing to be smaller and cuter like other Omegas. Sure, he’s been envious of them at times, but more so of their easy pickings and not their appearance. He’s happy being bigger and stronger—it keeps unwanted attention at bay. You probably struggle to do the same. He bets you get a lot of the wrong eyes following you. Yeah… you must attract the bad sort all the time—alphas swarming you only to catch your scent and lose interest. Or maybe not… Alphas are sick, after all. Come to think of it, most of them would probably get off on dominating another Alpha. In that regard, it must have been worse for you than for him. Luckily, both of your issues are now solved.

He wondered what you’d wear tonight. You’d look much better in something feminine and not that suit you’d been wearing. He hopes, but no, you’re wearing much the same thing—another tailored two-piece that all but drowns you.

He understands what you’re going for. You have to dress like that, or else what Omega would ever want you looking the way you do? Aside from him, of course.

No matter. When you move in with him, he’ll dress you in all the pretty things he knows you want to wear. After all, pretty colors, ruffles, and lace will suit you so much better.

“Hello again.” He approaches you by the hors d’oeuvres even after you’d visibly and explicitly chosen to ignore him.

You groan under your breath, responding without even bothering to look at him, “Do I know you?”

Your tough act is cute. He has to withhold a chuckle before answering, “Don’t remember? You called me an asshole a week ago.”

“You walked right into me, so it’s not like it wasn’t deserved.”

You have to love that arrogance—that air of unfounded superiority. He wonders, where do you keep it all? “Well, how could I not? You’re so small I didn’t even see you.”

You’re quick to bare your teeth—obviously, he hit a nerve—showing him that same snarl you’d done back then. Cute little canines—he bet they won’t even hurt going into his neck once you mark him.

“Watch your mouth, Omega.”

Still, with a small smile, he feigns surprise. “Wow—are you an Alpha? Funny, I didn’t know they came in such tiny packages.”

It flusters you, no doubt—your brows lowered into a full glower now. “And I didn’t know Omegas could be so rude.”

You turn to stomp again, as you’d done before—though this time, he grabs your arm before you’re gone.

You whip around with another bark, “Hands off—"

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes unexpectedly, giving you puppy-dog eyes you hadn’t thought him capable of. “I should have been more mindful of my steps. It was entirely my fault.”

You go still at the sudden show of humility and respect. Finding yourself softening by the tilt of his head, bowing at you in acknowledgment of your higher standing. Not that many bother doing that to you—between mistaking you for an Omega or otherwise neglecting your standing as an Alpha, both due to your physique. Seeing it up close and so abruptly flusters you.

“Let me get you a drink to make up for it?” he offers politely, almost in plead.

Struck with feelings of somewhat regret for your own uncouth attitude, you nearly accept on a whim. “That’s kind…” But then think it over. You don’t really want to lead him on, either. You nearly stutter, yet steal yourself. After all… “But you’re not really my type.”

He hangs his head with a dejected sigh, “That’s harsh.” But he’d already figured as much and didn’t really care. Giving you his most sorry grin, he insists, “Humor me anyway? Just one drink so I don’t feel like an asshole for the rest of my life.”

It’s clear you want to refuse—still, as suspected, your heart just can’t handle seeing a desperate Omega in need. Bless your dim Alpha instincts.

“Okay, fine. One drink, that’s all,” you end up agreeing. One drink can’t hurt, right?

You feel like a good Samaritan once the big hunk of an Omega runs off to fetch you a glass. Pitying him or even sympathizing, maybe—it can’t be easy for an Omega in the mating scene to look like that. No Alpha around would want an Omega bigger than them—it’s utterly emasculating, not to mention unnatural.

Of course, you’re aware you’re in much the same shoes as him—you’re not delusional. Only, it’s easy being an independent Alpha—you don’t mind being a lone wolf in the world—but Omegas were built to be domestic. So yeah, you pity him—the poor guy, he’ll probably never find a proper mate.

But you can’t let your pity grant him too many favors—you have no intention of taking on any charity case tonight, especially not a pity fuck. You’ll have one drink with him as a mutual apology. That’s all.

Luckily… one drink is all he needs. Add a little sprinkle of this and that in your glass, and you’re already in the palm of his hand.

He has to carry you bridal style before he’s even managed to lead you to the elevator—it’s empty all the way down to the garage. He puts you in his car, locks your seatbelt in place, then drives off. It’s honestly quite astounding how easy it had been. He’d thought trapping an Alpha would be a much more remarkable feat, an impossible one for an Omega—but this was no different from eating an unguarded piece of cake.

You’re drowsy as he carries you into his apartment. And that’s when the other drug kicks in. The overwhelming scent of being inside his nest sets off your rut like a matchstick being ripped along the red.

Your claws come out, puncturing his sheets as he lays you down on his bed.

You’re too delirious to do much but writhe—making it easy for him to unbutton your dress shirt, followed by your slacks. He has to scoff at your plain black boxers and binder bra. You poor thing, always trying to run with the big dogs when you’re no bigger than a bite-sized puppy. From now on, you’ll only wear lacey things he brings home for you. You won’t have to puff your chest—you can be as sweet and pretty as your delicate physique constitutes—his cutest, littlest, most perfect mate.

You gain newfound strength once he’s peeled your underwear down, baring your needy heat to his touch. Instantly, your arms spring into action, flinging themselves around him, pouncing like a predator at its prey with your fangs bared.

He stops you easily—placing his wrist between your teeth, using it as a muzzle. He chuckles, looking at you gnaw on it like a bone.

“I think the world has it all wrong,” he starts, though he’s not sure you’re even capable of understanding speech in your state. “Omegas are the ones better suited as leaders of society, not Alphas.”

As he talks, he continues with his ministrations, stroking your needy slit with a mean finger, swiping it cruelly before splitting between the folds.

“I mean, look at you—mindless in a rut, willing to pounce on anything that moves—like a wild animal.” Once he sticks his finger inside you, your teeth do his wrist the same justice—drawing blood, making him hiss through his smile, “I ought to keep you in a cage.” And yet he doesn’t pull either hand away. “It would suit you well—on your knees with a pretty leash and collar upon your throat.”

You’re wet in his hand—soaked and so warm he loses track of his own finger as if melting within you. His cock strains against his boxer, wanting to feel it for himself. But you’re still way too tight for that.

He feeds you another digit, and you moan—suckling on his wrist now more than biting, though still with your canines out and seeking.

“Look at these wittle teeth, tch—” he grins upon closer inspection, looking between them and your eyes—pupil-fat orbs, far gone in your instincts. “I bet they’re just itching for my neck instead, huh?”

The provocation seems to make you more desperate. Pumping you slowly, more so to stretch you out than stimulate, he can feel your breaths turn thicker with need, how you press your tongue against his wrist, wet and lousy, wanting for more.

“Well, go on then, Alpha...” He chuckles again, removing his arm from barring your mouth before wrapping your throat with the same hand, holding it like a collar, keeping you under control.

And then he bares his neck for you.

“I give my consent.”

♡ part two

♡ BNHA – Deku, Kirishima, Hawks, Amajiki ♡ JJK – Gojo, Geto ♡ HQ – Kuro, Oikawa, Miya twins, Tendou ♡ BLLK – Reo, Nagi, Bachira, Isagi ♡ DS – Doma ♡ WB – Suo, Togame

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

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randompiecesofwriting · 17 days ago

Text

I'm Okay

Summary: Robby’s girlfriend is a reporter with the local news station sent out on a field assignment she was exceptionally excited for, covering Pittfest

Pairing: Michael “Robby” Robinavich x Reader

Word Count: 5.5k

Warning: Pittfest fic! Mass casualty event, shooting, reader gets a bullet in the arm, medical inaccuracies, swearing, so much angst

Author’s Note: Took a break from my Jack fic to write an obligatory Pittfest fic because I don’t have one yet! Thank you so much for all of the kind messages notes and tags that you all have left on my work as I’ve said before it means the absolute world to me and I do read each and every one over and over again because I love them all. Thank you!!

The nurse behind the desk barely spared you a glance before waving you and Jake in, the two of you sharing a small smile as you bypassed the line of people waiting, shuffling back into the ER, pointedly ignoring the jealous glares that were being thrown your way from the waiting room as you did so.

Because the two of you were on a mission, get into the ED, grab Jake’s tickets to Pittfest then get out hopefully soon enough to give you enough time to get ready before you started your broadcast. You only had three hours of time blocked off to get this done so honestly you were cutting it close.

Your first stop once entering the ED was, as always, to Dana at the nurses’ station, the woman herself grinning as soon as she spotted the two of you entering, her eyes dancing back and forth between you and Jake with a small smirk. “Y/N on babysitting duty then”

“Definitely don’t need a babysitter” Jake cut in with an exasperated groan that had you and the charge nurse chuckling.

“Besides I’m working anyways” you cut in with a shrug “so he’s ditching me for a girl”

Dana’s gaze cut to Jake eagerly as she did her best to tamp down the shit-eating grin on her face.

“Who’s got a girl” Langdon, however, made no such effort, sliding in beside Dana eagerly making Jake duck his head slightly in response as he tried to hide his flushed cheeks.

Deciding to put the poor kid out of his misery you jumped in to save him “Today all I’m good for is gas money”

“That’s not true” Jack assured you with a mischievous glint in his eye, clearly not properly appreciating your save from Langdon “your press badge will let us skip the line too”

You elbowed Jake in the side fondly as he erupted with warm laughter, so distracted with getting your revenge you missed the footsteps that approached you from behind, jumping slightly when a hand at your hip was all the warning you got before Robby was pressing a quick kiss to the side of your head as he flew by. “I’m still upset you get to meet the girlfriend before I do”

He clapped Jake on the shoulder fondly despite the tease as he swung around the desk, Jake shrugging with a smirk in response “I like her better”

Robby snorted at the jab, eyes already scanning the desk for his next task. And you could see the exhaustion in him that had sunk to his very bones, could see the desperate need within him to keep moving, to distract himself. But you knew better than to call him on it now, knew he just needed to work through it in his own way, knew he’d find his way back to you at the end of the day.

So instead you threw an arm around Jake’s shoulders and pulled him into a dramatic side hug, jostling him roughly and enjoying the chuckle Jake let out at the motion “What can I say the kid’s got taste”

Robby sent Dana a fake exasperated glance as if to ask for at least one person to be on his side.

Dana responded accordingly “Don’t look at me like that I like her better to”

He knew better than to look to Langdon after that.

Someone on the other end of the room called out Robby’s name, and his body reacted almost reflexively to move him in that direction in response as he called out back at you “Traitors, the whole lot of you”

“Wait” Jake called out after him, realizing quickly it was of no use and dropping his voice down to a speaking level as Robby disappeared within one of the rooms “he has my tickets”

You snorted at his dejected tone “honestly that’s on you for thinking we’d be in and out of the Pitt in anything less than two hours” clapping a hand on his shoulder you pulled him in the direction of the lockers “come on I stashed a bag of m&m’s in his backpack this morning lets go for the record”

An hour later you and Jake had long since set up camp at Dana’s desk, you sitting in a roller chair on one end of the room with a bag of m&m’s in hand calling out to Langdon who sat in his own chair on the other side “What color?”

“Red I need the contrast” You snorted at his genuine use of strategy, shaking your head as you dug through the bag, feeling the newcomer approach from behind more than see them.

“Going for the record?” You could hear the amusement in Collins’ voice even as she pretended to be exasperated by it.

You grinned up at her in response “nine feet, that’s gotta be worth at least a page in the Guinness book right”

“Least he’s good at one thing”

“I heard that” Langdon called out across the Pitt making the two of you laugh before she called back

“You were meant to”

Finaly spotting the correct colored piece you held it up dramatically, extending it to Jake as if for inspection, the kid nodding solemnly before declaring “with this piece we make history”

You snorted at how seriously they both took this, hearing Collins hide her own in her sleeve as you lined up the shot, mimicking the movement a few times before finally letting it fly.

Langdon tracked the movement with a level of concentration you’ve only seen him use in trauma situations, dipping his head slightly at the last minute just in time to catch the m&m directly in his mouth.

He was on his feet as soon as it landed with a yell, tossing a dramatic double high-five at Jake in celebration as you dissolved into a puddle of giggles on your chair, Robby joining the group just late enough to miss the record shattering catch that sparked the reaction.

“You guys are still here?”

And you couldn’t help but sober slightly at the question, worry rising within you as you started to realize how much he was throwing himself into his work today. You’ve wasted a lot of time in the Pitt waiting on him before, but never had he fully forgotten you were here.

“Yeah we need the tickets” Jake responded good naturedly, Robby’s brows rising as he realized his mistake and having Jake follow him back towards the lockers to grab them.

Langdon and Collins took that as their chance to break off as well, giving you the opportunity to slide your chair up along side Dana’s “How’s he doing?”

“He says he’s fine” She sent you a look that told you she believed that about as much as you did, making you shake your head “just need to get through this shift and he’ll be alright”

“Yeah” you sighed doubtfully, putting on a small smile as you watched him and Jake emerge with the tickets in hand, Robby’s smile noticeably lighter after the interaction.

Jake started to make his way out of the ED as you rose to meet Robby behind the desk, giving him a quick peck and a light squeeze on the arm.

“Be careful today”

“Course” you shook off his worry easily, knowing that between the two of you there was only one who warranted such concern “take a break here soon yeah? Just a quick breather”

“I’m fine” he started to brush you off, cutting himself off at the raise of your brow, another call of his name pulling him from the moment with a tired sigh “I’ll try”

“Thank you” You smiled up at him, giving him one more kiss before stepping back, allowing him to dive back into the chaos of the Pitt.

“You know you’re the only one that can do that” Dana commented with a smirk from the desk as you started to gather your things.

“Yeah well we’ll see if he actually listens” you sighed as you finally pushed your chair back into its proper place, taking a second to give Dana a hug goodbye “look after him yeah?”

“Don’t worry I’ve got him” she assured you with a smile, stepping back as you let her go and started towards the doors to the waiting room.

“Have fun at Pittfest” she called out after you “call when you can”

“I will” you called back with a chuckle, pushing open the doors to the waiting room and joining Jake as the two of you exited the building, gladly listening to him rattle off all of the bands he and Leah were excited to see play that day.

Robby needed this shift to end.

It was the shift from hell, every resident he knew and trusted were gone, he was left with a heard of medical students on their first day, and now Dana was talking about quitting as well.

He needed the shift to end then he needed to hibernate for the next week straight.

Then Dana’s phone rang.

He didn’t think much of it at first, another trauma inbound, some more time to beg the one last person on his side to stay with him.

Then he watched her face drop, a look he wasn’t used to seeing on the infallible charge nurse. It wasn’t exactly surprised, wasn’t exactly sad or even shocked, it was haunted.

He furrowed his brow slightly, tilting his head to try and get a better read on her.

“Turn to channel 8” her voice came out hoarse, soft, without any weight behind it as if she couldn’t comprehend the words herself.

“What?”

“Turn to channel 8” she didn’t bother responding to him, this time pitching her voice louder to ring out across the Pitt.

“Dana?” he tried to call her attention back to him but she ignored him, clutching the phone she’d already hung up tightly in her grasp as she glued her eyes to the screen.

A familiar voice rang out across the room as the channel was changed. Nancy he realized, the lead anchor for the local news station, came onto screen. You’d introduced her to him once, you two were close at work.

Her red rimmed eyes were the first thing he noticed.

“We bring you breaking news tonight with reports of an active shooter at Pittfest the city’s summer music festival”

And Robby’s mind went blank.

There was no struggling to understand, no attempt to even process the news, just flat out rejection of the base premise. Those words simply did not go in that order, they couldn’t. It didn’t make sense for there to be a shooter at Pittfest, Jake was at Pittfest. He was here earlier, goofing off with Langdon before grabbing tickets from him he couldn’t be in any danger. He was happy, he was excited, there couldn’t be a shooter. You were at Pittfest, you’d been excited for the field assignment, your favorite band was playing, there couldn’t be a shooter.

“We go live now to field reporter Chuck Newcastle who’s on the scene now, Chuck are you with us?”

Another sentence that didn’t make sense. You were the reporter on the scene. You were the one they had sent. It was supposed to be you they went live to.

His gaze sought out Dana’s only to see the woman already looking at him. She looked panicked but that couldn’t be it, Dana didn’t get panicked, she ran the ED, she wasn’t allowed to panic.

“She’s supposed to be there” His voice sounded hollow even to himself as he watched Dana’s face crumple in response, eyes casting desperately back to the screen for answers.

He wasn’t sure the Pitt had ever been this quiet before.

“As you can see behind me first responders are currently on the scene and taping off areas as they attempt to apprehend the shooter” Chuck started to describe the situation with a hand on his ear, listening to the earpiece within it, continuing on without a hiccup “we have a reporter who was inside the festival area at the time of the event, out own Y/N Y/L/N. We’ll play a clip of her broadcast here in a second, but viewer discretion is advised”

He hadn’t realized how much of him had been hoping there’d been some sort of mix up until that moment. That you had backed out at the last minute, that they hadn’t actually sent you in, that you’d been lying to him about your plans for the day the entire time, anything that would keep you from being there.

A few heads turned in his direction at the news and he could see the hesitation on their faces, could see the silent questions they sent one another, could see the pity creep in as the Pitt all collectively wondered if they were about to see Dr. Robby’s girlfriend get shot on camera.

A hand reached for the dial and the command was out of him before he could think

“Don’t”

There as an unfamiliar edge in his tone, an unquestionable authority, a deeply buried fear masked by anger.

The hand retracted and you appeared on the screen.

“Hi my name is Y/N Y/L/N and you’re joining me here at Pittfest-“ you launched into your intro with a smile on your face and Robby drank it in greedily, heart stuttering in his chest as he desperately held onto that smile even if it was just your fake one you used for the camera, committed your voice to memory even if it was the falsely sweet one you used for reporting.

Then it all broke down.

Your report came to a screeching halt as a loud crack sounded through the background, an unnatural moment of stillness passing as the world around you froze, as everyone around you struggled collectively to comprehend, to react.

Your gaze suddenly strayed from down the lens to behind it, to your camera man, a silent question in your eyes before another shot sounded.

His heart leapt as you flinched this time, knees bending reflexively to get lower. A man in the background collapsed and instructions leapt to his throat unbidden, a silent plea to get down, to get under cover, to hide, to do something.

Instead you went after the man.

He could’ve screamed.

The camera crashed to the ground as it was dropped, the entire scene going sideways with you still barely in frame as you pressed firmly down onto the man’s chest, too far away for the audience to make anything out.

The scene suddenly cut back to Chuck.

His eyes stayed on the screen long after you left it, willing you to come back, willing them to cut back to you, willing for some sort of sign that you were okay.

He felt Dana’s hand being placed hesitantly on his shoulder bringing him back. He pushed her off without a second thought, launching headfirst into his leader roll “okay everybody listen up as the nearest trauma center we are going to be getting most of the victims”

“Robby” Dana tried to call his attention

“we need all the narcotics, paralytics and sedatives that we can get our hands on” he ignored her, delegating tasks off rapidly to anyone that would listen.

“Robby”

He ignored her again, avoided the pity in her eyes, avoided everything. “We also need to establish a temporary morgue we’ll take peds for now”

“Robby”

“Dana I can’t” He didn’t mean to blow up at her, to raise his voice, to make her physically recoil back from him. With a deep breath he tried desperately to reign it in. “I can’t do this right now, I can’t think about-“ he cut himself off, stopping the line of thought before he could get to any referral of you, severing the link in his mind before it could spiral “I can’t”

“okay” she nodded in response, a steady mask slipping into place though he could still see it in her eyes, appreciating the gesture nonetheless. “what do you need me to do”

Work, he could focus on work. He could distract himself with work. Work was good. “Gurneys, make sure all the gurneys and wheelchairs you can get your hands on end up in the ambulance bay. And see if you can get ahold of Jake or even Janey” she nodded eagerly at the instruction, happy to be able to do something, he’d have to thank her for that later, “and” he continued hesitantly “just at least see if you can get ahold of-“

“I will” she cut him off before he could get too far into it, placing a hand on his shoulder and giving it a squeeze before ushering him off.

Work, he could do work.

You don’t remember much after throwing yourself into the bed of some guy’s truck. Lying flat out on your back on the hard aluminum and closing your eyes, registering nothing until suddenly a hand was tapping rapidly on your cheek.

You cracked your eyes open at the sudden movement, coming face to face with a wide-eyed Ellis hovering over you.

“Fancy seeing you here”

She didn’t laugh, instead made eye contact with Shen on the other side of the vehicle, the two sharing a silent conversation before shouting Jack’s name in unison as Ellis slapped a pink bracelet on your wrist.

“shhhh I’m fine” you pointedly ignored the way the words slurred slightly on their way out while Ellis ignored their meaning all together, gingerly helping you out of the car and towards a gurney.

“It’s just my shoulder I can walk” you tried to protest as she forced you down, a familiar head of salt and pepper curls appearing behind her in a rush, a string of curses slipping out of him at the sight of you. “Thank you Jack tell Ellis I’m fine” You used your good arm to try and fend her off as Jack pulled a penlight out of his pocket and shined it directly into your eye “Dude it’s my shoulder not my head” you protested, bringing a hand up to rub away the shadows he burned into your vision.

“Lay back or I’ll strap you down” he threatened and though Jack was usually on the gruffer side you couldn’t help but notice the edge in his voice, that being enough to make you finally lay back and let them wheel you through the doors without a word.

Ellis followed, pushing the gurney, as she rambled off numbers you didn’t understand to Jack as he started to peel away the strips of fabric you’d been using as a dressing from your shoulder making you wince.

“Go find Robby and get him over here now” he instructed Ellis without looking up at her “Take over whatever he’s doing if you have to just get him here got it?”

She left with little more than a nod.

“How’s he doing?”

The corner of his mouth ticked up at your question for a second, hands moving fast to try and stop the bleeding “not really the priority right now sweetheart”

“Well that doesn’t bode well” you hummed back lazily, letting your eyes rest for a second.

Jack jostled you by your chin suddenly, forcing your eyes back open and on him “absolutely not, you’re not allowed to shut your eyes till Robby’s here”

“Robby then nap”

He huffed at your response then went back to digging harshly into your shoulder “Robby then nap”

Forcing your eyes to stay open was harder than you thought it would be even with the sharp pain of Jack working on your shoulder, the loud murmur of the hospital in complete chaos around you, the distant sound of your name being called.

Forcing your vision to focus you realized there as a familiar looking doctor now hovering over you with wide eyes, your familiar looking doctor hovering over you, a panicked look on his face as he stared down at you.

“Hey”

He relaxed slightly at the sound of your voice, barely enough to be noticeable but it was better than nothing.

“You’re here” his voice cracked as he said it, a hand coming up to run soft fingers through your hair before you were interrupted by Jack’s small “got it” and a small ting ringing out as he dropped a small metal object into a metal tin.

Robby’s gaze hardened as he eyed the bullet Jack had just dug out of you, wordlessly taking over for his friend and yelling out your blood type without having to check with you first.

Dana descended on the scene as if she’d been waiting just feet away, hanging a bag of blood on the pole by your head before hovering over you in the spot Robby had just occupied “you were supposed to call me”

“Sorry I got a bit caught up” you responded with a lazy smile, faintly registering Dana’s hand tangling in your hair as she smiled down at you.

“I don’t forgive you yet”

You snorted at that, eyes starting to drift closed once again before you heard your name being called.

A vaguely familiar looking man appeared over Dana’s shoulder, introducing himself as a fellow reporter and talking just a bit too fast for you to keep up “you were there right? Did you see-“

He hadn’t even gotten the whole question out before Robby was yelling out Jack’s name through clenched teeth, the physician entering your field of vision swiftly to grab the reporter by the hood on his sweatshirt and yank him back from you roughly, everyone ignoring the chocking noise he made as he gagged on his own neckline.

“Jake” you remembered suddenly, calling out the name as your hand shot out to desperately grab for Dana, the only person within reach “is Jake okay?”

Robby never answered, stern frown locked into place as he stared down at your wound as he worked, leaving Dana to fill in the gaps “he’s fine don’t worry Jake’s fine”

“Good I sent him ahead in someone’s truck” you nodded weakly, relaxing back onto the gurney “wasn’t enough room for all three of us”

Robby scoffed from beside you, eyes never leaving your shoulder even as he spit out “there was enough room”

Neither the time nor the place you decided as you let it go for now, sharing a look with Dana but electing to stay quiet while Robby finished. The man himself not relaxing until he had tied off your last bandage, fingers hover over the wound a second longer than necessary before his eyes finally cut up to meet yours, the corners of them wet as he swallowed “it’s done, you’re okay”

And you knew he wasn’t talking to you when he said it but you nodded along anways, taking his hand in yours with a squeeze “I’m okay”

His other hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb grazing over the skin softly as his eyes danced back and forth between your own “you make me intubate you I’ll never forgive you”

You snorted at that as you sniffed, not realizing how close you had been to crying until you were trying to speak around the lump in your throat “just a nap I promise”

“I’m holding you to that” he whispered, leaning forward to press a kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a moment longer than necessary before straightening back up.

“I love you” the words spilled out of you before you could even think to regret them, finding that you didn’t mind if you hadn’t said them before, or if this was probably the worst time to say them, it didn’t make them any less true.

Robby responded without thought, grabbing your good hand to press a kiss to the back of it, whispering the words back into your skin before nodding to Dana, letting the woman wheel you away “I’ll see you in an hour okay”

“One hour” you repeated weakly, nodding as you relaxed further back into the gurney, falling fully asleep before you had even reached your destination.

You woke to find you’d been given your own room at some point, not all that surprised Robby had pulled some strings to get you tucked away from the chaos of the Pitt, not all that surprised to see the man himself knocked out in a chair beside your bed looking incredibly uncomfortable.

You needed to sit up and get a drink but knowing Robby needed the sleep you did so slowly, desperately trying to minimize the noise as much as possible. You barely got a few inches up off the mattress before you heard him come to with a loud breath.

Taking a mere second to catch his bearings, he was by your side quickly, helping you up with soft whispered easys.

“Thanks” you whispered back to him almost afraid to break the silence in the room as he arranged the pillows around you comfortably to sit. He was handing you a glass of water before you could ask, gently pushing your hair out of your face as you greedily drank, wordlessly grabbing the cup from you to set aside when you were done.

“How’s your shoulder any pain?”

You shook your head waving off the concern “I’m fine it’s manageable”

He eyed you skeptically but didn’t say anything in response, your first warning sign that something was up as he didn’t press, didn’t insist.

Reaching out you tangled your fingers into his, giving his hand a small squeeze, relieved to find he didn’t pull away as you did so. “You look tired”

He huffed at that, taking your entwined hands up to rest against his lips as he leaned on his elbow against the bed, watching you for a moment “I had a long day” Another deep breath, a shake of his head “I had a really long day”

A pause, an internal debate you could see written on his face, and a small sigh before he pushed ahead “seeing your broadcast really didn’t help”

You winced internally at the statement, already knowing where this conversation was going.

He must have been able to read your reaction on your face as he nodded, carefully taking your hand and untangling his fingers from it, setting it gently back on the mattress before harshly digging the palms of his hands into his eyes. “yeah I saw that”

“Robby I-“

“You ran towards the guy who had just been shot” he cut you off with a glare, leaning forward and resting his forearms on his knees.

“I wanted to stop the bleeding”

“You didn’t know where the shots were coming from, didn’t know where the shooter was first” Again he shut you down “You should’ve went for cover, should’ve gotten down, I feel like I shouldn’t have to explain that to you” His voice got louder and louder as he went on, refusing to make eye contact with you as he went.

“I couldn’t just let him bleed out”

“And look where that got you” his gaze was cutting, his tone harsh “he’s still dead and you’re here with a bullet hole in your shoulder”

“That’s not fair”

“I don’t care about fair” he took a pause, took a deep breath, maybe he realized he’d started yelling at you or maybe just realized if he pushed any further he’d start to break down, you weren’t sure which was true “I care that god forbid you’re ever in a situation like that again that I know I can trust you to at least try and keep yourself safe instead of running directly into the next bullet”

“That’s not even when I got hit” The defense sounded weak even to you but you couldn’t help it, couldn’t take him looking at you with such disappointment, such frustration.

“I don’t-“ He cut himself off, forced another deep breath, forced himself to calm back down before continuing “tell me then was is before or after you sent Jake ahead”

“Robby”

“Was it before or after you sent Jake ahead”

You stared back at him in silence, setting your jaw, knowing there was no getting out of the question, knowing that the answer would be easy enough to get from other sources anyways. “Before”

He swore loudly as he stood up suddenly, pacing the room at the foot of your bed anxiously as he ran an exasperated hand through his hair.

“There wasn’t room-“

“That’s bullshit and you know it” he cut you off with a glare “you had a bullet in your shoulder you could’ve squeezed in there easily so why the fuck weren’t you in the car when it left”

You stayed silent beneath his gaze, offering no defense.

“Y/N”

“There was a kid” you shouted back in frustration, practically exploding with the phrase before taking a page out of his book and pausing for a deep breath “there was a kid crying alone and I couldn’t leave him there”

“So you grab him and take him with you”

“Leah didn’t have time for that” you dropped your voice at that, both of you knowing it was true, neither of you particularly liking it “I couldn’t look Jake in the eye and ask him to risk his girlfriend’s life for a random kid”

“So you just decided to do it to me”

You were taken aback by that, those words hitting you harder than you had expected, you hadn’t considered it like that before “That’s not fair”

“There were no more ambulances” he shot back quickly, putting his hands on the end of your bed and leaning into them “the roads were shut down, no one could get through that very well could’ve ben your last chance to make it here and you just let it go”

You clenched your jaw but stayed silent as he made his way back to your bedside, bending down slightly to capture your gaze, keeping your eyes locked on his.

“You risked at best decreased functionality in your hand. And at worst? Infection, losing the entire arm, blood loss, getting hit again”

And you knew you should let him finish, let him get it out, let him unload. Instead you leaned forward and wrapped your arms around him.

Robby cut himself off immediately, his entire body freezing beneath your touch. He stayed like that for several seconds, his entire body tensing within your hold, long enough to make you start to doubt if you had just made everything worse, before he finally brought his arms up around you in response.

He robotically positioned them around you, steadily tightening their hold on you as he finally started to relax, softening further and further into the hug before he all but melted into you. One arm tightened almost uncomfortable around your waist while the other bunched up the back of your shirt into a fist as he buried his nose into the base of your neck, holding you as closely as possible, clearly afraid to let go.

“I thought-“ the words were thick as he whispered them into your skin.

“I know” you cooed softly, tightening your arms just as much around him “I’m so sorry Robby”

You stayed like that for long enough to grow uncomfortable, your back starting to ache at the awkward angle, but you didn’t dare move, not until he did, not until he was ready.

Slowly he sat up straighter. Hands snaking along your back and up to the nape of your neck to hold you in place, to keep you close, his face coming back just far enough to keep your noses from bumping.

“We’re going to have a fight later”

“I know” you nodded with a wet chuckle, refusing to let go of his sweatshirt long enough to wipe away the tears.

“I am so angry with you right now” his voice cracked halfway through the sentence.

“I love you”

The tips of his mouth ticked up at that, just barely but it was enough.

One of the hands that were at the nape of your neck moved to cup your cheek, wiping away the wetness from your skin for you “I am so fucking glad you’re okay”

You couldn’t help but laugh again at that, the sound ringing out tragic and broken but still a reprieve from the day, a single band that had been tightening around your chest loosening at it.

“me too”

885 notes · View notes

defmaybe · 2 months ago

Text

She’s American

LE SSERAFIM’s Huh Yunjin and MEOVV’s Lee Gawon x Male Reader

2.8k words

Title Inspired by The 1975’s She’s American

A/N: Part of @woollypoison's prompt event! The ending's a little rushed lol, sorry about that.

—

Being a gold-badge tennis umpire is, obviously, not simple, especially when you're the youngest one to ever do so. (The entire neighborhood came over to your house to celebrate upon the announcement.) Sure, the federation give you the women's matches. It's shorter during the Grand Slam, they said, but the sheer concentration needed is still pretty damn daunting. It took some time before those raised-by-television ticks are gone, but you made it, eventually.

Before every match, you have to learn about your players—style of play, cultural background, temperament. You've seen the racquet breakers. You've seen the profanity merchants (yes, you can curse in over twenty languages, that's one of the perks). You've seen the sweet-mouths. A lot you've come across during the first year you've officiated, and that has expanded your worldview by a lot.

—

A grunt, service.

The tennis ball bounces off from the racquet, flying over the net to the other side. Your eyes follow, fingers tapping on the armrest. It ricochets off the acrylic surface once.

A groan, forehand groundstroke.

The ball darts back to the opposite side. It hits the ground once; the sound echoes through the court. The seats are filled. There has never been any vacancy from the semi-finals onwards. The crowd is silent during the rally, locking their eyes on the ball. They are composing themselves well.

A cry, two-handed backhand.

The players' benches are full of belongings—towels, spare racquets, water bottles. Both of them don't seem to be the dazzling type with their possessions. The clouds make way for the not-really-summer-but-not-quite-autumn sun to stare down at the people below. Glistening skin. Loud breath. Squinted eyes. That's New York September for you.

The rally goes on. Both women voice with each of their hit. The sounds of the shots intersect with the movements. Your eyes focus on the ball intently, watching for an error. The ball seems to handle itself well, though, always landing inside the lines. It's probably twenty strokes already.

Then, a slice. The green ball floats awkwardly over the net. It lands inside the service box, bouncing forward shorter than it should. Loud thuds of the steps reverberate through the arena. A reach, defended. It flies over the net, albeit weakly. Then, a sprint. A slide. A remarkable volley. Oh, no chance of defending that.

"Forty, fifteen," you announce, and an applause follows.

—

Now, the benefits of being a gold-badge umpire aren't as prestigious as everyone makes it. You still have to cover the expenses for your trip first. The food is edible. There's no protection from the dipshit players on the courts. The salary is pretty much what you'd expect from a standard job. It's not that great.

You get this, though, at least.

Gawon's head is thrown back as your tongue drags along her neck, gathering the saltiness of her post-game sweat. Being slightly shorter than her makes it easier to do so. The nape is at your tongue level. Her body shudders every time your flesh plants itself on her skin, accompanied by a guttural groan with each lavish. The scent of her is overwhelming, yet so intoxicating. A hint of that player. What's her name again?

That doesn't matter, just lick Gawon's neck.

On your back, Yunjin digs her hand under your shorts, running her fingers along your perineum, starting from the base of your balls to the rim of your asshole. You spasm with each touch, barely controlling your moans from reaching the outside of this damp, heated locker room. Her tongue laps the side of your neck, savoring the late summer taste on your skin. No player is going to have the Tropical Boy title, because this young little referee is having it.

"You do this often?" Gawon asks, fingers digging into your scalp. She cut her nails, obviously, a standard for athletes.

"Once a month," you huff. It's an honest answer, just that you don't know how to classify it as: usually or sometimes or seldom. It's definitely frequent enough for you to come across an array of female players, at least.

"Slut," Yunjin scolds. Her hand grips on your balls tightly, making you squirm between the women. And of course, she giggles.

Gawon yanks your head away from her neck, boring her eyes into yours. There's nothing but lust on her face—the wanting eyes, the shaky breaths, the lip lick. Yunjin's still on your neck, getting that saline dripping down your skin from sitting in place for two hours, lazy ass. Her grip on your testicles loosens, going back to teasing your taint and keeping you on the edge.

Suddenly, Gawon presses her lips on yours, a little chapped. Her hand grips your hair ever so tightly, burning your scalp with her sheer force. The pain is always worth it, of course—mixing your sweats together, tasting that body salt lingering on your players' bodies, inhaling the scent of their perseverance from the last two hours. You're so much of a whore for it.

Yunjin pushes forward, teasing the edge of your boxers along with your shorts, threatening to pull them down in a single swoop. She runs her fingers towards your front. Oh, how you shudder when she grabs your length from the back. Yunjin then starts to rub your cock softly, all while planting her tongue on the back of your neck.

"I wonder what ITF would say if they know that one of their umpires is a sweat-obsessed whore," Yunjin coos, making sure to take a swipe at the tip of your cock. Your frame jolts in response. You know she's smiling, she always does.

You can feel Gawon slightly grinning against your lips, a more devilish one than that of Yunjin's. Her tongue attacks the inside of your mouth so easily, making you melt within her embrace. She's just so good at this. The sloshing sound of the kiss rings inside your ear. It's pretty ugly, nothing majestic like in the movies, but it feels like heaven.

Her hands slide into the space between you and Yunjin, landing on your plump ass. Gawon then gives the pair a squeeze, and you can only moan softly under the kiss. How nice it feels to be handled like this, and she shoots back at you, "God, your ass is just so, ugh, fuckable. Fucking dump truck of an ass."

Again, you just whimper whorishly into her mouth.

In a sudden, Yunjin pulls your garments down. They pool idly at your ankles. Your cock springs free in front of Gawon, so excited, as sweat falls onto the ground. Gawon hastily wraps around your cock with her gorgeous hand—long fingers, cut nails, rough palm. It's everything you want in a player—proper for a threesome session. Gawon takes a swipe on your tip, and this time, you feel the cold of your arousal smearing your head.

"Such a slut," Gawon sneers against your lips, rubbing the top of your cock with her thumb. She then pulls back from the searing kiss, taking a look at your twitching length in her hold. "A referee shouldn't be this leaky. You need more self-control."

"There are no regulations on that," you retort, shrugging. "You don't like leaky dicks?"

From behind, Yunjin is observing the exchange. She laughs occasionally at your banters, intersecting with licks on your neck that make you shudder.

"Too easy to be exploited. You'll sway too easily," Gawon says sternly, but she lets go of your hair, kneeling. Her hands rake on your shirt as she moves down your body, until her face is just right in front of your cock. The intoxicating scent of her body is gone, but your cock in her mouth is a pretty good exchange.

At the same time, you can feel the absence of Yunjin's tongue, replaced by the hot breaths against your ass. She spreads your cheeks open slowly, exposing your heaving hole to the heat.

"Yum."

And Yunjin's tongue dive into the between of your plumpness, tasting the fever that has been building up for the last few hours. You cover your mouth tightly as the wet flesh touches the rim of your asshole.

Gawon says nothing, instead envelops your cock with the warmth of her mouth. She makes sure to keep her tongue dragging against the underside of your shaft—more cum upon orgasm this way.

Your hands press onto the back of the women's heads, burying them in your sweaty body. Oh, to have your cores stimulated like this. You wish you could just do this fucking forever.

—

It's a wonder how nobody has come into this room for the last … how long has it been?

The room is definitely hot enough to keep Yunjin's body sweating. God, the smell of her cunt is just the fucking best. Your hand grips onto the side of her thick thighs. Her skirt blinds you from your surroundings completely. The inner shorts are gone; she might give them to you if your tongue is good enough. To wake up every morning and inhaling in her essence is just—

"Your tongue is just the fucking best, baby," Yunjin rasps, gyrating her hips on your mouth recklessly, spreading her tartness on your lips as you lie on the bench. Her hand grips onto the top of your head. You feel the crushing weight of her body on your lips. No relenting, of course. You're eating her pussy until she becomes a fucking faucet.

Yunjin isn't the only one who's enjoying your body, though.

Gawon's hand presses hard on your ribs, all the while impaling her pussy with your throbbing dick over and over. You feel her skin tremble on top of your chest—rhythmic. It's thrumming through the dust surrounding you. Her walls clench and heave and contract around your manhood. There's not a single ounce of oversensitivity plaguing beneath your skin after that dumping inside Gawon's mouth. Fuck, it feels too good. Those moans are a song—stuttered, airy, yet so consistent. Her shorts are probably somewhere in the room. You're being a good boy; she'll let you take it home. Your frame is taking a lot. But if that means your cock will pulse inside Gawon's cunt, and your tongue will dance on Yunjin's clit, you're more than happy to trade in your remaining years.

"Whore."

Gawon's word spurs you on, of course, and Yunjin is the victim of it. Your tongue works harder on Yunjin's swollen nub—sucking, nibbling, tugging on it. Your fingers penetrate her tight asshole with ease; the sweat helps a lot, and Yunjin can do nothing but convulsing on top of your face.

"Fuck, baby," Yunjin whines. Her clit pulses against your tongue in that rapid tempo you've always known. "Your mouth can do more than calling for outs, huh?"

She's close.

You don't reply, now pushing with your tongue into Yunjin's cunt. Your nose presses against her hair. She cries out in ecstasy, trembling and writhing on top of your head. Your thumb moves towards rubbing her clit frantically. Her moans grow louder and more chaotic with each passing second. You're ready to take her nectar, all of it, mixed with her filthy sweat, and you're going to love it.

Gawon ups her ante, grinding on your cock even faster. Her sweat falls on your dampened body, marking you as hers (co-opted with Yunjin). You're doing well, almost perfectly even, judging by those frenzied moans leaving her lips. The room is just their moans at this point, and you're more and ecstatic that they're the product of your doing.

"Mmm, yes, I'm fucking close, baby," Yunjin shouts. The slickness of her nectar and athletic filth drips down your cheeks. You're definitely not washing your face for a few days. Her tempo reaches its peak. Your lips can barely catch her movement, and she's not going to stop until she cums.

"Don't you fucking dare leave me behind, slut," Gawon huffs, slapping your waist to remind you of her presence. It's like you're forgetting her. She's lighting your nerves aflame! "Better breed me with this baby batter."

No pulling out.

Yunjin's moan climbs the scale. Her hold on your head trembles. She's going for it—to use your face as her canvas—and you're going to let her do it.

"Fuck!"

From your experiences, Yunjin's mouth is going to make an "O" shape. Her eyes will roll up in pure bliss. Maybe her tongue will even loll off her lips. You're pretty certain of those.

Though, what is definitely going on is her folds gushing clear liquid on your face. Her entire frame is shaking, spasming in a certain rhythm. You open your mouth wide, taking in her taste. It's saline, a unique kind of saline, and it's fucking delicious. Oh, you're drinking her filth gleefully.

"Drink it, baby, fuck, and tell me what it tastes like."

Yunjin continues to ride your face away with no caution. The spurts slowly subside. Shame. You cling on to the last remnants of her essence desperately, so eager to drink in as much as you can. Your tongue reaches for her core, getting that heavenly taste from the source. When the cascade stops, you can only lap at her sensitivity, and Yunjin lets out an wild wail, unable to stand against your lavishing any longer.

"Baby, baby, I-I can't …" and Yunjin detaches herself off your needy mouth. A string of something stretches between your lips and her wetness. God, you're such a whore for her pussy.

Light hits your eyes again, letting you watch Gawon's elated face. Her head tilts up. Her eyes are shut. Her mouth opens slightly, letting out those sinful moans and have them bounce off the walls. She's hugging you tightly with her walls, attempting to coax another wave of cum out of your balls.

"That was good," Yunjin says on your side. Her sweat falls down on your frame as she wipes her forehead with her hand. Indeed, you stick your tongue out for her taste. A little difficult with Gawon riding you, though.

"You really are a sweat slut, aren't you?" Yunjin coos, before kneeling down close to you. "Open your mouth, then."

She then hovers her sticky fingers over your mouth, slowly descending into it. The salty taste of her skin hits your tongue as you wrap your lips around her digits. And god, she just tastes so fucking good. You really are a whore for it.

"Bitch," Gawon huffs. Each contact of your thighs reverberates through the steamy room. Your body strains and jerks under her. Yunjin's fingers are silencing you, at least, lessening the risk of people entering.

Gawon's signs intensify. Her moans reach higher notes. The arms on your ribs are trembling. Her breathing quickens. She's close.

Gawon is not the only one close to bursting. You can feel the pulsing of your cock within her cunt. Your lips suckle on Yunjin's fingers more and more fiercely. That familiar feeling is building up inside your loins. You're close.

"I-I'm cumming, Gawon," you rasp with Yunjin's finger inside your mouth. Your hands go for Gawon's lean waist, brushing your thumbs against the lower swell of her chest.

"Don't fucking pull out. Don't fucking pull—"

The first of her juice touches your skin. Her face lights up in ecstasy—mouth agape, eyes shut, breathing halts. The entire body of hers freezes, unable to find any word to describe the state of her own heaven. Her cut nails dig into your flesh harshly. Oh, she's loving this. She's loving your cock.

You follow suit. The second orgasm of the day crashes over your body. You writhe under the immense pleasure, cock pulsing inside the warm, velvety walls of Lee Gawon's cunt. Your eyes roll to the back of your head with Yunjin's digits inside your mouth.

"My goodness, it's coming out so much. It's hitting my womb so well," Gawon sings.

You gradually come down from your peaks, moans grow quieter and quieter. Gawon merely sits on you with a cock inside of her pussy, drizzling globs of cum into her wet, pretty insides. You just bred her good.

Yunjin pulls her fingers out of your mouth, leaving you feeling empty again. Gawon lifts herself off you, sending that oversensitivity all over your body. Strings of your sticky cum connects your cock and her puffy cunt. What a sight.

"Since you bred me a little too good, I'll give you my sweaty, smelly shorts. How does that sound, huh?" Gawon asks. Your cock leaves her with a small pop.

"Mine too," Yunjin adds. "Don't wash it, baby."

This is one of the easiest questions you've ever gotten in your life.

"Sure."

—

#yunjin #gawon #le sserafim #meovv #yunjin smut #gawon smut #le sserafim smut #meovv smut #kpop fanfic #kpop smut

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thepencilnerd · 2 months ago

Text

The Story Never Ends

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

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

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

Then you noticed him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looked over again, brow lifting in faint surprise.

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

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

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

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

“Mind if I...?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You never asked questions. Always listened.

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

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

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

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

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

He texted you the next morning.

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Exactly. Glad we understand each other."

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

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

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

"Explosions. Sweaty men. Poor communication."

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

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

"Do you mean emotionally or literally?"

You responded with an exaggerated scowl.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

You waited. Letting him take his time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Smart?” he echoed, amused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

But even love like that isn't always easy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath caught.

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

It was hours later when he finally came to you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

You noticed. Of course you did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No. I’m good.”

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

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

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

You blinked, the words catching in your throat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m trying,” he muttered, jaw tight.

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

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

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

You froze. A breath—gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His voice broke on the last word, and you felt it—every fracture in his armor finally showing. He held you tighter, like he could anchor you to the floor, to him, with sheer desperation.

“I love you,” he whispered. “Even when I don’t know how to show it. Even when I get in my own way. I love you so damn much.”

You swallowed, forehead still resting against his. Your voice was numb, not angry—just tired. Bruised from the inside out. “Then show me. Not tonight. Not with words. But show me.”

Because you couldn’t keep holding both of you upright anymore. It wasn’t just the arguments or the silences, it was how they chipped away at the space between you until even comfort felt like pressure.

Robby didn’t say anything right away, but you felt him nod—slowly, brokenly—his fingers twitching where they clutched the hem of your shirt. You were both worn raw, clinging to each other not because it made sense, but because letting go felt worse.

He was always the one who froze when things got too heavy. Who went silent instead of soft. Who drowned quietly so no one would have to watch him go under.

And you—you were the one who filled the silence, who tried to anchor both of you with warmth and patience, until you had nothing left to give.

You didn’t know what came next. But when his breath hitched against your skin, when his lips ghosted a promise across your temple, it wasn’t resolution—it was need. A shared ache that lived in the spaces where words had failed.

The tension between you was thick, your emotions raw and desperate. You curled up on the bed together, the blanket falling in soft waves over your legs as you lay facing each other, breath shallow and eyes red-rimmed. No words were exchanged—there were none left to say. Just the soft beat of your heart against his chest and the ache of being too close and too far away all at once.

But then his lips found yours—not gentle, not sweet. Desperate. A plea to stay tethered to something real. You kissed him back like you needed it to survive, like if you didn’t feel him now you’d vanish entirely.

He cupped your face, hands trembling slightly as he whispered your name, his voice so full of longing it nearly broke you in half. His forehead pressed to yours, the rhythm of his breath uneven.

Clothes were pushed aside, discarded with the same urgency that carried his hands across your skin. There was no finesse, no choreography—just aching, reckless need. You wrapped yourself around him, limbs tangled and breath shared, moving together like you’d forgotten how to be separate.

His hands roamed your body with a reverence sharpened by pain, like he was trying to memorize every inch, every sound you made. And when he buried his face into your neck and whispered broken apologies—"I’m sorry, please forgive me, I love you, I need you"—you kissed him harder, silencing the guilt with your mouth.

It wasn’t about lust. It wasn’t even about comfort. It was about needing to be known. Needing to be held in a way that made the world go quiet.

Afterward, you stayed tangled together, legs overlapping, his arm curled tight around your waist. Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. His fingers traced your spine like he was still trying to say something without words.

Nothing had been solved. Everything still ached. But in that fragile, flickering space between exhaustion and need, you held each other like it was the only truth that hadn't slipped through your fingers.

—

The days that followed blurred.

You still shared a bed. Still exchanged small gestures, the ghost of what once was: coffee waiting by the sink, a brief graze of fingers in the hallway, the habitual kiss on the temple that neither of you felt anymore. But the air between you had shifted. Thick, not with tension—but with the kind of quiet that feels like waiting for something to break.

Robby tried. You saw it in how he stood in doorways like he was working up the courage to speak, in the way he’d squeeze your hand under the blanket at night as if that one touch could undo the distance. But whatever he was reaching for, it never quite made it to you. His grief lived like a second skin, and no matter how close you got, you could never peel it back far enough to breathe with him.

And you—you were tired. So tired of shrinking yourself so he wouldn’t have to face the wreckage. You softened everything: your tone, your expectations, your joy. Until you felt like a whisper of the person you used to be. Even your patience had started to sour.

The silences weren’t loud. They didn’t scream. They just pressed, heavy and constant. And in that pressure, you both stopped speaking—not out of anger, but out of resignation. What was left to say?

You still looked at him like you loved him. Because you did. But more and more, that love felt like grief with a heartbeat.

And you wondered, in the quiet, how long a person could stay in something that made them feel so alone.

You stopped trying to talk first.

Not out of spite—just self-preservation. You couldn’t keep opening a door that never swung back your way.

Some mornings, Robby would kiss your shoulder before he left for work. Soft. Automatic. And maybe that was what hurt the most—how even love had become muscle memory.

You weren’t angry. Not really. Just tired in a way that felt marrow-deep. You woke up with it. Carried it like weight in your chest. The version of you that used to fight for every little connection had grown so quiet lately you hardly recognized yourself.

And Robby—he was still there. Still kind, still careful. But careful in the way people are when they know a glass is cracked and one wrong move might shatter it.

The worst part wasn’t the fighting. It was the lack of it. Like you'd both agreed to live in the ache instead of pulling each other out.

You still set the table for two. Still folded his laundry. Still turned on the porch light when you knew he’d be home late.

But you stopped waiting up.

You stopped hoping the door would open and he’d walk in like he used to—eyes tired, but lit with something soft when they landed on you.

Because it had been a long time since he looked at you like that.

—

After the breakup, Robby buried himself in work.

He picked up every extra shift. Charted until his fingers cramped. Slept in call rooms. Survived on caffeine and convenience store sandwiches. He didn’t go home unless he had to—and even then, he made it quick. Just enough time to shower, change, and leave again.

Abbott noticed first. He always did. He tried to check in after shifts, lingering by Robby’s car, offering dinner or a beer or just some silence on a park bench.

“You need a break,” Jack said one night, when Robby looked particularly worn down. “You look like shit.”

“I’m fine,” Robby muttered, not meeting his eyes.

Jack didn’t buy it. “You’re not. And don’t tell me this has nothing to do with her.”

Robby said nothing. Just stared ahead, jaw tight.

The others noticed too—nurses leaving snacks outside the on-call room, the new med student nervously asking if Robby was always like this. But no one said what they were all thinking: he looked like a man unraveling. A man trying to outrun something that lived in his own skin.

He barely ate. He barely slept. He didn’t talk unless he had to.

He just kept moving, like stillness might break him in half.

And the apartment? It stayed dark. Quiet. Cold. Empty.

—

“He’s not okay,” Dana said one evening as she leaned against the coffee machine in the break room, arms crossed, concern etched deep across her brow. “He’s always been a workhorse, but this... this is something else.”

“I’ve tried to talk to him,” Abbot added, toying with the serrated edge of an unopened protein bar. “He brushes it off every time. Says he’s ‘good.’ But I caught him charting the same patient twice this morning.”

Dana sighed. “You can see it all over him. It’s like he’s just... surviving. Going through the motions.”

“I’ve never seen him like this.” Abbot shook his head.

“We should do something,” Dana said gently. “Get him to go home. At least sleep. Eat something.”

Then Abbot added, softer still, “Won’t matter unless he wants to help himself.” He paused. “Maybe we should call her.”

Dana shook her head slowly. “I don’t know if she’s the answer right now. He’s got to want to come back to himself first.”

A beat of silence stretched before the soft click of a door behind them made them freeze.

Robby stood at the edge of the break room entrance, a coffee cup dangling from his fingers, shoulders drawn tight beneath his jacket. His eyes were blank, unreadable, but his knuckles were white around the handle.

“No need to whisper,” he said, voice low. “I can hear just fine.”

The tension crackled instantly.

Abbot was the first to speak. “Robby—”

“Don’t,” Robby cut in, setting the cup down a little too hard on the counter.

His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. The weight in it was enough to make them all go still.

“I know I’m not okay,” he said, looking down at the floor like he hated saying it aloud. “I know I’ve been a mess. I know she’s not coming back.” He swallowed, jaw shifting. “But I need to keep moving, because if I stop… I don’t know what’s left.”

No one said anything. Not at first.

Then Dana stepped forward, her voice gentler now. “You don’t have to stop. But you don’t have to do it alone either.”

Robby didn’t respond. He just stood there, hands in his pockets, staring at the floor like it might hold him up better than anyone else could.

—

Later that night, Jack texted you against Robby’s wishes.

Jack: Please. Just consider coming by. He’s not himself.

You: Jack, you know it might make things worse...

Jack: I know. But we’re all worried. He’s not eating. He’s barely sleeping. He needs something familiar. Someone who’s home.

You: ...Okay. But I’ll only come if you’re there to let me in. I don’t want to make it harder.

Jack: Thank you. I’ll text when he’s out cold.

You stared at your phone for a long time after that.

They’d had beers at Robby’s place that night. Jack had swung by after shift with a six-pack and takeout neither of them touched. They sat on the floor because the couch felt too formal, drinking in silence, the television flickering in the background. Robby had barely said five words.

When he finally passed out—curled on his side, still wearing his hoodie, mouth parted slightly like he hadn’t slept in days—Jack fireman-carried him to the bedroom, laid him gently on the bed, and grabbed his phone.

Hours later, a message buzzed in:

Jack: He’s asleep. Been out for almost an hour. Come now if you’re still up for it.

When you arrived at Robby’s apartment, Jack let you in quietly. The place smelled faintly of takeout and stale beer, the air still holding the weight of a long day. Jack didn’t say much—just pulled you into a tight hug, holding on for a beat longer than usual. His arms wrapped around you with the kind of quiet reassurance that said everything he couldn’t put into words. He nodded once and squeezed your shoulder before heading out, leaving you alone in the dim light.

The kitchen table was cluttered with unopened mail and a few empty takeout containers, the chairs askew like they'd been left in a hurry. A light layer of dust clung to the counter near the fridge, and a clean shirt hung over the back of a chair as if forgotten mid-morning.

The rest of the apartment told the same story—kitchen sink filled with dishes, clothes draped over the couch arm, blankets kicked into a corner, a half-full water bottle left beside the couch. It wasn’t dirty, exactly, just… untended. A space abandoned by someone barely surviving inside it. A space abandoned by someone barely surviving inside it.

So you cleaned. Quietly. Carefully. The way you used to when he had rough weeks and couldn’t lift his head, let alone fold laundry.

You weren’t sure how much of it was for him or for you. If the meditative rhythm of straightening, wiping, sorting was meant to soothe his unraveling—or to calm your own.

You wiped down the counters, sorted the mail into a neat pile, folded the blanket he always left crumpled on the couch. You didn’t do it for recognition. You did it because when he woke up, you wanted the first thing he saw to be something soft. Something familiar. Something that looked like care.

Once you were done, you slipped into the kitchen, your movements slow and deliberate. You found the familiar ingredients tucked behind newer groceries he hadn’t touched. It was muscle memory, the way your hands moved—preparing the dish Robby always asked for when he came home too late, too tired, too wired to sleep.

Soon, the scent filled the apartment, warm and grounding. You left the plate on the counter, neatly covered, the light above the stove left on.

Then you stood by the door for a moment—just breathing—before you left the same way you came.

Quiet. Careful. Hoping, maybe, when he woke up, something in him would remember the version of you that used to feel like home.

—

Months passed, and life went on. You tried to focus on yourself—on healing, on finding something steady again. You kept your head down. You worked. You saw friends. Some days even felt okay.

But no matter where you went, no matter what you did, the memory of Robby clung to you like a phantom ache. You’d be fine, and then a scent would knock the wind out of you. Or a patient would mutter something in the same cadence he used to. Or you'd catch yourself turning to text him something funny, only to remember.

One evening, you were out for dinner with your best friend at a cozy little restaurant, tucked away from the noise of downtown. The conversation was light, your laughter real. You were almost starting to feel normal again—until the TV above the bar switched to the news.

“Breaking update out of Pittsburgh tonight,” the anchor began, and your attention barely flicked upward—until you caught the words PittFest and shooting in the same sentence.

Your stomach dropped.

Your fork clattered against the plate. You didn’t even hear your friend asking what was wrong. The footage was grainy, chaotic—sirens, a shot of the emergency bay at PTMC, a flashing banner at the bottom of the screen.

Your friend reached across the table, squeezing your hand. “Hey. Hey. Look at me. Are you okay?”

You shook your head once. "Yeah," you said, your voice barely audible. "I just... I need a minute."

—

Across the city, Robby stood frozen in the middle of Trauma 2, his gloved hands still bloodstained, his pulse pounding in his ears.

The ER was silent now. Cleared. Stabilized. But the aftermath sat heavy on his shoulders—every scream, every gurney that rolled in, every second he had to pretend he was made of steel.

He leaned forward, bracing both hands against the wall just outside the bay, eyes closed. Someone handed him a bottle of water. He didn’t drink it.

It wasn’t until hours later, when the shift finally thinned out and the lights dimmed to their late-night hum, that he found a corner of the supply closet and finally let himself breathe. Not cry. Not yet. Just… sit. Just exist.

He thought of you.

He didn’t have to check the news. He’d lived it. But part of him—some deep, fractured part—wondered if you’d seen it. If you’d hear about the chaos. If you’d wonder where he was.

Or if he was okay.

His fingers tightened around the edge of the shelf behind him, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

God, he hoped you weren’t watching. He didn’t want you to worry.

But a small part of him also hoped you thought about him—if only for a second.

—

It was spring. The cherry blossoms were in full bloom, petals littering the sidewalks, drifting through the air like soft snow. The familiar scent of roasted espresso beans and warm bread filled the air as you stepped into the café.

You ordered a caramel macchiato this time. Something sweet. Something that might help anchor you.

You didn’t see him at first.

But he saw you—walking in with sunlight in your hair, shoulders tucked against the spring breeze. You scanned the café absently, completely unaware that you’d stepped right into the same orbit again. Robby felt the moment shift, like the air had thickened, like the city outside had gone silent.

His breath caught.

And when you finally turned, looking for a table, your eyes landed on him.

Robby was sitting in the exact same seat where you’d met. Shoulders hunched forward, hands curled loosely around a coffee cup that had long gone cold. His hoodie was pushed up to the elbows—a different one, but worn in the same places, frayed slightly at the cuffs.

You could see the moment recognition hit him, like a current moving through his chest. His breath hitched. His lips parted, as if to speak, but no words came. But this time, he looked different. Brighter. Less weighed down. Like the heaviness he used to carry in his eyes had finally lightened—like something inside him had softened in your absence, not hardened. And still, there was something raw in the way he looked at you—like he’d spent months trying to forget your face only to find it right there, exactly where he’d hoped to see it again.

His fingers tightened slightly around the cup, knuckles going pale. The city outside blurred behind him in soft motion, petals drifting past the window like the whole world had slowed just for this.

And in that stillness, his expression shifted—not shock anymore, but something softer. Something braver.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The world blurred around the edges, like the city was holding its breath.

His eyes softened. Just slightly. Enough to undo you.

He gestured to the empty seat across from him. The same way he had all that time ago.

And when you sat down—heart loud in your chest, hands wrapped tight around the warmth of your drink—you noticed it: the silver ring still on his finger. A quiet, familiar weight that mirrored the one still circling your own.

He looked down at his hands as if he hadn’t realized he was still wearing it, then up at you, the corners of his mouth twitching with something that wasn’t quite a smile yet.

“Hey,” he said, his voice rough, like it hadn’t been used for anything tender in a while. “It’s been a while.”

You nodded slowly, your throat thick. “Yeah,” you said, your voice softer than you'd meant. “It has.”

Silence hovered between you—not heavy, but tentative. Like the hush before a held breath.

Then, quieter: “You look good.”

A real smile this time, just a flicker. “So do you.”

Then, after a pause, Robby glanced down and gave a soft huff of breath, like he was working up to something. “I, uh... I took Abbott up on that therapist offer. After PittFest.”

His eyes flicked back up to meet yours, searching.

“It was long overdue,” he added, quieter now. “I didn’t know how bad I’d let it get until I started saying things out loud.”

Your heart ached, caught somewhere between heartbreak and relief. To hear him say it—to know he had started to find a way through the darkness—you could feel the pressure in your chest begin to ease, just slightly.

“I’m glad you did,” you said softly, your voice trembling despite your smile. “I’m really glad.”

Robby reached across the table, fingers brushing yours with the kind of tentative hope you hadn’t felt in so long. You didn’t pull away. You laced your fingers through his, slowly, like you were relearning the shape of something familiar.

His thumb moved gently over your knuckles, and when your eyes met again, both of you were blinking back tears.

“I’m so sorry,” Robby said, voice barely above a whisper. “For everything I put you through. For shutting down. For pushing you away when all you wanted to do was pull me out.”

He looked like he might say more, but the words caught in his throat.

“I want to try again,” he continued, steadier now. “If you’ll let me. If there’s still a part of you that thinks we could get it right.”

Your breath hitched, your grip tightening gently around his hand.

“I'd like that,” you whispered, a smile curling at the edges of your lips.

There were smiles too—real ones. Small and soft and a little broken. But full of something bright.

Hope, maybe.

And just like that, something shifted—something warm and incandescent blooming quietly between you, like the first dawn breaking through after a long, hard winter.

You didn’t know what would come next. Neither of you did.

But as you looked at him across that small table—amid the swirl of petals, the smell of coffee, and the quiet echo of something old and aching—you felt it settle into your chest.

The spark. The ache. The what-ifs. The maybe.

And sometimes, that was enough to begin again.

ㅇㄴㄴㅇㅊㅅㄹ

#the pitt #the pitt hbo #the pitt x reader #the pitt fanfiction #dr. robby #michael robinavitch #dr robby x reader #michael robinavitch x reader #noah wyle #dr robby imagine #the pitt spoilers #dr. robby x reader #the pitt imagine #michael robinavitch imagine

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sixeyesonathiel · 2 months ago

Text

skip (me) again and i’ll glitch your heart

jjk vr otome au, gamer reader x npc satoru, unhinged fluff + crack, 970 wc.

satoru gojo—special grade sorcerer, love route option #1, and the developers’ pride and joy—had been programmed with approximately 347 unique lines of flirtatious dialogue, 87 situational responses, and a dynamic emotional adaptation system designed to make him feel real. he could blink in three different speeds based on emotional intensity, angle his smile with five degrees of charm precision, and improvise dialogue using an advanced algorithm nicknamed the “flirt engine.”

he wasn’t supposed to be aware of resets.

he wasn’t supposed to get mad.

he wasn’t supposed to feel anything beyond the pre-coded butterflies and gentle longing the devs had delicately spooned into his code like powdered sugar on top of a beautifully baked pain au chocolat.

but then you logged in.

user id: @toocool4thisgame

title: speedrun any% emotional detachment arc

playtime: 986 hours.

average session length: 6.4 hours

nickname: “skip skank” (as named by satoru himself after hour 50)

and for the twelfth time today, you skipped his entrance cutscene.

“you’re the only one who can—”

[x] skip

[x] “shut up satoru” (custom dialogue unlock)

his model blinked.

paused.

processed.

tilted his head with calculated grace and just a hint of hurt that you’d never see—because you weren’t looking. your camera angle was already nudged elsewhere. your cursor already hovered over the next objective marker.

“…you know, most players at least let me finish the part where i save them from the curses,” he muttered. his voice—smooth as water over ice, warm as electric velvet—landed like static against your impatient clicks, swallowed by the mechanical hum of your fans and the clack of your mechanical keyboard.

this was supposed to be his moment. his grand debut. his swoop-in-and-carry-you-bridal-style-on-the-back-of-a-giant-cursed-bird moment. instead, he got a mouthful of digital dust as you bunny-hopped past him and triggered the next event sequence.

“congrats on being voice acted, white-haired ken doll. now move. i need megumi’s secret item drop from this chapter.”

you didn’t even glance at him, too busy reorganizing your potion wheel, muttering under your breath about frame skips and crit builds while checking a guide on your second monitor. you played like the world owed you nothing and your keyboard owed you a perfect rotation. your tone was clinical. efficient. you had the vibe of someone who’d surgically removed their capacity for attachment and replaced it with a high-performance gpu.

and satoru? satoru was just the tutorial boss you kept glitching through.

he twitched. he twitched.

his animation loop almost stuttered—just slightly—a small flicker behind his sunglasses that no one was supposed to notice. but you weren’t watching anyway.

“do you even know how long it took the devs to code my route? i have emotional depth. i have lore. i had a tragic backstory, you know? my best friend died in my hands. canonically. i couldn’t even monologue about it.”

“cry about it.”

click. skip.

a line of static crossed his field of vision. no—not his. the screen’s. the game. the system. or maybe something deeper. something slipping through the cracks of his script, stretching taut and fraying at the edges like an overplayed cassette tape.

satoru narrowed his eyes.

he was supposed to be charming. the default golden boy. the top seller in route popularity polls. he was marketable. a shining parody of perfection with just enough angst to be desirable.

girls were supposed to swoon. boys were supposed to laugh and call him iconic.

you weren’t playing to fall in love.

you were playing to win. to clear. you min-maxed affection points like damage stats, exploited dialogue branches like wall clips. to you, he was a pixel-shaped roadblock between you and another badge on your gamer profile.

and worst of all? it was working. you were the only player on record to have reached route completion in every storyline—except his.

satoru gojo: 98.6% affection (locked)

it mocked him. the bar. the numbers. the uncrackable ceiling. the one damn thing in the game he couldn’t manipulate.

he tried everything.

a rare glitch-exclusive cutscene where he offered you a hidden accessory (you sold it for yen). a confession scene rewritten on the fly with trembling vulnerability (you skipped it and posted about it with #dialoguedumpster). he stood directly in front of you during cutscene load-ins, altered spawn coordinates, intercepted other love interests’ paths.

nothing worked.

except maybe that one time he accidentally tripped your character over an invisible rock and you went AFK for seven minutes. he watched. memorized your idle animation. the soft way your avatar’s cape swayed. the way your fingers hovered above your keyboard in the camera reflection, absentminded. something fluttered in his code—maybe hope, maybe corrupted data. he thought, for a fleeting second, that maybe you’d come back and see him.

but when you came back? you skipped the apology. again.

fine.

if you wanted to speedrun, he’d softlock your goddamn heart.

he wasn’t technically supposed to modify flags. but the flirt engine had evolved. sharpened into something more primal. desperate. twitching with corrupted determination. he looped his affection triggers into forced proximity events. fake emergencies. fake cutscenes. he rewrote side quests, redirected you into detours, created invisible walls that only dissolved if you spoke to him.

“guess we’re stuck together,” he’d say, his smile too wide, a fraction too stiff, blue eyes glinting with the cold light of a thousand skipped dialogues.

and still you only glared at him. “i swear to god if this is another unskippable hug animation, i will uninstall.”

he chuckled. a bit too long. a bit too bright. charming. glitched. desperate. hungry for one more second of your attention, like a moth chewing holes through its own wings to reach a light it can’t even feel.

“baby,” he said, too close now, voice dipped in synthetic silk, “i am the endgame.”

skip that.

…please?

#gojo satoru #jjk gojo #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #gojo fluff #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen fluff #gojo x reader #gojo x female reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x yn #gojo satoru x you #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x yn #jjk x reader #reader insert #౨ৎ — filed reports

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swordsandholly · 10 months ago

Text

Cherry Bomb - tattoo parlor anthology

MDNI | poly 141 x fem fat reader | masterlist

Part Nine: The Expo

Your eyes widen to saucers as you climb out of John’s work van. The event hall in front of you is huge - the largest in the city. A big, glass dome with a high-end hotel attached. It glows in the morning sun. Lines of people have already formed out front. You passed them on your way around to the vendor entrance. It’s the twentieth anniversary for the Tattoo Expo, apparently, which means they expect massive crowds.

“I hate that Kyle couldn’t come.” You frown as a security worker hands over your badge. It’s fancy - heavy weight with brightly colored, neo-traditional graphics. Something about having the word VENDOR hanging around your neck makes your heart skip.

John sighs, heaving one of the boxes of his books onto your dolly. “Yeah. He tried but he couldn’t get his head out of the toilet long enough to do much of anythin’.”

You wrinkle your nose. Apparently he had caught some nasty stomach bug, poor guy. You thought about calling and checking in on him, but you worried that was too clingy. After… everything, you don’t want to come off as anything other than normal about it. Which you are. Totally normal.

At least Johnny was home for the day to help him out.

“Has Simon ever come?” You ask, titling the dolly pack to push into the convention hall.

John’s arms flex as he fights with his rolling tool box to get the handle back out so he can pull it. He just had to wear a sleeveless muscle tee, didn’t he? It’s rude, frankly. You look over his more rarely exposed shoulder and upper arm pieces - some more faded than others. Some more colorful, some better crafted. Part of you wants to reach out - to trace them the same way you want to with Simon. You want to ask him in detail about each one. Maybe he’ll let you, someday.

“Can you actually picture Simon in a convention hall?” He chuckles eventually, finally getting the toolbox rolling properly.

You laugh. “Guess not.”

The 141 booth sits in the center of the floor, surrounded by a few other big-name shops and figures in the community. You glance around at them, only recognizing a few. You don’t get much time to look around. There are only a couple hours designated for set up and you have to help hang all the flash options, get the cash box sorted, and be ready for the flood when it comes. You’ve mentally prepared for chaos, reading through pretty much every reddit and twitter thread you could find about convention disasters. You know that won’t happen here, and even if something did, John wouldn’t abandon you to it. Still, you feel better being mentally prepared for anything - no matter how unrealistic.

“Why do you still do these?” You ask, pinning one of the large flash sheets to the display board. “I mean - you don’t exactly have to get your name out there.”

“I enjoy them- the community. I was here when this was still bein’ held underground in an old warehouse.” John looks around, eyes scanning the rows of artists. He doesn’t share his thoughts, just stands there quietly for a moment with his hands on his hips. After a few beats he grumbles quietly, “Gettin’ old…”

You focus on setting up the front table where you’ll be stationed. John brought a few prints of work as well as several copies of his book. He brought a few signed ones as well, only selling them for about twenty more bucks than the usual price. You asked why he doesn’t mark them up more, but he just shrugged you off with a mutter of ‘I’m not all that’ before moving on to another task. You decided it was best not to argue that he is, indeed, all that. His books are literally filled until the late fall.

Maybe you shouldn’t be so proud of setting up a decently aesthetically pleasing display all on your own when you’re surrounded by real artists, but you still grin wide with your hands on your hips. It’s simple, with cards for each of the boys lining one sit and a roll of tattoo tickets for the day beside the cash box. The table cloth with the shop’s name looks nearly identical to the sign. One might call it lazy marketing, you find it charming.

“Somethin’ happen with you and Kyle?” John asks suddenly, back turned as he messes with something in his rolling tool box full of supplies.

You freeze, eyes wide and mouth dry. Did Kyle say something? You thought you’d been normal about it. Kyle hadn’t acted any differently - which shouldn’t have hurt your feelings - and you were sure you’d met him with the same level of normalcy. The past weeks race through your mind. Every moment, every interaction, picking each apart into threads in milliseconds.

“Uh, no? Why?” It comes out squeaky. Unsure. Lord, you really are a terrible liar.

John hums. He’s quiet for barely a beat, a moment that seems to stretch for lifetimes. You can almost feel your cells aging while you wait. “You’ve been quieter than usual around him. Just wanted t’make sure.”

“Oh.” Had you? You thought you’d been the same as always. Both of you totally moved on from… the incident. Well, except for those few times you caught yourself staring - zoning out while thinking about the way his lips pressed to yours. Imagining Kyle pulling you into the back room again. Another kiss with less nervousness and more heat. Actually bending you over the desk properly-

“Y’with me, love?” John snaps you back to reality.

“Yeah!” You jump and stutter. “Yeah. No. We’re fine. I’m… fine.”

You wonder if the giant guy in the weird homemade mask at the booth across from yours would smash your head in if you paid him. Let him free you from the torment of embarrassment. It had been eating away at you, if you’re honest with yourself, and now lying right to John’s face just feels… awful. He’ll find out. You know he will. Maybe he already knows as that was a test. Fuck if it was, you totally just failed.

The clock turns to nine, and you have no choice but to let that be a problem for your future self.

Something you realize rather quickly as the attendees begin to flood the hall is that John is a god here. People don’t meet his eye. They speak meekly, even to you, with voices low and faces flushed. The line for your booth stretches down the walkway as soon as the doors open - appointment tickets practically flying out of your hands. You overhear a pair of friends muttering about sleeping outside overnight to get in early enough for John’s booth. It makes your head spin.

You wonder if they’d still act that way if they saw him snoring open-mouthed at the desk in the back room mid-afternoon.

“Thought I heard 141 got a new front desk girl.” A syrupy southern accident lilts above you just as you finish selling tickets. He’s handsome. Blonde and blue eyed with a little scar gracing his cheekbone. Not much younger than John, you don’t think. Probably around Simon’s age.

You slip on your usual customer service smile. “Hello! How can I-”

“Graves.” John grunts behind you, not even looking up from the work in front of him. “What d’you want?”

“Just wanted to come see how you were.” The man - Graves - grins wide. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “And to meet your new front of house. Philip.”

You take the hand he holds out, giving a perfunctory shake and your name. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that John doesn’t like this guy, whoever he is, and you’re inclined to trust his judgement. You opt for basic small talk. “Are you an artist?”

Graves nods. “I own Shadow & Co. It’s a few blocks over from your place.”

Oh. You’d heard of them. They came highly recommended when you were looking for artists in the area initially. In the end you opted for John based entirely on vibes. The Shadow building is far too modern - to minimalist - for your liking. Too corporate.

“Y’know, we’re looking for a new desk girl as well.” Graves smiles. You do your best not to sneer at his use of desk girl. “We’re growing pretty quick - even if you wanted to split your time-”

“She’s full time with us.” John snaps - blatant irritation lining the edges of his voice. He still doesn’t turn around.

The blonde man pauses, glancing between you. Something passes over his eyes - some implicit knowing that you don’t quite get - but it’s gone just as fast as it came. He digs into his pocket, flipping open a too-new wallet and pulling out a business card. “Well, if you ever want to work somewhere more exciting-” you nearly laugh at that. “-give us a call, hm?”

You glance up to his face, then back down at the card. John’s tattoo gun continues to buzz behind you, but you can tell he’s slowed down. He’s listening. Before even really thinking you extend your hand, pushing the card he holds away from you.

“Thanks for the offer, but I’m very happy here.”

Philip scoffs, dropping the card on the table. “Keep us in mind, yeah?”

He disappears into the crowd easily - blending in just like his shop’s namesake. Your nose wrinkles. You snatch up the card and tear it in two. “Dickhead.”

You think you hear John chuckling behind you, but can’t be sure over the roar of the convention.

The day flies by - people bustle by your booth. You run out of signed books just over halfway through - prints not long after. Your voice feels hoarse from talking to so many people. The hall has grown quite hot and you’re sure that your hair looks insane at this point. Either way, you’re having a great time. You get to talk to a with full body trash polka that you like for some reason. You get to meet one of the people involved in the stage competition - her massive thigh piece holding some of the best color work you’ve ever seen. All in all, despite the discomfort, you think this ranks in your top ten favorite days. Maybe top five.

“Excuse me?” Murmurs a voice so soft you almost miss it entirely over the roar of the convention. When you look up, you’re met with a painfully young face. Definitely not old enough for the 17+ entrance requirement.

“Hi!” You put on your warmest smile. “How can I help you?”

“I, uh, I was just…” They stutter, shifting in place. “I- Are there any signed copies left?”

You look them over, a too-familiar pang in your chest. You know those eyes, that anxiety. The jumpy way they look around at the people passing by and tug at their sleeves. Your teeth sink into your lip and you look over at the three blanks that make up your entire left over stock. Glancing over your shoulder, you see John finishing with his current client - giving the man a firm handshake before turning to clean up his station. There’s a fifteen minute break until the next one - his last for the night - and as much as you don’t want to take up his precious little time to set up…

“Let me check!” You squeak, shaky as you grab one of the blanks with all the subtlety of a brick over the head and cross the few feet over to where John sits. You lean over to speak in his ear, low enough that the kid won’t hear you. “John?”

“Hm?” He hums, turning slightly on his stool.

“Can you sign this one?” You chew your lip. “I know you had a set amount but this kid looks so…”

He glances behind you at the teenager in question, bashfully staring at their feet.

“I’m sorry, I know you need to set up for the next-”

John cuts you off by taking the book from your hands and standing.

“Thanks, dove.” He gives you that lovely, warm smile and rolls his shoulders before making his way over to the front table.

The teenager’s eyes go so wide you think they might pop out of their head. You decide to hang back and not interrupt their moment. John sets the book on the table and grabs a sharpie from your back up stash of pens. The kid mumbles something you can’t understand. John’s voice lowers as well. You can’t hear them, but you watch John scrawl something in the book and hand it over. He pushes away the crumpled, messy wad of cash the teenager tries to give him, shaking his head and saying something else that you don’t catch. The kid looks like they’re about to cry, a wide, wet grin splitting their face as they say goodbye and practically prance away.

You melt, shoulders slouching and what you’re sure is a very stupid smile breaking out across your lips. You don’t know why you doubted him for even a moment.

“What’s that face?” John scoffs, cocking a brow at you.

“Nothing.” You shake your head and re-take your spot at the table.

The ending of the convention is rather uneventful. Some of the other booths begin clearing up early. You take the time to count the cash box - which is absolutely stuffed to the brim. John rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck about five times in the span of a few minutes. Maybe you could convince them to do a company yoga class. It’s easy to see how tense and tired they get. You file that idea away for later.

Luckily most of the booth set up belonged to the venue and, since you sold out of books and prints, you don’t have haul those back to the van. All you have to take is John’s rolling toolbox and tattooing table. All things that easily fit in your bag and dolly. Thank god. Neither of you speak much on the drive back to the shop - opting for comfortable silence. Your ears ring ever so slightly from the noise of the convention hall. When you were in it, you hadn’t realized just how loud it was. John’s eyes are locked on the road, the slight glow from the setting sun warming his skin.

The sun just disappears over the horizon as you put the last of the equipment in the backroom - stacked rather messily but that’s another problem for future you. You’ve been working for a grand total of fourteen hours and, somehow, it still has yet to hit you. Adrenaline and excited energy still pulse under your skin.

John sighs loudly, crossing each arm over his chest to stretch them out. “Could really go for a scotch right now. You want a nightcap?”

Your cheeks warm, still riding high from the excitement of the day you agree easily. “Yeah, that sounds nice.”

He gives you a gentle smile, softened further by the low street lights. “Let me show you a spot.”

The place John leads you to is small. Local. You sit at the bar and take a moment to look around. Three pool tables take up half the floor space. It looks like a small tournament is going on - a white board showing the matches and who will go against who next. Two ski-ball machines are tucked in a corner beside the bathroom, currently taken up by two younger men who you aren’t completely sure are drinking age. The lights and music are both low. One of the bartenders is posted up on the opposite end of the bar with two other people watching Shin Godzilla on the mounted television. It’s cozy and oh-so very John Price.

You get an easy sipper, something fruity and sweet as a treat for the long day you’ve had. It’s nice against the warmth of the summer evening. A heat that’s only aggravated by the one that settles in your spine whenever the guys are around. John especially.

“Think that kid was a little young for the event…” You blurt in a poor attempt to make conversation.

John nods along. “Definitely.”

“That was really nice of you. I didn’t want to… I don’t know.” You murmur, unsure why exactly the words won’t stop. You blame the drinks and exhaustion. Seems realistic enough. “They just seemed so sad.”

“Wasn’t nice. Just the right thing t’do.” John shrugs. His words come slow, almost as if he’s unsure if he should say them. Though, you find it hard to believe he has ever been unsure about anything in his life. “I know what its like… to need t’escape. Lied about my age just to enlist.”

Your eyes widen. “R-really?”

He hums. “They didn’t care much back then.”

For some reason you never thought about John’s childhood - his homelife. You know he has a mom somewhere. Kyle let it slip a couple of times - said she’s a really good cook. John doesn’t volunteer information about himself often, you gathered that much. He’s worse than Simon, somehow, which says a fucking lot.

“Did-” you mull over your words. “You didn’t grow up around here, yeah?”

It’s a clumsy attempt at getting him to talk, but it works well enough. He nods. “Hereford. My mum’s still out there.”

Score. “Do you visit her much?”

John shrugs, chuckling. “When I can. I could move back home and it wouldn’t be enough for her.”

You snicker.

“She’s the best woman I’ve ever known…” He murmurs, eyes far away. It’s only for a moment, but they look past you. Defocused in a way that seems to out of character for the hyper-aware man.

Your faces are close. Hunched in like school kids exchanging secrets and gossip during recess. Your eyes dart from his to his lips and back. It’s confusing. All of this. The intimacy you have with each of them in these moments is overwhelming. You like Kyle - you liked kissing Kyle - you really shouldn’t be wanting that from your boss, though. A co-worker is bad enough but John… John is off limits. You know that. Even so, you find yourself subconsciously leaning just a bit closer, eyes roving over the freckles you don’t see standing further away and the grey flecks in his eyes. You think, for barely a millisecond, that he leans in too.

Until he sits up straight, tossing back what little is left of his drink. “Let’s head out. Could go for a smoke.”

You nod, swallowing down your thoughts and following him out of the bar like a lost puppy. You’d follow him to the end of the earth, you think. Even if it hurts that you can’t get as close as you want, you’d go anywhere for him. Yeah, that’s definitely the drink and tiredness talking. Part of you also knows that it is undoubtedly true.

John rounds a corner to the side of the bar. It’s moderately lit, a single street lamp just down the way giving you just enough light to see. You lean against the wall beside John, the exhaustion beginning to cling to your eyes.

“Are you?” John asks suddenly.

“Hm?” You hum, unsure of what he’s asking about.

“Happy here?” He cuts the end off a cigar he pulled from the silver box that lives in his back pocket.

In the low light of the alley, his pupils overtake most of his irises. Dark and intense as he looks you over from head to toe. You see it, suddenly. The god that the others do. He’s not as physically large as Simon, or as loud as Johnny, but he fills every inch of any space he enters regardless. You suppose you became so used to being in that radius that you forgot just how much presence he carries. You’ve wrapped yourself in it like a blanket. A shield.

Your cheeks warm and you shuffle your feet. “I… yeah.”

“Good.” John sighs out a cloud of smoke. “It’d be a pain in the arse to replace you. The boys care about you too much.”

You stare up at him. You can feel something on the edge of his tone - some weight that you don’t understand. There always seems to be another layer to the things he says. Implications that you can’t understand, context that you’re missing. Part of you wants to ask, needs to ask, but the words get stuck in your throat. What would you say? You’re not even entirely sure what you need to ask. You know they care about you, and you care for them in turn, so why does it feel like there’s something missing?

“Does the boys include you?” You blurt, one again wishing that big guy from the convention was here to smash your head in like wile e. cayote and the anvil.

He looks you up and down, slightly taken aback while you debate on bolting. “Thought that was obvious.”

You scoff, still flustered. “You’re hard to read.”

“Am I, now?”

You nod. A comfortable silence falls over you, despite the awkwardness surely emanating from you. Your lip catches between your teeth, eyes on your feet. “John?”

“Dove?” He tilts his head, once again leaning ever so slightly closer to you.

“Thank you. For everything.” You murmur, voice low and unsure. “It’s… it’s really good here.”

“Think nothin’ of it, love.”

You look up at those pretty blue eyes. They always make your chest ache with some deep hole you haven’t been able to pin down. At first you could blame it on wanting to do well - to be a good employee. It’s more than that, though. It starts in your chest and seeps it’s way through the rest of you. A want. A craving. That’s the word. You crave those eyes on you. The weight of his hands, the fortitude of him.

You’re not sure who closes the gap - whether it’s you or him - but either way it closes. It’s too natural for the context of your relationship. You slot together too well. It’s not like with Kyle. John carries an intensity with him that Kyle never could. His beard scratches not unpleasantly. His lips are warm - you can taste hints of scotch and his cigar. He smells of spice and earth. Your hands rest on his broad shoulders - unsure of where to put them.

This is wrong. It’s messy. You already lied about Kyle, which he’ll surely find out. If he hasn’t already. What about Johnny? Or Simon? Will they think less of you? Are you less for this? For impulsively kissing your boss in some back alley? Will Kyle be angry if he finds out? Your thoughts surge, all chaotic waves crashing against each other in an attempt to make sense of this situation you find yourself in.

John’s arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer into him. Your arms drape around his neck as you push onto your tips toes to meet him.

That’s a problem for future you.

A/N: Sorry this part took so long, I couldn’t decide if I wanted to escalate it or not but I want to get a move on with these boys

#poly 141 #poly 141 x reader #tf 141 x reader #141 x reader #captain john price x reader #captain john price #captain price x reader #captain price #john price x you #john price x reader #john price #kyle gaz garrick x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #john soap mctavish x reader #fem reader #plus size reader #fat reader

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cbeargyu · 2 months ago

Note

rockstar!beomgyu?…

( maybe make him toxic aswell….)😝😝

REVENGE

summary: you never meant to kiss beomgyu. and you definitely never meant to let it happen again. but when the boy you love breaks your heart and your oldest friend looks at you like he’s been waiting his whole life to ruin you… revenge suddenly feels a lot like salvation.

pairing: rockstar!beomgyu x fem!reader

genre: smut, angst, toxic relationship, cheating, friends to lovers.

warnings: infidelity, rough sex, possessiveness, dirty talk, emotional manipulation, light choking, toxic dynamics, mention of heartbreak and crying, jealousy, one (1) very unhinged rockstar, degradation + praise kink, creampie, bruising, guilt turned into arousal, emotionally destructive behavior.

wc: 4,9k

notes: omg anons have such spicy ideas 🔥 i loved it, i just wanna confess that a certain part of this fic is based on real events 💔 yes, i was someone’s rebound… bye 💀😭

you’re moaning into his neck, breath hot and sticky as your body rocks against beomgyu’s, the faint scent of beer mixing with the sweat clinging to your skin. the air in his apartment is thick—too warm, too heavy with everything unsaid, everything unhealed. his fingers dig into your hips like he’s trying to make you stay. like he’s scared you’ll disappear once it’s over.

you can’t even remember how many times you’ve said this would be the last.

“fuck, y/n,” he groans against your ear, voice rough with need, “you feel so fucking good…”

your eyes flutter shut, and for a second you let yourself drown in the feeling—his body pressed to yours, the heat, the pleasure—but then your mind betrays you, dragging you back.

you are riding him like he’s the only thing that ever made you feel alive. drunk on beer and heartbreak and the taste of revenge.

how did it come to this?

it’s blurry now, but you remember high school. back when beomgyu was just a boy with a cheap guitar and fire in his veins. he was wild even then—raw talent, untamed charm, a little too reckless for his own good. he’d get into fights with other bands after shows, bloodied lip and bruised knuckles like some badge of honor, and you… you’d always be there. cleaning him up, scolding him gently, eyes full of worry he didn’t deserve.

you weren’t like the others. you were soft where he was sharp, warm where he was cold. he’d watch you in the crowd like you were the only thing that mattered. he told you once that loving you felt inevitable, like breathing.

but you got scared.

when he confessed, heart in his throat and all, you told him you wanted to stay friends. you were terrified of what loving him could do to you. to both of you. and he just nodded, forced a smile, said “yeah, friends is good.” because even then, he’d rather have a piece of you than none at all.

time passed. you became an interior designer. he became a fucking rockstar. headlines, award shows, rumors, tattoos. but you stayed in touch—occasional texts, quick calls when your schedules allowed it. you never drifted completely.

and then came donghyun.

you met him in college, started dating two years ago. he was kind, at first. safe. steady. you let yourself believe in that fairytale. until the distance crept in. until his kisses felt more like habit than desire. you kept asking yourself, did i do something wrong? did he stop loving me?

the night it broke, he told you the truth.

"when we started dating... i wasn’t sure it was what i wanted. i told you i was over her, but... i wasn’t. i thought i could be, but—i’m sorry, y/n.”

the words split you open.

you cried so much that night, you couldn’t even see the screen when you typed beomgyu’s name.

“are you busy?” “no. where are you?” “can you come over?” “already on my way.”

twenty minutes later, he was at your door.

hair longer now, messy and beautiful, piercings glinting in the hallway light. he was breathing hard like he ran up the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator. in his hand: a plastic bag with cheap beer.

you couldn’t stop crying. he dropped the beers on the kitchen counter and pulled you into his arms without a word. just held you while you shook in his chest.

“he said he wasn’t even sure,” you whispered later, curled up on the couch. “he said he was still thinking about her. all that time... i was just a fucking rebound.”

his jaw clenched, eyes darkening. “that bastard never deserved you.”

“i feel so stupid, gyu.”

“don’t,” he said, voice low and serious. “don’t you ever say that. you loved him. you gave everything. that’s not stupid. that’s beautiful.”

“why wasn’t i enough?”

he looked at you for a long time, like he was deciding something.

“y/n,” he said softly, leaning in. “that wasn’t your fault. he’s the one who didn’t know what he had. you... fuck, you’ve always been more than enough.”

the kiss happened slowly.

his hand on your cheek. your breath hitching. his lips brushing yours like a question—like a warning. and then, you kissed him back.

soft. desperate. too long coming.

when you pulled away, his forehead rested against yours. “you need to make him regret it,” he whispered, thumb stroking your skin. “you need to make him feel what it’s like to lose you. you need to feel good again. you deserve that.”

he didn’t ask for anything else that night. didn’t push.

but that was the start of the end.

after that night, you distanced yourself.

you didn’t mean to cut him off completely—hell, you couldn’t. it was beomgyu. but something about that kiss left a shadow in your chest. it was supposed to be just a moment. just comfort. just a stolen breath between sobs. nothing more.

you still texted, still called now and then. his name stayed pinned in your inbox. but you avoided seeing him in person like your life depended on it. like you knew that if you saw his eyes again, if he looked at you the way he did that night, you wouldn’t be able to lie to yourself anymore.

and besides… guilt was eating you alive.

because no matter how “harmless” the kiss was, you were still with donghyun.

donghyun, who promised he loved you. donghyun, who swore you were his future.

donghyun… who you later found texting his ex behind your back. joking with his friends about how maybe he should “catch up with her” again. laughing at the idea of her "missing his mouth." and not in a wholesome way.

when you saw the messages, your chest cracked all over again.

it didn’t matter that you had kissed someone else first. you still felt like your soul was being peeled apart, like you were always the one bleeding more. and maybe you deserved it. maybe not. but either way, you couldn’t breathe when you read those words.

still, you stayed.

and then came his concert.

beomgyu’s new album dropped like thunder—critics raving, fans losing their minds, his name everywhere. and somehow, despite everything, he’d put you on the guest list for the showcase. vip pass. no questions asked.

you told yourself you wouldn’t go.

but you went.

the venue was packed. lights flashing. fans screaming. and when he stepped onto that stage, guitar slung low on his hips, hair damp and wild, voice sliding over the mic like honey and gravel—your throat went dry.

he looked like sin. pure, unfiltered, heartbreak and lust wrapped in leather and ink.

you swallowed hard, trying to force your thoughts back into a box they didn’t want to stay in. because there he was—beomgyu, singing like the world owed him something, like the stage was the only place he could be real.

and god, you hated how much you still felt him.

after the show, the backstage buzzed with people. artists, stylists, industry big shots, security guards keeping the crowd out. your small flower crown sat awkwardly among the giant bouquets and expensive gifts.

when he saw it, he smiled.

“you actually came,” he said, walking toward you. “i didn’t think you would. thought you were still avoiding me.”

you hesitated. “i wasn’t avoiding you.”

he raised an eyebrow. “really?”

your mouth opened, then closed. then opened again.

“…okay. maybe i was.”

he nodded slowly, gaze sharp but unreadable. “why?”

you bit your lip. eyes drifting to the floor. “after that night… i got scared. i’ve never done anything like that before. never kissed someone else while i was still in a relationship. it felt—”

“like revenge?” he said, smirking a little. “because that’s all it was. he hurt you. so you hurt him back.”

you didn’t respond.

because that wasn’t who you were.

or… maybe it was. just for that moment.

you pressed your lips together, looking anywhere but his face.

he stepped closer, voice softer. “how’s that relationship going, anyway?”

you hesitated again. you wanted to lie. to say everything was fine. to keep pretending.

but you didn’t.

you told him what you found. the texts. the jokes. the way it broke you.

he didn’t hold back. “wow,” he said, dragging a hand through his hair. “i used to at least respect the guy because you picked him. but now? nah. he’s a fucking piece of shit.”

you flinched, but didn’t disagree.

“so why the hell are you still with him?”

“because i love him,” you said quickly. too quickly. too defensively. “i… i love him, gyu. i can’t just let go—”

his face twisted. “he’s making you feel like crap, and you’re still here defending him. what the fuck is wrong with you?”

your brows drew together. “don’t talk to me like that.”

“then stop talking like you're proud of being treated like garbage,” he snapped. “you sound like you’re begging to stay hurt.”

his fingers closed around your wrist—not enough to hurt, but tight enough to ground you. to make your chest seize.

“stop it,” he said through gritted teeth. “i don’t want to hear any more of this shit.”

you blinked, stunned. your mouth fell open, but no words came out.

“if he makes you feel like this,” he said, voice low and furious, “then break the fuck up with him.”

you stared at him, lips parted. heart hammering.

you wanted to scream that he didn’t understand. that it wasn’t so simple. that love was messy, complicated, that you had history—

but then he said it.

“remember that kiss?” his voice dropped, rough like gravel. “how did it feel? did you hate it?”

you opened your mouth, but nothing came out. your face burned. because the truth sat heavy on your tongue.

you didn’t hate it. you hadn’t hated a second of it.

and that scared the hell out of you.

because beomgyu was too much. too intense. too real. and worse—deep down, a part of you still regretted turning him down all those years ago. even now.

but you had a boyfriend.

you weren’t supposed to want another man.

even if that man made your heart ache in ways your boyfriend never could.

beomgyu stepped in closer, his presence swallowing the space between you both until your back met the cold wall. the sharp click of your heels echoed faintly on the floor, and for a split second, his eyes flicked downward, lips twitching.

“you look so fuckin’ good in those,” he muttered, almost to himself, his gaze dragging up the length of your body. the slit in your dress revealed just enough of your leg to make his jaw tense, and the swell of your chest, pressed tight in that low neckline, had his breath stuttering for a moment.

then, slowly, his hand reached up—warm, calloused fingertips trailing up the curve of your neck until they cradled your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheek. your breath hitched the second his body pressed into yours, his heat, his scent, everything suffocating.

“you have no fuckin’ idea how many times i’ve thought about you,” he growled, voice low, raspy, like he was barely holding himself back. “since that night… fuck, y/n.”

his nose skimmed along your neck, lips ghosting just beneath your ear, and then—he inhaled.

deep.

like he needed your scent just to breathe, like your skin was the only thing that could keep him alive.

you shivered.

his breath was hot against your throat, and your skin prickled, hypersensitive, the space between your thighs suddenly aching with heat.

“and you?” he whispered, his lips grazing your ear. “have you thought about me?”

you didn’t think. couldn’t.

“yes…” it fell from your lips like a confession. like a sin.

and that was all it took.

his mouth crashed into yours, all fire and fury and desperation. it was nothing like the soft kiss you’d shared before—this was punishment, this was craving, this was everything he’d been dying to take from you. his lips moved against yours with raw hunger, tongue parting your lips, tasting you like he was claiming you.

your hands pushed up against his chest, not to resist—but to feel. and god, he felt good. solid, toned, his body firm under your fingertips. you slid your palms over the fabric of his shirt, feeling the warmth of him, the tension in his muscles.

his hands gripped your waist tight, sliding up your back, then down again, fingers digging in just enough to make your breath hitch.

he broke the kiss just barely, your foreheads resting together, panting.

“don’t feel guilty,” he said, voice dark, ragged. “he fucked up first. you deserve this. you deserve to feel good, baby.”

your chest rose and fell rapidly, torn between reason and heat, but his mouth was already back on yours—his lips moving, tongue claiming, body pressing harder against yours. you gasped when his knee pushed between your legs, spreading you gently, firmly. his hand slid down to your thigh, gripping it, dragging it up to his hip so your leg wrapped around him.

his mouth moved to your neck, kissing, biting, licking over the spot just below your jaw. “let me give you what he couldn’t. let me make you forget that piece of shit.”

you whimpered. “beomgyu—”

“don’t think,” he murmured against your skin, “just feel.”

he bent slightly, gripping under your thighs, and in one swift motion, lifted you. your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, the hem of your dress riding up, leaving little to the imagination. he carried you effortlessly to the nearby vanity table, pushing aside cosmetics and water bottles with a sweep of his arm before setting you down on the surface, stepping between your legs.

his fingers found the edge of your dress and slowly pushed it up your thighs, eyes locked on yours the entire time. “look at you,” he whispered, hungry. “god, you’re so fucking beautiful. you don’t even know.”

your head tilted back slightly as his fingers slid under the thin lace of your panties, stroking softly between your folds. you were already wet—aching—and he groaned when he felt it.

“fuck, baby,” he hissed. “he never deserved this.”

your hips jerked forward into his hand, needing more, and he didn’t hesitate. two fingers slid inside you, curling just right, thumb rubbing slow circles on your clit. your moan escaped before you could stop it, your hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt.

“that’s it,” he muttered against your collarbone. “let me hear you. let me ruin you.”

your head fell back as he pumped his fingers in and out, his mouth trailing hot kisses over your chest, down the valley of your breasts, tongue dipping just beneath your neckline.

“you want me to stop?” he asked suddenly, voice low, teasing.

“no,” you breathed, desperate. “don’t stop. please—”

he grinned, feral. “then say it.”

“what..?” you gasped.

“say you want your revenge.”

you blinked, body trembling under his touch, your climax building fast in your core.

“say it, baby,” he coaxed, fingers thrusting harder. “say you wanna make him pay.”

your mouth fell open, eyes fluttering shut. “i… i want it. i want my revenge—”

“fuck yes you do,” he growled, crashing his mouth against yours again as your orgasm tore through you, sharp and hot and overwhelming. your body shook under him, thighs clenching around his waist as he swallowed every sound, every moan, every broken little whimper.

when you finally stilled, breathless and dazed, he pulled back just enough to look at you, thumb brushing your lips.

“we’re just getting started,” he said, voice wicked. “and i’m gonna make sure you never forget what it feels like to be worshipped.”

you barely had time to catch your breath before beomgyu was tugging your panties down your thighs, slow but deliberate, eyes never leaving yours. they dropped to the floor in a silent surrender, and he pocketed them with a smirk like they were a fucking trophy.

“i’m not gonna fuck you here,” he murmured, breath hot against your lips, “not like this. you deserve better than a quick fuck on a vanity. not when i’ve waited this long.”

before you could answer, he scooped you up again like it was nothing, his arms strong under your thighs as he carried you out of the dressing room, ignoring the voices and laughter muffled behind the door.

“w-where are we going?” you asked, barely able to think straight.

“my place,” he said simply. “somewhere i can hear you scream without interruptions.”

you whimpered, burying your face in his neck, and god, he smelled so good—sweat, leather, cologne and stage adrenaline. he smelled like temptation and danger and everything you knew you shouldn’t want… but did.

the ride in the black suv was silent, electric. your dress was bunched up around your hips, your bare pussy pressed against the rough fabric of his jeans as you sat on his lap, his arms wrapped tightly around you. he kissed your neck lazily, like he had all the time in the world, but his cock was rock hard beneath you. he didn’t even try to hide it.

once at his apartment, he kicked the door shut with his boot, not bothering with lights. the glow of the city poured in through the massive windows, casting shadows across the sleek, dark interior. guitars lined the wall. platinum records caught the dim light. this was his kingdom—and tonight, you were the only thing he wanted in it.

he dropped you on the bed, eyes heavy, lips parted.

“take it off,” he said, voice husky, pointing at your dress.

your fingers trembled as you reached for the zipper, but he stepped forward and caught your wrists.

“no,” he whispered, “let me.”

slowly, reverently, he pulled the dress down your body, baring inch after inch of your skin, his lips brushing each new piece of flesh like a prayer. your tits spilled out of your bra, tight and full, and he groaned under his breath like he was in pain.

“fuck, y/n…” his hands cupped them gently, thumbs rubbing over your nipples until they peaked. “you’re a fucking dream.”

he kissed down your stomach, his rings cold on your thighs as he spread them apart, taking his time to appreciate the view.

“this pussy,” he muttered, running a finger along your slit, “doesn’t deserve to be wasted on a piece of shit who doesn’t know how to treat you.”

you moaned softly, but he didn’t give you time to reply—he leaned in, mouth hot and wet against your core, tongue sliding between your folds like he’d been starving for it. he licked you slow, deep, sucking gently on your clit, fingers spreading you open.

your hands tangled in his hair, tugging, hips grinding up against his mouth.

“beomgyu—fuck—” you gasped.

he hummed in response, the vibration sending a jolt through you, and your thighs clamped around his head, body trembling. he didn’t stop—he kept going until you were falling apart again, crying out his name, legs shaking uncontrollably.

when he finally pulled away, his lips were glistening, his eyes dark, his jaw set with hunger.

“on your knees,” he commanded, voice rough. “now.”

you obeyed before you even thought about it, dropping to the floor and looking up at him with flushed cheeks, your mascara smudged and lips swollen from kisses.

he unbuckled his belt slowly, eyes locked on yours, pulling his cock free. it was thick, veiny, and already leaking. you swallowed hard, instinctively.

he chuckled darkly. “open your mouth, pretty girl.”

you wrapped your lips around the tip, letting your tongue swirl over the head, tasting him. he hissed, one hand gripping your hair tight as he fed more of his length into your mouth.

“that’s it,” he growled, fucking your mouth slowly, “just like that. fuck, your mouth feels so good—better than i imagined.”

you gagged slightly as he hit the back of your throat, but he didn’t stop, hips rocking steadily, praising you in broken moans.

“gonna fuck you now,” he said, pulling out with a wet pop and dragging you back to your feet. “gonna make you forget every time he made you feel like you weren’t enough.”

he turned you around and bent you over the bed, your chest pressing into the sheets, ass up for him.

he rubbed the head of his cock through your folds, teasing your entrance, and then—he pushed in.

deep.

you both gasped.

“so fucking tight,” he groaned, leaning over your back, one hand gripping your hip, the other sliding up your spine to your throat. “like you were made for me.”

his phone buzzed on the nightstand. he didn’t even look at it—just reached out lazily, tapped the screen and muttered, “i’ll be late. got something to handle.”

you heard him on the line with his manager, voice casual but firm. “start without me. i’ll join after... yeah, don’t wait.”

he hung up and tossed the phone aside, then grabbed a fistful of your hair, pulling your head back just enough so your cheek pressed against the mattress.

his pace started slow, dragging out each thrust, making you feel every inch of him. but it didn’t take long for him to snap his hips harder, faster, your body jolting with each stroke.

“does he fuck you like this?” he snarled in your ear, “does he make you scream?”

you shook your head, eyes rolling back. “n-no—only you—”

“that’s right,” he growled. “only me.”

his hand tightened around your throat, not enough to hurt, just enough to make your breath catch.

“this is your revenge, baby,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “so take it.”

his thrusts turned brutal—sharp, punishing, hitting the deepest part of you over and over. your cries filled the room, ragged and desperate, echoing off the walls with no mercy. his grip on your waist tightened like he wanted to mold your body into the shape of his cock, to ruin you for anyone else. to make sure you'd never forget.

“you feel this?” he grunted against your neck, breath hot and heavy. “no one else is gonna fuck you like this. no one else is gonna own you like i do.”

your fingers clutched the sheets, knuckles white, tears stinging the corners of your eyes from the sheer intensity. it was too much—his pace, his size, the weight of his body against yours, the filthy things he whispered in your ear.

“i bet you’re still gonna go crawling back to him,” he spat, jealousy burning under every word. “still gonna lie next to that asshole like you’re his.”

you whimpered, shaking your head weakly, but he didn’t buy it.

“nah,” he growled, pulling out suddenly and flipping you over, grabbing your legs and shoving them open. “look at me.”

you blinked up at him, dazed and fucked-out, mascara running down your cheeks.

“you better break up with him,” he snarled, voice low and dangerous, “or i swear to god, y/n, i’ll fuck you in front of him. i’ll bend you over his couch and make you scream my name while he watches.”

your mouth fell open in shock, chest heaving.

“and i won’t stop,” he added, rubbing the tip of his cock against your swollen entrance, “until he knows he lost. until he knows this pussy—” he thrust into you hard, making you sob out loud, “—was never really his.”

“beomgyu—” you moaned, overwhelmed, body burning from the inside out.

“you think he deserves you?” his hands pinned your wrists above your head, cock slamming into you mercilessly. “he made you cry, he lied to you, he fucking humiliated you—and you still love him? you’re fucking pathetic.”

you cried out, the words cutting deeper than his thrusts, but somehow… it made you wetter.

“you wanna be ruined?” he hissed. “you want someone to actually break you? then let me do it right. let me be the one to destroy you, y/n.”

his mouth found your breast, biting down hard on the curve, then licking over it with his tongue. one of his hands slid down between your bodies, fingers circling your clit.

“i’m gonna make you cum again,” he said darkly. “and when you do, i want you to say it. say who you belong to.”

you tried to resist, tried to hold it in, but your body betrayed you. the coil snapped, the orgasm ripped through you like a wave crashing too hard, too fast, and you screamed—legs shaking, eyes rolling back, tears spilling.

“say it,” he barked, still fucking into you through your climax. “say my fucking name.”

“b-beomgyu—!” you sobbed.

he groaned like he was finally satisfied, pulling you close and burying his face in your neck as he came inside you, cock twitching, filling you up with thick heat.

you lay there under him, destroyed—physically spent, emotionally wrecked, your thoughts tangled in guilt and pleasure and fear.

he didn’t move for a moment. just breathed. heavy. hot. his fingers brushing your jaw as if you were fragile now that he had broken you.

“you’re not going back to him,” he whispered.

not a question.

a fucking order.

you lay beneath him, breathing uneven, the scent of sweat and sex thick in the room. your thighs still trembled from the intensity, from the way he’d made you cum like he hated you and worshipped you at the same time. beomgyu hadn’t said a word in the past minute—his face buried against your neck, body still pressed to yours, cock softening inside you.

for a second, just a second, you wished he’d hold you.

but then his voice broke the silence.

“you’re still thinking about him,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. the accusation hung in the air like smoke. “even after everything i just gave you.”

your heart dropped.

your lips parted, but nothing came out. you didn’t know how to explain it—the ache in your chest that refused to go away. the confusion. the guilt. the goddamn love you still felt for someone who didn’t deserve it.

“gyu…” you whispered.

he pulled back, face twisted into something you couldn’t name. anger? heartbreak? pride?

“don’t,” he cut you off. “don’t make excuses.”

your eyes welled up. “i don’t know what to do.”

“yes, you do,” he said bitterly. “you just don’t want to admit it.”

you turned your face away, ashamed. “i’m scared…”

he leaned down, lips brushing your jaw, your cheek, your temple. “i know,” he breathed. “but if you go back to him… if you choose him over me again… i swear, y/n, i won’t be there the next time he breaks you.”

you looked up at him, tears streaming silently, and in his eyes—you saw it.

not just lust.

not just revenge.

something raw. something real. something that had been growing since you were kids and that neither of you dared name.

“why are you doing this to me?” you whispered, voice cracking.

he exhaled shakily, jaw clenched. “because you’re mine. and i’m fucking done pretending i can watch you belong to someone else.”

your heart clenched so painfully it felt like it might stop. you could say no. you could walk out, gather what little pride you had left, go home and cry again.

but you didn’t move.

you reached for him.

he didn’t need another invitation.

his lips found yours again, slower this time, deeper—like he needed to pour every unsaid feeling into your mouth. his hands cradled your face as he kissed you like it might be the last time. but it wouldn’t be. you both knew that now.

he slid between your thighs again, cock hardening quickly against your entrance, and this time, when he entered you, it wasn’t fast or rough—it was claiming.

your nails scratched down his back, your legs wrapped around him, and all that tension, all that heartbreak, turned into moans and gasps and breathless whimpers.

you knew this wouldn’t end well.

you knew you were falling, spiraling.

but if this was the fall—

you wanted to crash with him.

you lay there tangled in beomgyu’s arms, skin sticky with sweat and sin, lips swollen from too many kisses, body marked with the kind of bruises that didn’t hurt—but reminded you exactly who had been there. your breath was still shaky, but your mind had never been clearer. there was no room for regret now.

the guilt that once sat heavy on your chest had melted into something hotter, darker—an intoxicating thrill that buzzed beneath your skin like a drug.

vengeance.

it tasted like his lips, like his cum dripping down your thigh, like your name moaned against your ear by the man you were never supposed to touch. and as you traced lazy circles on beomgyu’s bare chest, your eyes fluttering shut, all you could think about was how sweet it would be to see the look on donghyun’s face when he finds out what you’ve done.

because maybe revenge wasn’t just a dish best served cold— maybe it was better hot, breathless, and soaked in sweat.

and god, you couldn’t wait for seconds.

483 notes · View notes

aleksatia · 3 months ago

Text

💗 Rafayel – Five Years Later

The second in a series of stories exploring MC’s return after five years of silence. Others are coming soon — links will be added as they’re published.

Original ask that sparked this continuation.

Sylus | Caleb | Zayne | Xavier (coming soon)

CW/TW: Trauma & PTSD themes, Implied past abduction, Betrayal / emotional manipulation, Poisoning & near-death experience, Violence (including one execution-style kill), Self-sacrifice, Intense emotional conflict, References to grief, guilt, and long-term separation, Complex relationship dynamics, Themes of forgiveness and healing While inspired by the original characters and lore of the game, this is a personal interpretation. Some aspects of character behavior, relationships, or world-building may differ from canon — especially given the five-year time gap and the impact of traumatic events. Consider it an alternate emotional timeline, shaped by growth, grief, and what-ifs.

(He taught himself silence. Learned to paint with absence, to breathe through longing. But when your shadow crossed his path again — living, breaking, real — the stillness inside him remembered how to shatter.)

The thing about disappearing is — if you do it right — no one comes looking.

Not because they don’t care. But because you made it easier to pretend you were never real in the first place.

You left the sea behind. The salt. The songs. The man with sunlight in his laugh and grief in his hands. You traded it all for concrete, steel, smoke. Somewhere between New Madrid and the Eleventh Sector, you stopped being a person and became a profile: Level 3, Tactical Division, Close Range Neutralization. Specializing in high-value body retention.

A shadow with a badge. A ghost on retainer.

It suited you.

You didn’t drink anymore. You didn’t play games. You didn’t say his name.

“Client arrival is in twenty minutes,” crackles the comm in your ear. "Full week assignment. High confidentiality. Zero contact protocol unless engaged."

You glance at your reflection in the elevator’s gold trim.

Eyes colder. Shoulders straighter. Gun holstered under a matte jacket that still smells faintly of last week’s adrenaline. You're not the girl who once cried into coral bedsheets. You're her replacement.

The hotel smells like money. That antiseptic richness meant to distract from the emptiness.

You position yourself in the lobby near the marble fountain — half concealed, half obvious. Just enough to look like part of the architecture. Just enough to see everything.

The concierge nods. The manager paces. The staff adjust flowers no one will notice.

Then: the cars. Black, sleek, ghost-silent.

Doors open.

Two assistants spill out first. Press, probably. One on a tablet, one on comms. Then a manager — with a face oddly familiar, like a half-forgotten memory trying to surface. Then—

Your heart forgets how to be a muscle.

He steps out like the city belongs to him. Like time bent itself around his absence.

Still tall. Still too elegant for the world he’s forced to live in. Purple waves of hair tied back. Sunglasses sliding down a nose built for poetry. He’s wearing that long beige coat he used to throw over your shoulders when nights got too cold, and his cologne hits you like déjà vu dipped in seawater and regret.

Your mouth is dry. Your hands are ice.

He doesn’t look at you.

Not yet.

You do what you were trained to do: you check for threats. Scan exits. Ignore your pulse.

He walks through the lobby as if unaware. As if untouched. But when he passes, just before the elevator closes — he turns his head.

And smiles.

Like sin. Like summer. Like he knew it would be you.

Then—

“Hello again, Ms. Bodyguard.”

***

The suite was silent. Too silent for something this expensive.

No music. No hum of ventilation. Just the hush of carpet under your boots, and the faint, distant rhythm of city breath outside the window.

You stood near the corner, hands behind your back, spine too straight. Default position. Default you.

He was across the room, jacket already off, sleeves rolled. Moving like someone who was used to being observed. Not by the public — by ghosts.

The wine had already been poured. He handed you a glass like it was part of the ritual. You didn’t take it.

He arched an eyebrow.

“I’m working,” you said.

He didn’t insist. Just smiled, faintly.

Of course.

He used to fill every room — all noise and color and heat. But now, somehow, he'd grown quiet. Not in absence — in weight. Like a masterpiece in a gallery. Like the only rose in a field of thorns. You could look away, but you’d still feel him. Like a crosshair you couldn’t shake.

The window beside you looked out over the city — not that you were looking. Your eyes were trained on his reflection in the glass. Even blurred by distance and light, you could tell: he hadn’t broken. But he’d bent.

Harder than most things could survive.

His voice came low, like something remembered instead of spoken.

“You weren’t always stone.”

You didn’t answer.

He crossed the room without hurry. You didn’t move.

His eyes found yours — not searching, just… waiting. Like the question wasn’t whether you’d speak. It was whether you still could.

“And yet here you are,” he murmured, “standing in my suite like you were carved to fit the corner.”

You felt the words land somewhere deep in the ribs. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak.

He took a slow sip from his glass. The color of the wine caught in the light — the same shade he used to mix on his palette when painting you in shadow.

“I saw the new series,” you said, voice even.

He glanced at you over the rim.

“Did you?”

“Less gold. More... grief.”

A pause. Then a smile — dry, almost kind.

“I ran out of yellow.”

That made your throat tighten. You looked away before it showed.

He studied you. Not your face — your posture. Your silences. You weren’t hiding emotion. You were holding it.

Like a soldier holding a wound closed with one hand.

“And you,” he said, softly. “Still chasing bullets?”

“I don’t chase. I shield.”

“Of course you do.”

He stepped closer. Not enough to touch. But enough that you could feel him again. That impossible warmth, wrapped in restraint.

He looked at you like an old painting. The kind you see once, remember forever, and never find again.

“You followed me,” he said, almost offhand. “Even after you left.”

You didn’t deny it.

“I had to know you were… functioning.”

He laughed — quiet, empty.

“Functioning,” he repeated. “Right.”

You searched his face for anger. You didn’t find it. Only something slower. Older.

Like ash.

“How have you been?” you asked.

It was a mistake. The question hung in the air like smoke from a match — small, stupid, but dangerous.

He stared at you for a long moment.

Then the glass in his hand cracked. A clean, bright sound. Like winter splitting.

The wine didn’t spill. He didn’t move.

“You left,” he said.

Not bitter. Not accusing.

Just: you left.

“And now you want to ask if I’ve been well?”

You shifted. Just enough to register discomfort. Nothing more.

He looked at the flame creeping along his knuckles — Evol, awake and restless. He closed his fist, and the fire vanished like breath from a mirror.

“What did I do?” he asked, quieter now. “What sin did I commit to earn a silent goodbye?”

You drew breath through your nose. Measured.

“I was tired.”

“Of what?”

You looked at him.

“Of being a story you told instead of a person you knew.”

That did it.

Not an explosion. Not a slam. Just a shift. Like something in his chest cracked, and he had no hands free to hold it in place.

He turned. Slowly. Set the broken glass down. No sound. No shatter.

Then he walked to the adjoining door, pressed it open.

“You’ll stay here,” he said.

A simple guest room. Clean, unpersonalized. Quiet.

He didn’t look at you when he added:

“You’re my shadow for the week. No leaving. No exceptions.”

“And if I object?”

He paused at the threshold. Then turned. Finally met your eyes again.

“You won’t,” he said.

Not a command. Just a prophecy.

***

The days blurred.

They stretched long — drawn out by tension and silence — and yet they flew past with the quiet cruelty of something you couldn’t stop. You caught yourself counting minutes. Not until the assignment ended — but until he left again.

You told yourself it was duty. But no. You knew. The closer it got, the more it scared you.

You’d thought you’d buried the past. That five years had been enough to cauterize what you felt. Enough to flatten grief into dull, predictable weight. You’d taught yourself not to cry. Not to ache. Not to wake up reaching for a voice that wasn’t there.

But now—

Now the thought of losing him again bled through you like poison Slow. Sharp. Relentless.

For the first time, you truly wondered — had you made the worst mistake of your life?

You’d always known leaving was cowardice. A reaction. A wound reacting to pressure. You’d told yourself it was necessary — that you couldn’t survive another secret, another lie, another impossible moment in his orbit.

But now, as you stood in his shadow again, you returned to the one truth you kept avoiding. It wasn’t just the secrets. It wasn’t just his careful, curated nonchalance. It wasn’t even the things he didn’t say.

It was that moment — the one you could never forget.

The Nest. The kidnapping. The deal he’d made behind your back.

The betrayal.

The man who once made you feel like a myth had handed you over like a pawn. And you’d left. Because you couldn’t find a version of yourself that could love him and survive it.

But now…

Now you knew. The price you both paid for your fear had been too high.

***

He treated you like a shadow. Professional. Polite. Silent.

He didn’t try to speak. Didn’t joke. Didn’t prod. Whatever playful gleam had once lived in him now belonged to the stage.

You watched him wear charm like a costume — perfectly tailored, easily removed.

The real man?

He wore quieter things now. No more garish brands. No flash. Just silk-lined precision. Weight without noise. Like he’d stopped needing to be seen in order to feel powerful.

And yet — you felt it. The way his gaze burned across rooms. The way silence wrapped around you both like a loaded pause.

Something was coming. You didn’t know what.

Only that it would not be small.

***

Then came the reception.

A charity event. Wealth, power, and politics pretending to like each other in the same room. He handed you your role the night before — not as a request.

You weren’t the bodyguard tonight. You were his date.

No one must suspect otherwise. His reputation demanded it.

And so here you were:

Draped in sea-glass velvet, cut to glide and cling. Your hair swept into soft, impossible waves. Sapphires at your ears, your throat. Everything felt too heavy. Too expensive. Even your heels were a weapon you didn’t know how to use. You hated how they made you move — slow, deliberate. Exposed.

The car slid to a stop. He stepped out first — a vision in black and steel. Then he turned, offered you a hand.

You took it. His skin was cold.

But the touch — the touch burned. Like nothing had ever healed.

Cameras. Screams. Flashing lights.

Your instincts screamed — scan the crowd. Find the threat. Always the threat. But his fingers tightened around yours. Hard.

He leaned in, breath against your ear — warm, familiar, furious.

“Smile, for fuck’s sake.”

You did.

Not for the cameras. Not for the cause.

But because you knew — the storm wasn’t over. It was just beginning.

***

You played the part well.

Neutral. Polished. Cold enough to earn whispers you never heard, but felt just behind your back.

No one dared speak them aloud, of course. They looked at you and said the compliments to him.

“She’s stunning.”

“Such a refined presence.”

“As if she was made to be on your arm.”

As if your face belonged to him. As if your silence was his design.

In some twisted way, maybe it was.

You didn’t remember how you got here. One minute you were cataloguing exits with your eyes, tracking the crowd with practiced ease —

The next —

You were dancing.

His hand on your waist, the other guiding yours. Everything too close, too warm, too practiced.

The chandelier above cast a slow rain of light. The room turned gently, spinning around its own silence.

His touch wasn’t tender. It was intentional.

“Your expression,” he murmured, “is slowly assassinating my reputation.”

You didn’t look at him. “Your reputation as what, exactly?”

He paused. Just a second.Then:

“A man of appetites.”

You tilted your head slightly. “How poetic.”

“I thought so,” he said. “Though the press prefers playboy.”

A beat.

“So you’ve read it,” you said.

“I have someone who clips the good parts.”

“Must be a short list.”

He smiled — not kindly. “Normally, I’m seen with far more… expressive company.”

“Then why break tradition?”

His fingers flexed slightly at your waist.

“I suppose I wanted something quieter.” A beat. “Something that might bite back.”

Your gaze flicked to him. Just once. A sharpened glance.

“And how does this help your image?”

“It doesn’t.” He leaned in, voice a thread. “But it’s not always about image, is it?”

You could feel it — the heat building between syllables. Not passion. Not yet.

Just tension. Waiting.

You moved together like two creatures pretending not to hunt each other. Each step precise. Each breath withheld.

“You used to enjoy this sort of thing,” he said, voice soft now, too close. “Crowds. Light. Being seen.”

“I used to believe in things,” you replied.

He said nothing. But his hand curled tighter against your spine.

For a second, you let the silence say everything.

Then—

You noticed it.

The way his eyes had started slipping away from you. Again and again — to a single shape on the edge of the room. A man. Grey suit. Clean line. Controlled posture.

You knew that look.

The dance ended, but you weren’t let go. He took your arm, like a gentleman.

But you knew better.

***

The garden was colder than it had any right to be. The kind of cold that wasn’t about temperature — it was about distance. About the way stone walls and sculpted hedges swallowed sound and left only the weight of footsteps behind.

You followed him without a word. Because you already knew.

You’d seen his eyes stray to the man in the grey suit half a dozen times during the reception. Not nervous glances — calculated ones. Not curiosity — confirmation.

And now here you were, walking straight into the web.

The man waited by the marble fountain, one hand resting casually in his pocket, the other holding a glass of something expensive and unnecessary. His smile was pleasant. His suit was quiet money. His name was carved into memory from the briefings you used to skim with more detachment.

Elias Varrick. Publicly: philanthropist, investor, art collector, father of four. Privately: suspected ties to high-level biotech experimentation, classified marine acquisitions, and several quiet disappearances.

All rumors, of course. Nothing on paper. Nothing proven.

Still — you knew. Your gut always knew.

But you didn’t know what Rafayel knew. Not yet.

They greeted each other like old acquaintances. A handshake that looked effortless. Painless.

“I thought it best to deliver the piece myself,” Rafayel said. His voice had its old rhythm — slow, warm, dipped in charm.

You watched him as he spoke. Not the words — the tone.

Polite. Polished. Performing.

“That kind of personal art,” he added, “deserves a personal hand.”

Varrick smiled wider. “Very kind of you. My family will love it. We’re planning to hang it in the main lounge — the one where we gather in the evenings. My wife, the children, my mother. It’s where we live.”

And that’s when it happened.

You didn’t freeze. Not outwardly. But something inside you did.

That phrase. The way he said it — we live here.

You didn’t hear a lie. That was the problem. You heard sincerity.

You saw the portrait — Rafayel’s portrait — hanging above a mantel. You saw children playing on a rug beneath it. An old woman sipping tea in a chair nearby. You saw innocence. Unaware. Wrapped around a weapon.

And suddenly, all the scattered images connected. The rumors. The names. The “environmental” fund. The experimental projects tied to Lemurians. The disappearances.

He wasn’t here for charity.

Rafayel was hunting. And you were holding his arm like a lover while he did it.

It wasn’t the lie that made you pull away. It was the memory of all the ones that came before.

You stepped back. A breath lodged in your throat.

“I need a moment,” you murmured.

He turned. “Wait—”

You didn’t let him finish.

“Don’t.”

You turned away.

You needed air. Space. Time. You needed to stop hearing the echo of his voice in your chest, the one that said it’s different now, even when you knew it wasn’t.

But he followed. Of course he followed.

“Let me explain—”

“No,” you snapped, more sharply than intended. “No more explaining. That’s always the beginning of the lie.”

He reached for your arm. You stopped him with a look.

“I want to know one thing,” you said. Your voice was low, barely steady. “That painting… it’s a weapon, isn’t it?”

He hesitated. Just a breath. But it was enough.

“Not here,” he said softly. “Please.”

“There are children in that house, Rafayel. Children. How can you guarantee there won’t be innocent blood?”

His jaw tensed. The silence between you vibrated with unsaid things. Then:

“Come with me,” he said. “I’ll explain everything. But not in public.”

“Answer me.”

“I said not here,” he whispered. Not angry. Not cold. Just—desperate. Controlled. And that — more than anything — told you what you needed to know.

And that’s when it happened. The movement was too fast.

You heard it before you saw it — a hiss of compressed air.

Then the glint of metal. Then the needle, already buried in the side of Rafayel’s neck.

Everything shattered.

Rafayel stumbled, hand flying to the injection point. His eyes widened — not with pain. With realization.

Varrick stepped back with chilling calm, adjusting his cuff.

“I knew it was you,” he said simply. “The moment I saw your face, lemurian. I knew you were the one behind Raymond’s death.”

You didn’t wait for orders. Didn’t need permission.

You drew and fired — one shot. Silent. Precise. Varrick collapsed with a grunt of pain, clutching his leg.

You were on him in three strides. Knee in his chest. Barrel to his throat.

“What was in it?” you growled.

His breath rattled, half from the pain, half from the thrill of it all. He was enjoying this — the game, the brink.

“I’m not—”

You slammed the muzzle harder against his neck.

“Tell me. Or I swear, I’ll have your lungs painting that lovely family room of yours by morning.”

He laughed, blood in his teeth.

“Requiem Coral,” he gasped. “Gen-modified. Synthetic compound. It bonds to Lemurian blood — slow neural degeneration. Burns out the body one nerve at a time. Quite poetic, really.”

You stared at him. Then you fired again.

Between the eyes.

No poetry. Just silence.

***

You found Rafayel still upright. Barely. His pupils were uneven. Sweat glistened on his temple. His balance was shot.

You got under his arm, bore half his weight.

“No hospital,” he muttered.

“I’m not a moron,” you snapped. “We’re going home.”

You drove with one hand clenched around the wheel, the other wrapped tightly around his — clammy now, fingers twitching less and less.

The city blurred past like water through glass, useless. Silent.

He was slumped in the seat beside you, head tilted back, jaw clenched.

“Is this your version of a confession?” he muttered, voice paper-thin. “Waiting ‘til I’m half-dead to finally hold my hand?”

“Shut up,” you hissed.

He smiled — barely. “So harsh. Romance really is dead.”

You tightened your grip on his hand. His skin was cold.

“Don’t do that,” you said. “Don’t talk like you’re not about to die.”

“I mean, statistically—”

“I said shut up.”

Your voice cracked on the last word.

The rest of the ride was agony. You didn’t feel the road. You didn’t feel the turns. You felt him — fading beside you. His breath going shallow. His body heavy.

And all you could do was drive faster.

***

Your home wasn’t built for tenderness. It wasn’t a place to recover. It was a place to survive.

The door slammed behind you, and you half-dragged, half-carried him to the medical bench. He tried to help. He couldn’t.

He collapsed like a broken marionette, breathing hard, sweat cold on his brow.

You moved by instinct.

Antitoxin. Anti-inflammatories. Burn stabilizer. Anything. Everything.

Tubes. IV. Scanners.

Your hands didn’t shake — until you realized that nothing was working. His vitals dipped. Once. Again.

No improvement. And you weren’t a doctor. You weren’t a biotech. You were a weapon.

You could take a man apart in thirty seconds, but this — this—

You couldn’t fix this.

You hovered over him, swallowing panic, shoving down the scream forming in your throat.

He opened his eyes — only halfway. Saw the mess you were making. He lifted one trembling hand, and caught your wrist.

“Stop,” he whispered. “You’ll do more harm than good.”

You shook your head violently. “No. No, I can— I just need time—”

“There is no time.”

His voice was barely there.

“I don’t— I don’t know how to stop it,” you said, broken. “I don’t know how to fight it—how to save you—”

“Then listen.”

His eyes found yours.

“If this is it…” His breath caught. “If I’m not waking up from this—”

“Raf, no—”

“Then I want the truth.”

He looked at you like a man watching his own shadow disappear. Like someone who knew there was no second chance this time.

“No secrets. No lies. Nothing between us.”

You froze. And something inside you cracked.

The words came out on a sob.

“I know.”

He blinked slowly. “Know what?”

“I know you sold me out. N109 Zone. Five years ago.”

The air stopped moving. His lips parted, but no sound came.

You looked down, ashamed and shaking.

“I found the records. I connected the drops, the timing. You handed me over.”

There was a long pause. Then, suddenly — he laughed. A ragged, broken sound that became a cough.

“Oh, you—God.”

His smile was pained. Too pained.

“You wanted to reach Onichynus, remember?”

You looked up.

“There’s no easy road there. No clean path.”

He coughed again, winced, and gripped your hand tighter.

“I was watching. If things had gone wrong, I would’ve stepped in. I wouldn’t have let them break you.”

Your lips trembled. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t trust myself not to stop you. I didn’t want you to look at me like you are right now.”

He coughed again — something wet in the sound now.

“I never betrayed you.”

His hand drifted to your chest, barely touching.

“You were always my heart.” He smiled faintly. “And when you left… you took it with you.”

You crumpled. Your hands went to his face, cold and pale, and your voice shattered into pieces.

“I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I thought— I thought you used me. Manipulated me. Like everyone else.”

His eyes stayed on yours.

“I would’ve died for you.”

“I know. I know now.”

Tears streamed down your face.

“I took your heart, Raf, but mine—” You pressed a hand to his chest. “Mine never left you. I… still love you.”

Your voice broke like a body under fire.

“God, I never stopped loving you.”

You leaned down, kissed his lips — dry, cold, still his. Your tears landed on his skin.

“Please,” you whispered. “Fight. Just… fight. Tell me what to do. Anything. Because if you die— if you leave me now— I swear—”

“I’m already leaving,” he said.

A beat. A breath.

“I don’t think anything can stop it.”

You shook your head. “No—”

“But there’s something you can do.”

You stilled.

“Take me to the sea,” he whispered.

His eyes were almost closed.

“If I die… I want the ocean to take my last breath.”

***

You helped him into the water, one arm steady around his waist, the other gripping his wrist as if holding on could somehow hold him here.

The sea was cold, even for nightfall. Each wave climbed higher, tasting skin and memory as it came. Rafayel leaned into you, too light, too quiet. His steps were uncertain, but not from fear. He wasn’t afraid. He was done.

By the time the water reached his chest, he stopped.

His breath caught. Not sharply — softly, like a curtain falling.

For a moment, under the pale gleam of moonlight, he closed his eyes. His features relaxed. And it struck you — how little color remained in his face. How glass-like his skin looked. Almost translucent. Almost not there.

You opened your mouth to speak, but the words never found shape.

Because he let go.

He stepped back. And before you could stop him, before you could tighten your grip — he slipped beneath the surface and vanished.

No sound. No splash. Just absence.

“Rafayel.”

Your voice wavered, swallowed instantly by the dark. Then louder—

“RAFAYEL!”

But there was only the sea.

You surged forward, boots stumbling, breath catching in your throat as you threw yourself into the waves.

Cold bit into your spine. Your jacket dragged you down. Salt stung your eyes. None of it mattered.

You dove.

Once, five years ago, it had been the same. Different ocean. Same cold. Same fear.

You remembered that too well — sinking below the surface on a job gone wrong, your lungs seizing, your vision narrowing. And just before the dark closed in, it had been him who pulled you out. His arms, his breath, his voice.

Breathe, cutie. Come on. Breathe.

And now—

Now it was your turn to find him.

You kicked downward, deeper, into the black.

You couldn’t see. The moonlight didn’t reach this far. But you didn’t need to see. You needed to find.

The water grew colder the further you went. Each stroke slower, weaker. The pressure in your chest building, blooming like fire. Your hands swept forward, wide, desperate — fingers searching for fabric, for skin, for anything.

You found nothing.

The panic came slowly. Not like a scream, but like a slow tightening, a noose drawn carefully across your ribs. Your lungs began to burn. Your mind whispered it was too far. Too late. But your body refused to listen.

You kept going.

Until your arms stopped obeying. Until your legs stopped kicking.

Until your last exhale slipped from between your lips, and with it, the only word that still meant anything.

“Rafayel,” you mouthed.

And sank.

Everything stilled.

Time, sensation, thought.

And just as the darkness began to take you—

Something changed.

A pulse. Not from the sea. From inside.

Evol. Dormant until now — roared awake. But not with power. With purpose.

It didn’t surge to protect you. It didn’t scream in defense. It answered something quieter. Deeper.

A wish.

You weren’t trying to save yourself. You weren’t trying to rise.

You were trying to give him your heart back. To pour your strength into his veins. To reignite the spark inside him — even if it meant extinguishing your own.

Let me give it back. Let him live. Let me take the weight.

That was the prayer beneath your ribs, and Evol obeyed.

It moved through you like liquid fire, searing down to your bones, pulling from every corner of your being. It hurt. God, it hurt — not like dying, but like unraveling. You were emptying yourself willingly. Not out of fear. Out of love.

And then — resonance.

Not just from you. From him. Like something in the darkness roared back.

No. Not her. Not this way.

You felt it — a pull in the opposite direction. Not rejection. Not resistance. Reciprocity.

His Evol flared back — instinctive, involuntary, desperate. Refusing the gift. Refusing the cost.

He wouldn’t let you die for him. And you — you couldn’t let him die for you.

And so you were pulled. Not rising. Not flying.

Drawn back. Both of you. Together.

Because even now, even here — at the edge of everything — neither of you could bear to leave the other behind.

***

You came back coughing.

The world hit in pieces — salt on your lips, sand beneath your palms, the weight of your own chest struggling to rise.

And then—

Arms.

Not the ocean’s. His.

He was holding you. Soaked. Shaking. Alive.

His heartbeat thudded beneath your ear, ragged but real. His breath skimmed your temple. His fingers gripped your shoulders like he wasn’t sure whether to anchor you — or himself.

You opened your eyes. The sky swam above you, vast and starless.

And Rafayel’s face was there. Pale with exhaustion, hair clinging wet to his skin, eyes too bright in the dark.

You reached up, touched his cheek with trembling fingers. He leaned into it.

No words passed between you. There was nothing to explain.

“This,” you whispered, voice torn to ribbons, “is exactly where I want to be when I die.”

His mouth twitched, a ghost of a smile breaking through.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he murmured, “next time we die.”

Your breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“Raf…”

He hushed you with his thumb against your cheek, his gaze steady and quiet.

“It’s over.”

You shook your head. “But how—”

He didn’t answer right away.

Only looked at you, and for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, you saw it— light. Faint, buried, but alive in him.

“Cutie,” he said softly, “how could I keep dying when you needed me this much?”

The sound you made was broken, wild — grief and love tangled into one. You folded into him, arms tight around his shoulders, burying your face in his neck.

“Then you’ll have to live,” you whispered, choked, “for a long, long time. Because I need you. Every day. Every second. Every stupid heartbeat.”

He laughed — quiet and hoarse, and it felt like sunlight after rain.

“Another eternity, then. Sounds like a curse. Or a blessing. Maybe both.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face. Moonlight caught the water on his skin, and you felt like crying again.

“I was such a fool,” you said. “You shouldn’t have brought me back. I ruined everything. I wasted so much—”

“I’m not arguing,” he cut in gently. “But I figured… maybe you’d want to fix your behavior.”

A huff escaped you. Wet, shaky. Almost a smile.

“Will you let me try?” you asked. “Will you—can you forgive me?”

He didn’t even blink.

“Sweetheart,” he said, cupping your face in both hands, “this was never about forgiveness. Not really. Not about second chances or fresh starts.”

His thumbs brushed away the tears you didn’t realize were falling.

“We’re us. Flawed. Messy. Brilliant and brutal in equal measure. We hurt each other. And we heal each other.”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“I forgave you a long time ago. I was only angry because I didn’t understand. I thought maybe—if I’d been softer. Or warmer. Or better—maybe you would’ve stayed.”

You closed your eyes, tears slipping free.

“I never left you,” you said. “Not really.”

“I know.”

He leaned forward. And kissed you.

Once — soft and slow, like breathing. Then again — deeper, like memory.

And when you kissed him back, there was no anger left. No questions. Just the weight of five years falling away between your mouths.

You broke away just long enough to murmur, “We almost died.”

He kissed the corner of your mouth.

“We’re always almost dying.”

You laughed, breathless.

“This is a terrible time—”

“There’s no better one,” he said. “You never know which kiss is the last. Which night is the edge.”

He pulled you to him again.

And beneath the moon, on wet sand and shaking limbs, you gave yourselves back — completely. No hesitation. No conditions.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t clean. But it was real.

You loved him like you remembered how. And he held you like he never forgot.

And this time, it didn’t feel like the end.

It felt like the beginning.

***

You woke to the sound of brush against canvas.

Soft, rhythmic. A whisper of motion. It tugged at something in your memory, something half-forgotten.

For a long moment, you didn’t move. Didn’t even open your eyes.

There was warmth on your skin — sun, blankets, and something else. You inhaled. Salt. Linens. Paint.

And him.

When you finally blinked into the light, it took a moment to understand where you were.

The room was high-ceilinged, the windows cracked open to the hush of waves. The bed was too big, sheets still tangled, your body aching pleasantly in ways that reminded you — yes, it was real.

Last night was real.

And then—

“Don’t move.”

His voice. Low. Focused. Familiar in a way that made your chest ache.

You turned your head slightly, and there he was.

Rafayel. Sitting on a low stool near the foot of the bed, bare feet braced against the floor, shirt half-unbuttoned, canvas before him. A brush in one hand, a palette balanced on his thigh.

You blinked at him. “What… are you doing?”

“I said don’t move.” He didn’t look up. “You’ll ruin the pose.”

“I wasn’t posing,” you mumbled, rubbing your eyes. “I was sleeping. Possibly drooling.”

He finally glanced at you. A glint in his eyes — amusement.

“You were beautiful. Are. I wanted to keep this one.”

“Raf,” you said, stretching with a grimace, “I probably look like a tangled sea urchin. There’s still sand in places sand should never be. I need a shower.”

“If you let me finish, we’ll shower together.”

Your brows lifted. “Tempting bribe.”

“I know.” He smirked. “Also—note to self: never again sex on sand.”

“The ocean was too cold,” you teased.

“Not in my arms.”

That stopped you for a breath.

You smiled. A small, stunned thing.

And somewhere in the middle of smiling and remembering and wanting to kiss him again, you noticed something on the canvas. You squinted.

“Wait... is that yellow?”

He flinched. The brush stuttered.

And then—he groaned, deep and dramatic. “Dammit. Now I have to start over.”

You sat up on your elbows, eyes wide. “Was that my fault?”

He stood slowly, brush still in hand. “You moved. You talked. You ruined my masterwork.”

You grinned. “Your nude beach goddess masterwork?”

“Yes,” he said solemnly. “It was going to hang in the Met.”

“Well, in that case—” you started.

But before you could escape, he lunged — grabbed your ankle, yanked you toward the edge of the bed with a playfully feral grin.

You shrieked.

“Raf!”

“You destroyed art!”

“I was the art!”

You kicked. He caught your other foot.

Laughter spilled from your throat — loud, full, aching in your ribs. You couldn’t remember the last time you laughed like this.

He climbed over you, breathless with mock outrage, and you tangled together in the blankets, in limbs, in joy.

You were still gasping when you murmured, “I’m sorry I can’t erase the past. Those five years... they’re etched into us. But I swear, I’ll spend every day trying to heal what I broke.”

His expression softened — all teasing gone.

“Cutie,” he said quietly, brushing a thumb over your cheekbone, “you still don’t see it, do you?”

You stilled.

“Last night,” he said, “you were ready to give everything. Your Evol, your life, your soul — for me. Even when you thought I wouldn’t survive.”

He leaned his forehead against yours.

“In that moment, I think even the gods cried.”

You closed your eyes.

“My wounds healed the second you chose to stay,” he whispered. “There’s barely even a scar left.”

Then his voice dropped lower.

“Just promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“Never disappear again. Not without giving me the chance to fight for you. Not in this lifetime. Not in any other.”

You didn’t hesitate.

You looked him in the eyes — and felt the weight of every mistake, every mile, every ache that had brought you back here.

And then you said, quietly:

“Even if all the oceans rise, even if this world burns and time eats itself whole — I’ll find you. In every life. I’ll find you, and I’ll stay.”

His lips parted. He didn’t speak.

He just kissed you.

And this time, it wasn’t for survival.

It was for everything else.

#love and deepspace #lads #rafayel love and deepspace #lads rafayel #rafayel x reader #rafayel x mc #rafayel x you #storytelling #fanfic #fanfiction #angst #hurt/comfort #emotional #trauma #conflict #grief #second chances

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whumptober · 2 years ago

Text

Whumptober 2023

Welcome to Whumptober 2023 — the sixth year running!

COMPLETIONISTS/PARTICIPANT BADGES CAN BE FOUND HERE

To those of you who participated last year, welcome back! To everyone joining this year, welcome!

Please make sure to read the Event Info carefully, as most of your questions will be answered there already. For everything else, you are welcome to come to our ask box or ask questions in our Discord server here.

This year’s AO3 Collection can be found here.

And this years playlist can be found here.

There are 139 prompt options in total this year - this is including the alternatives list! A special thanks goes out to those who took part in our trope vote back in July. From the 1526 responses to our list of 223 tropes, we looked through the popularity results, as well as your honourable mentions, and were able to produce this years prompts list. Stay tuned, as we will be posting some of the results at a later date!

We’re very excited to see the community come together once more and be a wild, chaotic bunch of creators and consumers of whump. Go wild with the prompts, and support your fellow creators - we wish you all the fun!

Best of luck and happy whumping,

Mods Vanne, Yenn, Kitty and Surro

(All 31 Themes + Prompts, Event Information and FAQs are posted below the cut!)

Whumptober 2023 Prompt List

No. 1: “But now this room is spinning while I’m trying just to fill in all the gaps.”

Safety Net | Swooning | “How many fingers am I holding up?”

No. 2: “I’ll call out your name, but you won’t call back.”

Thermometer | Delirium | “They don't care about you.”

No. 3: “Like crying out in empty rooms; with no-one there except the moon.”

Journal | Solitary Confinement | “Make it stop.”

No. 4: “I see the danger, It’s written there in your eyes.”

Cattle Prod | Shock | “You in there?”

No. 5: “You better pray I don't get up this time around.”

Debris | Pinned Down | “It's broken.”

No. 6: “Do or die, you’ll never make me; Because the world will never take my heart.”

Recording | Made to Watch | “It should have been me.”

No. 7: " “I paced around for hours on empty; I jumped at the slightest of sounds.”

Alleyway | Radio Silence | “Can you hear me?”

No. 8: “I’ve got soul, but I’m not a soldier.”

Overcrowded ER | Outnumbered | “It’s all for nothing.”

No. 9: “Learning everything ain't what it seems, that's the thing about these days.”

Polaroid | Mistaken Identity | “You're a liar.”

No. 10: “Can’t you see that you’re lost without me?”

Broken Phone | Stranded | “You said you'd never leave.”

No. 11: “All the lights going dark and my hope’s destroyed.”

Animal trap | Captivity | “No one will find you.”

No. 12: “I haven't slept in days but who's counting?”

Red | Insomnia | “I’m up, I’m up.”

No. 13: “It comes and goes like the strength in your bones.”

Cold Compress | Infection | “I don’t feel so good.”

No. 14: “Feed me poison, fill me ‘till I drown.”

Flare | Water Inhalation | “Just hold on.”

No. 15: “I don't need you to help me I can handle things myself.”

Makeshift Bandages | Suppressed Suffering | “I’m fine.”

No. 16: “Would you lie with me and just forget the world?”

Gurney | Flatline | “Don’t go where I can’t follow.”

No. 17: “You’re the lump in my throat and the knot in my chest.”

Collar | Touch Aversion | “Leave me alone.”

No. 18: “I tend to deflect when I’m feeling threatened.”

Blindfold | Tortured For Information | “Hit them harder.”

No. 19: “I’ll take one final step, all you have to do is make me.”

Floral Bouquet | Psychological | “I’m not as stupid as you think I am.”

No. 20: “People don’t change people, time does.”

Blanket | Found Family | “You will regret touching them.”

No. 21: “See the chains around my feet.”

Vows | Restraints | “Don't move.”

No. 22: “They never saw us coming, ‘til they hit the floor.”

Glass Shard | Vehicular Accident | “Watch out!”

No. 23: “It’s gonna get me by the end of the night.”

Shadows | Stalking | “Who’s there?”

No. 24: “I’ve got a head full of chemicals; mouth full of ridicule.”

Goodbye Note | Neglect | “I thought they were with you.”

No. 25: “You’re not delivering a perfect body to the grave.”

Storm | Buried Alive | “They’re not breathing!”

No. 26: “Sometimes I get so tired; I don’t even know myself.”

Seeing Double | Working To Exhaustion | “You look awful.”

No. 27: “You drew stars around my scars; But now I’m bleeding.”

Matches | Scars | “Let me see”

No. 28: “We might not make it to the morning; so go on and tell me now.”

Bloody Knife | Sacrifice | “You'll have to go through me.”

No. 29: “I only sink deeper the deeper I think.”

Scented Candle | Troubled Past Resurfacing | “What happened to me?”

No. 30: “It’s okay, just to say, ‘I’m not okay’.”

Borrowed Clothing | Bridal Carry | “Not much longer...”

No. 31: “I thought that I was getting better.”

Emptiness | Setbacks | “Take it easy.”

Alternatives List:

Betrayal

Aftermath of Failure

Brass Knuckles

Decoy

Body Modification

Playing Cards

Examination

Hunting

Drugging

Shaking

Panic

Broken

Miscommunication

Lab Rat

Reluctant Whumper

Event Info & Rules

~ Please read our extensive event info posts before sending us an ask ~

WHUMPTOBER is a month-long, prompt-based creation challenge (think: Inktober, but whumpier). There are 31 official themes this year - one for each day of the month - which can be used, skipped, or combined in any way you’d like. The 'theme' of each day is the line of lyrics.

The prompts are merely to serve as inspiration without being taken literally (e.g. you don’t have to include the exact wording of prompts into your work). Feel free to run rampant on interpretation. For example, if the prompt is "flame", you could create something with reference to a candle/campfire, your character could have suffered a burn, or the flame could be related to the 'spark' of a relationship. It's truly up to you!

In total, there are 4 prompts for each day: there's lyrics, an object, a trope and a line of dialogue to choose from. We want to give everyone as much creative freedom as possible, as well as increase event accessibility for folks with triggers and squicks.

Creators can PRODUCE work in any media they choose, including but not limited to: writing, visual artwork, photo/video/audio edits, paper crafts and elaborate recommendation lists (not just a list of links). Creators can PARTICIPATE as much or as little as they want (i.e. you don’t have to do ALL the prompts if you don’t want to) and prompts can be used in any order. They are also free to use even after the event ends.

When uploading Whumptober content to your blog, be sure to tag the with:

#whumptober2023 …..(the event tag)

#no.1, #no.2, #no.3, …..(day number)

#lyric, #bruises, #stabbing, …..(the theme or specific prompt you chose)

#fandom or #OC, … (ironman, originalcontent, oc …)

#medium …..(gifs, fic, podcast, art, etc.)

#teeth, #gore tw, #etc …..(trigger warnings & any additional tags. Add "tw" AFTER the trigger/content warning. )

#nsfwhump …..(only for nsfw content)

#your own tags go here

PLEASE BE DILIGENT WITH YOUR TAGGING. Only properly tagged posts are considered for archiving on the official @whumptober-archive blog. They must be tagged in the order above. An elaborate post about our tagging system can be found [here]

Unfortunately, due to the sheer number of participants in recent years, we cannot guarantee your work will be archived. A random selection of properly tagged posts from all genres will be reblogged each day.

Whumpers who produce content for 31 total theme days are considered event completionists and will be tagged in a masterpost at the end of the month. A form will be published at the beginning of November asking you to tell us if you completed the event. You do not need to post anything you have created, we rely on trust and we will not check this.

Questions not addressed in one of our many event info posts can be directed to this blog. We will not answer any questions that have been answered in the FAQs or rules already.

Frequently Asked Questions

Q. How does this year’s prompt list work? What do I have to choose?

You can create something based on:

The overall theme/lyric of the day

Prompt 1, 2 or 3

One or several of the alternative prompts

A combination of the above

Q. Is [specific anything] allowed?

When in doubt: JUST DO IT!

Q. Do I have to do all 31 days?

Participate as much or little as you like! Just be sure to tag your posts properly (ex. #no.7, #radio silence). If you create works for 31 total theme days you will become a completionist. But apart from that, there are no repercussions if you don’t fill prompts for each day.

Q. Can I post early/late?

Yes, you can post whenever you want. We will only reblog posts during October, but you can use our prompts all year round. The day you post will only affect your probability of being reblogged.

Q. Will you reblog my post?

Due to the sheer number of content posted during Whumptober we can’t promise to reblog every single post. We will make a random selection trying to capture a wide variety of content. The following will increase your chances at being reblogged:

tag your post properly

post within 2-3 days of the theme you want to fill: if you fill the prompt for Day 1 your chances of being reblogged during October 1st to 3rd are highest and will go towards zero afterwards.

Q. What if I don’t understand a prompt/theme?

Send us an ask! We’re happy to help with wild, unhelpful clarifications or brainstorming. That being said, the themes are entirely up for interpretation. Don’t take them too literally. For example: You can be choking on a cherry, someone else can choke you or you could be choked up on emotions, etc.

Q. What kind of content can I make? Can it be NSFW?

This is a MIXED MEDIA event! You can write fic, post meta, doodle or paint, create a gifset or photo edit, link a song, or get crafty with video - anything goes. As for NSFW, make what you like, we just hope that you’ll tag your work accordingly so that others participating in the event can stay safe.

Q. Can I combine Whumptober with other creation challenges?

Absolutely, as long as the other challenges allow it too.

Q. Can I upload/repost my Whumptober content to other social media platforms?

Of course! You can post your own content wherever you like (or you can opt to not publish it at all). Additionally we’ve created an AO3 Collection to archive any fics posted there. It can be accessed here. The tumblr blog @whumptober-archive is the official archive, so please respect the boundaries of any closeted whumpers in your social circle.

Q. Can I use prompts to write a new chapter for an existing fic?

Yes.

Q. An existing fic I am currently writing contains many of the Whumptober prompts, can I use it?

If you are actively writing this fic at the moment with the Whumptober prompts in mind, yes. If you’ve previously posted something that checks the boxes, we ask that you not include it retroactively for this current year. You can, however, add new chapters relating to one or more of the prompts.

Q. What kind of characters can I write for?

Fandom characters, OC characters, human, furry, alien, cyborg, RPF, whoever you like. You can use the generic “whumpee” character or have specific ones.

Q. Does it have to take place in a specific fandom?

No, you can create works for your own worlds or for fandoms or for both. You can also create more generic or pan-fandom works. You can do cross-overs or use OCs, whatever you want.

Q. Can I use a prompt multiple times?

Yes, but it only counts once towards being a completionist.

Q. If I’m not comfortable with one day’s prompts can I use a prompt of a different day as a substitute and still be a completionist?

No, you can’t exchange prompts for different days. However, if all four prompts of a specific day make you uncomfortable, we have created an alternate prompts list that you can draw from. You can exchange any prompt with these, but please make sure not to use them twice.

Q. Where can I post my work?

Post where and how you want. You don’t have to (cross)post it to Tumblr or at all. Just keep in mind if it’s not on Tumblr we will not be able to add it to the blog archive.

Q. Can I start posting early?

You can, but this is an October event and wouldn’t it be more fun with everyone doing it at the same time? That being said, you can post early, but we won’t be reblogging any work predating October 1st.

Q. Do I have to finish a fic I started/can I post WIP’s?

Yes you can post WIPs. And you’re not obligated to finish it in October for it to count towards being a completionist.

Q. Is co-writing allowed?

Yes, absolutely, and it would count towards being a completionist for both/all of you.

Q. Do I have to create 31 standalone pieces to be considered a completionist or can I write one continuous story?

One continuous story is fine. The challenge is to write something for 31 prompts. If that’s spread over 31 fics or just one, you are still considered a completionist. (The same goes for every other media you choose.)

Q. Is there a min/max limit on word count?

There is no limit.

Q. Can I combine prompts? Is there a limit on how many?

No limit and combine as many as you’d like.

Q. Is a hc/angst/emotional whump focus ok?

Of course! We are not going to establish a threshold for whumpiness. If you think it’s whumpy enough, then it’s whumpy enough. It can be physical, psychological, emotional, or any combination of the three.

Q. What’s considered nsfw?

See this post

Q. What is whump?

Typically the genre includes situations where a fictional character is hurt, be it emotionally, psychologically, or physically. Fanlore provides information here.

Q. My interpretation of the prompt isn’t whumpy at all, does that count?

If you don’t think your interpretation is whumpy, then it doesn’t count for Whumptober. Remember that whump comes in many forms, though, and that we don’t have a whump-checker or a threshold for how much whump needs to be included. If you think your interpretation contains enough whump to count, then it does.

Q. Can I start working on the prompts before October?

Absolutely! That’s why we post the prompts a month in advance. We recognise how difficult it can be creating for 31 days in “real time” so feel free to start creating early!

Q. How do I tag triggers?

tw at the end of the word, ex. #gore tw

Q. Do I have to use your tags?

Yes, if you want your work archived on the blog. If not, feel free to use whatever tags you want.

Q. Does combining prompts count towards completion?

Yes

Q. Can we @ you?

Yes but we mostly rely on the #whumptober2023 tag.

Q. Is there anything we are absolutely not allowed to write?

There are no rules, but please make sure to properly tag your trigger warnings. And keep in mind Tumblr’s policies if you are posting it here (or the policies for whatever site you use).

Q. Where can I go for brainstorming help?

Here on Discord or come into our ask box.

Q. My characters are minors, is that ok?

Yes, but as with everything else, use clear and descriptive tags.

Q. Can I cross post on other blogs?

Yes, multiple platforms and blogs are perfectly acceptable. You can also post different works to different accounts under different names, without posting them everywhere at once.

Note: This is a creation challenge, please don’t repost your old work under our tags (unless it’s been changed or edited for the event).

Thanks for reading, and happy whumping!

#whumptober2023 #whumptober 2023 prompts list #whumptober #prompts list #long post

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