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asxgard · 1 month ago

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A Lesson in Vulnerability | [1/2]

Resident!Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x resident!f!reader

Second Part: A Lesson in Romantics

Summary: A pregnancy scare forces you both to lay your cards on the table.

[ My Masterlist ]

Note: This one took awhile lol, I had it in my head since ep9, but it took forever to get it right (still not thrilled with it), plus it took a backseat once I started Companionship. Not positive how Dr. Robby would behave as a resident, so I drew some inspiration from Noah’s ER character, Dr. John Carter (legal controversy aside, I think both characters might’ve had a similar residency experience before moving in different directions. I love and appreciate both characters separately, as their respective shows are different entities, as are their characters).

This might be inspiring me to make a series, or just jump into some John Carter fics lol

Word Count: 3.3k

Most of my works are 18+ due to adult language and content

Warnings: afab!reader, established situationship, foul language, pregnancy scare, anxiety, angst, some fluff, residency stress, hurt/comfort, vague smut, loss of a patient, medical inaccuracies, Robby having a hard time expressing his feelings, it’s the 90’s, those brown eyes oof

not beta read

You forgot how it had started — a lingering touch here and a few flirty comments there. Either way, you had ended up in Michael Robinavitch’s bed all the same. It had started with just a night every so often, but then it was after nearly every shift you had together; and now it was leaving a few extra clothes at his apartment so you could stay the night.

Part of you wondered if there was something unspoken about your relationship, but you did not want to be the one to mess with a good thing, or risk breaking it. All you wanted to focus on was your future; what hospital you might want to work at when your residency was over or if perhaps you would move states. You had worked too hard to get hung up on a guy.

But he made it so hard to focus on much else in his company, with those dark brown eyes looking at you like you were the only person in the room, the memory of his touch on your thighs, your hips seared into your mind. For all the stresses of residency, it was nice to forget in the comfort of his touch.

His lips on your throat, his beard tickling you, hot breathy voice in your ear, the feel of his hands on your skin, exploring down, down, down—

“MVA inbound! Three victims, five minutes out!”

You snapped back to reality, pushing your things into your locker and getting to work. It was easy now to fall into pace with the other residents and attendings, after nearly seven months of hard work of being an R2.

The senior attending of the ER, Dr. James Long, called you over to assist in tending to the first patient wheeled in. You hated the way your eyes searched for Dr. Robby, an R3, before you started working on the patient.

Time passed in a blur after that, intubating the more critical of the MVA victims, while the two others were evaluated and deemed lower risk, all three waiting to be brought up to get imaging. While you kept one eye on the MVA patients, you also stepped in to do a few stitches for a mother who had slipped while making lunch.

There was rarely ever a lull, so you stepped away when you could. You quickly found your way into the staff lounge, looking for a pick-me-up and perhaps a protein bar. It was the perfect place to take a deep breath — the one patient had been touch-and-go for nearly a half hour, and the adrenaline was slowly leaving your system.

“Hey,” Robby greeted, seemingly having the same idea as you.

You smiled back at him, opening the protein bar.

“You want to come by after your shift?”

You were thankful you were chewing so you did not jump at it. You tried to stay casual. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

He smiled, and you swore it could light up any room he was in. You hated how rare they were, but in the environment of the ER, you couldn’t say you were surprised.

The rest of your shift did pass quickly, but not easily. Two gunshot victims passed under your care, though only one was serious, but not life-threatening. You heard from one of the nurses that Robby had lost a patient, a thirteen year old boy and your heart constricted. You had gone looking for him after that, finding him with the boy’s parents, their heart-wrenching cries making the ER go silent.

He had brushed you off each time you approached him after that, his once warm demeanor frozen over.

—

You met Michael at his apartment, picking up take-out on your way over, knowing you both barely had time to eat during your shift. Lately, your nerves had invaded you whenever you had gone to his place, and you tried to keep it buried deep. Something that had started out so easy had turned into a situation that turned your stomach into knots.

While he had been expecting you, he still stood stiff in the doorway. His brown hair was in his eyes, he moved a hand through the tousled mess atop his head, but his eyes were tense.

Trying to trade casual conversation over dinner, you kept your eyes on the hockey game on the television. Somehow not looking at him made it all worse — the tension in the room thick while you both stepped around the obvious. At least, until you couldn’t.

“Are you okay? I heard—”

“I’m fine.” He snapped, tossing his fork into the container of his food.

You raised your eyebrows at him. He didn’t shut down all the time, but he was a champion at deflecting, especially after you had gotten to know him. Likely due to the fact that now you knew him outside the ER, it was easier to see his tells: the twitch under his eye, the partial wince in his right cheek, the rubbing his neck. It was all easy enough to see that he was not okay.

“Michael…” I worry about you got stuck in your throat.

He let out a huff of air, “It’s fine. Everything’s fine.”

Your stomach rolled, a small wince crossing your face. To be fair, you never opened up to him very much about your own stresses, or patients lost, but you just told yourself you compartmentalized well. The time at the hospital was completely separate from your personal life — which was why you never called him Robby outside hospital walls.

A rush of faces of the handful of patients you had lost flickered through your mind.

If you were so good at compartmentalizing, then why was emotion constricting your throat?

As if sensing your sudden shift of your mood, he grabbed your hand, “Look, I didn’t mean to snap at you. I just don’t want to talk about it.”

You wanted to accept that, you really did — to keep that status quo, to ensure nothing changed between you.

“You really should.”

He scoffed, withdrawing his hand. “I’m not sure I should be taking advice from Queen ‘I don’t talk about anything personal ever’.”

Your eyebrows furrowed at his tone, “That’s not true.”

He rose to his feet, picking up his take-out container, “Right. What about when you lost your last patient? You shut me out for days.”

You got to your feet, pointing a finger at him, “That’s not fair! We’re talking about you right now, not me.”

He rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath as he stalked to the kitchen, “Aren’t we always.”

“Excuse me?” You followed after him, frustrated now.

“Whenever this shit comes up, you deflect—”

“I deflect?” You scoffed, “Watch out everyone, king of deflection is here.”

He went silent, narrowed eyes watching you. “Are you done?”

For whatever reason, that seemed to set you off more — nerves in your belly long forgotten. “I’m just getting started,” you told him. “What? You expect me to care about you and not make sure you’re okay?”

Your words hung in the air, heavy and with so much more meaning.

“I’m not doing this with you tonight.”

You took a step back, eyes wide and eyebrows raised. You felt like your heart had shattered — you knew pushing too hard too soon would fuck everything up.

“Fine.” You told him, moving to get your things. “See you at work, Robinavitch.”

You slammed the door behind you before you could see if he had made a move to protest. You were thankful he did not get to see your tears.

—

After a fitful night’s rest, you woke up feeling queasy. More queasy than any amount of nerves in the past had made you feel — and that was saying something. You nearly threw up on your first day as a first year resident.

You tried to calm your racing thoughts about the night before and Michael, but your heart still felt tight in your chest. You only suffered a bite of your breakfast before you gave up, deciding to just head into the hospital and face your day head on.

The early morning passed slowly, each moment flooded with the anxiety raging through your system. You had no idea what had made it this bad, and part of you wondered if you could convince your attending to send you home so you could try to sleep it off.

While tending to a young woman presenting with UTI symptoms, your stomach rolled uneasily. Your mouth watered, and the nausea did not relent. Quickly assuring the woman that her tests would be back shortly, you dashed to the nearest bathroom, ignoring a look of concern on the charge nurse’s face.

You thankfully made it into one of the stalls before you emptied the confines of your stomach. There was not much in it, and the bile burned your throat.

After a few moments, your stomach settled — just enough that you felt you could get back to work. Hunger ebbed its way in, which you found to be a relief from the queasy onslaught. You figured you would see what was in the staff lounge once you wrapped up with your patient.

Heading back to East 5, you grabbed the test results, eyes quickly scanning over her file. Pregnancy test and urine analysis, the urine coming back positive for e. coli. The pregnancy test also came back positive.

Damn, how were you going to break that to her? Pregnancy tests were more or less routine for most cases brought into the ER, to ensure medications given wouldn’t hurt the fetus.

You wondered if she knew already, or if it would come as a surprise.

When you presented her with the results, she took it well.

“I figured, honestly.” She told you. “My period was late and I’ve been feeling sick. I meant to take a test, but I wanted to figure out the UTI first.”

You smiled at her, “The antibiotics we’re prescribing will be pregnancy safe. Twice a day for seven days, with a meal. Stay hydrated, too. I’m also giving you something to relieve some of your discomfort. It’s a two day prescription, take three a day. I can give you one now, then you can take the next one in six hours.”

When you left, you stood at the charge desk for a few moments. When you spotted Robby writing up his charts, a thought struck through you. You were late, uncomfortably late, and add in the nausea this morning? You felt sick all over again.

You rushed back to the bathroom, but nothing came. You and Robby were always safe, but condoms broke, accidents happened. Fuck. You could feel your residency slipping through your fingers. You were still shaking when you made your way to the staff lounge.

Robby was there, taking in your appearance, “Are you alright?”

“We need to talk. Privately.” Was out of your mouth before you could think about it.

His eyebrows raised, “About last night—”

“No, not that,” though you thought it might be a good idea to discuss that, too. You glanced quickly towards the hall, moving to close the door. You stood still in front of it, words escaping you.

“Then what is it? What’s wrong?”

“I think I might be pregnant.” You told him in a whisper. “Possibly. Maybe.”

He blinked owlishly at you, “What?”

You didn’t know if he didn’t hear you or was still processing. “I didn’t even realize, I’m nearly a week late — and I’ve been sick all morning. I think it could be—I could be—” You couldn’t say it again, tears springing in your eyes.

It wasn’t necessarily career ending to have a kid during your residency, but the only person you had known that went off to have a baby as an R4 had not returned. She had told you she planned to come back, but also did not want to wait too long to start her family, tugged simultaneously in both directions. Could you make the sacrifices necessary to make both work? Did you even want both to work? Would Michael—

“We can—we can take a test. Yeah. Tonight, after shift.” He said, his brown eyes avoiding you, hands tucked into his pockets. “We can figure it out then.”

“Figure it out then?” You asked incredulously. “This could end my career! This could—oh god—” You moved to lean against the wall, clearing your throat, “You don’t have to—”

“I’ll be there.” He said, cutting you off, voice soft. “I’ll get a test and meet you at your apartment.”

“My roommate will be home, can we go to yours?”

“Yeah, I’ll grab the test on my way home. I’ll meet you there.”

You nodded your head, “Thank you.”

Part of you just wanted to get it over with, grab a test from the closet and take it right in the bathroom. You could be discreet, you wouldn’t even need to involve Michael, but part of you feared any number of your co-workers catching you with a test and no patient. That, and the fear of knowing crept into your mind.

—

The drive to his apartment was agonizing. Your stomach had not once stopped rolling, and you were distracted all day, nearly catching a left hook of a patient in withdrawal. So much for being good at that compartmentalization thing. Perhaps Michael was right — you deflected just as much as he did, or you just flat out ignored your feelings and buried them.

This whole situation was going to force you to vocalize your feelings, wasn’t it?

You waited in your car until Michael pulled in, and you felt like your limbs had grown heavier while you had waited. The weight of what could be awaiting you pushing all the air from your lungs.

Once inside, neither of you spoke. You just took the pharmacy bag from him and went into his bathroom. You stared at the box for what felt like forever, thinking it was funny how lines on a stick were going to determine your future. After using all three in the box — not wanting to risk a false positive or negative — you opened the door.

“Box says fifteen minutes.”

He nodded, checking his watch. He moved closer to you until you were crowded in his tiny bathroom. His eyes flickered to the countertop where all three tests sat on top of some toilet paper, before they met your gaze. You couldn’t hold it, looking back at your hands.

“Whatever it says, I’m not going anywhere.” His breath fanned your face, the scent of antiseptic still clinging to his scrubs. Underneath was the smell of his cologne, sandalwood and vanilla, and something unmistakably him. You missed when that scent of him clung to your skin, too.

You tried to smile, still not meeting his eyes. “It’s okay if you did. You don’t owe me anything.”

He tipped your chin up so you would look at him, “How could you say that after everything?”

“Last night,” you reminded him. “I clearly don’t know you and you don’t know me. Not personally anyways.”

Michael’s brow twitched. “What if I wanted to?”

Your mouth grew dry. “Please don’t. Not if it’s out of some misguided sense of duty over this.”

“It’s not.” He told you, hands moving to hold your face, his fingers finding the back of your head, thumbs on the sides of your cheeks. “I promise it’s not.”

You swallowed, cheeks burning, but you couldn’t find any words. The silence that used to hold the safety of quiet, now stood tense and firm between you.

“I’m shit at talking about my feelings and deflecting, you’re right. But I won’t stand here and pretend I don’t feel something for you. Like I don’t care about you. I—I just figured not talking about it was easier. But last night, it fucked me up; thinking we parted without you knowing how I felt.”

You sputtered a shocked intake of air, “What?”

His dark brown eyes held you steady, slowly absorbing your fears until you reached out to touch his chest. His heart pounded beneath your palm, but it steadied yours.

His gentle smile came easily, “I’ve been trying for weeks. I chickened out every time.”

You exhaled an amused breath of air, “You chickened out? I didn’t want to make this complicated.”

He searched your eyes, flickering between them like he was trying to read you.

“It’s kinda funny.” You said, smiling at him. “I’ve been trying to do the same thing all week.”

He kissed you, lips warm and soft, hands holding your face. His heart thumped below your hand, like an anchor in a storm, your other hand curling around his wrist. After all the anxiety of the day, and the anguish over the night previous, relief finally washed through your system. The familiarity of his beard scratching against your skin, his careful hands enveloping you in a sense of safety.

You moved just enough to speak, “I’m sorry about last night. You were right, too. I just never want to burden you with my problems after I know we both had a tough shift.” You told him, noses touching, breath intermingling.

“I want you to know that you can.” He stressed, thumb caressing your cheek.

“I will if you will.”

He smiled. “You’ve got yourself a deal.” He kissed you again, harder this time…hungry, his mouth taking in your bottom lip.

You lost yourself in the warmth of his body, the soft tendrils of his hair in your hands, the feel of his tongue in your mouth. You clung to him like he was a liferaft. It was easy to forget your troubles like this, worries of the day lifting off your shoulders.

Your blood pressure spiked when you remembered the tests on the countertop. You pulled away, breathing quickly, still wrapped up in his arms.

“What if it’s positive?” came your quiet voice.

“Then I suppose I’d have to marry you.”

You almost thought he was serious, if his tone hadn’t been so light, so close to a jest. You rolled your eyes, pushing him away, but you smiled. “I never took you for a traditionalist. A shotgun wedding, seriously?”

“Be a great way to meet your folks.” He added with a smirk.

“Get real.” You laughed, “As if I’d marry a resident. Are you even a real doctor?”

He mocked offense, but chuckled, bringing you closer to him again, “I’ve got my stethoscope and everything.” After a few beats of his heart, he added, “But seriously, we’d figure it out. Take time off, or…I don’t know. We’d make it work.”

“I don’t want to look.” You admitted to him.

“Whatever it says, we’re in this together.”

It was reassuring to hear him say it again. You nodded, removing your hands from his body and taking a small step back. You took a long breath, staring at him.

“On three?”

Your head bobbed in agreement, swallowing thickly.

“I mean it. Whatever it says, I still care about you. I want you in my life.” He told you earnestly.

“I want you in my life, too, Mike.”

He counted down slowly, holding your gaze. The anxiety returned, but he held you grounded beside him, grabbing your hand and intertwining your fingers.

Negative. Negative. Negative.

A singular line on each displaying that you were not pregnant.

You released the breath you didn’t realize you had been holding. Thank fuck, echoed in your head. The stress you had been under could explain away the lateness of your period, and the queasiness was explained easily by your anxiety. It seemed like those three little tests tied all your worries up in a neat little bow. You had been honest about your feelings, which took away the gnawing anxiety, Michael reciprocated your feelings and you weren’t pregnant.

He sighed in relief next to you, taking another long breath through his nose. “Well as much as I was looking forward to that shotgun wedding, maybe now we can take our time—”

You looked over at him, eyebrow quirked.

“—take you on a proper date first.”

You grinned at him, “Yeah, I’d like that.”

[ Part Two ]

[ Alternate Ending ]

special shoutout to Dr Robby for getting me off my hiatus, first Companionship and now this lol

current tense fought me the whole way through this, which is weird considering I usually write in past tense. so if you saw a current tense error, no you didn’t.

#michael robinavitch #the pitt #dr robby #michael robinavitch x female reader #michael robinavitch x reader #asxgard writes #resident dr robby #resident michael robinavitch #the pitt fic #the pitt one shot #michael robinavitch one shot #dr robby x reader #im queen of —#i love that lil guy #carter with a beard is just robby #are you gonna look at me and tell me that i’m wrong??#my john carter era is coming #i can feel it

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kinardsboy · 5 months ago

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I’m gonna say something kinda controversial but whatever lol

I am not a fan of the way Buck reacted to the Abby of it all. For him to call Tommy cruel and say that he just can’t understand how he could lie to her like that while being someone who cheated on his girlfriend and then asked her to move in with him out of guilt instead of just being fucking honest and not trapping her without a place to go when she did find out..

Like both situations are objectively shitty, Buck and Tommy both made mistakes but Tommy’s are much more explainable and understandable. Tommy was a closeted gay man with a shit load of trauma, server under DADT and had a homophobic dad and captain. Yes, it wasnt nice what he did but I can understand and sympathize with his situation and his side of things.

I dont get why Buck is so fucking shocked over the idea of queer people being in straight relationships previously, especially long term ones. Like look at Athena and Micheal, Buck has never said a cruel word about him.

There was no reason for Buck to get that upset over it and also just?? Not talk to Tommy about it?? Like for him to react negatively and hide his feelings about it from Tommy and then at the end of the episode ask him to move in and talk about marriage and kids?? Dude??

I hate this fucking episode so much it destroyed so many characters, made a mockery of Eddies grief and overall felt like tiktoks stitched together.

#911 abc #tommy kinard #bucktommy #evan buckley #buck 911 #911 critical #anti bobs #anti buddie #disk horse #icarus rants

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not-neverland06 · 8 months ago

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hi!! Given my obsession for Hugh jackman I am CRAVING for some Leopold X reader (from Kate & Leopold)! Maybe with some little angst but happy ending??

I love your blog!! Have a wonderful day 😽💐💓

Leopold Mountbatten x fem!reader a/n: I don’t know how controversial this is going to be and I don’t care. I could never finish the movie because I hated Meg Ryan in it so much. It’s so odd, I’ve loved her in everything else she’s been in but she made it such a hard watch. Maybe it’s because she reminds me of my grandma in the worst way lol, but I finished it for you anon sorry this was a little rushed Anyways, hope you enjoy lovelies Summary: Your neighbor went back in time and dragged someone back with him. He's irritatingly polite and far too interested in your way of life. What are you meant to do when you fall for a man who was never even supposed to meet you?

“Hello, madam, please I need your help!”

You’re used to crazies, it is New York after all. But they’re not usually shouting at you through your window. Especially not when you’re on the sixth floor. You look away from your coffee and glance towards the fire escape.

There’s an oddly dressed man with red eyes waving at you through the dirty glass. You offer him a tentative wave back and he nods aggressively. “Yes, hello, I need your assistance.”

“Um,” you shake your head, “Sorry, I don’t have any drugs dude.”

“No,” he places his hands pathetically on the glass and shakes his head. “Please, I have been kidnapped.” Finally, you take a step closer to him. You can tell now that his eyes aren’t reddened from any medicinal fun, he probably got pepper sprayed.

Your friend did it to you once when you tried to surprise her on her birthday and you’ll never forget just how awful you looked afterwards. You can see him a bit more clearly now. Whatever odd costume he’s got on, it looks good. Genuine and clean.

Not like most of the street performers you see in Times Square. Besides, he doesn’t have that maddened look in his eye that makes you worry he’s going to come inside and kill you. Tentatively, you open the window.

He’s leaping through in a second and you jump back with a yelp. He turns towards you and his eyes widen before he quickly turns away. “My good lady, where are your pants?”

“Uh,” you glance down at the oversized shirt you’re wearing and the tiny shorts underneath. Admittedly, it’s a little skimpy, but you’re not walking around naked. You’ve heard of committing to the bit, but this is a bit much. “On,” you tell him, walking around him and trying to stand close to the phone.

“Ma’am-” He’s cut off as someone slams their fist on your front door. You keep a weary eye on the man while you unlock your door.

“Hey,” Stuart smiles at you. His eyes drift slightly past your shoulder and he goes barging into your apartment. “Leopold! What did I say?”

You huff and glare at Stuart’s frantic back. “This is yours?” Stuart nods and rushes Leopold out the door. You don’t miss the pleading, while slightly scandalized, look he sends you.

You slam the door closed behind them, shaking your head and going back to your morning paper. You doubt you’ll be seeing him around again.

You know, it’s just your luck that your upstairs neighbor is a scientist, one who happens to dabble in the art of time travel. And it’s just your luck that he had to fall down a damn elevator shaft.

Now, according to him, you have to care for someone from a different century so he can make it back to his time portal in, well, in time. This is fucking ridiculous. “I’m going to kill you, Stuart.”

“Look, they’re going to take my phone but he really cannot-”

It goes silent on the other end. You shout his name a few times but hear nothing in response. You assume the hospital staff has finally gotten sick of his shenanigans and has taken his phone. You slam your handset down with a huff and look towards the living room. Leopold hasn’t sat down since you walked in and it’s unsettling.

“So,” you start and his attention snaps towards you. “1876, huh?”

He nods and you roll your eyes with a scoff. “Oh, this is insane. This is insane,” you mutter to yourself, walking towards Stuart’s door. Leopold gives you a concerned look before quickly following after you. There’s a part of you, and you hate that part, that actually believes some of this.

Stuart is a brilliant, though flawed, scientist. You don’t doubt that he might have actually unlocked the secret to traveling back to the past, but it’s such an insane idea to try and wrap your head around.

“Come on, we’re leaving.” You know that Stuart doesn’t want him out of the house. Tough. You’re not going to just stay inside and wait until he can supposedly go back to the past. You don’t give Leopold any time to process your answer, already out the door and heading towards the stairs.

“You know,” he starts as he catches up to you. “You are quite rude.” Your first instinct is to snap back at him. But you take a breath and stop yourself.

You’re desensitized, ridiculously used to just how awful New Yorkers can be to each other. And whether this man is truly from the past or not is up for debate. But he is polite and earnest, and you have no reason to be a bitch to him.

“I’m,” the words are hard to come by but you force them out anyway, “I’m sorry.” He looks genuinely surprised by the apology and it only makes you feel worse. “This is just an insane idea to try and grasp.”

He chuckles softly, smiling as he glances down at his feet. “Yes, how do you think I feel?”

You’re sure it’s not his intention, but you only feel like more of an ass. If this is hard for you, whatever he's going through is a hundred times worse. You weren’t forcefully ripped out of your own time and shoved into another you don’t understand. He’s still trying to comprehend the television.

Though, you’re sure being a scientist has helped him in marginally understanding how all of this is possible. “How do you like the future?” It sounds awkward and stiff, but you haven’t had to talk to anyone in a really long time.

Your interactions are pretty limited at the book shop considering no one ever comes in. They all order online nowadays and all you really have to worry about is organizing shelves. You’re embarrassingly rusty when it comes to conversing.

And his propensity towards eloquence only makes you feel worse. “I must admit, some of your inventions have been quite fascinating. I’m especially fond of your showers.”

Your face scrunches slightly at the mention of hygiene and you nod, “I bet.” Before either of you can attempt to salvage this horrible attempt at conversation your phone starts ringing. “Hold on one second,” you tell him. You walk a few feet away from him but you can still feel his eyes boring into your back as you move away.

“Hello?”

There’s a frantic shout of your name down the line and then the distinct jingling of keys. “I need you to cover the shop. Marcy just went into labor and I’ve got to go!” Paul doesn’t give you a chance to respond before he hangs up.

Your jaw gapes and you stare down at your phone with shock. You know Paul and his wife had been expecting, but had it really already been nine months? Has your life become so monotonous and dull that nine months doesn’t even register for you?

It’s a depressing thought. One you’d rather not linger on. “What was that?”

You scream, though the people passing by don’t pay you any mind, and jump away from Leopold. “Jesus, where the hell did you come from?”

Leopold flinches away from you and his face is just as aghast as yours. “Good heavens, what is the matter with you? Do you respond to anything as a sensible woman might?”

“I resent that.” You tell him bitterly. Though, he does make a good point. You’ve been on edge constantly. You always seem to be more anxious than you are happy. It’s not a good state to perpetually exist in. “I need to go into work.”

You don’t want to outright say that he needs to go back to the apartment. It feels a little mean, but you’re hoping he’ll catch onto your tone of voice.

His entire demeanor perks up and he smiles at you. “Wonderful, I am dreadfully curious as to what you do.”

You open your mouth to correct him, let him know he’s not coming. But he’s staring at you with such hopeful eyes that you cannot find it in yourself to turn him down. He seems so excited, you’re sure he won’t be when he gets to your cluttered little bookshop. You let out a weary sigh, “Fine. Okay.”

You walk towards the curb, hoping to hail a cab. But Leopold’s hand gently wraps around your elbow and tugs you in the opposite direction. Your eyes widen in response to his boldness. You thought touching a woman he wasn’t courting would cause someone like him to combust. Seems he didn’t mind breaking the rules sometimes.

You make a mental note of that for later. You don’t know what you’re going to do with the information, but you find it intriguing. Maybe the modern world was rubbing off on him more than he’d like to admit.

“We should take this,” he stops you in front of a horse-drawn carriage and you immediately begin to shake your head.

“No, Leopold, these are just tourist traps-”

He doesn’t let you finish, opening the carriage’s door and gently nudging you inside. “Nonsense! This is far more enjoyable than those yellow monstrosities.”

“Taxi,” you correct. You turn towards the carriage driver and give him directions to your bookshop. “Ink and Tea on Fifth.” He nods and the carriage rolls forward with a lurch. You grip the cushioned seats and pray you don’t get motion sickness.

“Ink and Tea?” Leopold inquires. “Are you a journalist?”

You smile and shake your head. “No, nothing so fancy. I just help take care of an old bookshop. They were supposed to extend the shop when it first opened. They were going to build a space for people to get pastries or drink tea, but it never happened and the owner was too lazy to change the name.”

It feels a little humiliating to be talking about your minimum-wage job to a renowned scientist. He’s invented or is going to, elevators. He doesn’t care about your stupid shop. But he doesn’t look particularly judgy of you. If anything he seems to be endeared to you the more you talk.

Normally, you’re oblivious to these sorts of things. But it’s nearly impossible for him to hide. He’s not shy with his attraction, never taking his eyes off of you and hanging onto your every word. You’re not used to such outward attention.

You look out of the carriage, pretending to take in views you’ve already seen a thousand times. “This city is incredible,” he wonders aloud. His awe is palpable.

Your nose wrinkles and you shrug. “It’s dirty and the people are intolerable.”

“Must you always be so pessimistic?” You snap your mouth shut and feel embarrassment creeping around you. You’ve never had someone point out when you’re being negative, but he has a point.

You used to view the city through the same rose-colored glasses. Something’s broken inside you in recent years that has just taken the joy out of life. Everything is grey to you now, until Leopold, nothing spectacular has ever really happened to you.

The carriage comes to a stop outside the shop before you can respond to him. You want to deny what he says, but you can’t. Your attitude is almost always unnecessary. You think sometimes you might just be trying to see if everyone feels as miserable as you do or if there’s just something wrong with you.

“Come on,” you tell him, getting out and paying the driver. He wanders towards the shop, eyeing the displays in the window curiously.

“These are wonderful,” he tells you, pointing to the way you’d made the books look like they’re floating above the shelves. It was just some silly little thing you’d tried to get more people in the shop. It’d worked for about a month.

“I did that,” you unlock the door to the shop and open it for him. But he doesn’t walk in immediately, instead, he lingers in the doorway. He offers you a soft smile and you can’t help but return it.

“You’re more creative than you give yourself credit for.”

Your eyes widen as you watch him walk inside. He keeps making these oddly astute observations about you and it’s throwing you off your game. You barely know this man and you’ve always been good at keeping yourself aloof and vague. Yet, he seems to read you like you’re wearing your heart on your sleeve.

“Feel free to…” he’s already made himself comfortable somewhere in the back and you trail off. “Look around,” you finish lamely. His form is lost somewhere in stacks of books and cluttered shelves.

You know most of the classics and history books are kept towards the back. You wonder if he’s reminiscing or getting a headstart before he gets back to his time. You smile at the thought and walk behind the counter, sitting on the stool and preparing to finish off the rest of the day.

Leopold is still somewhere lost to you an hour later. Occasionally you’ll hear a page flip or the clatter of a book being reshelved, but there are no other signs of life. Not until the bell above the door rings.

“Clark,” you smile, sitting up straighter as your friend walks through the door. “What’re you doing here?”

He gives you a crooked grin and shrugs. Just over his shoulder, you can see Leopold’s head pop over a shelf, he looks between you both, eyes narrowing with disdain. “Paul told me you’d be here, figured you might want some company.”

“Actually-” you start, but another voice cuts you off.

“Leopold Mountbatten,” he comes around the corner, hand outstretched as he comes in between you and Clark. “And who might you be?”

Your brows furrow in confusion at the interaction. Leopold seems oddly hostile and Clark looks strangely caught off guard. “Um, Clark. Nice to meet you, man.” He shakes Leopold’s hand but his grip is weak and it only lasts for one awkward half-second.

It’s uncomfortable to watch them try and interact and it only gets worse when they turn towards you. Clearly, they want you to tell them who the hell the other guy is. But you feel like that might just make the situation worse.

Besides, you were pretty content with it just being you and Leopold, you don’t need Clark coming in here and riling things up. “You know, Clark, I’m set here. You can just go home.” Your tone leaves no room for argument but you know he wants to.

“Alright, I’ll just call you later, I guess.” He throws one last skeptical look at Leopold before finally slinking back out of the shop.

“Neither of you should be alone without a chaperone present.” Leopold bluntly scolds you without even waiting a second before Clark is gone. It catches you off guard and you scoff.

You motion between the two of you, “We don’t have a chaperone.”

Leopold shrugs, “Yes, well, I’m not courting you.” It shouldn’t, because he’s right, but that stings. He is attractive, surprisingly so. You have this odd belief that anyone from his century had to be at least a little ugly. But he’s near perfect.

Hearing him tell you so bluntly that you’re not courting hurts a little. Though, you can’t blame him. You must be dramatically different than the women he’s used to. From your manners to how you dress, you’re practically an alien.

You stand up from behind the counter and walk towards the cart of books that need to be shelved. “Clark is a friend. Nothing more.” You’ve never once been romantically interested in your friend. He’s attractive, but he’s not really your type.

Apparently, British men from the nineteenth century are. Which does not bode well for your romantic prospects once Leopold is back home. “It is plain for anyone to see how he wants you. Don’t let yourself be blinded by naivete.”

“Naivete?” you scoff and turn around to glare at him. “Don’t pretend to know anything about me, alright? I’m not some maiden in a frilly dress who needs a chaperone.” You can see that your words affect him. He looks a little taken aback by your anger and so are you.

It’s misplaced. You’re not mad at him, just mad that you even like him. “Just go read or something, Leopold.” You dismiss him more rudely than necessary and hide yourself behind a few shelves. The rest of your workday is spent in a tense silence that makes your stomach churn.

You’re nearly ready for bed when something slips under your door with a slight whoosh. You turn towards it, frowning when you see a little envelope with a wax seal on the ground. You pick it up and let your finger slip under the paper, opening it to find a letter with your name on it inside.

The handwriting is impeccable, with a gracefulness to it that you’ve never seen before. You don’t have to read for very long to know who it's from. Leopold writes poetry about the color of your eyes and the way your lips curl when you smile. And then he ends it with a vague, nearly ominous, invitation to dinner.

You can’t help but smile to yourself, changing out of your pajamas and slipping into something a little nicer. A few minutes later you’re climbing out your window and taking the stairs up the fire escape to the roof.

You don’t believe your ears at first, thinking the music must be coming from another apartment. But when you make it up to the roof there’s a violin player there waiting for you. He smiles happily at you as you approach.

You spin in a slow circle, taking in the sheer amount of flowers littered around the roof. You don’t know how he managed to afford all of this. He transformed the barren and empty rooftop into your own little paradise. Candles lit and a live musician playing for you.

You’ve never had anyone do something like this for you, ever. It’s a little hard to accept that someone would be willing to put this much effort in for you. “I wasn’t entirely sure you would come.”

You turn around and Leopold is waiting behind you, that familiar smile playing on his lips. You aren’t aware of the grin forming on your face in response. You don’t have much control over that when you’re with him.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

He looks like he wants to respond but at the last moment thinks better of it. He instead pulls your chair out for you, helping you into your seat. “This is nice,” that feels too underwhelming a word for such an incredible gesture.

You sigh and frown as you try and find the right words. You don’t notice him sitting down across from you. You only look up when you feel him placing his hand on your own. “It’s alright,” he assures you.

It’s still so odd how he can know you so well after such little time. “This is incredible,” you tell him, undeterred by his attempts to soothe you. “No one’s ever done something like this for me.”

He looks like he takes personal offense to that and it makes you laugh. “You deserve far more than this. Sadly, it seems Stuart’s pockets do have limits and I’m afraid I would have put him into debt if I’d gone any further.”

You have the perfect mental image of Stuart coming back from the hospital only to find his science project has robbed him. It makes you laugh and you squeeze his hand once before drawing it back into your lap. He lets his touch linger on you for a long moment, seemingly reluctant to pull away.

“No,” you tell him, “this is perfect.”

You fall into a comfortable silence for a little while. Conversation mostly drifting toward what his life was like as a duke. You don’t have much to say about your own life. It’s been incredibly normal and you’re a little sad to find that you don’t have one good thing to share with him.

Nothing comes to the front of your mind.

Inevitably, you drift into the topic you’d both been so adamantly avoiding. “Has Stuart said when you’d need to return?”

Leopold’s grip on the fork tightens and for a moment he refuses to meet your eye. “Monday, I’m afraid.”

“Oh,” your eyes widen and you feel something burning at the back of your throat. Monday, the same Monday that’s two days away.

“Dance with me,” the suddenness of the demand catchers you so off guard that you forget the tears. He stands, holding out his hand to you. You almost say no, you can’t remember the last time you danced and you doubt it’s going to be pretty.

But he whispers your name and something about his tone tells you to take the chance while you have it. You slip your hand into his, letting him pull you to your feet. He doesn’t sweep you off your feet and dance the night away.

Instead, he holds you close and you sway together. Like moving even an inch away from each other would hurt. “You could come with me,” he tells you. And you know immediately what he’s talking about.

You also know it could never happen. Going to the nineteenth century is insane. Even considering it should be enough to have you sent to a psych ward somewhere. Especially not for a man you’ve known for less than a month.

You try and tell him that you can’t, but he stops you. “I know, a preposterous idea. I just wanted to think about it.” You look up at him and find that you can’t take that away from him. There’s nothing wrong with imagining what it could be like with him. Even when you know it can never happen.

You dance like that for a little while longer, swaying against each other while the violin plays in the background. He whispers your name and when you gaze up at him this time, there’s a certain look in his eye that you know is reflected in your own.

He dips down, lips caressing yours gently before he’s pushing more firmly against your own. The world stops. Cliche, you’re aware. For the first time in years, though, you’re alive. You feel something other than the dull monotony of life. You feel excited and terrified all at once. Because you know you can never have this feeling again.

You will never meet another man like Leopold who ignites this spark of life and passion within you. Never has a man been able to make you doubt every decision you’ve ever made with just a kiss, but here he is.

Your arms lift like you might try and draw him in closer. His hands come up, taking yours in his gentle hold and squeezing. He pulls away from you and reality comes crashing back down. You’re not in love, you can’t be. You’ve only just met him a few days ago.

Yet, here you are, wondering if you might actually want to leave everything behind to be with him like the great romances authors write about. He smiles at you and there’s a bittersweetness to it, a final farewell that you know will break whatever is left of your heart.

He lifts your knuckles to his lips, pressing his lips against them like he never wants to part. “Goodnight,” he whispers your name and backs away from you. You watch him go, watch him leave, unable to muster up any words for him.

You can’t think of anything that would ease this gnawing ache inside of you. Nothing to soothe the pain for either of you. You let him go because you know if you asked him to stay he would. And how selfish of you would it be to let history unravel simply because you fell in love?

Monday. It is Monday. You’ve been coming to terms with that all weekend. You don't want to think about the fact that Leopold will be gone tonight. Your time together was so brief but you feel like you’re never going to get over losing him.

Before the night was over on Sunday, a note was slipped under your door. This handwriting was messy, it made you think someone other than Leopold had written it down, but you don’t know who it could have been.

It was a date and time, jump off the Brooklyn Bridge at this time on Monday night. Only an idiot would jump off a bridge because of an ominous note slipped under her door. But you haven’t been able to take your eyes off of it, not since you first picked it up.

Leopold had invited you to go with him. And while you might not have said no, the insinuation was clear. Your eyes dart to your clock. If you left now, you could still make it in time. What an absolutely ridiculous thought.

So, why are you running out the door without locking it? Why do you not care who slips into your home now? There’s this sense of finality within you that lets you know you’re never going to see that place again and that’s okay.

You never truly felt comfortable in your life. You always thought a part of yourself was missing. Or that you were always running late for something. You think you understand what you were feeling now.

The thing you’ve been searching for your whole life wasn’t halfway across the world, a hundred thousand miles from you. He was on the wrong side of time, or you were, at least.

You manage to snag a taxi to get to the bridge but there’s a traffic jam. You’re forced to jump out of the car and run through the different lanes of blocked traffic. People shout at you. Your cab driver screaming after you about your fare. You don’t care, the only thing you can think about is the note crumpled in your hands and the clock counting down how long you have to jump.

You’ll either be on the news tomorrow as an unfortunate suicide. An idiot who accidentally threw herself off the wrong side of the bridge. Or, you’ll see Leopold again.

You reach the ledge and you can’t hesitate. If you do, you won’t jump in time. You close your eyes, holding your breath like you’re jumping into your neighbor’s pool. Air rushes around you, whipping at your hair and skin violently.

It’s not until you hear someone shouting down at you that you realize you’re not dead. You’re lying in the middle of a dirt road, a group of people staring down at you with concern in their eyes.

You only have to take in the clothes they’re wearing to know you’ve made it. Before they can react you’re leaping to your feet and running off. You know you’re near the Brooklyn Bridge, or where it’s supposed to be at least. You know enough about the area to remember where Leopold’s house is supposed to be.

You’re covered in sweat and red mud. The people you pass by in the streets hide behind their hands and whisper about you. You’re not making a good impression on your future neighbors, that’s for sure. But, honestly, all you care about is making it back to him.

You see people congregating outside his uncle’s home. You know there’s a party inside, that he’s supposed to be announcing who his wife will be. You barrel through the people outside, shoving through the crowd and running up the steps of the house.

You can hear Leopold’s voice as you run, “The woman I’m going to take as my wife is-”

There’s a loud gasp as you come panting into the room. You can’t catch your breath long enough to speak but it doesn’t matter. The crowd is parting around you and Leopold is smiling down at you. He says your name and there’s nothing else that matters about the world around you. Not when you finally found each other.

#leopold mountbatten x reader #leopold mountbatten x you #kate and leopold #I just know this is going to flop lol #hugh jackman #hugh jackman x reader #anon

657 notes · View notes

acynicalsweetheart · 2 months ago

Note

daisuke nonconing reader omg >.<

HERIKUTSU BOY !

pairing: daisuke x fem!reader

word count: 2.5k

dead dove do not eat: 18+, smut, non-con/rape, drug use, weed, virginity loss accompanied by blood, teeny mention of non-sexual vomit at the end

author's note: hai sorry it took so long. first time ever writing for daisuke.. don’t quite think i nailed his characterisation but whatever. hope it’s not too ass. title from jun togawa hopefully got it right this time LOL. any interaction/feedback appreciated as always!!

“What about…” Daisuke scratches his chin thoughtfully, trying to come up with something that’ll impress you enough to let him get into your pants. “Is your dad a terrorist?”

You blink. Once. Twice. High as a kite.

“‘Cause that ass is the bomb!”

“That’s cringe.” You say totally unimpressed, rolling your bloodshot and half-lidded eyes at him, reaching over to take another hit of the bong.

His dick is literally hard from how much effort he put into that pick-up line. And your boobs. And your really short shorts. And your pink panties that are peeking out of your really short shorts.

Daisuke is just tryna get some, man. You’re so stubborn. Not even a crumb of pity sex. Not even a blowjob! The only thing he’s gonna walk away with is a tummy ache and a mouth drier than the Sahara desert, isn’t it?

“Hey, you’re cringe! That was actually good. You… thought it was good, right?” Jeez, he hates how fucking high his voice goes when he raises it. Sounds so boyish. No wonder you don’t want him.

You keep lighting the bong to take hit after hit, it’s like you think he’s annoying or something. You totally think he’s annoying.

Daisuke would take more hits of the bong himself if he had the balls to. But he fears he’d cum in his pants placing his lips where you just had yours. Like, that would basically be equal to kissing.

“Okay, fine.” Daisuke wipes his clammy palms on his jeans, heart falling out of his ass at the thought of you noticing the dark hand-shaped marks so he hides them with his hibiscus shirt. “How about this, it’s a new one this time.” Something less controversial, more… straightforward. Girls like that.

Blowing the smoke right in his face—when you should be blowing him—you speak slowly and flatly. “I really don’t care.”

“Shut up, shut up—just listen…” he waves it off, clearing his throat and taking a sip of the piss-flavored Monster Energy as liquid courage. “Are you a light switch?”

Speaking before you can say no, Daisuke drops the bombshell. “Because you really turn me on.”

Oh my God. You definitely think he’s fruity. Should he take off his shirt? Okay, no, might make you think he’s trying to seduce you. Which he is. But subtlety is the best way to go, according to that one podcast.

“Haha! Ha… Get it?” Daisuke scratches his neck nervously, petting the spiky ends of his hair in a failed attempt to comfort himself.

…

“You turn me on?” He shrugs, palms upward like he’s trying to lift off the awkwardness weighing his shoulders down.

“Daisuke, I’m not gonna sleep with you.” You tell him honestly, lighting the bong for the millionth time.

At least give him credit for trying.

“Why? You’re not a virgin.” He thinks? You’re like really freaking hot, no way you’ve never let anyone hit. “Or are you?” Daisuke wiggles his brows at you. Jokingly. He might have to die if you think he’d do that seriously.

(He was doing it seriously.)

“No—“ you sputter, failing to exhale the smoke ‘cause you’re nearly choking on it.

“I see what this is,” he grins, thinks he feels his balls grow ‘cause of the testosterone boost he just got. Actually might’ve been adrenaline. Uh, the sex hormone? Confidence? Whatever. “You’re scared because you’re a virgin.” Says Daisuke, who has gotten exactly zero bitches in his entire life.

“I’m not! You are!” You’re so high you can’t even snap at him properly. Replying with a half-assed, “fuck you.”

“Yeah?”

“No.” You groan, face palming.

“Aw.” Daisuke pouts, about to take another swig of his energy drink that he’s pretending is beer when you absolutely keel over. Like a vase off a counter. “Woah!”

Can’t tell what, but you’re mumbling something. He hopes it’s related to banging him. A guy can dream.

“Are you… okay?” Hands gripping your shoulders to hold you up, Daisuke tries to get a look at your face to tell what’s going on. You kind of look dead, like really fucking high and dead.

“Mmm…”

And sleepy. And… sexy. The straps of your tank top are falling down. Thank God for gravity. And boobs. Daisuke lays you down on the floor carefully. Props up a pillow behind your head for comfort. From where he’s sitting he can see everything.

He’s totally staring at your crotch.

“Sorry, I…” it’s like your pussy is made out of steel and Daisuke is a magnet. Like a fucking pervert, a trickle of drool forms at the corner of his mouth. Goodbye weed mouth, at least? “You’re… hot. I think you’re hot.”

Did he just say that out loud? What the fuck, man? Is he on drugs? Shut up, Daisuke.

“You don’t say.” He thinks you’re being sarcastic.

“Well, uh,” he swallows the horny lump in his throat, “you’re gonna be alright, aren’t you? I mean, you’re not gonna… die or anything?” Please don’t die before he gets to tap that ass.

“Nooo,” you glare at the ceiling.

“Cool! So, then… you wouldn’t mind if I… you know.” Daisuke rolls his fingers, gesturing like a fucking clown and you can’t even see him. “Yeah, that’s, um…”

Your eyes flutter shut, cuddling the side of your face into his pillow.

The very same pillow he sleeps on every night. Daisuke is so turned on he thinks he might spontaneously combust into pieces. Well, not entirely spontaneously, more so out of plain arousal. “Just… go to sleep. I’ll take care of you, don’t worry.”

…

“Okay, alright, sure,” he says to no one in particular, pumping his fists like it’ll give him the confidence to see this through. “Let’s… let’s do this.”

Shrugging off his button-up, he takes a few deep breaths. With shaky hands, he pulls off his shirt and unbuttons his baggy jeans that are only growing tighter ‘cause Daisuke is only growing harder by the minute.

“I wanted to do this on my bed but… ya know.” He pulls the zipper down, sneaking glances at you and your nipples and your lips peeking out of your panties under your shorts. “I don’t really lift, heh.”

He thinks he hears you groan again. Like, a please-shut-the-fuck-up groan, not a sexy one.

“Not—not that you’re heavy or anything! God, no, I just… forget it.” See, this is why you should’ve just said yes. Could’ve spared Daisuke the embarrassment if you were kissing him right now. “It’s me, okay? I’m the one who doesn’t lift, totally my bad, uh—but you know, I play baseball so—“

“Sorry.” Daisuke looks down at the bulge and the huge dark spot on his red boxers. “I’ll shut up.”

Running his hand through his hair like it’ll alleviate his humiliation, Daisuke very carefully pulls down your tank top. Till your breasts show anyway. Man… he needs to suck those things like a fucking baby. What?

Your face is still relatively peaceful, he concludes from the frantic glances he shoots it every couple seconds.

Next up are your shorts, takes a good struggle to get them off from how tight they’re clinging to your body. If Daisuke didn’t know any better he would have said you got them a size too small on purpose just to tease him. But he is pretty sure you hate his guts.

Pink. Pink panties. So soft. He thinks he’s going to cum just from feeling the fucking fabric.

Nevermind that, ‘cause Christ Almighty is your pussy perfect.

“Wow!” He exclaims much too loud for somebody who just promised to stay quiet. Clearing his throat, Daisuke settles for a calmer, manlier: “I mean, wow.”

“Can I…” that puss has to be frickin’ magical. It’s got him under a spell for sure, “you don’t think I could have a taste, do you?”

…

“Right. Sorry.” Forgot you’re fucking asleep. Or passed out. Unconscious? Whatever’s going on.

You’re not very wet. Damn. You really aren’t into Daisuke after all. He was hoping they were just those like, anxiety ridden thoughts that everybody gets sometimes. Wait. Everybody gets those, right?

Right?

He wets his fucking chopstick fingers with his spit, very carefully rubbing at your pussy ‘cause he’s scared to hurt her. You whimper when he circles the bud peeking out, some of your own slickness starting to drool out of your slit.

Daisuke’s dick twitches like it’s having a seizure, like it will physically power off forever unless he sticks it inside of you right now.

“Oh my God.” Collecting your… pussy drool and staring at it in awe of its shininess—the fact that Daisuke is the one that induced this—he’s gotta hurry. “Sorry, I have to—I don’t wanna…”

He has to fuck you because he doesn’t wanna cum in his underwear. It’s a miracle and a mystery how it hasn’t happened yet.

“Okay,” Daisuke tastes your slick on his fingertips, unable to not moan at the flavor. Thankfully you’re still… you know. Not really there. So he pulls down his boxers, letting his harder-than-a-diamond dick spring free.

It’s like, fucking leaking at the tip.

Spreading your legs and wrapping them around his hips (which doesn’t exactly work ‘cause of how slack they are), half-failing to wrap your limp arms around his neck, Daisuke positions himself above you—bracing himself with his arm next to your head.

You’re breathing out slow puffs of air onto his cheek as he jerks himself a handful of times before lining up with your hole. Daisuke can’t tell if it’s him or you that’s dripping fucking wet. Probably him. His cherry is so long overdue to be popped that it’s actually embarrassing. Virginity does in fact, not rock.

After a few thrusts, Daisuke sinks inside and your walls grip his dick tighter than his fist at night, sucking him in eagerly like a vacuum cleaner. So… were you just playing hard to get all along? Your pussy is so warm he might be getting second degree burns. “Oh, yeah.”

He’s going to fucking bust.

Kind of hard to feel bad for you when you’re this pretty, when your cunt is this wet, and when Daisuke is this horny. He humps you like a dog, gasps and pants spilling out of his mouth before he can stop them. Burying his face in your neck, Daisuke gets a whiff of your perfume.

You let out these mumbles that are kind of sounding like moans. Daisuke chuckles a little, biting and sucking on your neck till it bruises. ‘Cause it’s… hot. Also ‘cause he doesn’t want you to hear how loud he’s moaning himself. “This—this shit is fucking awesome. You’re awesome.”

And he’s close.

Daisuke’s forearms are stinging with pins and needles ‘cause he’s essentially holding a plank above you, moving his hips and fuck all. Shit’s like a work-out. But his body moves like it’s on autopilot. Gives him this sort of understanding for dad now, for how Daisuke himself was made. A sexy damn mistake.

Oh, boy, he’s fucking cumming.

“Fuck,“ he hugs you closer, plowing into you harder—hitting some spongy spot inside of you. Turning him dizzy from the sound of skin slapping echoing throughout the room. So loud Daisuke can’t even hear himself moaning like a fucking female pornstar taking the biggest dick of her life, “oh, babe.”

(He wishes you were his babe.)

Balls tightening, Daisuke tenses up and cums with a groan, shooting thick spurts deep inside you. Painting your walls white for days. Your pussy’s gripping onto him for dear life. You may not want him back but your pussy sure does. Fuck, man.

Bestest fucking release he’s ever had. Cleansed his soul by jizzing that hard. Like, opened his chakras and all that jazz. Jizz and jazz? Daisuke should totally be a comedian.

You have to let him do this more often. Daisuke and you could go at it like, every day! Several times, too. Man, imagine the sheer abs he would get. Baseball don’t do that. He just gets these small lumps on his arms that are supposed to resemble muscles, but don’t show enough ‘cause he’s got a big-ass nasty sweet tooth. Not you this time, but actual sweets. So they’re sort of… soft. In a very not-manly way.

Daisuke pulls out, freezing up like time’s paused.

“Holy shit!” He looks down at the blood caked on his dick. Coating it like the condom he probably should’ve worn. Reddish-pink thick cream dripping out of your slit. “Are you on your period?” Idiot. “Or did I�� did I hurt you? I mean, I don’t think I’m that big.”

…

“Sorry,” Daisuke grabs at his head, runs his hand through his hair, runs his hand over his face damp with sweat, “sorry, I just… holy shit.” He covers his mouth. Can’t take his eyes off his softening, bloody dick.

“You really…” he feels fucking sick, forcing the bile building up in his throat back down with a dry swallow. “You really were a virgin, huh?” Thought Daisuke was the only one a virgin at his age. It’s somehow not comforting at all.

Unless…

“Or waitwaitwait—uh, cough once for yes and twice for no.” A beat. A sniffle? Was that him or you? “To the virgin question.”

Fucking idiot. Why would you cough? You can’t even speak! Like, can you even breathe? Oh, man, what if he killed you!? Okay, you’re still breathing. Still got a pulse. Thank God. Shit. Thought he was boutta land his ass in jail for a second.

“I’m sorry.” Daisuke regrets not taking more hits of the bong when he had the opportunity to, ‘cause his mouth is overflowing with spit. He knows what’s coming. And it’s not a hangover one. “I didn’t—I didn’t—mean to—I didn’t know.” Heaving like he’s being strangled. Hiccups cutting off his every word.

You whine like an old, creaky door. Tossing and turning with the subtlety of a professional assassin. What if you were awake all along? What if you were just… pretending to be asleep? ‘Cause you didn’t want to acknowledge the fact that he—that Daisuke… he can’t do this.

“Did it hurt?” Daisuke’s blood is so cold he could very well get diagnosed with hypothermia if he went to the doctor. Stomach clenching and churning but he’s not hungry. He’s fucking sick. “Sorry… I’m really sorry.”

Tucking his dick back into his boxers ‘cause he can’t stand the sight of it anymore, he throws himself off of you. Stumbling as he stands up on his feet, knocking over the bong in the process. You’re just laying there like a fucking ragdoll. A used and abused ragdoll. With Daisuke’s cum and your own blood pouring out of you.

“Listen, I’ll get some painkillers and—“ shit’s fucking forcing itself up his esophagus as he speaks. It burns like lava straight from the devil’s ass. He has to fucking bail. “And… I’ll stay here till you wake up, okay?” Now.

He doesn’t even make it to the bathroom, doesn’t reach the toilet before he fucking pukes. Bucketloads of acidy, watery yet somehow chunky shit just… falling out. All over himself. On the floor. On the toilet seat. On the carpet.

It’s probably whatever blend of colors of his recent meal, but all Daisuke can see is your blood. Your blood and his cum coming out of his mouth. Laying there. Shit fucking moves, painting itself into your sleeping face.

Daisuke is going to hell.

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