Bobett

[mostly-imagines]

La Vie en Rose

jason todd x fem!reader

aka jason wildly preferring you over everyone else

4 in 1 blurbs

warnings: standard batfam arguing etc.

You sit curled up embarrassingly close to Jason on the couch, head on his shoulder. The team is still in their gear as they filter into the living room, masks and helmets discarded in scattered locations between here and the cave. The mission had been fairly simple and with all of them together it only took a couple hours to finish up.

As you waited, Alfred had kept your mind busy in the kitchen while he taught you how he makes his famous ice cream from scratch.

The clamor of the heroic party’s return had made itself known sooner than later, and you think your face must have displayed your emotions nicely because Alfred nodded you away with a small smile and no second thought.

You’d walked into the living room, weaving through the mess of siblings until a hand snuck out on your left and grabbed your wrist. You barely had time to look at him before Jason pulled you down to sit next him on the sofa. He wrapped an arm over your shoulder, pulling you in and leaving virtually no space between you. His armor sits heavy against you, but a welcome weight on your shoulders.

Tim plops down on the couch across from you and you can just make out a bit of blood on the side of his head, aptly accompanied by an irritated look sprawled across his face. It’s not enough blood to be concerned about—not for them—but you can venture a guess that whatever they were up to shouldn’t have called for any injuries and his pique is likely directly related to that.

Though Dick’s goading aura might have something to do with it too, as he comes crashing down next to him a second later, partially sitting on Tim’s cape and pulling him into an awkward angle. 

Nightwing doesn’t seem too perturbed by the younger vigilante’s agitation and curt manner of pushing him off.

The others are too caught up in chatter to pay much attention to you, and you can be certain that’s why Jason takes that moment to press a kiss to the side of your head. He lets his lips linger there for just a second as you lean into him.

Alfred’s own entrance is the only thing able to subside the flurry of conversations skirting around the room.

“A job well done,” he commends with a nod. “A selection of ice creams awaits you in the kitchen.”

He gives you a sly wink before retreating back through the swinging door, leaving Stephanie and Cass to practically trip over themselves trying to beat each other to the kitchen. Robin follows after unhurried, mask still on, with his hands behind his back.

Jason kneads your thigh before pushing himself up to stand. He turns back, looking down to you. “What do you want?” he asks softly.

You hum, "Just strawberry's good."

Tim sits up, "Can I—”

"No, you've got legs,” Jason grumbles, stalking off to the kitchen.

Dick barks out a laugh and you bite back a smile.

Tim looks absolutely aghast. 

“That’s such bullshit. You know, he used to be nice.”

“No he didn’t,” Dick laughs, shaking his head. “Not since you’ve known him.”

Stephanie stumbles out of the kitchen then, the door hitting her back on the way, as she mutters a curse behind her. You can vaguely makeout Jason grunting something back before she rolls her eyes.

Steph looks at you, shaking her head as she returns to her seat, “You live like this?”

You shrug, “He’s nice to me.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Tim grumbles.

Jason returns after Cass a minute later with a bowl of strawberry ice cream and two spoons. He expertly ignores Tim’s unwavering glare as he resituates himself beside you.

He scoops your legs up over his lap and positions the bowl in between you, wrapping the sleeve of his jacket around it so that the cold porcelain doesn’t make contact with your skin.

The others have set themselves up so that the four of them are stuffed up against each other on the sofa adjacent to you, very obviously examining you both. 

And while you’re willing to acknowledge the amused stares and singular glare, Jason only sighs heavily, rolling his eyes as he glares at the coffee table.

Only a few seconds of this are allowed to go by before he pulls over a throw pillow and sets it over your knees, so that it rests atop your heads like a mini-fort, successfully blocking out his siblings' view of the two of you.

You smile and press a light kiss to his shoulder as he simmers.

Regrettably, you miss the way Damian side-eyes the pillow above you as he re-enters the room, perching himself atop the back of the couch behind the others.

“This is so nice,” Dick preens. “He used to just leave the room when too many of us gathered in one place. Now he has to stay.”

Stephanie watches the makeshift fort with wary eyes, scooping ice cream into her mouth. “Yeah…I don’t wanna freak you guys out but, uh…”

It’s quiet for a moment and you guess Cass is speaking. 

You’re proven right when Stephanie starts up again, “My thoughts exactly.” Her voice drops into a raspy whisper that isn’t really meant to go unheard, “I don’t know who the hell that is, but it is not Jason.” 

“This is unprecedented,” Damian mumbles, dipping into his own chocolate cup.

“Do they always talk about you like you’re not here?” you ask Jason quietly. 

“Yes,” he grumbles with a scornful look directed at the bowl.

A low hiss can be heard immediately after, “I’ve never heard him whisper before, what the fuck?”

You can’t hide your laugh as well as you mean to, but you know Jason’s light swat to your thigh is nothing more than a rib.

Mumbles continue along the other couch, mostly going unacknowledged, until Tim busts out, “He doesn’t even like strawberry!”

Jason snaps the pillow out of the way, “The fuck do you know about what I like?”

Tim resets his posture with one hell of an attitude, snarking, “Well I can name one thing you really seem to fucking—”

Jason grabs the pillow harshly and chucks it at Tims head which connects with a loud thwack.

Damian swats it away before it can knock him off balance, though his scowl is only half worth what Tim’s is. 

“You’re unbelievable,” he says with a sneer. “This is why you don’t get invited to movie night anymore.”

Jason doubles back at him, “Sorry, is this not your own fucking house?”

Tim huffs, “Yes, which i—”

“Then get your own goddamn ice cream!”

Tim huffs as he stands, sending Jason a pointed look. “I’m going because I want to.”

Jason barely gives him a sardonic nod as he stomps off.

“Get me some too!” Dick calls back, only for the back of his head to be met with a sideways grimace from Tim.

As he leaves, the focus of the room seems to shift towards Damian dripping chocolate onto his cape and it fades away from there.

You turn to Jason, lowering your voice to just below a whisper, “If you don’t like strawberry—”

“I like it,” he tells you, leaving no room to argue as he takes a bite.

Voicemail. 

Voicemail.

Voicemail. 

Voicemail.

Declined.

Voicemail.

Declined.

Declined. 

“I swear to God, he better be dead,” Stephanie mutters to herself.

She shuts her phone off and tosses it into the passenger seat with a huff. Her fingers drum against the steering wheel as she scans the sidewalk across from her car.

The night before the majority of the team had been involved in a less-than-successful plan, which some have called “a display of complete idiocy and inability to circumspect.”

Then Tim had to go and make a joke about that word choice in what was apparently a bad moment. This gave way to a harsher punishment of the team being forced to clean the batcave foot by square foot—notably, an impossible task.

So naturally, they had to retaliate.

The plan was to dismantle the batmobile piece by piece and leave it a collection of parts for Bruce to find. Problem being, the group as it stood didn’t possess the capability to do so without doing a great deal of damage to the parts. Damage, that the family was not willing to face extra retribution for.

Fortunately, they knew just the man for the job. 

Unfortunately, said man has devoted his life to ignoring their messages, favoring to live peacefully and distantly from them. And because that peace and distance does come with an add-on of borderline complete secrecy from his family, no one had any idea where to look for him.

So, Stephanie decided to do the next most rational thing and track down your location. She’d hoped he would be with you like he always is, but for seemingly the first time in the last year—he’s nowhere to be found.

Now, was revenge for a minor-slight by Bruce so important that it required Stephanie to take all of these steps to get a hold of Jason? No, absolutely not. She’s pretty sure that the others have already given up on it by now and started cleaning. But it’s about the principal. And also, she does not want to clean the floors of a cave.

She jumps up in her seat when she spots you exiting a store, scurrying to unbuckle and pry the car door open.

She’s across the street in half a second, running directly into your line of sight. It actually would’ve been very difficult for her to miss your line of sight, considering she’d landed only a good six inches in front of your face. “Hey!”   

“Oh, fuck—” you jump, grabbing your chest. You take a breath when you realize who it is, less surprised now by the theatrics of the introduction. “Hey Steph.”

“Hey,” she smiles casually, like she didn’t do what she just did. “So Jason’s been ignoring us and I need to get a hold of him,” she tells you.

You nod, still collecting yourself. “Oh. I don’t know where he is—”

She shakes her head, “That’s fine. Can I use your phone to call him?”

You frown, “Is something wrong?”

“With him, yeah,” she snarks. “I called him, Tim called him, Dick called him, Cass called him, Damian called him, we used Bruce’s phone to call him—that was a bit of a long shot, but still. This is our last option. Well, not our last option, if this doesn’t work I could get really invasive, but—” She shakes the thought from her head, “Nevermind.”

You nod blankly, taking in the mountain of information she’d just handed you. “How’d you know I was here?”

She scans your eyes back and forth for a second before her own widen in realization and she’s shaking her head. “No, no, don’t worry we’re not tracking you! I just hacked into the traffic cameras to find you.”

“Oh!” you exclaim, nodding some more. “Okay.”

You hand her your phone without any further questions—for your own sake—and she happily accepts. 

“You know I texted him 115 times?” she tells you as she scrolls through your contacts.

You furrow your eyebrows, watching her click his name and press the phone to her ear. “Did you count?”

“Well, I had the time, di—you son of a bitch! One ring?” Stephanie scorns into the phone.

You can hear Jason groan on the other end of the line. 

He says something to Stephanie that she follows up with a firm shake of her head.

“No,” she says defiantly. “She let me use it.”

Stephanie rolls her eyes, not pleased with his response. “What if it was an emergency?”

She listens for a second, skeptical look on her face.

She gasps suddenly, “I am not overstepping, we thought you were dead!”

Over the course of about ten seconds the shock on her face drops into just-been-caught guilt. “Well, I mean we considered it.”

You imagine Jason’s telling her to give you your phone back as she stands her ground, pushing, “If you promise to text me back.”

A short response on his end.

“Promise to text me back!”

There’s a brief lull before she’s giving a self-satisfied nod and jostling your phone back into your hands. “Here ya go. Thanks, babe!” She smiles wide at you before jogging back across the street, not waiting for the cars.

You smile as you watch her go, putting the phone up to your ear, “Hey Jay.”

You can hear the relief on the other end of the line. “Hey sweetheart. You know if you see Steph in public, you can just walk away?”

“I’m not going to walk away from your family.” You look again across the street, “Also I don’t think that was an option for me this time.”

“That thing is fucking scary.”

Cass smiles fondly, signing, “I think he’s cute.”

Tim eyes the way Salem traipses around his feet, yellow eyes staring up at him. “Why’s it even here?”

Jason rolls his eyes, continuing to scroll on his phone. “He’s hers. Deal with it.”

Tim scrunches up his mouth. “She knows I hate it. And she, unlike you, wouldn’t subject me to this just for the hell of it. So again I ask: why is it here?”

Jason huffs, looking up from his phone. “What do you want me to say? He wants to be.”

Tim scoffs at that, “‘It wants to be’? You’re the one who put it in the car.”

“No, I didn’t,” Jason says factually.

Tim looks at him sideways as Salem leaps onto Jason’s lap and nudges his hand up. Jason follows along as requested, petting the top of Salem’s head with an open palm. 

Tim squirms to the other side of the couch with a look of disgust on his face. Salem watches him the whole time.  

A smile adorns Cass’ face as she signs, “She says he can read people’s energy.”

Tim huffs, resting his head against his fist. “What does that even mean?”

The conversation is cut off by the clatter of you and Dick stumbling into the room, carrying a freshly painted headboard. Blue paint coats both of your hands and has no doubt stained your clothes.

You’re clearly struggling a bit to keep your grip on your end, the weight of the wooden frame dragging your arms down.

Jason stands and Salem flows along with his movements easily, leaping down onto the hardwood. He comes over and helps you lift your end of the frame with a stupid amount of ease, to the point that you’re not even holding any of the weight up anymore. The three of you—less so you—move the headboard and lean it up against the wall. After it's set down Jason steps back and looks over it gingerly.

“It looks good,” he murmurs to you, quiet enough to not give his brother the satisfaction of his approval.

Dick had asked you over to help him paint Damian’s bed frame as a surprise for him for not getting in any “altercations” at school this semester. You’d decided on coating it with his favorite color first and then fill it in with a collection of what Dick has “on good authority” are his favorite animals. It’s a fairly random assortment that you’re not sure adds to or disproves Dick’s credibility. You’d spent the better half of the afternoon googling animals you’d never heard of just to make sure you projected their likenesses accurately. Dick had been very clear that you had to be precise on the details because Damian would know if he was really looking at a komodo dragon painting or if it was “some common lizard.”

You sigh, “I hope he likes it. I’m worried we did it too childish for him.”

“He is a child,” Jason says plainly.

“But he is not childish,” you counter. And he sure isn’t. You’d had a hard enough time convincing Damian to watch cartoons, adding a colorful animal mural to his bedroom might be one step too far. You’re still trying to figure him out.

“He’ll like it,” he says firmly.

You smile, slipping around under his arm and tucking yourself into his side.

Not a moment later, Dick slings an arm around Jason's shoulder, grinning as he pulls his brother in close.

Jason’s immediately louring. "No, get away from me."

Dick, unfazed and still smiling, removes his arm and takes a big step to the right. You do the same, figuring he needs his space, but you get caught by the wrist before you can do more than sway to the side. 

“Not you.” 

He pulls you back under his arm, wrapping it around the front of your shoulders. You hook your fingers around his forearm, letting your hand hang.

You hear a double-clap from the other side of the room that has you both turning around to face Cass. 

She signs something to Jason with a fond smile on her face. 

You look back and forth between them as Jason waves her off. “What?”

He shakes his head, “It’s nothing. She said—she said we’re cute.”

You smile up at him and he deflects—not so subtly—and starts nudging you back towards where the group is gathered, now all standing. 

Dick’s quick to start bragging off to the room about how great of a job the two of you did and how really complex and daunting it actually is painting animals for a child.

As he talks, your eyes find Jason, who’s definitely about to roll his eyes any second now. A bit subconsciously, your hand comes up to brush Jason’s white streak of hair back, away from tickling his forehead. 

On the other side of Jason, Tim does the same, sweeping Jason’s hair back in a much more mocking manner. 

This gives way to Jason smacking his hand away, harder than he needed to.

"Wha—You let her do it!" Tim protests, overplaying how much the slap hurt.

Jason scowls, "She can do whatever she wants."

Tim drops his shoulders, looking at Jason as if he’d been scandalized. “Oh but I can’t?”

“Not if it involves touching me,” Jason grumbles.

Tim steps closer, putting a finger to Jason’s chest. “You’re such a—”

From the floor, Salem hisses up at Tim, successfully startling the teenager. “Auahh—”

He stumbles backwards, grimacing at the cat. 

“Fucking demon,” he hisses, walking away.

When Tim’s far enough away and Salem’s seemingly satisfied, he brushes up against your leg, purring. 

You peer down at him with a furrowed brow. 

“What’s Salem doing here?”

“I’m not doing this shit with you.”

“No, come on, 9 out of 10 times is what you said. How ‘bout just once? Beat me one time at anything, Jaybird.”

“Anything?” Jason asks like he knows damn well Dick can’t swear on that word.

Rightly so, Dick backtracks. “Something agreed upon.”

Jason throws his hands up, partially in exasperation, partially relenting.

Dick smoothly turns his back to him, announcing, “Opening up the room for ideas.”

Damian’s eye roll is almost audible from the corner armchair, where his attention is unmoved from intently sharpening a blade he’d recently come into possession of.

Bruce similarly remains unbothered in his seat, trying to read despite the distractions. 

“Ooh, okay. Okay.” Stephanie wiggles up a little on the couch. “You could race!”

Dick shakes his head negatively, “I literally just busted my knee up two days ago, Steph.”

“Convenient,” Jason mumbles.

“You were there!” Dick exclaims with an open mouth.

Steph continues, “Um…”

Cass waves to the room from her position upside down on the couch, head hanging down next to Stephanie’s legs. Attention successfully acquired, she signs, “Staring contest.”

Jason grimaces, “That sounds like a nightmare.”

Dick gives him a faux-smile.

“You should play chicken,” Damian chimes in, holding up his knife.

“No,” Bruce drones monotonously as he flips a page. 

“Tic tac toe?” Steph suggests.

Cass is already shaking her head as she scrunches up her mouth in thought.  

Jason rolls his eyes, “What are we, five?”

Dick nods, cracking his knuckles as he thinks. “No, we need something that really proves our worth.”

Bruce looks up from his book, staring numbly through his brow, but remains silent.

“You could arm wrestle,” Steph suggests.

The elder brother twitches at that, “Uh, no.”

Cass moves past that before a joke has the chance to be made. “Handstand contest?” she suggests.

Jason shrugs, “Yeah, sure.”

The elder brother looks at him incredulously. “You’ll do a handstand contest with me?”

“That’s what I just said.”

Dick scoffs, “Jaybird, I’m an acrobat, you’re just some guy.”

Jason, not giving him the courtesy of eye contact, pulls his sweatshirt off from his back. “Well, you’re a lot of things, aren’t you?”

Dick throws his head back with a squint.

Jason fishes his phone out of his pocket and Dick follows suit, offended stare maintaining all the while. 

No exchange is required as they both toss their phones across the room, landing together with a rough clatter on Damian’s lap. Damian’s resulting glare is borderline disgusted.

Dick starts them off, “Alright, go. One…two…”

Both men push up onto their hands, muscles flexing as they find their balance. Dick’s form is better, of course, but Jason looks to have a stronger foundation.   

They both hold strong as several minutes go by with the brothers only maintaining the attention of some of the room, and the interest of none of it.

Stephanie huffs and tilts her head, thoroughly unentertained with the consistency they’re both managing. 

“Starting to wish they’d picked something that moved along a little faster,” she murmurs to Cass.

Dick glances over at the younger brother, clearly displeased with his lack of trouble keeping up with him. He shuffles closer one hand at a time, using the decreased distance to poke at Jason with his foot, trying to knock him over.

Jason kicks him back harder, “Hey! Don’t be a dick—”

“Very funny,” Dick leers.

They both end up finding a struggle to keep balance and are forced to mind their own.  

A chime rings out from the corner that has heads turning briefly in his direction before coming back to the competition. 

“Whose was that?” Dick calls out.

Damian leans over and inspects the screens with disinterest. “Todd’s.”

Jason adjusts his position, “Who is it?”

Damian responds with your name. 

“And?”

He picks up the phone shrugging like he couldn’t care less, “She wants to know if you want to go see some movie.”

There’s a brief silence before Jason drops out of the handstand, standing up. 

Dick’s blood-flushed face peers up at him, bewildered. “Wait, what?”

The family watches with wide eyes as Jason picks his sweatshirt up off the floor and tugs it back on.

Stephanie gawks, bordering on laughing. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah,” he says simply.

Dick lets himself fall into a kneeling position with a huff, “You would rather go to some movie you don’t even know the name of than win a bet?”

Jason moues at him, “Uh, yeah.”

He tosses a twenty at Dick, and plucks his phone from Damian’s hand as he strolls past him, typing out a reply.

Cass sits up a bit and signs up to Stephanie, “Does he even like movies?” 

Bruce, now attention now fully removed from his book, watches Jason exit with the slightest hint of a smile. Dick sits dumbly on the floor, staring after him with an open-mouth. 

Damian twists the knife in his hands around contemplatively before rising to stand. 

“I will go,” he announces, dropping his blade onto the seat of the chair. Jason grumbles a no but Damian follows after him just the same.

you know what happened to the last guy that didn’t reblog? … 🔪🧨💥😵⚰️🪦

[bobetthebuilder]

Soft Jason has my heart🥺🥺

[gojoidyll]

even worse when the second part isn't a recommended post after you finish reading the first

[brightjimini]

a new home

pairing: Firelord (adult) Zuko x fem!earthbender!reader

word count: 6.6k

summary: Years ago you were kidnapped by the Dai Li for speaking up about the Hundred Year War, when Ba Sing Se is finally saved from the control of the Fire Nation. What should have been a celebration turned into a nightmare, as retaliation the Dai Li had murdered a part of the earth kingdoms citizens who were being held in different prisons across Ba Sing Se. Your father and sister were also victims of the massacre. Trying to rebuild your life you leave your city and wander from place to place while trying to find meaning to your life. Years later you hear whispers about a new city: Republic City, a city where everyone is welcome and founded by the new fire lord and avatar Aang.

content warnings: war, murder, talk of torture, crying, no spoilers for the movie, maybe a tinyy one but its nothing, emotions are hard for reader, the gaang being chaotic, zuko wanting alone time with his new girlf- nvm..

a/n: let me know if you liked it, enjoy! reblogging and commenting helps writers <3

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

The sea refused to be still. Testing your balance.

It heaved beneath the boat in long, rolling breaths, each rise and fall unsettling in a way that felt almost deliberate, as though it resented your presence. You gripped the railing harder than necessary, knuckles pale, jaw clenched against the nausea twisting through your stomach. The sharp scent of salt filled your lungs, cold harsh wind blowing past your ears. Somewhere behind you, a sailor laughed --too loud, too careless-- and the sound was getting on your nerves. 

You closed your eyes.

This was at least not a cell. Not stone. Not darkness and the salt in the air wasn't from sweat and tears.

Just water.

When you opened them again, the horizon had changed.

Masts pierced the sky ahead, dozens of them, clustered so tightly they turned into a forest of wood and canvas. Ships from every nation crowded the harbor: Fire Nation vessels with their bold crimson and gold sails, dark brown Water Tribe ships marked in deep and light blues like the sea, Earth Kingdom barges painted in muted greens. They coexisted in a way that still felt like a weird optimistic dream sometimes.

Republic City.

You had heard the name long before you saw it, passed in murmurs between strangers and carried in quiet hope. A place where the war had made a new positive impact on the world. A place where you could be anyone and start fresh. 

The boat docked with a jolt that traveled up through your bones. When you stepped onto land, your legs wavered, still expecting the sway of the sea.

You hated the ocean. You loved the certainty of earth. (You swore it had nothing to do with being an earthbender.)

But this- this ground did not feel that steady either.

You looked around trying to take everything in, but struggling. There were so many things to look at and process. Most streets were narrower than you expected, hemmed in by tall buildings that seemed to press inward. Lately you were used to there being at least a few more strides of space between buildings. The air was thick with noise. Vendors shouted over one another, metal struck metal in sharp, jarring rhythms, wheels clattered over stone. Voices and shouting overlapped until they became something indistinct and overwhelming.

It was too much.

Your breath caught.

For a moment, the city shifted.

Not Republic City.

Ba Sing Se.

The underground corridors stretched out in your mind, the echo of footsteps, the suffocating stillness of cells, the distant sounds of people who were never meant to be heard.

Your father’s deep voice and warm eyes.

Your sister’s soft hand slipping from yours. Her shouts being the last thing you heard from her.

Gone.

You hurried forward. The noise surged, pressing in on all sides. Your chest tightened, breaths turning shallow, quick, uneven. You turned without thinking, pushing through the crowd, away from the sound, away from everything that felt too close-

You don't know for how long but kept going until the streets widened.

The noise softened. 

A small square lay tucked between buildings, quiet enough that you could hear the faint trickle of water from a fountain at its center. You crossed into it and sank onto the stone edge, head bowed, hands trembling as you forced yourself to breathe. Nails pressing into your handpalms creating little red crescents. 

In. Out.

You were here. In a new city.

You were not there.

After a few minutes you finally lifted your gaze. You noticed you were not alone.

A man stood across the square.

He was older than the memory your mind struggled to form, his posture straight, his presence heavier. His hair was long, black and partially tied by someting on his head, from this distance you couldn't make out what, but it gleamed. It was the scar that drew your attention, from here you sat you could see the red mark across his face that caught the light and refused to be ignored.

You stared.

Something inside you shifted uneasily, a memory hovering just out of reach. Familiar, but incomplete. As if he belonged somewhere you had tried to forget.

He glanced toward you , his gaze sharp, assessing-- then someone called his name, and he turned away without hesitation. The moment ended. You looked down at your hands.

Why did you recognize him?

-------

Sleep did not come gently.

The room at the inn was small and plain, smelled weirdly like fish, but it was quiet, and quiet was enough. You lay down fully clothed, exhaustion from all the new things around you pulling you under before your thoughts could settle. Your breathing got slower and heavier..

And then-

Stone.

Cold air.

Iron bars.

You stood in the dim corridor of the prison beneath Ba Sing Se, the memory as vivid as if it had never left you. Your hands and feet were chained together, both also covered in heavy metal contraptions so that you couldn’t bend. They kept you hungry, but gave you enough food so that you wouldn’t starve. Your breath was shallow, your voice caught somewhere between hope and desperation. You had never heard someone run in the hall. Maybe you were finally free.

Footsteps approached.

A figure dressed in black ran past your cell.

You knew that face. The banished prince of the Fire nation.

You stepped forward, face pressed between the cold iron bars.

“Wait-!”

He slowed, just for a second.

The prince looked back, something uncertain flickering in his eyes.

Then he turned and kept running.

You woke with a sharp inhale, the memory coming back piece by piece. Anger settled in its place, glueing the pieces together.

He had been there.

He had seen you.

And he had left.

--------

You stayed in the city, because leaving had never brought anything back and returning to your old ways was not possible, so you remained in Republic City. Letting the days gather one after another until the unfamiliar streets stopped feeling temporary. Purpose did not come to you all at once, nor in a life-changing moment, but in fragments until eventually they formed something solid enough to stand on. 

The school was part of that. 

It was still being built when you first found it, rough around the edges and bigger than anything you would have chosen for yourself, but there was something compelling in the way it stood and took up space in the middle of such a big city. This was not an Earth Kingdom academy with its reverence for tradition and formality, nor was it a place that would coddle you until you made something of yourself. It was practical, there was space to practice your bending and the tools for that: earth and metal. 

You had seen some people bend metal before it was rather new, and had never tried it yourself. The flashbacks of the metal around your hands and feet stopping you from doing so. But you had gotten curious.

You stood at the edge of the training grounds longer than you meant to, watching students work sheets of steel with an intensity that made your brow furrow, because even after everything you had already seen in your life, metalbending still looked faintly impossible. 

Earth made sense to you. Earth was familiar. Earth was a mass of weight and certainty. Metal was something else entirely, refined into something harder, stranger, less willing to yield. Also, sharper and looked deadlier.

It moved under their hands with a precision and smoothness that almost irritated you, as if it had no right to behave so much like earth and yet remain so different from it. You were so focused on the students movements, on the reflection of the metal and trying to understand where exactly earth ended and metal began. That you nearly missed the voice that cut across your thoughts.

“You’re staring.”

The words were flat, unimpressed, and close enough to make you turn immediately, only to find Toph Beifong standing there with her arms crossed and her expression unreadable. Though there was something in the tilt of her mouth that suggested she already knew exactly what you were thinking and did not find it especially impressive. You had heard enough about her to know who she was before anyone said her name --the woman who invented a whole subform of bending-- and somehow that made the moment worse, because there was no easy way to explain why you were lingering there like someone afraid to step forward.

“I’m trying to understand it.” you said, and it was the truth, even if it sounded weaker than you intended.

Toph gave a short, dismissive sound that might have been a laugh if she were feeling generous. “Then stop just standing there and start doing it.” she replied, as though that should have been obvious from the beginning. You couldn't guess how she knew you could bend. You were wearing a plain light grey shirt and dark brown trousers. No affiliation to any nation was worn.

You hesitated, your gaze flicking back toward the training line. “I don’t know how.”

I am afraid that if I start Ill found out I could have saved everyone befo-

“Good.” she cut off your thoughts, pushing herself away from the wall with the kind of confidence that made it clear the conversation was already settled in her mind. “That means you won’t have to unlearn anything stupid first.”

There was no ceremony after that, no patient easing into it, no comforting explanation intended to make you feel less out of place. Training began the moment you stepped forward, and it was brutal in a way that had nothing to do with physical pain and everything to do with how quickly it exposed your weaknesses.

Metal did not answer you the way earth did. It did not respond to instinct alone, nor to brute force, nor to the stubborn insistence that had gotten you through half your life. It required precision, focus, and a kind of feeling that was much harder than it sounded. The moment your attention fractured, the metal turned dead beneath your movements, refusing to move for someone who had already lost hold of herself.

---------

That happened more often than you cared to admit. The city was still loud, and no matter how much you tried to ignore it, the noise had a way of triggering old wounds. A hammer striking too sharply across the yard, a burst of laughter from the street beyond the gates, the heavy clang of something dropped at the wrong moment, and suddenly your shoulders were locking, your breath going shallow, your mind slipping sideways bracing for a strike that wouldnt hit. There were days when the training grounds vanished and all you could feel was the cold memory of cold wet stone under your legs, the moist air of underground cells, the knowledge that too many voices that had once cried out where no one meant to hear them. Sometimes you got phantom pains where your scars were because of the chains and metal contraptions used to be. On those days your concentration slipped.

Toph never softened for it. If she noticed the way your concentration faltered, the way your hands stiffened before you could control them, she gave you nothing that resembled pity. “Either bend it or don’t,” she said once, after you stepped back too abruptly from a practice plate that had gone rigid beneath your hands. “But standing there looking miserable isn’t going to make it easier.”

You almost snapped at her, but didn’t, partly because you were too tired and partly because some part of you understood that she was refusing to treat you like something fragile, and maybe that was its own kind of mercy. You did not know much about her past but maybe she knew how it felt. So you tried again. You kept trying. You learned to steady your breathing before your thoughts could run too far ahead of you, learned to feel for the trace of earth buried inside the metal rather than forcing it to obey. Progress came slowly and without grace, in tiny gains that felt almost insulting compared to the effort they cost you, but it came nonetheless. Over time the metal began to answer more reliably its feeling less foreign.

You stayed long enough for the school to become familiar enough that the students who arrived after you did not know you as someone still learning but simply as one of the people already there. You shaped your days around it. At some point, without any clear moment marking the change you stopped thinking of yourself as a student who had managed to remain and began to realize that you were teaching. The realization sat strangely with you at first. Teaching implied a kind of steadiness you were not sure you possessed, and yet the students came to you with questions, and you answered them. They made mistakes, and you corrected them. Toph never reprimanded you for taking her place. Some days she even did not show up, expecting you to take charge of the lessons. 

Weeks moved more quickly after that, measured less by grief and more by habit. Republic City ceased to feel like a big maze. It never became quiet, not really, but it did become legible. You learned which streets to avoid when the crowds were too dense, which corners of the city held enough stillness to think, which hours of the day made the harbor tolerable and which made it unbearable (mostly because of the smell of certain sea creatures that had been caught and your stomach couldn't handle). 

Survival, which had once felt like something clenched and desperate, loosened into less all-consuming and although you never would have called yourself happy, there were moments when you realized you were no longer looking over your shoulder and.. content.

The school brought people into your life almost against your will. Katara was one of them, younger and sharper around the edges than most people knew what to do with. From the first moment she began observing you with that direct, infuriating attentiveness of hers, you suspected she noticed more than you liked. 

One afternoon, after sparring practice she had joined in to had left the yard hot with exertion and irritation, she folded her arms and said, “You fight like you’re expecting something behind you” in the same tone someone else might have used to comment on the weather. You looked at her, not because the statement was wrong but because it was too correct, and she kept watching you with that open curiosity and a hint of warmth that made it impossible to pretend you did not understand what she meant.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked, though you already knew.

She shrugged one shoulder. “Your stance is solid, but you’re always braced. Like you don’t trust the space around you.”

For a moment you considered denying it out of habit alone, but the impulse died before it reached your mouth. “…I don’t, cuz we are.. fighting” you said instead.

Katara held your gaze for a second longer, then nodded once, as if that answer fit neatly into something she already understood. “Yeah” she said. “Fair.”

---------

It was not the motherly comfort you had seen her share with others like Toph, and that was probably why you could accept it. She did not try to fix what she saw in you or soften it with polite lies. She merely recognized it, and sometimes recognition was easier to bear than sympathy.

Others followed in less direct ways. Sokka came through the school often enough that his presence became familiar, usually arriving with too much energy and wayy too many opinions. Talking his way through every silence. On anyone else it might have grated more, but there was something oddly useful in the way he filled empty spaces before they could become oppressive or what you had also been recently feeling.. boredom. And then there was Aang, who was not at all what you had expected the Avatar to be. 

You had imagined someone harder to approach, someone made distant by history, epic tales and title, but instead he was simply a ball of energy and optimism in a way that disarmed you. When he listened, he did so fully, with an attention and those big eyes. You did not tell him everything about Ba Sing Se, because there were things you still could not hold in words without feeling them cut through you all over again, but you told him enough. You told him about the prisons. You told him about loss. You told him, in pieces, what it had meant to survive a city that had swallowed so many people whole, and he did not interrupt or offer assurances that would only have sounded thin. He just listened, gave great advice you could not have come up with yourself. You first thought it was because he was the Avatar, but later realised it was because he was an airbender.

--------- 

By the time word spread that the Fire Lord had returned to the city, the news barely seemed connected to you at first. Republic City had become the kind of place where leaders came and went, where treaties were discussed and signed, where important people crossed bridges under guard while ordinary people continued with their day. You heard the murmurs about Zuko’s arrival and let them pass by you without taking hold, because there was no reason they should matter. Whatever place he once had in your memory belonged to another life, another city and another version of yourself. At least, that was what you told yourself right up until the moment you turned a corner in the street and saw him standing there. A few meters between you.

He was older, of course. Not the boy in your dreams, but the same man you had seen on that square months ago. He turned as if he had felt your stare, and for one suspended moment neither of you moved. Then his eyes fixed on your face, and you knew from the shift in his expression that he recognized you too.

“You,” he said.

Your face gave him nothing back. “You-.. remember.”

There was a pause so brief it might have been missed by anyone not standing inside it, and then he said “Yes.” 

Silence settled between you, dense with the weight of an old moment neither of you needed named in order to understand. When you finally spoke, your voice remained steady almost in spite of yourself.

“You ran.” You did not know why you wanted to discuss this in a random street with a few guards around him and the cabbageman behind his cart who was staring at both of you.

But words were simple and right. He could have denied it, could have tried to explain too quickly, could have taken refuge in all the reasons people give when they want their worst choices to sound inevitable. Instead, his jaw tightened slightly, brown caramel eyes glinting and holding your gaze and he said, “I did.”

No excuse followed. No self-protection. And somehow that made it harder to know what to do with your anger, because anger liked resistance and he was not giving you that.

“I thought about that moment for years,” you said, still looking at him.

To your surprise, something in his expression shifted, not defensiveness but weariness. “So did I,” he replied quietly.

That caught you off guard, though you did not let it show. You had spent too long preserving that memory as evidence of what had been done to you to imagine it might also have stayed with him in any meaningful way. He seemed to understand that from your face alone, because after a moment he added “I was trying to get out. I thought if I stopped, I wouldn’t make it.”

“And the rest of us?” you asked.

His gaze did not move from yours. “I know.”

It was such a clear answer that it landed harder than anything more elaborate might have. No defense. Only the acknowledgment, plain.

“I can’t change what I did,” he said after a moment.

“No,” you replied. “You can’t.” Matching his clear answer.

The city moved around you, carts rolling past, voices carrying in the distance, life continuing with its usual indifference to the pain shared between you two. For a few seconds neither of you spoke and then he said, “But I can try to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

You studied him then not as Fire Lord, not as a figure attached to history or the stories other people told about redemption, but as a man who had once stood in the same nightmare and chosen differently than you needed him to. That truth had shaped years of anger in you, years of dreams in which he kept moving while you remained behind bars, and nothing he said now could erase it. Some things did not become less true just because time passed. Maybe that anger shouldn't have been directed at him in the first place, but only at the Dai Lee and former Fire Lord, but that was too much to unpack at this moment.

“You don’t get forgiveness just because you changed,” you said.

“I know,” he answered.

And perhaps that was why the conversation did not tear something open in you the way you had always imagined it would. The anger was still there, but it had dulled at the edges over time, worn down by years in which your life had expanded beyond that one corridor. It no longer ruled everything else. You let out a slow breath, your gaze drifting past him toward the streets stretching deeper into the city, toward the movement and noise and life.

“I’m not there anymore,” you said, though at first you were not sure whether you meant the prison, Ba Sing Se, or the person you had once been inside both.

Zuko followed your gaze for a moment before nodding. “No,” he said. “You’re not.”

Republic City remained loud and far from gentle, but it was yours now. It had not healed everything and it had never promised to. What it had done was give you somewhere to remain until it no longer felt like running from your past and for the first time in years, that felt like something solid enough to trust.

-------

The first time all of them came to the school at once, it was on a day where there were officialy not any lessons, but only a few students who needed extra help.

You knew Toph’s presence by the way the ground seemed to sharpen around her, as though even stone paid closer attention when she stepped onto it. Sokka arrived talking before he had fully crossed the gates, one hand moving as if he were already halfway through an argument with someone. Katara followed and rolled her eyes at something he said. Aang came last only because he kept stopping to look at everything, too curious to move in a straight line for long.

And Zuko-

You noticed him before you meant to.

He entered without announcement, without the easy sprawl of the others. Fire never did anything casually, you thought. The afternoon light caught along the scar on his face and turned it red-gold for a moment. His gaze moved over the yard, over the practice rails and metal plates stacked beside the wall, until it found you. You guessed Toph had mentioned you worked and resided at the school.

Only then did he stop.

Something in your chest pulled tight in immediate, unreasonable recognition.You hated that your body could remember a person before your mind decided what to do with him.

Toph, of course, noticed the thread of messy feelings between you first first.

“Well,” she said dryly, arms folded. “This is already awkward and no one’s even started embarrassing themselves yet.”

Sokka turned to look between you and Zuko with open interest. “Wait, is there history here? Because I love history. Love when it looks like it might explode.”

“There’s no explosion,” Katara said.

“There could be,” Sokka replied, brightening. “We have a firebender and a earth or should i say metalbender. Statistically that feels promising.”

Zuko looked like he regretted coming.

You, unfortunately, had been regretting his existence on and off for months. He was the annoying little brother you had not asked for but came as a package deal with Toph, Katara and Aang.

Aang, with the kind of sincerity that made it impossible to stay irritated with him for long, smiled at you and said, “We came because Toph said the newer students were getting lazy.”

Toph snorted. “They are getting lazy.”

“They’re not lazy.” you said.

“They’re slow.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“It is when I’m the one watching them.”

Katara’s mouth twitched. Sokka laughed. Aang looked like he had experienced all her teaching methods before and almost flinched.

The students who had been looking at the group with their jaws on the floor, sensed danger and straightened immediately.

You exhaled through your nose and turned toward the yard. “Fine. Since we apparently have guests, they can either be useful or get out of the way.”

“See?” Toph said. “That’s why I like you. You are starting to sound exactly like me.”

You were not sure if it was a compliment.

The practice began badly, which was to say it began normally.

Sokka offered commentary no one asked for. Aang got distracted trying to improve footwork with airbender principles that made three students nearly lose their balance. Katara corrected stances with crisp efficiency, moving through the lines with hands clasped behind her back and the expression of someone trying very hard not to start fixing everything herself. Toph barked criticism from the shade like usual.

Zuko stayed back at first.

You noticed that too.

He stood near the far wall with his arms folded, watching with an attentiveness that never quite looked casual. Every so often one of the students glanced at him and nearly forgot what they were doing. You could not blame them. Fire Lords belonged in stories, proclamations, history books. Not leaning against a training post in the late afternoon sun while dust drifted gold around their boots. Not to mention he was very easy on the eyes. He wore a simpler Fire Nation outfit: dark red robes layered over black, belted at the waist, with a long coat edged faintly in gold and his hair half tied back with the Fire Lords golden headpiece.

Eventually the yard pulled him in.

One of the older students misjudged a turn and sent a narrow strip of metal spinning off course. It flashed sideways- too fast, too close to one of the younger children.

You moved on instinct, earth rising under your heel.

So did Zuko.

Your stone wall struck upward at the exact moment a whip of flame curved through the air, knocking the metal aside before it could hit anyone. Heat brushed your cheek. The steel clattered harmlessly across the ground.

The yard went silent.

The younger student stared, wide-eyed and pale.

You lowered your arm first. Zuko let the fire die from his hand in the same motion. For a second you were both still angled toward the child, close enough now that you could feel the leftover warmth of him against the air.

Toph broke the silence.

“Great,” she said. “No one died. One less complaint from a parent.”

Some of the students laughed too hard, all at once, from relief more than humor. The tension broke. Breathing resumed. 

You turned to the child, steadier than you felt. “Again,” you said.

The student blinked. “Again?”

“Yes. Slowly this time.”

Katara gave you an approving look. Aang smiled. Toph said nothing, which from her meant more than praise.

When you straightened, Zuko was still standing there.

“Good reflexes,” he said.

You looked at him. “You too.”

There was a pause.

It should have been an ordinary exchange. It was not. Something in it held too long and strange. His expression did not change much, but you had begun to see the smaller shifts in him: the slight easing at the mouth, the way his eyes lost some of their guarded sharpness when he was caught off balance.

He inclined his head once as if filing the words away somewhere private and stepped back.

That should have been the end of it. It wasn’t.

By the time the sun had lowered enough to turn the yard copper, Sokka had somehow convinced half the students that a team exercise involving improvised obstacles would be “good for morale” which was the sort of phrase he used when he wanted chaos to sound official. Toph allowed it only because she wanted to see who failed under pressure. Katara objected on principle but not enough to stop it. Aang, predictably, loved the idea, probably wanting to relive his own training days.

You were setting metal discs back into place when a shadow fell across your hands.

Zuko had come closer without you noticing.

He glanced down at the practice setup. “You teach them well.”

It was such a simple statement that it took you a second to answer.

“I make them repeat things until they stop being bad at them.”

“That’s teaching.”

You let out a short breath that might have been a laugh. “That sounds more like Toph.”

One corner of his mouth moved. “It does.”

For a moment neither of you looked at each other. The sounds of the school went on around you --boots on stone, laughter, Toph insulting someone’s form, Sokka loudly insisting he had a strategy-- but here, beside the stacked metal plates, the noise seemed oddly distant.

You said because you did not know why you were saying it “I didn’t expect you to come.”

His answer came after a beat. “I wasn’t sure I should.”

That made you lift your head. So he did know you lived here.

He was watching the training yard, not you. The line of his jaw was sharp and set too carefully.

“But you did,” you said.

“Yes.”

You waited.

At last he looked at you properly.

The afternoon light had softened, taking some of the severity out of his face. It made him look no younger, but perhaps more human than memory ever had. Not the prince in the corridor. Not the Fire Lord in the street. Just a man standing beside you with his hands at his sides, trying with visible effort not to say the wrong thing.

“I wanted to see the place,” he said. Then, more quietly, “And I wanted to see if you were…” He stopped.

“If I was what?”

There was the slightest hesitation.

“All right.”

The word landed with more force than it should have.

Not because it was intimate. Because it wasn’t. He had not asked for forgiveness just like last time. He had only wanted to know.

You looked away first.

“I’m here,” you said.

It was not an answer to the question, and both of you knew that.

But after a moment he nodded as if he understood anyway.

“I’m glad,” he said.

Before you could decide what to do with that, Sokka’s voice tore across the yard.

“Are you two being intense over there on purpose, or is that just naturally happening?”

You closed your eyes.

Katara said, “Sokka.”

“What? I’m asking because the students are noticing.”

“They are not and they should be going home, its late.” you said flatly.

“They absolutely are” Aang said, far too honestly.

Toph made a sound of delight. “Oh, this got interesting.”

Zuko looked like he wanted the earth to open and swallow him.

You considered helping him and jumping in after.

Instead you turned and called, “If anyone has enough attention to gossip, they have enough attention to run drills until the moon is up if you want to stay.”

There was an immediate chorus of protest.

Sokka pointed at you accusingly. “See? That tone. Very scary. I respect it.”

Katara shook her head, but she was smiling. Aang failed entirely to hide that he was also smiling. Toph, traitorously, said, “I taught her that.”

“You teach everyone that,” Katara replied.

“Exactly.”

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of movement and noise. Students that still wanted to train with “Team Avatar” stayed and sparred. Metal rang. Fire flashed once or twice when Zuko got pulled into demonstrating defensive forms against armed attacks, and you had to admit -privately- that he moved beautifully. Light but also sharp. 

You caught yourself watching him.

Worse, once or twice, you caught him watching you too.

In fragments. In glances stolen when he thought your attention was elsewhere. Each time it happened, something unsettled and warm moved low in your chest, unfamiliar enough to irritate you on principle. You should hate him, not feel whatever this is after a few meetings.

By evening the students were exhausted and proud of themselves. They drifted out in groups, loud with the kind of relief that only came after hard practice. (Probably because they literally trained, with the Avatar, Katara, Sokka and the Fire Lord) Katara helped heal a split knuckle. Aang got talked into showing one last air scooter demonstration for the younger children.

The yard emptied slowly.

You stayed behind to stack the remaining practice plates, grateful for the repetitive work. The metal was still warm from the day’s handling, smooth beneath your palms, obedient in a way it had once refused to be. There was something satisfying in that. Something earned.

You were lifting the last sheet into place when another hand caught the opposite edge.You looked up.

Zuko.

For a second neither of you let go.

Then, carefully, you both lowered it together into the rack.

“You don’t have to do that,” you said.

“I know.”

The answer should have annoyed you. Instead it nearly made you smile.

The light was fading now, leaving the yard in long bands of gold and shadow. Somewhere near the gate, Sokka was saying something dramatic about dinner. Katara told him to stop complaining. Aang laughed. Toph claimed she was surrounded by idiots.

Here, for the moment, it was quieter.

Zuko rested one hand against the side of the rack. “Your control is better.”

You frowned faintly. “You’ve seen me bend twice.”

“That was enough to notice the difference.”

You studied him. “From when?”

He met your gaze without flinching. “From the first time I saw you here.”

That caught on something inside you.

He was not trying to charm you, he was almost certainly incapable of trying without making it look painful. He was simply telling you that he had paid attention. The realization made your pulse misstep. You looked down at your hands so he would not see it.

“When did you see me?” you asked.

“The square,” he said. 

You went still.

He must have felt it, because his voice altered slightly when he continued- lower, more deliberate.

“I recognized you then. I wasn’t sure you recognized me.”

“I didn’t,” you said. “Not fully.”

He nodded once. “I thought maybe that was better.”

You let the silence sit.

Above you, the first evening lanterns in the street beyond the wall were being lit one by one. The city shifted toward night. You could smell dust, cooling stone, the faint bite of coal smoke from deeper in the city.

At length you said, “Did you come back because you felt guilty?”

It was a cruel question, perhaps. 

Zuko did not seem surprised by it.

“Partially,” he said.

“And the other part?”

His gaze dropped briefly to the metal rack between you, then returned to your face.

“I wanted to really know you now,” he said.

Your breath caught so subtly that only you would have noticed.

The yard seemed to narrow around the two of you. Not smaller, exactly. Just more sharply defined. Every sound elsewhere became background noise to the quiet between his words and your body’s immediate, inconvenient awareness of them.

You should have said something sharper. Something that kept distance intact.

Instead what came out was, “Why?”

He looked almost frustrated by the question, though not with you. With himself, perhaps, for not already having a better answer.

“Because you’re not who I thought,” he said at last. “Because you stayed. Because you built something after..” He stopped, jaw tightening briefly. “Because every time I see you, you seem stronger than the last time, and I don’t think that happened by accident.”

You stared at him.

No one had ever said it like that.

People had called you capable. Useful. Steady, sometimes, when they were being generous. But this was different. He was looking at you as though the shape of your survival itself mattered.

The feeling that went through you then was unsettlingly close to tenderness.

Which was absurd. Dangerous. Entirely unwelcome. 

And yet...

From the gate, Sokka shouted, “If you two are going to keep having emotionally significant pauses, at least do it while walking to dinner.”

You nearly laughed.

Zuko closed his eyes briefly, a look of suffering passing over his face so quickly it vanished almost at once. When he opened them again, there was the faintest trace of warmth there.

“You don’t have to come,” he said, and it was clear from the way he said it that he meant the opposite. Not pressure. Just room.

You glanced toward the gate where the others were waiting in a loose cluster, impossible and familiar now in a way that still surprised you. Toph leaning against the wall as though patience had never once existed in her life. Katara watching the two of you with entirely too much perception. Aang smiling like he had already decided the evening would end well. Sokka looking openly delighted by everyone elses business.

Then you looked back at Zuko.

The scar caught the last of the sun. His expression had gone guarded again, but not closed. He was waiting without trying to look like he was waiting.

Something quiet shifted inside you.

Not fondness. Not yet. 

But interest, maybe. The beginning of trust shaped differently than the kind you had learned from earth. Less like bedrock. More like metal warming slowly under careful hands.

You brushed dust from your palms.

“All right” you said.

His shoulders loosened so slightly most people would have missed it.

Together, you walked toward the gate.

Sokka looked between the two of you and grinned so broadly it bordered on offensive. “Oh, this is terrible news for the rest of us” he said.

Katara rolled her eyes. “Why would it be terrible news?”

“Because now there are feelings involved, which means sooner or later there will be tension, and then I’ll have to pretend I’m not noticing things.”

“You never pretend that and there aren’t feelings” you said.

“Exactly. And yes there are.”

Aang laughed. Toph tilted her head toward you, smiling in that sharp, infuriating way that meant she knew far too much already.

You should have felt cornered.

Instead, as the six of you stepped out into the evening streets of Republic City, with its noise and lantern light and restless life, you found that for once the closeness of other people did not feel like something pressing in.

Zuko walked beside you, silent for now.

Not distant.

Just there.

And when his hand brushed yours once, accidental or almost accidental, you did not pull away.

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

MIAUWW

pleasee let me know what you thought. wish me luck cuz now i need to finish some uni things. but ive found my love for writing, back i think.. so be sure to follow for moreee.

[bobetthebuilder]

Omg this was so cute😩😩😩😖😖😖

[fawnindawn]

The Only Exception.

summary: getting a list of everything damian hates, you feel self-conscious about ticking the boxes in that list—and try to fix that, not knowing that you’re damian’s only exception.

pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader

content: fluffff, pre-established relationship, tim drake uses the wrong words and ensues a chaotic week.

“You want to know what Damian hates?”

Your inquisitive nature has become a known trait to Damian's family, and if anything, it fits you right in. Damian credits your 'detective work', he terms affectionately, as a perfect fit to his own.

Tim’s busy digging through another case, but your question surprises him enough to pause, an incredulous look crossing his tired features. “You know that doesn’t apply to you at all, right?”

“You’re the only person available to ask.” You plead. “It's a little awkward to storm right up to him with a ‘Good morning! Do you secretly hate me and I should jump off the face of the Earth?’”

“Define available.” Tim mutters, before snorting softly. “And Damian hating you? That’ll be impossible.”

You don’t budge, eyes purposely wide as saucers, hoping your pleading's visible enough to coerce his sleep-deprived brain cells to work on something that wasn't the large Bat-Computer, illuminating a spotlight on his eye-bags.

He sighs. “Fine. It shouldn’t be that hard to think of.”

“I guess..” He mutters distractedly, multitasking your strange request and his work and an indulgent sip of his over-steeped tea. “He hates clumsiness? One time, Dick knocked over his printed Bat-Cow mug and even though he caught it immediately, you should’ve seen the look on Damian’s face.”

Not off to an amazing start. You don't dare recall the amount of times he’s caught you from face-planting in your shared apartment—or the number of plates you’ve broken when they slipped from your hands while washing them.

“Right. Clumsiness.” Your laugh comes out forced. “Anything else?”

“Hoarders.” He mutters through another sip, even as his nose scrunches at the bitterness. “I keep a bunch of files in the Bat-Cave, because forbid a man for wanting physical archives in case the Bat-Computer’s compromised. He snapped at me on the amount of useless cases I had collecting dust in the corner.”

Your heart squeezes traitorously, already aligning yourself with the trait before you could even deny the semblance. You didn’t expect him to accurately describe someone like.. you?

Your collection of junk is still stored inside a designated cardboard box, keeping letters he’s given you throughout your relationship, receipts from closed-down restaurants, or even the bed that's littered with your worn plushies. You rarely threw away anything as long as it held a small amount of sentimental value.

“Uh-huh.” You mutter distractedly—thinking back on your shared apartment and the amount of drawers you took up.

“I suppose—people who can’t protect themselves?” Tim shrugs apathetically. “He’s already so strict on his own training regime, I doubt he could possibly understand anyone who doesn’t know self-defence.”

You feel like you’re going to pass out. Tim finally stops, looking over to your distressed expression. “Oh, I wasn’t referring to you.” His mug’s 'Best Detective' claim flashes at you, sipping awkwardly at the realisation that he may have made a huge error with his words. “I just think he naturally has a lower tolerance for anyone that isn’t you.”

Tolerance, something that wears out in time. What if Damian was holding in all these things and it could potentially lead to resentment that you’re a combination of all the traits he finds annoying?

“Don’t take it to heart.” Tim says, his expression akin to one trying to disarm a bomb. “Seriously, hell will freeze over before that demon spawn ever hates something about you. You’re like—his only exception.”

You nod faintly, mind too preoccupied to truly listen. Your phone buzzes, lighting the lock screen and a notification for one of your packages has arrived. “Ah, I better get back! Nice seeing you, Tim. Thanks for the.. information.”

“No problem?” He answers, sounding unsure. “Don’t tell Damian I said anything!”

—

“Beloved?” Damian calls.

You barely hear his voice over the furious typing on your laptop, much less his trained footsteps that you could never detect. You raise your head, casting him an over-enthusiastic smile. “Hey, Dami!”

He tugs his coat off, placing it on the coat rack—gaze lingering on your laptop. “What are you doing?”

You feel as if you’re caught in the middle of a heinous act. “Um—” It’s not like you’re doing anything wrong. Maybe he might even be proud that you’re being proactive about improving your self-defence. “I’m signing up for a martial arts class.”

His brows furrow, his expression perplexed. “All of a sudden?”

“Just thought I’d try something new.” Your white lie slips out easily. “With how Gotham is, I realise I should probably learn some moves. Just in case.”

He frowns. “Is there something concerning you regarding safety?” Looking around the apartment, he analyses the astounding upgrades he’s done with a displeased frown. “I was thinking of thickening the window’s glass to have an increased bullet-proof rebound rate. Or installing motion cameras-”

“No! No.” You stop him, already detecting the pattern of his mind, unravelling into a never-ending state of over preparation. You’re sure that even if the Earth splits into two, your apartment would still be standing unscathed with what he’s already done to the structure. “It’s just a hobby, Dami. You did a great job already.”

The last thing you wanted was to add on more burdens for him. He’s been taking on more cases than usual, back on another silent war with Tim on a silly tally-off, not like either has been keeping a fair count, and him being away for more hours meant that you had time—the chance to show him this improved side to you.

He pauses in his fretting, blinking slowly like a feline before beckoning himself over to where you laid, chin tucked to your neck as you hoarded your favorite corner of the sofa.

Brushing your hair aside, he places a soft kiss on your forehead. “Alright. Anything you want.” He obliges. “You’ve already charged it to my card, yes? If you feel anything inadequate about the instructor, cancel it immediately. I’m more than willing to train you myself.”

From the way he’s looking at you, it’s almost like he wants you to say you prefer his suggestion. You almost do, tempted to let him teach you instead—because a hot trainer who is also your boyfriend sounds like a match-made in heaven, then you remember Tim’s words. I doubt he could possibly understand anyone who doesn’t know self-defence.

If Damian saw you with his own eyes on how ill-equipped you were to protecting yourself, what if he sees you as even more inadequate? You shake your head, a perfect vision of Damian's disappointment swarming your thoughts. “I’ll see how the first class goes. Apparently, it’s super beginner-level so it should be perfect for me.”

He stares at you, and you can feel his mind racing in its analysis before he nods slowly. “Alright. I’ll join you.”

“What!” You splutter.

“I have to ensure the instructor is truly capable in teaching you.” He states casually.

“Damian. You’re probably more knowledgeable than he is.” You deadpan. “It’s going to feel like how advanced calculus was for you. Toddler’s work.”

His expression doesn’t so much as shift, but you spot tension in his shoulders. “He? Even more reasons to join then.”

Oh god, what did you just unleash?

—

“Welcome to ‘Gotham Martials-Beginner’s Class'!”

The instructor is in the tightest, most neon-green outfit you’ve ever seen and under the intrusive lights, it nearly blinds you with its reflective power. Damian doesn’t bother hiding his grimace at the sight.

“Don’t be intimidated, folks. I've only held a black belt in Taekwondo for the past fifteen years.” He boasts. “If there’s anyone who’s going to make you Nightwing-material, it’s yours truly!”

The mention of his brother sours Damian’s expression, visible in the tick of his jaw. Sibling rivalry was only ever intensified among him and his brothers. He schools it into perfect nonchalance when you look over at him, trying to contain your laugh.

“Now, who’s a willing volunteer to come up and let me show them the ropes?” The instructor calls out. “As I always say, learning from example is better than theory!”

The instructor eagerly scans the room, and his mark makes its target. “What about you, lady? You look excited to start your journey in becoming a Martial Arts expert!”

It must’ve been your nearly-dying expression over Damian’s scowl that caught you in the web of his gaze. Your smile drops, feeling nervous with the numerous eyes on you from the other trainees. “Well—”

”There’s no need.” Damian calls out, his hand brushing against yours in reassurance. “I volunteer.”

“Ah! An enthusiastic young man.” The instructor claps. “Very well, come on to the front.”

Damian casts you a grimace, before he strides to the front. It was almost a comical sight with how he towers over the instructor, his arms crossed in disinterest. His gaze flickers over to you, clearly unimpressed.

“Ah, the first rule is to never cast your eyes off your opponent—”

It happens in a flash. One moment, the instructor is charging at Damian, and the next, he was on the ground with a loud bang!, with Damian pinning him down.

“Agh!” The instructor chokes out, and a chorus of gasps echoes through the room.

Damian lifts himself off, brushing his hands against his shirt. “You were saying?” He says dryly.

Your own hand is clasped over your mouth, but unlike the others, you’re trying so hard not to laugh. Damian's clearly terrified the rest in the room, as the circle of trainees distance themselves from the spectacle.

The instructor lifts himself off the ground, gripping onto his lower back for dear life. “Ha-ha—Right! I was going easy on you. Good example, folks. This is exactly how you pin someone down.”

His eyes avert Damian’s raised brow, sweat pooling at his brows. “Now, let’s resume the class at its usual distance. I’ll be in the center, and all students will be behind the red circle.” He points down at the faded drawn line, suddenly not willing for an up-close demonstration.

The class continues on with a series of stretches followed by beginner poses. You doubt any moves you were taught would actually save you against an actual criminal on the streets, but seeing Damian being forced to do such minimal movement with a disgusted expression made it all worth it.

“I think I gained a six pack just by watching you.” Your core was still burning from the restraining laughter as he inserts the key to the door of your apartment. “Never seen you so—restrained.”

He casts you an unimpressed look. “The mystery of how this city has so many civilian kidnappings was all answered by that lacklustre session. If that’s the highest rated ‘self-defense’ class in Gotham, it’s no wonder this city’s crime rate hasn’t gone down.”

“It must’ve been a pain for you." You sympathise as best as you could with an Al Ghul prodigy. "Even if the session had been a hundred times better than Mr. Neon Tights, I doubt it would’ve been useful compared to your experience.”

His narrowed eyes soften, hand kept extended to hold the door open for you. When you enter, he swiftly closes the door, arm still hovering over you and cornering you in. “That wasn’t my intention.” He says. “If I had attended for self defence, that would’ve been highly unproductive. But—”

His free hand comes up to caress your chin, guiding your gaze to meet his eyes fully. “My intention was to spend time with you. And seeing you have a good time, regardless of the quality of the session, had always been the goal.”

Your cheeks warm, and he’s doing that weird thing again where he makes you feel special for doing absolutely nothing. “You’re cheesy.”

“Hm.” He hums. “Maybe I’ve been too affected by Mr. Neon Tights.”

You can’t help the laugh that slips out, and his smile deepens—highlighting a soft dimple that you secretly obsess over. Falling into character, you clear your throat. “Aren’t you aware, Mr. Wayne? It’s not always about the result, it’s the journey.”

He huffs in amusement. “I wasn’t aware of such peculiar words of wisdom. From now on, you’ll be training with me. No more of that nonsense, even if it entertains you, beloved.”

“What?” You pretend to gasp. “Whatever shall I do without his neon tights to motivate me, Dami? You’re cruel.”

Leaning in, he murmurs. “I can think of other ways to motivate you.” Hands parting from the door, they wrap comfortably around your waist, gently pushing you back against the wood as he leans in. His lips press softly against yours, and it’s the soft moments of domesticity like this that you wish so desperately to stay longer.

By the time he parts from you, your lungs were screaming for more air than they’ve ever did in that class.

“How’s that?” He taunts lowly.

“Not bad. I feel pretty motivated to do a push-up right now.” You affirm, a little dazed.

Damian’s rare laugh is heavenly to the ears.

—

Damian’s away on another patrol, and in the midst of his absence, you’re uncovering your hoard of memories that look more kindled to trash now that it’s laid out on the floor. Damian’s letters, still too precious to ever even consider throwing away are stacked in a pile to your left, and your childhood stash is on the right.

You stare seriously at your pre-school drawing, a horrible attempt of drawing the Bat with fangs coming out under his mask. It's abstract, and you're much too biased to throw away a four year old's masterpiece. Maybe you could use it as a birthday card for Bruce?

“Beloved, what are you doing?”

You quickly hide the card, your body covering the junk as Damian enters the bedroom from the window. He’s covered in soot, but no blood is seen on his suit. Your immediate relief soothes your body, but his gaze set on the mess behind you seizes you to stand.

“Dami!” Your voice sounds way too chirpy to be anything but suspicious. “Nothing, I was just cleaning out some old stuff.”

“At 3 A.M.?” He asks incredulously.

“Cleaning jitters.” You shrug.

“Alright.” He says slowly. “I’ll take a quick bath, then I’ll assist in sorting it out with you.”

“No, it’s fine!” You quickly interject. “You must be tired after patrol. I’ll just quickly clean this up. So you can go to sleep, I know you don’t like mess.”

His hand lifts to detach his domino mask. Nothing stops his trained eye from sweeping the floor for this supposed ‘mess’ you’re talking about.

“My letters?” He asks, surprised.

“Oh, I just wanted to store them somewhere safely.” You explain. “If it hadn’t been for the letters, we.. wouldn’t be here now. I didn’t want dust mites to get to them.”

His lips quirk up faintly, softening at the memory. He looks over to the corner, where Mr. Paddington, one of your remaining childhood plushies was stuffed into a paper bag.

“Why is Mr. Paddington there?” He interrogates.

You swallow, averting your gaze. It's just a bear. A bear who's been through your ups and downs for the past decade. “I realised he’s—in really bad condition. And I keep hoarding things because of sentimental value, but it’s taking up space over the apartment. Like the bed is 55% my plushies and I don’t want you feeling like you’re running out of space because it’s your apartment too.”

He stares long enough that you start to feel it dig into your skull, before he turns fully and stops in front of you, lowering himself to your eye level.

“Is this an indirect method of asking me to expand our living quarters?” He asks, straight to the point as ever. “I can have us a new apartment by the end of the week.”

“No way.” You say flatly, his words stoking a flame of protectiveness over your shared home.

It’s an understatement to say you love this apartment. Call it being biased, but it was the first place you and Damian truly created into a home, and the memories stored within the brick walls (another addition you love), is something that will have to be pried, tooth and nail, from your cold hands.

“I just—I want to be more considerate, of the space and my junk. You may need more hanger space for your 10% shade differences in sweaters.”

He doesn’t so much as shift at your teasing, a blunt attempt at distraction to his skeptical eye. “Whatever is mine is yours.” He emphasises. “I got us this place because I wanted you to have a comfort space. I want you to use it.”

He bends, taking Mr. Paddington into his arms and patting away some dust that’s gotten on him. “You’re right, the stitching in his eyes has come loose. I’ll send it over to Alfred. He has been itching for something to do ever since most of us moved out, and he’s adequate in sewing.”

You don’t know why, but Damian being so considerate despite you having full evidence of your hoarding habit splattered over the bedroom floor tugs your heartstrings hard. You can’t resist hugging him, even when his suit is dirty. He holds you tight, Mr. Paddington squished between the two of you.

“Is there anything else you want?” He asks gently, his other hand gently rubbing your back. “You can always ask, beloved.”

You shake your head. “No, this is perfect.”

He hums. “Leave it be. We’ll sort it out tomorrow, together. I’ll run a quick bath, so why don’t you put Mr. Paddington back on the bed where he belongs, and I’ll accompany you to sleep as soon as I’m done?”

He’s perfect. It’s almost terrifying how easy it is to lean into his arms and accept his help. You should take care of your mess, not give him another task to do when he’s already tired from patrol. Still, when he places a soft kiss over your forehead, you find it hard to disagree tonight.

When he sinks into the bed, the faint smell of his body wash envelopes your senses. His weight tips you towards him, but even gravity isn’t as quick as your boyfriend’s instincts, pulling you into his arms till his frame shields yours. His chest moves in synchronicity with your breathing against your back, and the thought hits again that you don't deserve him.

Somehow, against all odds of your bad luck where he’s discovered your flaws two times in a row now when you're only trying to improve them, the softness in his gaze has never shifted, annoyance never once making its way into his expression.

Was Tim really right? That Damian’s intolerance for the flaws he listed out fades when it comes to you? You want to ask, but hearing Damian’s slowed breathing, meaning he’s fallen asleep—you think not all hope is lost yet. There’s still one more flaw you could work on, to make his life a little easier for all the times he’s loved you despite your flaws.

—

If you’re not going to get better at self-defence or the habit to hoard, at least you’ll master tackling your clumsiness. You’ve managed in avoiding plate arson for the past week, and call it over-confidence, but when you spot the clock’s hand frozen over the kitchen, you think it’s finally time you get over your fear of ladders.

“Beloved? What are you doing?” Damian calls out, a hint of distress in his voice when he spots you, on the second highest level of the ladder, hands fumbling with the clock.

“Taking out the clock.” You answer, distracted with the hook that’s stuck onto the nail. “Its battery needs changing.”

“I can do it.” He offers, his hands coming up to stabilise the ladder. “You need not concern yourself with small matters like these.”

”Yeah, but I want to.” You answer, finally unlatching the clock. “Got it!”

When you feel your balance tilt, you realise your miscalculation. With both your hands on the clock, you’re no longer holding the wall, and your feet stumble as your back arches backward. You yelp, falling backwards—right into Damian’s arms.

The clock is still in your hands, covering your face halfway to hide your shame as Damian stares at you, and you see the waver of relief, worry, and amusement playing out in the flickers of his gaze.

“That’s so embarrassing.” You mutter to yourself, still using the clock to shield your face from his prying eyes. “Let me down. Oh—can we please pretend that never happened?”

He doesn’t respond, hands still firmly wrapped around your torso, leaving your feet dangling in the air as he pins you under his gaze. “No, I think I quite favour this position.”

“Don’t tease, Damian.” Calling him by his full name doesn’t do the trick. If anything, it makes his smugness triple in size. “I seriously thought I accomplished getting over my fear of ladders. Now it’s hyper-intensified and my fears have turned to actual trauma.”

He snorts softly, carrying you over to the sofa and settling down. You lay there in his arms, which is admittingly, very comfortable, making it difficult for you to climb out of his hold. Not like he’d let you, the only time his arms wasn’t wrapped around you was when he took one hand to tear the clock out of his hands, settling it at the coffee table.

“What is bothering you?” He finally asks.

You freeze. “What do you mean?”

“First, the training classes, then Mr. Paddington, and now, the clock?” He lists out. Damn him and how observing he was. “Something’s bothering you.”

You hesitate. It’s irrational, but what if you list out the traits he hates, and he realises that you’re really all the things he despises? Your mind knows Damian loves you, but at moments, your heart wonders why.

”Well..” You swallow. “Promise not to get mad?”

“I could never be mad at you.” He answers immediately.

You don’t even know where to start. “You always take care of me. And you rarely complain. So I was starting to wonder if there was anything I did that could.. piss you off that you never mentioned.”

His brows pinch together. “Was there anything I did to make you reach that assumption? I know my communication of my feelings still needs.." He grimaces as he manages the word out. "Improvement. If I ever made you feel at unease, it was never my intention. I’ve never felt that way about you. Ever.”

“No—no.” It’s a relief to hear him say that, but it’s much harder to sound convincing when he’s looking down at you with his unbridled concern, his gaze softer than you’ve ever seen. “I just didn’t want to accidentally do something in habit that irritates you when you’ve been nothing but good to me.”

Averting eye contact, you focus on the jammed hands of the clock. “I asked for a list about what you hated and—it felt as if each description pierced right through me, so I panicked and over-compromised.”

His gaze sharpens. “What list?”

“Um—” You discreetly feel Tim’s lifespan shortening. “Just a couple of things. Hearing them made me realise that I could be a burden to you because of all the annoying things you have to deal with—so I tried to improve them. I don’t want you feeling like you have to take care of me because I’m not good in doing it.”

He shakes his head, mouth pursed and ready to argue but not quick enough to avoid the finger you place on his lips. “It’s not that I don’t want you taking care of me, because I love that you do. I appreciate it so, so much that I’m scared that I’m relying too much on you.” You admit, feeling a lump growing in your throat. “And I’m scared that taking care of me gets tiring.”

He gently caresses your wrist, pulling it aside so he can speak. “I want to take care of you.” He reassures you.

“But you hate clumsy people.” You croak out.

“I love your clumsiness.” He answers in a factual tone. "It's easier to get you into my arms."

“And you hate people who hoard.”

“I hoard things you gift me.” He bites back. “It’d be hypocritical of me to judge you for that when I partake in the same habit."

“You—“ Somehow, his easy way of dissuading your worries is working, and you can’t think of much else. “You hate people who can’t protect themselves.”

“Then what is my purpose, beloved?” He asks. “If not to protect you. If I could not fulfill even that duty, I would condone that hatred on myself. Never you.”

“Then what has this week been for?” You moan. “Felt like a humiliation ritual—Like I was horribly incapable as Damian Wayne’s partner.”

His lips quirk up. "Adorable." He whispers, as if he can't help himself. "You are capable. Of more things than you think.”

“You understand people better than I do, which is why you tried to be considerate of me by doing this.” He adds. “I appreciate your efforts, beloved, but you don’t need to be anything more or change yourself because I cherish you as you are. You’re already perfect for me.”

Damian’s love has always been shown through his actions, his unwavering patience he’s harnessed just for you, evident by his siblings’ complaint of unfair treatment. Yet, to hear him say it so directly—you can barely think of what to say back without sounding like an emotional mess.

“Where did you obtain such an unreliable list?” He asks after a moment.

You wince. He stares and stares, akin to a falcon, till it comes out of you. “…Tim?”

He scowls, gaze hardening with a familiar murderous intent. “I’m going to kill Drake.”

“Please don’t.” You plead. “It’s my fault, really. And if it hadn’t been for him, I would still be avoiding this conversation and I wouldn’t have gained the guts to say it out loud.”

His lips purse in a thin line, which is his best attempt at consideration. “I’m still not pleased that he indirectly made you feel unworthy when that’s never been the case. But you are right.” His free hand brushes over your cheek, growing serious. “Next time, if you ever feel this way, tell me first. I’ll listen, always.”

“And believe me when I say—you could never irritate me.” He declares. “You’re my gift in this world, and there’s no other person who brings me peace the way you do. You’re not meant to exist without flaws, and I love every single one of them. It makes you human, and more precious in my eyes. So don’t hide your worries from me. Bear them with me instead, and I’ll reassure you.”

Your eyes feel wet when you blink, your lashes clumping together, and your heart is thumping louder than it should. “Oh, man.” You mutter. “You just made me fall for you all over again. That’s not fair.”

His lips twitch into a soft smile, and presses a feather-light kiss over your forehead. “Then you’ve been unfair on me too. I suppose I'll have to be more unbearable in my affections to not let such silly worries get to you. I haven't been doing a good job in my duty if you could believe in a list like that."

“And for the record.” His gaze softens. “I didn’t see anything we did this past week as a burden. I enjoyed spending time with you, at the martial class, and the morning we spent organising your childhood memories, and even now—because that’s the reason I want to be with you. To be in your life, to be your support, your person.”

Your throat clogs together, and if he wants to succeed in making you a wreck, he's done it well.

“Cause..” He murmurs. “You’re mine. And I’m yours. Isn’t that what we promised?”

“Then, do you also solemnly swear, Damian Wayne—” Lifting up your pinky finger to him, you muster your most serious expression. “That you’re truly in this even with my flaws, on the good and bad days?”

He links his pinky with yours, wrapping it close to his chest right above his heart. “I solemnly swear.”

Damian always keeps his promises. You could ask him to capture the Sun for you, and he'd somehow find a way to do it before Monday.

“What else did that lunatic say?” Damian interrogates.

Your mind scrambles for anything to save your future brother-in-law’s life. “Tim did say I was your only exception.”

He huffs. “I suppose there’s one thing Drake finally got right.”

likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <3333

dc masterlist -> other damian + dc works

[lobelliah]

Gotham's Ultimate Girl Dad

Batfamily x Spoiled!Batsis

Gotham’s protector. The world’s greatest detective. The only man to face gods and monsters without fear…just can’t say “no” to his daughters.

Word Count: 4,022

💮Masterlist💮

Duke had seen many strange things since joining the family — rooftop sword fights over snacks, Tim mixing energy drinks like a mad scientist, Dick swinging from chandeliers, Jason hiding stolen contraband in the Manor — but nothing, compared to the current conversation in at Wayne Manor.

“So,” Duke said, eyes narrowing, “you’re all trying to convince Bruce to let you take the Batjet to Tokyo.”

“Correct,” Tim said from his spot on the couch. “For mission purposes.”

Jason leaned back in his chair. “Translation: vacation.”

“And Bruce said no,” Duke confirmed.

“In about four different languages,” Dick sighed from his spot on the rug. “He’s in a mood.”

“Then why,” Duke asked, “are you all sitting here like you still have a plan?”

Jason smirked. “Because we do.”

Damian nodded solemnly. “A manipulative one. We don't like resorting to such measures, but Father is being difficult. We have no choice.”

Duke looked at the boys, feeling fear rise within him. "I don't like this.

"Don't be. It's harmless." Tim reassured. “We call it Sister Power.”

Duke's fear deflated. “Sister… power? What does that even mean?”

Damian crossed his arms. "You haven't been here long Thomas, but surely you've noticed that Father has a clear favoritism towards Cassandra and [Name]."

Duke frowned, thinking it over. “I… can’t say that I have.”

Jason shook his head, an amused smirk on his face. "Bruce is a total girl dad. He loves his sons we know that. But the way he treats his girls is on a whole different level."

"It's either hilarious or ridiculous," Tim added. "There is no in between."

Duke looked between them, pure disbelief painted on his face. “Oh come on!”

Dick got up from his spot on the floor and took a seat next to Duke on the couch. “Trust us on this. Before Bruce, we were all only children. We didn’t know what favoritism looked like. But when it came to [Name], it was obvious. She’s his favorite. And when Cass came along?” Dick grinned. “We realized Bruce Wayne is Gotham’s Ultimate Girl Dad.”

Duke still looked unconvinced. "I still think you guys are being dramatic."

"Okay," Dick got comfortable in his seat. "Here's a story for you."

The look in his eyes shifted — that particular mix of nostalgia and disbelief that only came from living in Wayne Manor too long…

…Bruce had been on an important Wayne Enterprises video call — one of those tense board meetings where everyone looked like they’d rather be filing their taxes in a hurricane. Ten people on-screen, all stiff suits and monotone voices.

He sat at his mahogany desk in his home office, posture perfect, expression unreadable. The laptop camera framed him neatly: Gotham’s most stoic CEO, unbothered and intimidating.

Then the office door creaked open.

You stepped inside first, dressed in your pajamas and holding your phone like it was a sacred artifact. “Dad, what color should I paint my nails?”

The question dropped into the silence like a bomb.

Every executive froze. Someone coughed. Another adjusted their tie.

Bruce didn’t even flinch. “Hmm,” he murmured, eyes still on the screen. “Let me see.”

You walked around the desk, showing him your phone. “Jade green, sage green, or emerald green?”

“Sage,” Bruce said simply, then unmuted himself. “Apologies, Lucius, continue.”

Lucius barely managed to keep a straight face.

And then Cassandra appeared, also in her pajamas and a blanket over her shoulders. She pulled up a chair and sitting on Bruce’s right side. She didn’t say a word, just took a seat and started sketching little doodles on the corner of his notepad.

Bruce let her. Of course he did.

Half the board looked shocked. The other half looked terrified.

At one point, you pulled up another chair and sat on his left. You leaned against Bruce’s arm, scrolling through your phone while he calmly discussed profit margins like this was the most normal thing in the world.

When the call finally ended, Bruce closed his laptop and looked between you two.

Cass showed him the picture she drew. A series of Batman doodles but they were vague black blobs with pointy ears and eyes.

“Very nice,” he said simply.

Cass smiled. You nodded, satisfied.

And just like that, Gotham’s most powerful businessman spent the rest of the afternoon sitting in a posh nail salon while his daughters got their matching sets…

…Back in the present, Dick spread his hands like he’d just presented irrefutable evidence.

“So yeah,” he said with a grin. “Bruce Wayne. Billionaire. Dark Knight. Total pushover.”

Jason leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, that confident grin already forming.

“Oh,” he said, voice low and dramatic. “You think that’s bad? Lemme tell you about the time your sweet sisters nearly totaled the Batmobile.”

Duke blinked. “What—”

But Jason was already lost to memory, the glint in his eye shifting from smug amusement to pure disbelief…

…It had started as “training.”

You decided it was time for you to learn how to handle the Batmobile. Cass had already mastered evasive maneuvers and parking. You? You were still stuck on the fun part — the speed. And Cass decided to give you a hand since Bruce was busy upstairs.

“Slow and steady,” Cass said calmly from the passenger seat, hands clasped in her lap. “You need to respect the vehicle.”

You grinned, revving the engine. “Respect, got it.”

She gave you a look. “That’s not what I—”

Before Cass could finish, the Batmobile shot forward. The roar of the engine echoed through the cave like thunder. You swerved—way too fast—and slammed the brakes so suddenly that the entire car jolted forward and crashed into the rock wall with a teeth-rattling BANG!

Then a faint plop as a stalactite somewhere dislodged and fell into the water.

Cass exhaled through her nose. “You okay?”

You nodded, dazed. “I think I saw my life flash before my eyes.”

The noise had echoed through the cave like an explosion. Within seconds, the cavalry arrived. Jason appeared first, half in his gear, looking way too delighted for someone who just heard a crash.

“Oh my god—” he wheezed, doubled over laughing. “You—you wrecked the Batmobile!”

You groaned, pressing your forehead against the steering wheel. Cass, to her credit, sat perfectly still, expression unreadable except for the tiniest twitch of amusement at the corner of her mouth.

A few seconds later, heavy footsteps approached — Bruce’s.

The laughter died instantly.

He stopped in front of the Batmobile, arms crossed, jaw tight. His eyes scanned the damage — smoke, dented metal, a tire barely hanging on.

Jason braced himself for the explosion. This was it. The Bat-yell. The lecture. The grounding for life.

But Bruce didn’t yell. He just opened the driver’s door and crouched down beside you. “Are you okay?”

You blinked. “Yeah… I think so.”

He nodded once, standing back up. “Good. That’s what matters.”

Jason stared at him, stunned. “That’s what matters?”

Bruce ignored him, inspecting the front bumper. “I should’ve explained the braking system better.”

Jason’s mouth fell open. “You’re apologizing?”

Bruce stood, calm as ever. “The car can be repaired. Though next time, I’ll supervise your training.” He shot a not-at-all serious glare at Cass.

Cass smiled back at him. “She learns fast.”

Bruce actually smiled back. “I know.”

Two days later, two new cars showed up in the cave. Smaller. Sleeker. Modified for “practice.”

Cass got to pick the color. Midnight blue. “Stealthy,” she’d said. "And there are two so we can match!"

Jason had never been so personally offended…

…Back in the living room, Jason leaned back in his chair, smirk broad and satisfied.

“And that,” he said, “is how the twins of chaos crashed a billion-dollar car and somehow got rewarded for it.”

Duke blinked. “Matching luxury cars is crazy!”

Dick crossed his arms. “He didn’t talk to me for a week when I popped a tire.”

Damian was fuming in his chair. "I've known how to drive since I was eight! And he won't let me drive!"

Tim sighed, leaning back against the couch. “You’ve heard Dick’s corporate chaos and Jason’s vehicular tragedy. Now let me tell you about the time Bruce tried to be a responsible parent… for less than two hours…"

…It started with an argument.

You had snuck out of the Manor one night — nothing reckless, just a spur-of-the-moment visit to your friend’s house party. Cass had gone with you, not wanting to miss any fun. All Bruce saw were empty rooms, the silent tracker, and the security footage of the two of you hopping a fence in Gotham at 11:47 p.m.

The next morning, Bruce called both of you into the living room.

He stood there, arms crossed, voice firm. “You both know better,” he said. “You’re grounded. No missions, no patrol, no going out for a week.”

Cass accepted her fate, but she didn't look happy about it.

You tried to argue. “But Dad, it was a small party! Only like, thirty people were there!”

Bruce’s eyebrow twitched. “You broke curfew.”

“We were expanding our cultural awareness by interreacting with the unique Gotham youth!”

He didn’t budge. Cass put a hand on your arm — the unspoken don’t push it gesture — and the two of you retreated upstairs.

Tim had been in the corner the entire time, pretending to look at his phone, but watching everything. He nodded approvingly.

Finally! Consistency. Discipline. A real rule enforced and punishment given when rules were broken.

That lasted exactly one hundred and ten minutes and thirty-nine seconds.

Around noon, Tim heard footsteps on the stairs. You appeared first, dressed casually, hair done, purse over your shoulder. Cass followed, calm as ever, keys in one hand, and a homemade latte in the other.

Bruce looked up from his seat as you both approached.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Out,” you said simply. “We’re meeting our friends for lunch.

"Don’t wait up,” Cass shouted cheerfully.

Bruce blinked once. “Alright. Be safe.”

Tim nearly dropped his coffee, but did drop his jaw.

You leaned down, kissed Bruce on the cheek, and walked out the door like nothing was wrong.

Bruce went back to reading the Gotham Gazette as if he hadn’t just undone his own punishment.

Tim sat frozen in the his seat for a solid thirty seconds before finally blurting, “Bruce! They're grounded!”

Bruce didn’t even look up. “Oh. Right.”

A beat of silence.

“And are they still grounded?” Tim pressed.

Bruce turned a page. “I’ll revisit it later.”

He didn’t…

…Back in the living room, Tim pinched the bridge of his nose.

“So, yeah,” he muttered. “Grounded for a week. Gone in less than two hours. When they came back they told Bruce all about it.”

Jason was already grinning. “I still can’t believe you thought he’d enforce it.”

“Can you blame me for hoping?” Tim asked flatly. “He grounded me once for forgetting to eat dinner. He said it was ‘self-neglect.’ ”

Dick laughed. “Bruce’s logic when it comes to his daughters exists in another dimension.”

Duke just stared at them, slack-jawed. “He really just… let them go? Unbelievable.”

Damian straightened, expression carved from pure suffering. “My father’s hypocrisy knows no bounds,” he began solemnly. “Observe."…

…It began, as these tragedies often did, with good intentions — his, specifically.

Damian had always adored animals. He rescued them, rehabilitated them, even smuggled a few injured strays back to the Manor. Each time, Bruce had said the same thing: “No more animals in the house, Damian.”

A reasonable rule, perhaps. Until they got involved.

It was a quiet Sunday when it happened. Damian had just finished training when he heard you and Cassandra’s laughter echoing through the main hall.

“What the…” he muttered. He turned the corner and froze when he saw the animal. "What is the meaning of this!"

You and Cass turned to look at the boy. You immediately went into defensive mode.

"Damian you don’t get it," you began.

Damian grinned like he had a checkmate in chess. "Father is going to be livid when he sees this."

You clasped your hands together, pleading for sympathy from your younger brother. "She was all alone Damian! Scared and defenseless! Stuck in a tree and in need of help!'

"Stop! Stop! Stop!" Damian urged. "You did not find a ZEBRA stuck in a tree."

Cass hugged the Zebra like Damian would take her away any moment. “We named her Wonder Zebra! Diana has to know we named this majestic creature after her.”

Damian blinked. “You cannot be serious.”

Cass smiled at their new companion. “She’s calm and has good energy.”

“Good energy?!” Damian gestured wildly. “She’s a zebra, not a therapy dog!”

The zebra snorted and began nibbling at one of Bruce’s antique rugs.

You gently patted her neck. “She’s just hungry. Poor thing’s been through enough.”

At that exact moment, Bruce came down the stairs. Damian folded his arms, relief flooding him — finally, someone rational.

“Father,” he announced, “they’ve brought home a wild animal. I assume you’ll handle this.”

Bruce stopped halfway down, taking in the scene: his daughters, his ruined carpet, and a striped fugitive from the Gotham Zoo. A long silence followed.

“Girls,” he said finally, “where did you find it?”

“We were just walking down the street and she was stranded Dad!” you answered innocently. “All alone stuck on the unforgiving streets that would corrupt her! We had to save her and give her a loving home!"

Bruce nodded once, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “And you want to keep her?”

Cass nodded. "She can't go back out there. She's clearly been raised in captivity. She won't survive on her own. And I've seen the neighbor's lawn, the grass is fake!"

Damian smirked. “He’ll say no.”

But Bruce didn’t say no. He pulled out his phone.

“Father?” Damian asked, horrified. “What are you doing?”

“Calling the zoo,” Bruce said simply. “We’ll make the proper arrangements.”

Ten minutes later, Bruce Wayne owned a zebra.

Later that day, a new enclosure was being built on the property. Alfred was giving instructions to the contractors as Cass brushed the Wonder Zebra's mane. You gave Bruce's large body the tightest hug you could manage.

Damian stood at the fence, glaring at Bruce. “You said no more animals.”

Bruce just sipped his coffee. “I said no more unapproved animals.”

Damian gestured wildly toward the zebra. “How is this approved?!”

Bruce shrugged. “It’s domesticated now.”

You handed him an apple slice. “Want to feed her, Dad?”

Bruce smiled. “Sure.”

Damian groaned. “This is absurd!”…

…Back in the living room, Damian crossed his arms with righteous indignation.

“So yes, Thomas, Father not only allowed them to keep a zebra, he bought it. Within the hour.”

Duke blinked. “...A real zebra?”

“It took six months for Alfred to convince Bruce to give Wonder Zebra back to the zoo,” Jason said. "He still owns her but Alfred got sick of her eating his roses."

Tim leaned forward, smirking. “So now you get it, right? The favoritism?”

Duke ran a hand down his face. “I’m starting to think Bruce doesn’t parent them—he just funds their adventures.”

Dick laughed. “Welcome to the Wayne family.”

Night had settled over Wayne Manor, the kind of quiet stillness that felt almost suspicious after years of living with vigilantes. The boys had spent hours brainstorming ways to convince Bruce. They needed a backup plan in case you and Cass decided to not help them.

Duke shook his head. “There’s gotta be some situation where Bruce says no to them.”

Tim raised a brow. “If there is a limit, we haven't reached it yet.”

Damian, ever the realist, folded his arms. “Perhaps tonight will be the exception. Father returned home not long ago from his date with Selina. He is… preoccupied.”

Dick looked at him. "How do you know?"

"I saw them while I was in the kitchen getting a drink. Father grabbed some wine and two glasses and left with her," Damian clarified.

Jason grinned. “Oh, so the Bat and the Cat are having their little romantic rooftop debrief, huh?”

“Not on the rooftop,” Damian said flatly. “They went in the direction of his bedroom.”

That earned a collective grimace.

Dick coughed. “Okay, boundaries. Ew. But fine — if there’s ever a time he’s gonna draw the line, it’s now.”

“Exactly,” Tim said. “He won't let anyone interrupt his…"adult time"… with Selena. ”

Jason leaned back, smug. “Yeah, no way he’s getting out of bed for anyone right now.”

The universe heard them — and laughed. Because just then, the sound of the front door opening echoed through the hall.

Cass’s quiet footsteps were unmistakable. Yours weren’t — you were humming, the sound bright and careless. Both of you held dozens of shopping bags in your arms. The glossy bags cutting into your arms didn't dampen your moods one bit.

"Hi guys," Cass said casually.

"Have you seen Dad," you asked. "We want to show him our haul."

The brothers exchanged nervous looks.

“Relax,” Tim whispered. “Even Bruce has limits.”

Jason looked at the both of you, a confident smirk etched on his face. "Bruce and Selena are in his bedroom. If you catch my drift…?"

You and Cass looked at each other. The boys couldn’t read your expressions, but you two shared that silent understanding only sisters could. You both dropped your shopping bags with synchronized thuds, expensive logos scattering across the floor.

Jason blinked. “Oh, no. No way. You two aren’t actually—”

But you two were already marching down the hall.

Tim groaned into his hands. “They’re doing it.”

Duke whispered, “He's going to say no to them. This has to be the night.”

Dick felt himself flinch. "They're going to be devastated. Their first 'no' ever."

Damian sighed, defeated. “They're going to need comforting. Let's have snacks and movies ready for them.”

The boys moved to the kitchen like they were preparing someone's final meal.

Somewhere upstairs, faint music played — soft jazz, far too romantic for Wayne Manor’s usual gloom. You and Cass walked in perfect step, as if you were on a mission of personal vengeance.

By the time you reached Bruce’s door, the muffled sound of laughter and low voices confirmed your suspicion.

You knocked firmly. “Daaaad?”

Silence. Then a shuffle. Then hushed voices.

You frowned. “Dad?”

Cass added, “We need to show you something.”

More frantic movement followed. Then, Selina’s voice — unmistakably irritated — came through the door. “Bruce, don’t you dare—”

Too late. The door opened.

Bruce stood there in a black silk robe, hair a little disheveled, a light layer of sweat clinging to his skin, trying very hard to look like a man who hadn’t just been interrupted.

“Hi, girls,” he said evenly, the faintest edge of guilt in his voice.

You beamed. “Hi, Dad! We're done shopping!”

Cass excitedly bounced on her toes. “We bought a lot things.”

Behind him, Selina groaned. “Of course you did.”

You stepped forward, undeterred. “They had a sale at Cartier. And Cass found perfume that smells like Gotham rain.”

Cass nodded seriously. “It does not. It smells like Gotham in the summer.”

Bruce managed a smile. “That’s great girls.”

You peeked past him. “Hi, Selina!”

Selina sat up, the sheets pulled strategically high, and a forced smile on her face. "Hello girls. I'd come up to greet you but your Dad and I are very busy right now."

Cass tilted her head. “Busy?”

You blinked innocently. “Busy with what?”

Selina groaned again. “Unbelievable.”

You tugged one Bruce's sleeve. “Anyway, we wanted to show you what we got!”

Cass tugged Bruce's other sleeve. "And you have to smell the perfume and tell [Name] I'm right."

Bruce hesitated, eyes darting to Selina’s glare, then back to your hopeful expression and Cass' pleading look.

He sighed. “Alright. Let me make myself decent.”

Selina buried her face in her hands. “You. Are. Hopeless.”

You leaned up to kiss Bruce’s cheek. “Love you, Dad! You’re the best.”

Cass gave a small nod. “We'll wait for you in the living room.”

You both turned and padded down the hall.

Behind the closed door, Selina glared, “What about me?”

Bruce raised a brow. “What about you?”

Selina stared like he’d just committed a crime against humanity, but Bruce only walked to his closet and pulled out some clothes.

The boys had set up the living room to perfection. Popcorn bowls with 5 different flavors. Ice cream tubs with dozens of toppings. Blankets. A carefully queued movie.

Jason stared at the spread and sighed. “Feels like we’re prepping for heartbreak.”

Duke took a sip of one of the soda cans, letting the fizz calm his nerves. "Because we are."

Tim checked his phone. “It’s been ten minutes. No screaming, no crying, no door slamming.”

Dick frowned. “It’s the quiet before the storm.”

Damian poured a glass of water with grim solemnity. “Father may require this after the confrontation.”

Jason snorted. “It's a bittersweet night boys.”

Then they heard it. Two sets of footsteps heading their way, quick and heavy.

The boys turned toward the sound just in time to see you and Cass descend the stairs — all smiles and laughter — followed by Bruce Wayne himself, now in gray pajama set and matching slippers.

Dick blinked. “Oh my god. He actually came downstairs.”

Jason squinted. “In his pajamas and matching slippers!”

Bruce looked utterly unfazed. “You said you had something to show me?”

You and Cass nodded enthusiastically and began unloading your shopping bags onto the every available surface like a luxury-themed magic trick.

Perfume. Jewelry boxes. Clothes. Shoes. Half of Gotham’s economy.

Cass held up the perfume bottle. “Smell this. Tell her I’m right.”

Bruce leaned down obediently, smelling the sample strip you held out. “Cass is right. It smells like Gotham in summer.”

You gasped, offended. “What? No way! It’s totally Gotham rain!”

He smiled faintly. “Sorry honey.”

Jason muttered under his breath, “He’s so whipped.”

Tim, deadpan, “This isn’t even parenting anymore. It’s diplomacy.”

Cass handed Bruce another bag. “Look inside.”

He peered in. “A suede jacket?”

You nodded proudly. “For you! We saw it and immediately thought of you.”

Bruce’s expression softened — genuinely touched. “Thank you.”

You smiled, satisfied, then added casually, “Oh! And we’re borrowing the Batjet next week. Tokyo trip.”

Jason choked on his drink. “You’re what!?”

Bruce didn’t even flinch. “File the flight plan first.”

Tim slammed his hand on the counter. “Are you serious?!”

Bruce looked at him calmly. “Always.”

The boys went dead silent. The sound of you and Cass giggling and rummaging through your bags filling the air.

Then Dick groaned, throwing his hands up. “I give up.”

Jason dragged a hand down his face. “He was in bed with Catwoman and still said yes.”

Duke muttered weakly, “We did this whole set up for nothing.”

Damian glared at his father. “Father, you are an embarrassment to the concept of discipline.”

Bruce looked around the room, expression neutral. “You all finished?”

The boys collectively mumbled variations of yeah, whatever, as you and Cass started showing your things again, talking happily. The boys abandoned the movie and started eating the food they prepared, drowning their defeat in calories.

The haul went on for three hours before the sisters disappeared down the hall with their things. Bruce watched them go, an unmistakable fondness softening his features.

Jason folded his arms. “You do realize they’ve got you completely wrapped around their fingers, right?”

Bruce’s lips quirked. “I know.”

Selina appeared at the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed, still in silk and absolute disbelief. “You’re impossible.”

Bruce gave her a small, unapologetic smile. “I’m a father.”

Selina sighed, rolling her eyes — but the corner of her mouth twitched. “A hopeless one.”

Bruce took her hand and lead her back upstairs, slippers soft against the wood floor. “Goodnight, boys.”

The room fell silent for a moment before Duke exhaled. “I can’t believe he’s the same guy who terrifies the Justice League.”

Dick laughed softly, looking toward the staircase. “That’s our dad.”

[delusionsofgrandeur13]

oh without a doubt, @satansdarlin ❤️🏹

your boyfriend, and lian’s extremely proud dad, roy harper.

(and his instagram)

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tim drake and damian wayne to come! requests are open for any character!!

[robin-vb]

My babies

[heme3nc]

you ever watch something and just think... "god i cannot wait to get on ao3 after this"

[k1tk4ttt]

How it feel to finally accept and embrace the cringe of reading x reader fics

[inkdippedquills]

cant help myself

Pairing: Michael Robinavitch x fem!grad student!reader

Summary: You were not Robby’s biggest fan and finding out the saddest man in your bar fucks was absolutely not going to change your opinion of him. Absolutely not.

Rating: Explicit (E)

Word Count: 17k

Tags/Warnings: angst, depression, implication of suicidal ideation, description of injury, praise kink, mediocrely written smut, some lite humor, the tone is actually not that depressing I pinky swear, pathetic bar patron to remarkable lover trope (we all know that common trope).

Author's Note: As per the poll, I come to deliver grad student/bar tender dealing with pathetic Robby. Please comment with your thoughts and feelings, I yearn for the reactions. I’m not the most proud of the smut, but I’m trying to get better at writing it. Idk hope it’s enjoyable enough.

Pls note this has not really been proofread. And I'm incapable of writing something short. soz.

-- -- --

You winced as one of your least favorite regulars walked in. It probably wasn’t a fair group to put the poor man in, especially when ugly-ass-Hawaiian-shirt-guy called your coworker a cunt and then threw up on the floor of the bathroom, missing the toilet by a solid meter. There was also the guy who insisted that he was such a successful lover, no one could stomach to call him back in case they became addicted.

But Dr. Robinavitch—Robby as he insisted he be called—was a maudlin drunk. By the end of the night you were always a little worried to let him go home alone in case he did something he couldn’t take back. He tipped well, though, so that was something. He had been coming in more sporadically since July. One night, when he was more tipsy than drunk, he implied something had occurred and he began seeking help.

Tonight he looked more alert. Sometimes, when he came in, he wore the world on his shoulders. At least tonight you were greeted with a semi-convincing smile.

“Dr. Robby,” you greeted. You’d stopped asking how his day was months ago.

“How has your shift been?” He asked you.

“Not bad, only have another hours or so before I clock out,” you replied.

The bar was slow tonight. Despite how abysmal the tips were, you preferred it slow. It allowed you to read, or grade, or write while patrons largely entertained themselves. Aimless small talk wasn’t your forte, though you’d certainly improved over the course of this job. Thankfully, the dive bar seemed to attract the kinds of people who wanted to be left alone with their thoughts.

“Busy week?” He asked.

“No more than others. Want your usual?” You asked deflecting his question about your life outside these walls.

A few weeks ago, the last night Robby had truly been wasted (so much so, you cut him off) he’d caught you in a moment of weakness and you’d told him about your PhD work. Despite his normally depressive drunk state, he perked up and began asking you question after question. It seemed to raise his spirits, so you acquiesced assuming he’d forget by the next morning.

His brain was a steel trap, as evidenced by the fact he’d ask about your PhD, either explicitly or in a roundabout way the following half dozen times he came in. He rarely got shit-faced anymore. Most times, he tended to stay on the right side of tipsy. It certainly seemed like he was trying to have a better relationship with alcohol.

In fact, a couple visits previous, you and a coworker watched amazed as he flirted with and then subsequently took home a woman sitting next to him at the bar. It had been live texted in the bartender groups chat to a mixture of awe, surprise, and happiness. Dr. Robby was something of a local legend in his sad but overall non-troublesome behavior. He just liked to talk when drunk and you really didn’t like to talk to drunk people.

Bartending paid well, and needs must.

“Just a rum and coke,” he said settling in on his usual bar stool. It sat off to the side and gave the occupant an easy view of the bar, patio, and front door.

“Got it,” you replied ringing him up. “Tab?”

“Not tonight,” Robby said.

You hoped your surprise didn’t show on your face, but you knew you had a terrible poker face. Looks like the group chat would be getting new information on the bizarre man. Most of your coworkers liked Robby a lot, he was colloquially known as Sad Paddington Bear. Tipping well and not being a menace made him a perfect patron. You were just a little pickier than most, with your days being spent on campus with academics and undergrads—by the time you came to this job your threshold for unique characters had been reached.

Sometimes you felt bad for how unfriendly and uncurious you could be with patrons. Many of your regulars were fun to chat with. They had fascinating lives and stories. You suspected Robby would be one if he got out of his drink. But no one normal goes to get a PhD—including yourself—so you just did not have it in you for Robby’s particular brand of quirky.

“You look surprised,” Robby commented as he handed over his card.

“I don’t look like anything,” you attempted to lie.

Robby snorted, “Every thought you have is written on your face. It’s why I know you don’t like me.”

“I like you fine,” you replied sliding over the card and receipt. “You tip well, who wouldn’t like that?”

“So that’s why it always looks like you sucked on a lemon when I walked in?” He inquires signing the check.

“Maybe I just enjoy snacking on lemons,” you said moving behind the bar and beginning to mix his drink. You made a mental note to work on your ability to control your face. It really was a problem.

“I think that would be more peculiar than not liking me,” Robby told you, sliding the check back over.

He was one of three people currently sitting at the bar, so after you handed him his drink, you glanced at his receipt.

“Is tipping 100% trying to get me to like you more?”

“Yes,” he replied simply, taking a small sip. “Knew you didn’t like me.”

“I don’t like many people, Dr. Robinavitch. I fear you’re not unique. I’m very much the problem here.”

“And yet, for some reason I doubt that. You seem perfectly pleasant to me.”

You couldn’t help the disbelieving snort that his comment elicited. “Might want to get your eyes checked, if that’s what you’re seeing.”

“I see just fine. It’s reading that I need the glasses for,” he stated.

It was unnerving, being stared at by Robby. His eyes were a deep brown and they seemed to have the uncanny ability to stare through you. It made the hair on your neck stand on end. Being watched was fine by you. Lecturing in front of massive classrooms meant public speaking, being perceived, and observed phased you very little. Robby was not observing you. He seemed to be studying you, and that was more than a little uncomfortable.

“Whatever you say,” you replied a little uncomfortable.

“I’ll get you to like me,” he said, an almost charming smile graced his face. It still seemed a little sad.

“Or maybe you need to be okay with the fact you’re not everyone’s cup of tea. I’m certainly not.”

“I think you underestimate yourself.”

“I think you overestimate yourself. I can’t believe you got that smoking hot woman to go home with you.”

“Paying attention to me, then?” He asked. Clearly, it was an attempt to sound suave, but it missed the mark and sounded cheesy.

“The group chat with all the bartenders was very proud of you.”

“And what about you?”

“I wondered if you were too old to get hard on your own and if you popped a sildenafil on your way out.”

“Ouch,” Robby responded but he didn’t sound particularly hurt.

Another patron walked in and you happily took the opportunity to leave the disconsolate aura Robby seemed to emanate around him. All too fast, the patron paid and you got them their drink. Your book was back by Robby. When you glanced at him, he had plucked it from behind the bar and was reading it.

“Have a sudden craving to learn about reform politics in the American southwest?” You asked.

“It’s a well written book,” Robby commented.

“It is, one of the better books I’ve read this semester.”

“I like your notes in the margin; lots of interesting thoughts and connections.”

“Uh-huh.” You gently took the book from his hands and was about to walk away when he asked with a forced causal tone,

“Do you still have that office on the third floor of the social science building?”

You paused. “Why do you know what floor my office is on?”

“You mentioned once your window looks over the duck pond and the statue of the naked guy with the sword,” he said. “Third floor lines up with that.”

You blinked. “I mentioned that months ago.”

He shrugged. “I remember things.”

You didn’t respond. You weren’t sure how to. Most patrons forgot your name by their second drink. Robby remembered throwaway comments at 1AM while half-drunk. It was certainly a little odd, but no one else in your life seemed to pay that much attention to what you said.

“So do you like it better there than your old one?” he asked.

You stared. “My…old one?”

“The one you hated because the fluorescent light buzzed and flickered. You said it gave you headaches.”

You let out a slow breath. “Why do you remember that?”

He took a sip as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You were annoyed. You get more animated when you’re annoyed. It was interesting.”

“That’s not creepy at all,” you said flatly.

He looked mildly alarmed. “Was that creepy?”

“Yes.”

He grimaced. “Okay. Sorry. I just…listen.”

“To everything.”

“Well, yeah.” He hesitated. “You’re…” He trailed off.

“I what?” you asked cautiously.

“You’re the only person who talks to me like I’m not about to break or some shit, like I’m not some sad old man. You don’t like me enough to coddle me.”

You almost said you do think he’s sad, but stopped yourself. Something about the way he stared down at his drink made you uncomfortable. Apparently your stare and subsequent silence elicited a change in tactics.

“So,” he said, brightening with forced cheerfulness. “Conference are coming up, right? You said you hate them. Are you going to that one in—Chicago? MPSA?”

You frowned. “How do you even know when MPSA is?”

“You were complaining about airfare once.”

“That was in February.”

“It was a compelling rant.”

You gave him a look. “Robby. I don’t even tell my friends this stuff.”

He blinked. “We could be friends?”

“Don’t make this weird.”

He deflated slightly but nodded. “Okay. Sorry.” He was quiet for a beat. Then, softer: “I just, like talking to you. Makes it easier to not get drunk.”

You froze, not sure what to do with that.

He immediately panicked at your silence. “You don’t have to! I’m not trying to pry, I swear. Just, I like knowing how your brain works.”

“You say that like it’s a normal thing to say.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No.”

He considered that. “Oh.”

You shook your head. “Robby, I’m not that interesting.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, almost offended. “You’re the most interesting part of my day.”

He realized what he’d said the moment it left his mouth. His eyes widened just slightly, like he wanted to catch the words and shove them back in.

You stared at him.

He took a quick, embarrassed sip of his drink. “That sounded less pathetic in my head.”

“I really doubt that,” you said.

He groaned quietly into his glass. “I’m going to die alone.”

“That feels dramatic.”

“Statistically accurate,” he muttered back.

Despite yourself, you snorted. “There’s no statistically valid way you could even determine that. It would be based on superficial evidence and the endogeneity would render the model completely pointless.”

He looked up, “What is endogeneity?”

“I am not giving you a stats lecture. Aren’t you a doctor. Shouldn’t you know stats?”

“No. I do calculations for drugs and chemical reactions to drugs. I don’t deal with probabilities. At least not like you do.”

“So how do you read case studies or evaluate the veracity of research?”

“Evaluate the veracity of research?”

“Yes, Dr. Robinavitch. If you don’t understand stats then how do you know if the research paper you’re reading is bullshit?”

“Well, it got published didn’t it?”

You felt your eye twitch. “I’ve never been more concerned for the medical profession than I am at this moment. This is why you guys stole “Doctor” from us, because you wanted to appear more like experts.”

“I think we had the title first.”

“I think you should check your facts. Academics were called doctor during the Middle Ages. Medical professionals started using it when they also spent time grave robbing.”

“You’re very passionate about this,” he commented.

“Yeah well,” you took a breath. “Respect is important.”

“So should I call you doctor?”

“I’d have to defend my dissertation first.”

“What’s your dissertation about?”

“Do you want another drink?” You asked ignoring his question.

“Nope,” he replied. “What’s your dissertation about?”

Letting out a harsh breath you said, “Local interest groups and how to encourage people to get involved in local politics.”

“Sounds fascinating,” he said.

“It does not,” you laughed.

“You can’t tell me what I do or don’t find interesting,” he shot back.

“You would be the first non-political scientist to find anything I do interesting.”

“Their loss.”

You stared at him and he held steady under your gaze. Normally, he’d cringe away. According to your students, you had a severe look that would render anyone hesitant and nervous. But Robby idly sipped his drink and kept looking back at you.

“You’re so weird,” you settled with saying.

“You’re not the first to say and I doubt you’ll be the last.”

With narrowed eyes, you turned and began cleaning up your station. You really just wanted to go home.

-- -- --

You were off this week, trying to meet a couple of important deadlines. It meant most evenings were spent on campus in your cramped but homey cubicle staring at numbers you could barely differentiate anymore. In high school you would have given anything to not do math, now you coded complex statistical models and calculated matrix algebra and derivatives. High school you would be devestated.

But current you, the one who was currently sitting in a too-cold-office space with a sweatshirt and a blanket, was fascinating by the results of your field experiment. It’s why you didn’t notice a group text erupting on your phone.

Priya: Sad Paddington Bear came in and asked about our favorite grumpy PhD student.

Rachel: he looked so sad when we told him she was off this week. apparently our girl has an admirer.

Priya: HOLY SHIT!!! He’s flirting with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life. Again!!!! He’s failing miserably and she seems charmed by it.

Oliver: I can’t believe I’m not there for this. Tell me everything!!!!!!!!

Rachel: she’s probably in her forties if I had to guess. he asked her name and if he could buy “the most beautiful woman in the bar” a drink. it was painfully cheesy

Oliver: did it work?????

Rachel: they’re talking rn!!!!!!!!!!!

Priya: I still can’t believe he has game.

Tanner: Hello all, this group chat is meant for work conversation only.

Priya: Fuck off, Tanner.

Rachel: fuck off tanner

Oliver: you’re a kill joy, tan

Rachel: THEYRE LEAVING TOGETHER. I REPEAT. THEY ARE LEAVING TOGETHER. SPB FUCKS!!!!!

Tanner: I am amazed Sad Paddington Bear has it in him. Guess he cannot count on impressing our grumpy coworker.

You: Fuck off Tanner, you dickhead.

Tanner: Case and point

Oliver: really changed your tune about the group chat there now that we are discussing how Paddington Bear fucks.

Tanner: It is work relevant.

You grumbled at your phone and tossed it in your backpack so it wouldn’t taunt you. So what if you were once again faced with the reality that Robby had game? You didn’t like Robby. He was sad and weird and paid way too much attention to you. Though, the attention he paid didn’t feel creepy so much as intense. He remembered things about you that most of your closest friends couldn’t recall. Not that you blamed them, you just lived in a niche world.

Robby fucking was in no way relevant to the edits you were making to your research nor did it help ease the exhaustion settling on your shoulders. You hadn’t been fucked well basically since you started the PhD program four years ago. It was an itch no one had been good enough to scratch. You briefly wondered if Robby was good in bed; probably not, you decided.

-- -- --

Robby was already at the bar when you clocked in. You were covering for Priya who went home sick, so it was only a couple hours until last call. Robby stared blearily at his empty cup; he didn’t even notice you walk in. Glancing at his tab you saw he had far out ordered his new normal. He was sitting four double gin and tonics deep; a large number for someone whose tab was only opened a little over an hour ago.

“You’re here,” he said syrupily. Robby never slurred, but he did manage to sound sleepy and sickly sweet at times.

“What happened to a healthier relationship with alcohol?” You asked sliding a glass of water with a straw in front of him and taking the mostly empty G&T away.

“I was drinking that,” he grumbled.

“I’ll take if off your tab,” you replied gesturing to the water.

He leaned down and took a drink from the straw. For some reason straws always got the drunk people to drink water. You likened it to a baby with a pacifier. Robby looked particularly sad tonight. You hoped he wasn’t going to talk your ear off. You weren’t sure how to square the man who took home, by all accounts, absolute bombshells, when he was now wasted on G&Ts in front of you.

“You’re my favorite,” he said. He took another drink.

“I’m literally the meanest person here,” you responded. “You have got to fix your self esteem.”

“Esteem is fine,” he replied.

You snorted. “People with healthy self esteem’s don’t gravitate towards people that are mean to them. I thought you said you were seeing someone professionally.”

“Stopped,” he mumbled.

“Healthy.”

“I’m fine,” he replied, his grin was goofy but his eyes were sad.

“Uh-huh,” you knew you sounded unconvinced.

“Do you know what my favorite thing about you is?” Robby asked apropos of nothing.

“No, and I don’t really care,” you sighed, as you began washing cups. You wished he didn’t insist on sitting by the good water spout so you could dishes in peace.

“You don’t lie to protect anyone’s feelings.”

That wasn’t exclusively true. You were far more tactful with your students than adult men at a bar you worked at to make your car payment hurt less.

“Not anyone here, that’s true,” you said.

“I lie all the time,” he announced. “I’m good at it to.”

“What do you lie about?” You asked disbelievingly. Immediately you wished you hadn’t said anything.

“That I’m fine,” he sighed. “I’m not fine. As demonstrated by the fact I’m shit faced on a Tuesday at…” he looked at his watched for longer than a sober man would need, “nine-twenty-seven pm.”

“No offense, Robby. If that’s what you’re lying about, you’re a shit liar.”

“No one else seems to have picked up on it,” he grumbled.

“Don’t you have friends or family?”

“Parents died when I was little. Raised my Bubbe, grandmother. Was the only person to sit shiva for her when she died.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” you replied. “It must have been lonely to grieve like that for her.”

“You know what sitting shiva means?”

“I have met a Jewish person, before yes. I do live in Pittsburgh, you know,” you replied.

“You’re full of surprises,” Robby declared.

“I certainly am not,” you scoffed. Robby just shrugged and went silent. Eventually he said,

“All of her family had already passed and then it was just me. Sitting in the empty house watching distant family members and friends I barely knew putter around while I sat and stared. Seven days of nothing.”

“What about your friends?”

He just shrugged.

“Surely in your many years on this earth you’ve picked up a friend or two.”

“Sure, but I’m great at pushing them away. After Adamson died, after I all but killed him, there was no one willing to put up with me.”

“Adamson?”

“Mentor.” Robby said. “Incredible man. Changed the way I looked at the world. Showed me how to be a good doctor and good man. I think I’ve lost both since he passed.”

“How did he die?” You asked, quietly.

“COVID. I made the choice to take him off the ventilator because someone younger needed it. She died, too. Some fucking doctor I am,” Robby said acidicly. It was a tone of voice that surprised you.

“What a goddamn bitch of a situation,” you told him. “I’m sorry you were put in that position.”

“Maybe if I had been a better doctor…” Robby trailed off.

“What? You could have bare knuckle boxed death and won?” You asked, leaning a hip against the bar in front of him. “Way I see it, instead of death taking them easily, it had to fight you tooth and nail for it.”

“Still won.”

“Always will in the end,” you replied shrugging.

“Then maybe there isnt a point.”

“To being a doctor?” You asked.

“That, or keeping going. What’s the point if we all die?”

“Christ.”

“Sorry.”

“You apologize too much.”

“You sound like Jack.”

“Friend?”

“We used to be close,” Robby mumbled.

This was certainly more desolate that you really had the energy for.

“Dude,” you said before you could stop yourself. It was really none of your business. “You seem to be moderately intelligent, so you should know that you can stop pushing away your friends. I’m sure it’s not easy but it’s not a fact of life. Take some agency instead of letting things just happen to you.”

If anything he curled in deeper to himself and you immediately felt a wave of guilt and worry wash over you. When Robby got like this you always had half a mind to call in a welfare check on him when he got home. Maybe you shouldn’t be kicking a man while he’s down.

“See,” he said, a thick emotion in his voice. “No coddling from you.”

“Give me your phone,” you said.

He handed it over without question.

“Give me the password and someone to call for you.”

Robby gave you his four digit code. And said, “Jack, I guess. Don’t think he’s working tonight.”

You scrolled through his contacts (most of which had the Dr. prefix attached to them) and hit call. Almost immediately the phone picked up.

“You good, brother? You don’t normally call this late,” a deep male voice said.

“Uh, yeah. Not Robby. I’m a bartender at Solomon’s on tenth. Robby’s…” you weren’t sure how to say it, “not good? I managed to get him to give me your name. You able to come grab him?”

“Is he okay? Physically?” The man, Jack, asked. You could hear rustling on the other end and a metallic click before hurried footsteps.

“Yes, physically he’s fine. I’m not thrilled with the idea of him going home alone,” you replied. Turning away from Robby so he could see your mouth or hear you—though by the distant look in his eyes you doubted he was listening. “He’s talking a lot about Adamson and death. He is pretty wasted.”

“Fuck,” Jack hissed. “I know it’s not your job, but can you try and keep him there and mostly alive? I’m like twenty minutes away.”

“I can do that. I’ll try and sober him up some.”

“Thank you. Thank you,” Jack said.

You hung up and disappeared in the back where you knew the staff kept a shitty water kettle for the coffee part of Irish coffees. You quickly grabbed some fries from the kitchen and brewed a cup of coffee. When you came back, Robby was slumped against the bar.

“Rise and shine, sad boy. You need to eat and drink this,” you said placing the food and coffee in front of him. The water was almost empty so you refilled that as well.

“I’m good.”

“Eat the fries and drink the fucking coffee,” you snapped. “I’m trying to help you.”

“You don’t like me,” he shot back.

“Doesn’t matter. I don’t have to like you to want you to be okay,” you replied flicking his forehead lightly.

“Asshole,” he grumbled sitting up and taking a sip of coffee. He coughed at the bitter taste.

“Sorry we don’t have anything good.”

“Probably for the best.”

You continued working while keeping an eye on Robby. He drank the coffee and ate the fries, slowly he was looking a little better when the door opened and a sturdy man in a US Army sweatshirt limped in. He had close cropped grey and silver hair. His facial expression was frantic and worried, but relaxed when he spied Robby stooped at the bar picking at the last couple fries.

“You look like shit,” you heard the man say.

“Normally that’s her line,” Robby said loosely. He lazily pointed at you. There wasn’t a legitimate reason you could avoid the pair, so you walked over.

“You’re the one that called?” Jack asked.

“Yes,” you replied introducing yourself.

“Oh, you’re that bartender,” Jack realized.

“Which one?” You inquired.

“He likes you.”

“He shouldn’t. I’m mean.”

“He’s fucked up that way,” Jack said. “Thank you, for taking care of him.”

“Just doing my job,” you said.

Jack snorted. “It’s not. Can I pay out his tab?”

“Don’t worry about it, the system will close it out,” you replied. “Just get him home safe.”

“Will do and thank you again,” Jack said pulling Robby to his feet. The pair ambled out into the chilly winter air and you couldn’t help but feel the lack of Robby’s presence haunting the edge of your bar.

-- -- --

It had been over two months since you’ve seen Robby. Most of you didn’t think about him. Regulars disappeared all the time. Regulars who seemed one bad day away from throwing themselves in the river also disappeared but you were hopeful his water logged body wouldn’t be found based on Jack’s presence. You had a sneaking suspicion that Robby’s view of his friendship was muddied by his lack of self esteem. If Jack wasn’t a friend you weren’t sure what else he could be.

Campus was close to the major hospital in the area. It was a good thing too, since the thin sheet of ice that coated all the sidewalks had sent many an undergrad to the clinic with a twisted ankle. You were hesitantly walking down a set of concrete steps after your lecture when an undergrad rushed by you and knocked you over.

You felt your feet fly out from under you and the hard crack of icy concrete on your elbow and you slid down the stairs. There was a distance “Sorry!” as the undergrad ran off.

“Fuck,” you managed trying to sit up. Your vision swam and you felt something warm and stick on the side of your face.

“Holy shit,” a voice said. You recognized her as one of the students from your class. “Professor? Are you okay?”

“Sure,” you said, trying to sit up again.

“Okay, maybe don’t do that. Your head is bleeding a lot. Ryan! Ryan, call 911. I think she needs an ambulance.”

“I’m fine,” you grumbled.

You started to take stock of your body now that the initial shock of the fall had worn off. Your leg was curled awkwardly under your body and with a heave, you managed to get it in front of you. Your legs felt fine, though there was a rip in your favorite pair of pants and blood seeping out of a gash in your leg. Trying to move your left arm sent nauseating pain through your body, so you kept it firmly tucked against you. With your non injured hand you tried to feel for whatever wound was on your head.

“Okay, definitely don’t do that,” your student said. “You’re covered in dirty ice, you’ll give yourself an infection. Ryan went to grab someone from the department too.”

As if on cue, you heard the slamming of footsteps behind you and the familiar voice of the graduate program director going, “Oh fuck. Are you all right?”

You were lying flat on your back in the icy concrete. In what world were you all right?

“The ambulance is here,” another voice said. The cloudy afternoon was beginning to get dimmer. Fuck, your head hurt. Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to close your eyes for a minute.

The next time you came to, it felt like the world was moving. There were bright lights, loud voices and an incessant squeaking that made you want to cover your ears. Slowly, the rest of your body came back into focus and you heard a familiar voice say,

“Any LOC?”

A female voice behind you answered, “She’s been in and out since we picked her up. Oriented at first but lost consciousness before we got there.”

“Fuck off, I’m fine,” you hissed, very much not fine.

“I’ll take grumpy and incorrect over unconscious,” the voice said. “Okay, roll her to the bed and we’ll transfer on three. One…two..three.”

For a moment you felt yourself lift and then land on a less comfortable bed. The surface was harder, covered with that weird hospital paper, and colder than the gurney. Your eyes were still closed, but the lights above you were so bright you could feel them—white heat buzzing against your eyelids like someone pressing flashbulbs to your face.

Then came the hands.

One on your wrist. Another pushing up your sleeve. Cold pads sticking to your chest, your sweater no longer covering your tank top. Fingers checking your jaw. Gloves brushing your ribs. Something tight wrapped around your arm. Something else snapping against your ankle.

Too much.

Too many.

Your skin crawled under every point of contact. You tried to jerk away, but your body wouldn’t cooperate.

“This is worse than falling,” you said, and even you could hear the pitch of panic creeping into your voice. “Seriously—stop—just—”

“Mel, keep her talking and calm,” a voice said somewhere near your head. You knew that voice. You just couldn’t get your brain to land on the name.

“Hi there,” a woman said gently from your right. “I’m Mel. You’re okay, you’re at the hospital.”

Hospital. Right. You knew that. But it didn’t help. The beeping. The fluorescent hum. The rustle of paper gowns and gloves. Every sound was too loud. Every light was too sharp. Every hand on you felt like sandpaper over raw nerves.

“I want people to stop touching me,” you groaned, trying to pull your arm in, but someone grabbed your wrist before you got far. The movement sent agony lancing up your arm and you gasped, vision flashing white. “Fucking—ow—stop, stop—”

“Okay, arm fracture, careful,” Mel warned the nurse.

But the hands didn’t stop. They shifted instead—someone pressing down on your shoulder, another holding your chin steady as a light was shined in your eyes. You recoiled instinctively.

You hated this.

Too many people, too close, pinning you to a table like you were something to be restrained and examined. Every nerve ending screamed. Every second of it made your heart slam against your ribs, desperate for space, for air, for control.

“Hey,” Mel said softly, noticing the way your breathing hitched. “You’re safe. I know it feels like a lot. We’re just getting your vitals and making sure you’re stable.”

“This is not stable,” you snapped. You could hear yourself starting to spiral but couldn’t stop. “This is the opposite of stable. Get your fucking hands off—”

You heard your name.

Your eyes dragged to the sound.

Robby.

Standing at the foot of the bed, chart in hand, eyes on you. He looked, your sluggish brain struggled for the right word, not bad. He wore dark scrubs, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. Everyone seemed to be responding to him. You closed your eyes as the room began to spin.

“Look at me,” he said.

You did. Even as your chest heaved and your hands balled into fists.

“No one is going to hurt you,” he said, voice even. Almost detached. “They’re doing their jobs. Let them get what they need, and I’ll make them back off.”

You wanted to argue. You wanted to tell him he didn’t get to manage you. You wanted to shove every hand away and rip off every wire and bolt out of the room. The panic sat high in your throat like you were going to choke on it.

The lights were too bright. The voices were too loud. The touches were too much.

“Fuck,” you whispered, and hated how small it sounded.

“We’ve got you,” he said. “Just breathe.”

You inhaled shakily.

Hand rested on your ankle. The room was still chaos. The light still pierced through your eyelids. Everything was too much, but if you focused on the warm hand that settled on your bare ankle it was almost bearable. Gritting your teeth, you tried to block out everything else except his touch. When you were more coherent, you would find the irony of relying on Robby amusing.

“Mel, give me next steps,” he said, hand still in place.

The doctor stood on your right, her tone soft and low—surprisingly rich, like honey poured into warm tea. “Head lac needs irrigation and staples. Bleeding’s controlled. Pupils equal, reactive, but she’s photosensitive. GCS is fourteen—dropped once en route but came back up. Left arm—obvious deformity, likely distal radius or ulna fracture, maybe both. Possible sprain or hairline fracture in the lateral malleolus on the left ankle—she’s guarding it.”

“She guarding everything,” one of the nurses muttered, adjusting the leads stuck to your chest.

“No shit,” you snapped. “Maybe stop poking me like I’m a Thanksgiving turkey.”

Mel hummed, sounding amused rather than offended. “Conversational. Good sign.”

“She’s always like this,” Robby said, almost under his breath.

You glared at him. “I am not.”

His mouth barely twitched. “CT ordered?”

“Waiting on transport,” Mel said. “Do you want C-spine? She denied neck pain, full range of motion at the scene.”

Robby glanced at you again, his eyes scanning your posture. You realized he was checking the subtle ways you moved—or didn’t. “No collar yet. If her pain spikes or she reports new symptoms, we’ll immobilize. For now, keep her semi-upright so she doesn’t pass out.”

“I can hear you, you know,” you muttered. “I’m not a mannequin.”

“Unfortunately,” Robby murmured, dry.

Before you could tell him to fuck off, Mel leaned closer, casting just a little shadow over your face—mercifully blocking the light. Her voice was gentle but matter-of-fact, her cadence a little off in a way that made you think she thought carefully about each word before she spoke. “We’re going to clean your head wound. It might hurt. We’ll be as quick and gentle as we can. Okay?”

Mel was easily becoming your favorite person in the room. She clearly outlined her actions and didn’t attempt to sugarcoat or mollify.

You exhaled slowly. “Fine. Just…please don’t surprise me.”

“I will do my best,” she said seriously, and you believed her.

An alcohol pad touched the edge of the gash at your temple and you jerked instinctively. Pain flared hot, crawling behind your eye.

“Shit—fuck—” you hissed.

“Almost done,” Mel promised, calm as ever.

Hands were still on your arms, wrists, shoulders—but the one on your ankle grounded you. You focused hard on that one, because if you let yourself feel all the others, you were going to come out swinging.

Robby’s thumb moved—just slightly. The smallest shift of pressure. The subtlest reminder to keep you in your body and not desperately trying to escape.

“Transport ready?” he asked without looking away from you.

“Any minute,” someone said from the doorway.

Mel finished cleaning. “She’s going to hate the staples.”

“She hates everything,” Robby said.

“I wouldn’t hate it if you let me sleep again,” you mumbled.

“No sleeping,” he warned automatically.

“You’re the worst doctor I’ve ever met.”

“Get in line,” he said. His tone was flat, but something deep in it—something only someone who had listened to him talk for hours in dim bar lighting—sounded faintly relieved.

You sucked in another breath, trying to brace yourself for whatever fresh hell came next.

And then you heard the gurney being unlocked again.

The CT was better than the trauma room. It was dark. The nurse gave you earplugs and a warm blanket. You were still dizzy and in a lot of pain, but even without Robby’s hand, you felt like panicky.

The nurse took off all your jewelry and removed everything from your pockets. She started an IV in your arm that you barely felt. She rarely spoke unless informing you what was coming next. Despite the loud humming of the machine, you preferred this to everything else.

Eventually the machine began, you moved back and forth through the machine. With your eyes closed and earplugs in, it was easy to let your body calm down.

By the time the test was done and you were wheeled back into the ER proper, you were given an actual room and no longer in the trauma bay. Mel let you keep the earplugs. A new nurse, or maybe a previous one you snapped at, helped you change into a hospital gown and graciously let you keep you underwear on. Small victories.

Mel came back with Robby and slowly stitched your head wound while Robby looked at your leg.

“What happened?” He asked softly. You were calmer, more coherent now.

“Someone knocked me over on some stairs. Gravity did the rest,” you said. “Sorry that I was such a bitch before.”

“You’re fine,” Robby said at the same time Mel replied with,

“You were a bit mean, but it is completely understandable given the circumstances.”

“Dr. King,” Robby sighed. He was about to say something but your giggles stopped him.

“Dr. King?” You asked.

“Call me, Mel.”

“Mel, I think you’re my favorite doctor. Please apologize to all the healthcare workers I was mean to, for me. I know they were just trying to help.”

“I’ll pass it along,” Mel said kindly. “I’m going to put in an order for pain meds and follow up with Ortho. Want me to finish her leg, Dr. Robby?”

“I got it, Mel. Check on South 15 for me,” he directed.

“Got it,” she replied leaving.

“I can dim the lights and use a head lamp if that would be easier?” He asked quietly. “It’s going to take me a bit to stitch this.”

“That would be helpful. My head is throbbing,” you replied.

Robby nodded and clicked off the lights before he washed his hands and gloved up. He slid on a dorky looking headlamp with magnifying glasses on it. You wanted to make a joke but a wave of nausea slammed into you at the sight of the open wound on your leg.

“I need you to stay still,” Robby said softly.

“Sorry, sorry. I looked too closely at my leg. I think I’m going to puke,” you gagged.

He slid over to the cabinet and pulled out a barf bag. You clutched it against your mouth breathing deeply with your eyes clenched closed. Eventually the nausea passed and you thankfully didn’t throw up in front of Robby.

“Do you need anything?”

“You’re being too nice to me, considering I called you a bad doctor,” you replied instead of answering.

“Water? Juice?” He asked ignoring you. Normally that was your move.

“Water, but I’d prefer the leg to be stitched first. If I open my eyes and see it, I might pass out again.”

“So you’re able to explain nuances of statistics and political socialization, but blood gets you?” Robby asked. You felt the pressure of the needle and pull of the thread, but nothing hurt.

“Not blood, blood is fine. The giant open wound on my thigh gets me. I shouldn’t be able to see my own muscles,” you said gagging again at the thought.

“I’ve never seen you break your composure. Even earlier when you were having a hard time,” Robby replied almost sounding amused. “It’s nice to know you’re human, too.”

“When have I ever appeared not human?”

Robby snorted. “I really don’t think you know how people perceive you.”

“Takes one to know one,” you shot back.

Robby let out a humorless chuckle. “Suppose you’re right.”

“Are you…okay?” You asked.

“Getting there,” he said.

He was silent for a minute and you thought that was the end of his statement. It was more than what you thought you’d get. Instead, Robby took a breath and continued,

“That night, Jack, he took me to a treatment facility. I was there for a week and I’ve been doing therapy and group twice a week ever since.”

“Good for you.”

“Apparently a lot go healthcare providers got fucked by COVID,” Robby said conversationally.

“If I got fucked by COVID, I can only imagine you did,” you said humorlessly.

“I owe some of it to you,” he said after a bout of silence.

“What in the world could I have done? I’m just your mean bartender.”

Robby chuckled. “True, but having a stranger you want to like you, call you pathetic and tell you to get your life together…well, I guess it was the kick I needed.”

“So does that mean you admit you have friends now?”

“Yes,” Robby sighed. You smiled.

“Good. I’m glad you’re no longer sad and morose haunting the end of my bar.”

“Instead you’re terrorizing my ER,” he commented. Your eyes were still closed but you could hear the smile in his voice.

“Your ER?”

“I’m the chief attending,” he replied.

“No shit,” you said. “Why would you care if I liked you when you’re impressive and shit.”

“Impressive and shit?”

“Answer the question.”

He sighed. “I think I’ll pass on that one. Anyways, about done with your last stitch.”

You didn’t push, but there was something odd in his voice. “Can I get those pain meds now?”

“Sure thing,” he said warmly. “Your leg is covered if you want to open your eyes.”

You did and there was a low light in the room, but the bright fluorescents were off. Robby smoothed the gauze over your thigh and you felt his warmth even through the latex gloves. He smiled at you as he departed. Shortly thereafter, a nurse came in with pain meds and sleep over took you.

The next time you saw Robby you were still a little high on pain meds which is what you’ll blame for asking,

“Do you still pick up women now that you’re not a drunk?”

“Christ,” he said. He had just entered the room to check on your wound. “Warm a guy before giving him the inquisition.”

“I’m just curious if you’re still a slut now.”

“I wasn’t a slut then,” he protested.

“See I thought it didn’t happen much because it never happened on my shift. But I compared notes. You picked up a lot of women.”

“It was a normal amount,” he defended.

“Sure,” you drawled.

“I might have been a little slutty,” he acknowledged.

“You have hidden depths. I think we misjudged you when naming you Sad Paddington Bear.”

“Sad Paddington Bear?”

“It’s what the bartenders call you. Although maybe we should have called you a sad gigolo.”

“You’re very nosy on pain meds,” he said.

“I really am. Haven’t been on them before. Lot nicer than feeling all the cuts and scraps on my body.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Stiff, sore, probably embarrassed when my heads back on normal.”

“Nothing to be embarrassed about,” Robby replied with a hand lightly resting on your knee. He seemed to realize what he was doing and removed his hand.

“When can I leave?” You asked. “I want to be in my own bed.”

“You’ll need another neuro test before I feel comfortable letting you go,” he said. “Do you have someone to stay with you? Friend? Family? …Partner?”

“I’ll call a friend. Family is in a different state. And no partner. Who knows, maybe I’m a slut too,” you said.

You watched his lips quirk up. “You don’t like people enough to be a slut.”

You snorted. “That is so accurate. Having someone sweaty uselessly humping me is so boring.”

“Uselessly?”

Once again, you’d like to thank the pain meds for your loose lips. “Let’s just say, it’s been a real lack of skill in my bedroom from other humans. My vibrator? Astounding. She does great work.”

Robby cleared his throat as color washed over his cheeks. “Right, well—“

“If you’re a slut, it stands to reason that you probably wouldn’t be useless,” you thought out loud.

“Okay, looks like we should dial back the pain meds,” Robby said.

“So you are useless?”

“I’m not having this conversation with you,” he stated.

“Absolute babes went home with you apparently more than once. That must mean something,” you mumbled.

“You’re killing me,” Robby groaned.

“Where do you pick up women now that you don’t drink.”

“It’s really none of your business,” he tried to say. You continued talking,

“Coffee shop? I feel like you’d have a coffee shop you go to now.”

He did have a coffee shop he went to now and he didn’t like that you were able to puzzle that out so quickly while on pain meds.

“Look, I think we’re off track here,” Robby tried again.

“You’re hot, you know that?”

Robby cleared his throat and rubbed his hands over his eyes. “I think I’ll send Mel in.”

“I’m just going to keep talking like this. Because for the first time in my life I cannot figure out how to shut up,” you stated. Distantly, you knew you’d be horrified by this later. But it wasn’t later. And the words kept coming.

Robby sighed and sat down next to you. “I’m not going to answer your questions.”

“That’s fine. Your prerogative.”

“So it seems we’re at an impass,” he stated.

“Apparently,” you said. “Although, I do have something to confess.”

“Is it going to make me uncomfortable as your current healthcare provider?” Robby asked tiredly. You snorted.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“All right, go ahead.”

“I don’t like you as a drunk, but as a doctor dealing with me on pain meds, I find you surprisingly charming. Long suffering, for sure, but charming too.”

“That is the meanest compliment I’ve received,” Robby half laughed, disbelievingly.

“It wasn’t meant to be mean!” You protested. “God these meds are fucking with me.”

Robby patted your hand and said, “Once the meds wear off and we check your brain again, I’ll discharge you. I…I am going to write down my number and if you feel comfortable, I just want you to let me know you’re okay.”

“Is this how you picked up the women?” You asked conspiratorially.

“No,” he said. Then almost to himself, added, “This is such a strange version of you.”

“Oh I know. I’m going to be mortified tomorrow.”

Robby snorted. “I’m putting my number in your discharge paperwork, okay?”

“Whatever you say, Dr. Robby. I think I might sleep again.”

“Probably a good call for both of us.”

-- -- --

It was two days post-discharge when the memory of your pain‐medicated encounter with Robby came swimming back.

“Oh fuck,” you groaned.

You were sitting on your couch with your leg propped on pillows and your arm in a sling, still in ratty pajamas you hadn’t changed out of since getting home. A dull ache radiated from every bruise and stitch, and the concussion made the world feel slightly tilted. But none of that compared to the slow, creeping horror pooling in your gut as you remembered exactly what you’d said to him.

Are you still a slut?

My vibrator does great work.

You're attractive, you know that?

You dragged your one good hand down your face and wished you could legally induce a coma. For your entire life, you had always been a little socially awkward. Most of the time your sense of humor never quite lined up with everyone else, your grasp of small talk was a battle fought for in awkward silences. Years of forcing yourself to get better at talking finally made you comfortable, but now you wanted to melt into your couch never to see another person again.

“Who was that?” you whispered to no one.

Part of you, the delusional part, hoped maybe you’d hallucinated the whole thing. Maybe it hadn’t been real. Then you glanced at your coffee table. The discharge folder sat there. Hesitantly, you opened the folder and tucked under the business card for the hospital was a Post-It with a phone number and one line written in neat block letters:

PLEASE LET ME KNOW YOU’RE OKAY. —R

“Nope, it was real,” you muttered. “Kill me.”

You tossed the folder back on the table and stared at it like you were afraid it would explode. There were two choices now: one, fake your death or two, be an adult and text the confident and normal version of Robby who had put up with your drug addled word vomit. Option one was very tempting.

You spent the rest of the day alternately sleeping and cringing. Every time you drifted off, your brain generously replayed another snippet of the conversation in 4K quality. It was easy to remember his hand on yours, the way he so effortlessly kept you calm and from panicking. You even recalled his panicked look when you asked him if he was still a slut. Groaning you wondered if you could smother yourself with a pillow. But he had been so kind; his kindness was the only reason you hadn’t absolutely lost your shit.

(Realistically, you knew Mel would have been able to calm you down, but still.)

You stared at your phone.

“You should text him,” a traitorous part of you whispered.

“Absolutely not,” the rest of you replied.

You sat with that for ten minutes.

Then twenty.

Then an hour.

You almost threw a pillow across the room. “Goddammit.”

You grabbed your phone.

Fine.

You’d text him.

One simple, neutral message.

Something mature, like: thanks again for your help.

Something that did not reference slut discourse or vibrators or the fact that you maybe, possibly, kind of liked him.

You typed:

hey. i lived, thanks for the stitches i guess

You stared at it.

You deleted “i guess.”

You added:

and sorry if i was weird. pain meds are evil.

You hovered over “send” for a solid sixty seconds.

Then, daring to breathe, you hit send.

Three seconds later, anxiety punched you in the throat. You threw your phone on the chair next to you hoping you wouldn’t hear it if it buzzed with his response. Painfully, you stood and limped over to your tiny kitchen. Making tea with one hand took double the time it did with two, it meant you were busy for double the time it would have normally distracted you for. Perhaps, you could still unsend the message. You checked the clock. Five minutes had passed. Maybe he wouldn’t respond. Maybe he was busy. Maybe he’d changed his number. Maybe—

You heard your phone buzz. Fuck. For a moment you stared at the chair, and slowly limped over to it, grabbing the offending device and terrified to see the response.

Finally, you grabbed it.

Robby (unknown number):

Hello. I’m glad you are safe. How is your pain level today?

You glared. Of course he was more normal than you were in this situation. That really annoyed you. He was meant to be the one who was awkward and cringey. You eased back onto the couch with your tea and wrote out:

headachy and sore. the stitches itch, too.

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

Robby: Are you having any new symptoms? • Worsening headache • Dizziness • Nausea • Vision changes • Difficulty focusing more than before

You rolled your eyes.

You: you text like a web-md checklist

Robby: That is perhaps the rudest thing you could say to a doctor. I just want to make sure you’re okay.

You: yeah, im fine. thank you for your concern Robby. stitches are driving me crazy tho

There was a longer pause this time. Then:

Robby: I’m glad you’re better. Have you eaten today?

You: none of your business (yes, a friend brought me soup).

Robby: Sounds like you have good friends. I’m glad you’ve eaten. A good diet and sleep are your best healing assets right now.

You: best healing assets?

Robby: Was that inappropriate?

You: no you just sounded like a dork

Robby: Seems to be something I frequently deal with around you.

You: are you blaming me for your inability to talk to women?

Robby: I can talk to women just fine. Something you have already established.

You: touche. so it’s just me?

Robby: I think it is.

You: do you still think i don’t like you? is that why you’re so weird?

Robby: Partially

You: and the other part?

Robby: I’ll plead the fifth, that. Your stitches should be ready to come out in a week or so. If you don’t want to go to the doctor, I can take them out for you. If you want, that is. No pressure.

You: technically pleading the fifth is only something you can only do when dealing with the government, but i’ll allow it since you were very kind to me when i was an absolute nightmare on pain meds. and that would be very appreciated. ill buy you a coffee as a thanks. and i won’t be mean

Robby: You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.

You: was that a joke?

Robby: Yes, evidently not a good one.

You: i am impressed, nonetheless.

Robby: Please keep me updated on how you’re feeling.

You: i make no promises. im terrible at texting

Robby: I’ve noticed. There has not been a single capitalization this whole time. You’re getting a PhD.

You: if you think about it, getting a phd is really the dumbest thing you could do, so i would argue it’s in character.

Robby: We’ll agree to disagree there.

Texting with Robby was strange. It was strange to communicate with someone you once dreaded seeing. It was very weird for him to offer to take out your stitches for you, saving you a trip to the campus clinic or urgent care; neither option seemed attractive to you.

The next week and a half passed like molasses. Each time you thought your body had improved enough to do an extra chore, or your brain had healed enough to open your laptop, your body aggressively reminded you that rest was still required. Thankfully, a few days into your boredom inducing bed rest, the TV became a viable option again assuming you kept the brightness down and the volume at a tolerable level.

Every so often you would text Robby an update or he would ask for one. You found yourself looking forward to the messages. Not drunk and seeking mental health help, he actually was funny and the maudlin angst had been replaced with the occasional dark joke. One time he sent you the middle finger emoji and you were unironically proud of him.

It wasn’t until the fifth day on bed rest did the occasional text turn into something more.

You: what do i do if the stitches are red and kinda making me nauseous?

Robby: Nauseous because you have a weak stomach or because you think it’s an additional symptom?

You: unclear, kinda been sick all day but i’ve also had a bitch of a headache too

Robby: I’m going to video call. I want to see the wound.

You phone rang a moment after you liked the message. Robby’s face appeared and it looked like he was at home. It was instinctually to search his background looking for any hint of his history that he hadn’t already poured out to your at the bar. He seemed to be sitting on a couch or chair, and behind him was a wall full of vinyl records. There was soft lamp light and the faint hum of music in the background.

“Sorry to bother you so late,” you told him wincing.

“I could have ignored your message,” he replied simply. You wondered if there was ever a world where he would ignore someone who needed him.

“I’ll owe you a whole meal when this is over,” you told him.

“You’re way too poor for me to take you up on that,” he replied, making you snort.

“That is unfortunately correct. Still, I’ll figure out a way to repay you,” you told him.

A faint blush appeared on his cheeks and you couldn’t figure out why he seemed flushed by your words. (Later, upon reflection you would hear the double entendre, but frankly, that was his problem not yours.) Clearing his throat, he said,

“Aim the camera at your wound, please.”

“Okay, I can’t really look at it, so you’ll have to tell me if my camera work is off,” you said.

You moved your phone so it reflected at your lap and the ratty cotton shorts you’d been living in. They barely covered any of your leg, which was useful when you had to change the dressing on your wound. Before it started turning red and weeping, it wasn’t that bad. Now, just looking at it made you sick.

“Can you turn on your phone flash light or make it brighter?” Robby asked.

“Sure thing,” You said, turning on your phone’s flashlight.

“Is it warm?”

“Yeah.”

“Does it throb?”

“No,” you replied.

“Are you running a fever?”

“How the fuck would I know?” you asked.

“Do you not have a thermometer?” he asked. For the first time, you heard a hint of exasperation in his voice. It made you smile.

“Maybe? My mom sent me a care package when I got the flu a few months ago. Let me see,” you told him, turning the phone back to your face.

You eased off the couch and limped to your kitchen where you shoved the box your mom had sent. Propping up your phone against the kitchen backsplash, you rummaged through the box and to your surprise, found a thermometer. It was the basic kind you put under your tongue.

“Gotta love a woman who can’t express her love with words and instead sends a care package to her adult daughter in her thirties,” you said, popping the cap off the thermometer and sticking it under your tongue.

You hadn’t glanced at your phone since aiming it at your leg in fear you’d see something that would make your stomach churn even more than it already was. Now, propped up, you could see that Robby slid on his reading glasses and to your shock and horror, he looked hot. So attractive in fact, you almost let the thermometer slip out of your mouth.

His rugged, slightly scraggly beard was reminiscent of how you’d seen him at the bar, but this time it was due to him rubbing his hand through the hair as he waited for you to measure your fever. Something about the addition of the glasses brought into focus how his narrow face was actually quite enticing. You briefly wondered what his beard would feel like between your legs.

“Christ,” you said without realizing that he could obviously hear and see you.

“Are you okay? You seemed freaked out,” Robby replied. “Is your temperature high?”

Thankfully, the thermometer beeped loudly, giving you a chance to pull it out of your mouth and look at it. “99.6.”

“Not too bad. You sure you’re good?”

“I am a bit freaked about the leg,” you said. It wasn’t a lie, but certainly wasn’t the whole truth. You briefly the revisited the idea of smothering yourself. What happened when you hit your head that made you think Robby was attractive?

“It certainly looks inflamed. I would do a good clean and put some antibiotic cream on it.”

“And what if cleaning it makes me gag?”

“Then I guess we’ll have to amputate,” he said.

You stared at him. “I’m annoyed that I found that funny.”

“And yet, you didn’t laugh.”

“Well, the annoyance won out in the end.”

Robby snorted. “Do you need me to come over and help clean it?”

“I can’t ask you to do that. Plus, I don’t think I’ve annoyed my friends enough about this yet. Why bother the very nice doctor when I could bug my friends?”

“So I’ve graduated from Sad Paddington Bear to very nice doctor?”

“Congratulations. It does not come with a pay increase. But what can you do? The economy is in shambles.”

He snorted and shook his head. “I want you to send me an update on your leg tomorrow, please. If it gets worse you’ll need to go to urgent care.”

“Ugh, anything but that,” you complained. “It’s terrible there.”

“And yet so much better than sepsis,” he replied.

“I dunno, juries out,” you grumbled limping back to the couch.

“How is your head?”

“Hurts and I can barely do anything. I can watch TV if I don’t look directly at the screen, so that’s something. Mainly listening to audiobooks of shit I’ve already read.”

You settled back onto your couch and buried yourself back under the covers you had created your nest from. The view of your camera caught the warmth of your couch and some of the quirky decor including the art print of a woman leading a man on a leash with “This Ain’t My First Rodeo” painted above it. Angling the camera away from the slightly inappropriate art work, you felt better with the section of wall that was now showing. It was a corner of your diploma and photo from a christmas party with your friends. Much more appropriate.

“What have you been listening to?”

“A lot of comedy and re-listening to my favorite book series. My entertainment is purely escapism since I spend most of my day reading, writing, or doing math about politics,” you told him.

“You’ll have to send me suggestions. Nothing I’ve read recently has kept much of my attention,” he replied.

You then delved into details of your favorite book series. The conversation spiraled from books to television to the records Robby had on current rotation. More than that, he asked questions about your PhD, hesitantly, and you answered. It didn’t feel like a weird overreach anymore. Robby really was intelligent and normal when not drunk or tipsy. You almost felt proud of him. By the time the phone call ended, you felt calmer about your leg and less worked up over the boredom.

You chose not to think about it too much.

-- -- --

When the stitches were due to come out, you almost didn’t text Robby. It felt like an imposition. Over the past day or so you felt tremendously better. Your head was no longer one overstimulation away from a migraine, you could feel your brain fog lifting, and movement didn’t hurt much. Everything was still a little sensitive, but the real annoyance was how bored and pent up you were. Still, the relief from getting the stitches removed almost didn’t beat the feeling of taking advantage of Robby.

Robby: Can I come by after my shift ends to take out your stitches? I want to look at everything and make sure it’s healing well.

You: you don’t have to but yes please if i think about having thread in my body too long it kinda freaks me out

Robby: Please send me your address. I’ll be by around 7:30 or 8:00pm.

You: you text like an octogenarian. here’s my address.

Robby: Octogenarians don’t text.

You: tell that to my grandma. she’s a whiz with those me-mojis or whatever the fuck they are.

Robby: That is not a real thing. I think you’re messing with me.

You: i am not. but regardless. see you tonight. and thank you again!

Robby: It really is not a problem. I want to do this.

You tried not to let that go to your head. It was weird someone liking you the way Robby did. Most people, even romantic prospects tended to tolerate your rough personality and busy schedule. Your friends were a niche group of individuals far more focused on their careers.

This was new. This wasn’t bad.

At 7:45 you heard a knock at your door. Slowly, only due to your leg—not anything else at all, you made your way to the door. You had slightly tidied up throughout the day. Being couch bound had made your living room a bit of a war zone. Now you had your laundry going and you’d even managed to load your dishwasher.

Opening the door to Robby was strange. You had seen him in exactly two places and now he was walking into your apartment. He even walked like a new person now. He didn’t slouch or slump or plod. He still had abysmal posture, but there was a surety that had replaced the downtrodden-ness of his person.

He wore dark cargo pants, a black scrub top with a navy blue long sleeved shirt underneath. Said shirt was pushed up to just below his elbows and your eyes focused on his forearms before finally stepping back and letting him into your space.

“Can I get you something to drink?” You asked.

“I don’t drink anymore,” he said.

“Congrats. I don’t drink at all. I have about five flavors of sparkling water and generic sprite,” you replied, shutting and locking the door. “I also make a mean hot chocolate.”

“I’m good for now,” he said. “Where do you want to do this?”

“Shouldn’t that be your call?”

“I just need to wash my hands,” he replied, shrugging. His hands were in his pockets.

“Then let’s do the living room. I’m still a little sore,” you told him. “Kitchen is right there. I even have out my Christmas hand soap.”

You pointed at the kitchen in the very open concept front part of your apartment. There was a small hallway just to the right of your front door that held a small hallway where your bathroom, washing closet, and bedroom door opened.

Your living room was a surprisingly decent size for your rent. It was big enough for a couch, bookshelves and your desk. Your kitchen was narrow, and looked even more so with Robby’s broad frame standing in front of your sink. He thoroughly washed his hands and dried them on a paper towel.

Sitting on the edge of your couch, you watch as he pulled over his backpack and grabbed a smattering of tools. There were scissors, hemostats, and various cleaning wipes and creams.

“Can I sit here?” Robby asked pointing to your coffee table. It was one of the few expensive things you owned.

“Yeah, she’s study enough,” you replied.

Robby sat down. Your shorts were plenty short and you found yourself curious how he was going to do this. He seemed confident and self assured. Dr. Robby was a man who wasn’t cowed by his snarky and too-mean bar tender.

“I’m going to slightly readjust you and put your leg on my lap, is that okay?” Robby asked sliding on his ready glass.

“Yes,” you said breathlessly. He glanced up at your tone and lightly put a hand on your knee.

“Don’t panic. This will be over quickly.”

Interesting, he read the slightly shocked and a tiny bit horny reaction you had to worried. You couldn’t help but be a little grateful. Not trusting your voice, you just nodded at him. He gingerly lifted your socked foot and put it in his lap. The fabric of his pants was scratchy against your skin, but you could fill the heat of his legs burning through.

“This has healed well,” Robby replied. He’d donned gloves at some point after putting your leg in his lap and was manually inspecting the wound. You stared up at the ceiling mostly to keep from seeing the stitches but an added benefit was not seeing Robby.

“Oh yeah, this looks great. You should be fine after we get the stitches out,” he said. You just hummed not trusting your voice.

The sensation of removing the stitches far outweighed any pleasantness from having Robby’s hands on your skin. You tried to focus on way his hand gripped your thigh or the way you could feel his stomach against your foot. Instead when you felt a thread pull through you shuddered and tried not to gag.

“Do you need a break?”

“No, I need you to finish this as quick as possible,” you said.

“Yes ma’am.”

He continued his ministrations and you desperately tried to focus on the subtle smell of his cologne. Or the growing yearning in your stomach for him to push you down on the couch and fuck you within an inch of your life.

That had been a startling realization but one that felt like it was always meant to happen. Another thread pulled through your skin and you heard yourself whine sharply. Not even horniess was getting your through this.

After the last thread was pulled from your leg, resulting in a twitch at the awful feeling, Robby took off his gloves and began putting his tools back in the backpack. Your leg was still in his lap.

“I was going to order dinner, if you want to stay,” you heard yourself say. “I can even watch a full episode of TV now.”

Robby snorted. And then said, “I would love to stay. Mainly to make sure you don’t look at your leg and pass out.”

“I think I’ll be fine,” you laughed.

"You didn't look down once that whole time," he said.

"And therefore, didn't pass out."

You managed to open your phone and scroll through the different food options. Your stomach was in shambles from the feeling of getting stitches removed, so picked the deli down the street. Handing the phone to Robby you had him pick his meal.

When he handed the phone back, he had already ordered and paid with his card details. You scowled at him.

"This was meant to pay you back for your kindness."

"It would feel unethical. I know how much grad students makes."

He had since moved to the opposite corner of the couch. From your propped up position, he looked a little tired, but more than that he looked amused. He was laughing at you. It ranckled you. But it also made you a little happy: sad, drunk Robby would never have laughed at you.

While waiting for the food, you both chatted about his work, your students, how taking time off has put you seriously behind and your unread emails are closer to 1,000 than not. Once the food arrive, you both tucked in.

Eventually, Robby asked,

“What’s the hardest thing about the whole PhD thing?”

It felt like a natural question from the previous conversation, so you didn't think twice about answering it.

“Having to not take criticism personally. Anything I finish, make progress on, or whatever gets critiqued and criticized and studied until it feels absolutely useless. But that’s just how it works—it’s how we make sure our research is the most accurate and representative of the world,” you said shrugging. “What about being a doctor? What’s the hardest thing about that.”

“Oh that’s easy, not being able to save everyone,” Robby told you.

“Yeah, I can imagine that would be difficult to contend with.”

“So does no one tell you “good job” or encourages you?”

“Not in so many words. One time I had a bit of a breakdown and planned on dropping out. My advisor said that would “be a waste” so it’s not like people are needlessly mean.”

“You make so much more sense now,” Robby said shaking his head.

“The fuck does that mean?” You said lightly kicking his thigh with your good foot. He grabbed your ankle and stretched it out over his lap. The movement made you tense but, frankly, you wanted this to continue so you forced yourself to relax.

“You’re one of the most tightly wound people I’ve ever met,” Robby laughed.

“I think that’s the pot calling the kettle black,” you grumbled. Hesitantly, you stretched out your bad leg and crossed it over your good one still rest on Robby’s thighs.

“Perhaps that’s why I know,” he said. His hand rested on your ankle and you tried not to stare at the way his hand dwarfed your not-small ankle.

“And what would the good doctor recommend for that? I hate to break it to you, but it’s not like I can call up my parents and ask them to say they’re proud of me and I’m doing a good job.”

“Someone should,” he said quietly. His thumb began to circle the bone of your ankle.

“I think I’ll be fine,” you laughed.

Robby was silent for a moment before saying, “I think you’re very impressive. I think you work very hard. And I’m really honored to know you.”

For an awful minute, you thought you were going to cry. “Knock it off.”

“Make me.”

“If you don’t I’ll make you talk about something even more uncomfortable,” you threatened.

“You can’t make me do anything.”

“Maybe not, but I’ll try.”

“I’ll take the chance,” he laughed. Robby hand drug up and down your leg. You knew it wasn’t smooth—your injury having made sure you missed your monthly waxing appointment—but he didn’t seem to care. Frankly, you refused to let yourself care, even if it danced in the back of your head.

“Brave considering you think I’m mean.”

“You’re not mean,” Robby said, looking over at you.

“Not what you used to think,” you commented.

“True, but I know you better now. You’re just blunt. It’s nice when you get used to it.”

You snorted. “You absolute liar.”

His hand landed on your knee and reached down to flick it. He caught your wrist before you could smack him. Eyes boring into yours, Robby said,

“I’m serious. I think you’re amazing.”

“You do huh?” You asked.

“Clearly.”

“Then why haven’t you done anything about it? I’m not good at schooling my features. You must know how I’m feeling.”

In an instant, Robby’s expression shuttered. “You did pick something uncomfortable.”

“So either this is a personal thing or I am way worse at reading you than I thought. I’m not wildly inclined to believe the latter since my feet are in your lap and I got a special house call for something I could have gone to the clinic for.”

Robby sighed and looked away from you. “It’s a personal thing.”

“Do I get let in on what the personal thing is?”

“I don’t want you to try and talk me out of it. Because you’ll win,” he murmured.

“If it’s not dumb, I won’t. I’m not a starry eyed romantic, Robby. Sometimes people that are attracted to one another shouldn’t do anything. Just because I want you to fuck me into my mattress and maybe also go on a date, doesn’t mean I’m going to do something bad for me or my goals. No offense, you’re not more important than finishing my PhD,” you told him.

He smiled ruefully. “I just am not good enough for you.”

“Oh, that is dumb,” you replied.

“Or maybe you just don’t know how impressive you are,” he challenged.

“Maybe,” you acquiesced. “But maybe not being “good enough” for someone is an archaic measure of comparability and I get to decide what is and is not good for me. Now, if you don’t feel ready for a relationship after everything, that’s different. But if you’re just worried about being…depressed or mentally ill, join the club then.”

“There’s also the age gap,” he added.

“I’m an academic. I’ve seen far less ethical relationships than a decade and some change. Not to mention you weren't my dissertation advisor,” you told him.

“For my peace of mind I'm going to ignore that last bit. And try closer to two decades,” he said.

“I’m an old man at heart,” you said back. “Doesn’t change the fact I want you to fuck me into the mattress.”

“I really don’t want you talk me into this,” Robby said quietly.

“Then you need to either tell me you don’t want this, which I’ll respect or you need to get out of your own way. I’m in favor of the latter.”

“Can I ask something first?”

“Always.”

“What changed for you? You really didn’t like me.”

“Valid question,” you said. He still had a grip on your wrist. Gently you pulled out of his grasp and wrapped your hand around his. “I am so picky about people. I always have been. But even more than that, no one normal does a PhD and I deal with those freaks all day. By the time I got to the bar, I was over dealing with everyone, not just you. Frankly, drunk you was a lot. But no one is their best self when they’re drunk. Sober you? He’s still awkward, a little earnest but very charming. Funny and confident too.”

“You are very different than when you’re at the bar,” he said.

“I’ll lay my cards on the table, Robby. I like you. I think you’re very attractive and getting to know you has been fun and I hate getting to know new people. If you’re amenable, I would really love for you to fuck me into my mattress tonight.”

“You’re still injured.”

“That’s not a no.”

“It isn’t a yes.”

“There’s one more episode of Bake Off before I’m caught up. I’m going to lay back down and if by the end of the episode you’re still undecided or the answer is no, I’ll respect that. But don’t take yourself out of the game just because you’re nervous that you’re not good enough of whatever.”

“Okay, yeah,” Robby replied softly.

You released his hand and he placed it back on your legs. Pressing play, you settled back to a prone position on the couch. The distracting pressure of his hands on your legs meant that most of the episode passed without you taking in too much of what was happening.

Periodically, you glanced over at Robby. He seemed deep in thought. His brow was furrowed and while he faced the TV, he seemed to stare at nothing. Sometimes his fingers would trace a pattern on your calves and then go still. At one point, you saw him stare at you from the corner of your eye, in a reminiscent way to how he used to watch you while he was wasted. Instead of feeling annoyed, you settled more deeply into the couch and held out your hand for him without looking. He took it.

The episode ended and you couldn’t help but feel nervous. No one liked being rejected and you hoped that Robby got out of his own way. You wanted him. You knew he wanted you too. It was torture to not crawl into his lap and kiss him within an inch of his life.

“Before you tell me,” you said. “I just want you to know that regardless of your decision, I am proud of the work you’ve put into yourself. And I’m not fibbing when I say you’re incredibly attractive.”

“You are a lot nicer than your give yourself credit for,” he said.

“I’m not.”

“Then what was that?”

“Honesty, dick head.”

He snorted. “My head still isn’t fully on straight.”

“Neither is mine.”

“Sometimes I have really bad days.”

“Okay.”

“Sometimes I can be mean, too.”

“Join the club.”

“But I would be lying if I said I didn’t want this,” he breathed.

“Help me sit up,” you said grabbing at his arm. He helped you move into a sitting position, your arm and leg still a little sore. When you were next to him, you kept your legs draped over his and wrapped your arms around his shoulders. “Is that a yes?”

“It’s a yes with conditions,” he told you.

“Ugh,” you groaned leaning your forehead on his shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re still healing. I’m not going to fuck you into the mattress tonight.”

“But Robby,” you whined. “I just know you’re so good at sex.”

A surprise laugh erupted from him. “Thank you. I’m still not going to fuck you into the mattress. I will however, if you want, if you feel comfortable and up for it, I am more than willing to make sure any humping isn’t…I think the word you used was, useless.”

“Yeah?”

“I knew you would talk me out of it,” he sighed.

“Wanna see my bedroom?” You asked grinning.

“You look very proud of yourself,” he grumbled, pulling you into his lap.

“I’m not joking when I say it’s been years since I’ve had good sex. I just have a good feeling about this.”

“Because you saw me being a slut?”

“Nope, because you’re a doctor and I heard you went home with the same person more than once. That doesn’t happen unless you fuck.”

“You’re so strange,” he laughed, dipping his head closer to yours.

“Good. I don’t want you under the impression I’m normal.”

“Never a risk, trust me,” he laughed.

His nose bumped your cheek as he pressed a soft kiss to the side of your mouth. The press of his lips was electric. You grinned and twisted your head to press your lips against his. It was exactly how you hoped it would be. His lips were soft against yours, but each movement decisive. His hands, so warm and large, held you on your waist and the inside of your thigh.

“You’re so soft,” he mumbled against your lips.

“I’m pleasantly surprised by the beard,” you replied.

“I oil it,” he replied placing kisses down your neck.

“Hot,” you replied, sounding strangled as his sucked gently on your pulse point. You felt goosebumps erupt along your back.

He laughed and his hand that rested on your thigh squeezed. You wished he’d move it up, maybe press against your already throbbing core. Instead he massaged your leg and continued his ministrations against your neck.

“Christ,” you hissed when he nipped at your skin. “Already so good.”

“You’re so responsive for me,” he said. “I’ll bet you make beautiful noises.”

“You’re more talkative than I guessed,” you replied.

He pulled back and you huffed, already missing the contact. “I meant what I said earlier.”

“You’ve said a lot tonight,” you told him, pulling his face back to yours.

“That you’re smart and impressive. That you’re a good researcher,” he said before wrapping a hand around your neck and kissing you harshly. “Since no one else seems willing to tell you, I will. You’re incredible.”

“Don’t you dare,” you whispered.

“Too bad,” he replied.

“Can we move this to my bedroom?” You asked, hoping to distract him.

“Please.”

He helped you stand and took a quick look at your leg. His thumb was gentle as he caressed the red, puckered line on your thigh. Placing a gentle kiss on it made a well of emotion rise to your throat. His hands gripped your waist and he stared up at you from the couch.

“You’re breathtaking,” he whispered.

Caressing his face you said, “You’re going to give me an ego.”

“Someone has to,” he said placing a kiss on your T-shirt covered stomach.

“You’re going to kill me,” he groaned, pulling him up.

“How’s your arm?” He asked, following you through your short hallway.

“A little stiff, but mostly healed.”

“Please promise me that you’ll say something if you’re uncomfortable,” he asked quietly.

“Pinky swear,” you said stopping in front of your bedroom holding out your pinky to him. He laughed, shaking his head, and wrapped his pinky around yours.

Thankfully, your bedroom was mostly clean. There was some laundry waiting to be folded. It was small enough that it was only a couple steps until Robby was prodding you to sit on the bed.

“Can I undress you?” He asked.

“I’m not exactly wearing much,” you said smiling.

“I know, trust me,” he grumbled, grabbing your leg and rubbing his hand up the skin.

“Will you take your shirt off?” You asked still grinning up at him.

“Anything you want,” he said.

Leaning back on the bed, resting on your elbows, you watched as he flushed. He was large in your tiny bedroom. He reached behind him and in one fell swoop, pulled off his scrub shirt and undershirt.

“That was hot,” you said eyeing him.

“Yeah?” He asked, standing in between your legs.

You couldn’t help but run your hands up his torso. Dark hair dusted his chest and down his stomach. It led down to the waistband of his pants. Even his body hair was soft. Without a shadow of a doubt, you knew he oiled this as well. Something about the intentionality of that action made you clench.

Lightly raking your nails down his stomach, you watched as his muscles twitches. His shoulders, just out of reach, were broader than you expected. With ease, you unbuttoned the cargo pants and slid them over his waist.

“I seem to recall trying to undress you,” he said, stepping out of his pants and socks all at once.

“I got distracted,” you saying eyeing his boxer briefs. He was only half hard and already straining against the fabric.

“Maybe I want to be distracted,” he replied tugging at your shirt. You lifted your arms for him, so your T-shirt could be pulled up over your head. You hadn’t worn a bra since being couch bound, so he had an immediate eyeful of your tits. “You’re stunning.”

“Yeah? Prove it?,” you goaded.

He huffed a laugh and pushed you back on the bed lightly, before pulling off your shorts and underwear. He kneeled down on your floor and kissed the inside of your thigh.

“Beautiful,” he whispered. “Already so wet.”

“Wetter than I’ve been in a long time,” you told him. He groaned and closed his eyes.

“I want to touch you,” he breathed.

“Please,” you begged. “I want you to touch me so bad.”

In a move that would live in your brain for the rest of your life, Robby stuck two of his fingers in his mouth to wet them before he ran them up and down your slit. The first finger that slid inside you felt foreign. It had been a long time since anyone had pressed into you. When Robby added his second finger you couldn’t help but gasp out a moan.

“You open up so pretty for me,” Robby breathed. “You’re so good.”

His words did something to you. You knew he was doing it on purpose.

“Shame no one else is willing to get on their knees and worship you like you deserve,” he continued softly. He pressed soft kisses up and down your thigh. “Such a beautiful pussy should be kissed and praised.”

The sound you made when Robby began sucking on your clit in earnest was more of a squeal than anything else. It felt like every nerve was focused on the feeling in between your thighs. His fingers worked in and out of your slowly and with a firm pressure that you felt deep in your stomach. His tongue and mouth were far more impressive than you could have imagined.

“Oh my god, you’re so good at this. What the fuck,” you whined, burying your fingers in his hair. You wanted him pull him closer and grind on his face, but his grip on your hips kept you still.

At some point he added a third finger which made you release a choked laugh. With your good leg, you threw it over his shoulder, allowing his fingers to move deeper and hit your g-spot more effectively. The sensation of him between your thighs was overwhelming and you felt your legs trembling just slightly.

You braved a look between your legs and saw him staring up at him. Even without seeing his face, you knew he was grinning at you. Apparently, Robby was a smug bastard in bed. A particularly strong suck had you arching off the bed calling Robby’s name.

“Stop, stop,” you breathed lightly pushing him away. “I can’t cum twice and I want to come on your cock.”

Robby pulled away from your pussy and was drenched with your fluid. He looked proud of himself when he said,

“You really do make the best noises.”

“You really are good at eating a girl out,” you said breathing heavily. “When I am healed I’m going to suck your brain out of your dick.”

Laughing, Robby stood (his knees let out a massive crack that had you giggling), and laid down next to you in the bed. His hand trailed up your stomach before cupping your tit in his hand. Even if you weren’t particularly sensitive on your tits, having his hands on you was a mesmerizing feeling.

You hummed at his touch and pulled him over into a kiss. Your hand ran up and down his side until your fingers slid under his boxer briefs. Unsurprisingly, he was hot and heavy in your hand. He wasn’t quite as big as you feared, but you were glad he slid that third finger inside you.

“You’re so hard,” you said in between kisses.

“We have to talk over this before we start,” he replied pulling back and removing your hand from his underwear.

“Ugh,” you groaned. “You and your consent and safe sex.”

“Would you rather me force you down and fuck you?” He asked unimpressed.

“Maybe not tonight but we should table that idea for later,” you replied rolling on your side to look at him. His ears were bright red at the thought.

“I think you might kill me.”

“Pity, this is a lot of fun.”

He laughed pulled you on top of him. You laid half on him, your head pillowed on his chest. Even though you desperately wanted to know what he felt like shoving his cock in you, cuddling with him was certainly very enjoyable in itself.

“How are you feeling?”

“Arm is a little sore. Leg doesn’t hurt. Emotionally, doing great. You?”

“My knees will feel that tomorrow, but I’m also good. Feeling quite amazing, in fact.”

“I’m glad you said yes,” you told him pressing a kiss on his chest.

“I think we both know that I can’t say no to you.” He sighed. Then said, “I’m clean, I get tested regularly. Haven’t had sex since my last test. Happy to show you.”

“I trust you. I haven’t had sex in well over a year with anything other than my vibrator and was good during my last wellness exam.”

“I can’t wait to see you use this vibrator,” he said. “Watching you fall apart is so beautiful. I want to turn your brain off.”

You snorted. “Good luck with that.”

“You don’t think I can?”

“If anyone could, it would be you. I just don’t think my brain ever turns off. Rather annoying.”

Robby’s hand traced light trails up and down your back making you shiver.

“Guess we’ll see.”

“If you take that as a challenge it won’t be sexy,” you complained. “I don’t care about my brain turning off. I care about this, us, feeling you finally fuck me.”

“Finally, huh?”

“Yeah, I’ve got an IUD, there’s condoms in my side table, there’s nothing stopping us,” you complained poking him.

“You’re injured. There’s a lot stopping us.”

“If you bail on me now because you’re worried about hurting me, I’ll never forgive you.”

“Trust me,” he said. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. One taste of you was addicting enough.”

“As much as I want to see you, if I’m on my stomach on the bed, there’s not much of a chance to hurt myself,” you said.

“I like that,” he said.

“I want you on top of me, though,” you grumbled. “And then when my leg and arm are healed I’m going to ride you like a bronco, I swear to Christ.”

“Whenever I imagined this, I have to be honest, this is exactly how I thought you would be,” Robby laughed as he kissed the top of your head. “So stubborn and smart. The best ideas.”

“Robby,” you warned.

He noticed you never truly told him to stop, and you were not someone who shied away from voicing your opinion on something. He slid out from under you and opened the drawer of your side table. There was a nail file, some tissues, a rather sleek looking vibrator, and a small box of condoms. They were barely within their expiration window. He wondered who you bought them for.

Once he slid the condom on, it took a minute for the two of you to find a position that was comfortable. The two of you propped your hips up on some pillows and you reveled in the feeling of Robby’s body hovering over your own.

The first slide of cock against your folds made you whine. When he finally pushed in, you gasped and clenched at your sheets. He was big and from this position, he was firmly pressed on your g-spot. The feeling of him fully sheathed in you made you released tension you had no idea you held in your body.

Hovering over you, caging you with his body, made your nerves dance and tingle. It was not a surprise to you that you liked a man that could push you around, but the feeling of Robby pressing his weight down—even partially—confirmed what you suspected: you couldn’t move even if you wanted to.

“You feel so good around me,” Robby groaned in your ear. “You’re so good for me.”

“Just like that,” you moaned as his slowly pistoned his hips.

“Yeah? Take it. take what I’m giving you, sweetheart. I want you to know how amazing I think you are.”

Each thrust from Robby sent delicious tingles through your body. He braced his forearms by your head and you felt his chest press down on your back. The pressure of him made you groan into the bed. His mouth was by your ear. You could hear each breath, moan, and gasp he let out.

“Don’t muffle those pretty sounds. I want you to fall apart. Let go for me. Be my good girl,” he murmured.

Tomorrow you could be embarrassed by the way your body reacted to Robby calling you good girl, right now you couldn’t hide the tremor it sent through you. Your pussy clenched around him tightly.

“Good girl does it for you?” He asked. You could hear his smile.

“Fuck off,” you grumbled. He slowed in you until he was just lightly grinding against you, making you whine.

“As much as I love your attitude, that isn’t nice. Don’t you want to be good for me? Tell me how you feel. Tell me how I make you feel.”

And suddenly you realized why Robby was so successful with women he slept with. His whispered commands against your ear sent you to another stratosphere. You were confident this man could make you erupt with the power of his words alone.

“You feel so good, Robby,” you panted, trying to grind back onto him but in this position you had no leverage. “You’re so big and I want to feel it forever. Your pressed against me so well and it’s making me crazy. I don’t want this to end.”

“I’m so proud of you for using your words, sweetheart. Do you want me to keep going?”

“Yes, please,” you whined.

His hips began to move again and you released a punched out groan at the renewed friction.

“Feel it,” he commanded. “Feel me inside you.”

“So good,” you mumbled.

“Not as good as you are. You're perfect. Made for me. Made for me to slide into. Made for me to ravish and worship. Every sound you make. Every twitch and tremor. I’m memorizing it. Archiving it. I want to watch you give into the pleasure.”

“Ah, your dirty talk is insane,” you told him as he began to thrust into you more earnestly.

“You bring it out of me sweetheart. You make me crazy. So pretty, so young, so smart. And you’re letting me fuck you. I want you to feel as lucky as I do.”

For a few minutes there was nothing but the sounds of his hips slamming against yours and his quiet pants against your ear. You wrapped you hands around his wrists that were pressed above your shoulders. It was an awkward position, but you needed to hold onto him. Each thrust of his hips and press of his body made soft groans erupt from your mouth. You found yourself wanting to be more vocal for him.

“You’re so perfect under me,” he grunted. “You fit me so well. Such a good girl for me.”

“Fuck,” you hissed. Your body clenched so tightly even Robby’s pace faltered

“Are you getting close, sweetheart?” He almost cooed.

“Yes, please keep going just like that,” you mumbled against the pillow.

“Ah-ah, I want to hear you,” he said, redoubling his efforts.

“Please, Robby,” you said louder. “Keep going. I want to cum on your cock.”

“Do you need me to touch your clit?” He asked.

You nodded. “Yes please.”

You were sure how he managed to hold himself up and also snake a hand under you to rub two thinking fingers along your clit. Frankly, it was none of your business, because the sharp increase in pleasure make your hips buck. Being caught between Robby’s pistoning hips and deft fingers was getting you closer far faster than you expected.

“Jesus Christ, I’m getting close.”

“Yeah? C’mon, then, be a good girl. Cum on my cock for me. I want to feel you clench around me. I want to feel you lose control because of me.”

“Robby,” you whined.

“Don’t you want to be a good girl for me?” He asked. You could hear the breathlessness in his own voice as his hips became a little more frantic.

“Yes,” you moaned.

“Say it.”

“I want to be a good girl for you,” you cried. In this moment you would have done anything he asked you.

It was only a few strokes of his cock and fingers before you felt your body tighten and sparks fly. It was a slow build up at first, it almost crested gently. But once the orgasm hit, your muscles locked up and each continuing rub of his fingers and movement of his hips overwhelmed your body until you were shaking underneath him.

“Such a good girl,” he growled in your ear as he managed to hold back his own orgasm. “Squeezing me so tight. Can’t wait to cum in this pussy.”

It was another two thrust before Robby buried his face in your neck with a long groan, as he lazily fucked you through his own orgasm. Goosebumps erupted down your back as his beard almost tickled you. For a minute, he was sheathed deep inside of you, blanketing your body with his own.

It felt luxurious.

(It felt safe)

You wouldn't have admit that last part out loud, but there wasn’t a doubt in your mind that Robby’s arms would be a safe place to fall. For more than a few minutes, you soaked in the presence of another person against you, appreciating the feeling of his body heat, the scratch of his hair, the puff of his breathing. It was so human and so monumental.

When he went to move, you whined and halfheartedly managed to pull him back down against you, resulting in his deep chuckle. Some of his weight on his knees, he wrapped his arms around your middle and began to place featherlight kisses along your shoulder making you shiver against him.

“You feel so good,” he mumbled against your skin.

“Same,” you sighed, fully blissed out. “I just want to stay like this for a minute.”

“As long as you want, sweetheart,” he said, continuing his kisses. It almost tickles and you can’t help the shudder that travels from your neck through your hips.

“Sweetheart, huh?” You asked. “I think that’s an oxymoron.”

“You’re not very nice to yourself.”

“I’m just well aware of how I come across.”

“I really don’t think you are,” he said frankly. He placed his lips against your ear and whispered, “You don’t seem to know how every time you walk into a room, you absolutely own the place. Or how everyone turns and listens when you talk. You’re competent and commanding, and more than that you're kind.”

You couldn’t help but snort. “Am not.”

“Don’t know what planet you’re living on, but you go out of your way to make sure bar patrons get home safe, you cover shifts when it’s inconvenient, and you called Jack even when you didn’t have to. I owe you a lot for that.”

“You would have been fine,” you protested weakly. “I’m just being a good community member.”

“I don’t know if I would have been. And sweetheart, being a good community member is being kind,” Robby said.

“I just don’t believe you,” you finally said.

“Then I’ll keep saying it until you do. Just like I’ll keep telling you how brilliant you are and how amazing you are. And maybe one day, I’ll hear you say it back.”

“Doubt it.”

“I believe it enough for the both of us,” he said kissing your cheek.

He slowly peeled himself away from you, and almost immediately you missed the weight and warmth. You heard him dispose of the condom and wander into your bathroom. At some point you needed to move, but frankly, you were still boneless after a good fuck and even better orgasm. Feeling the bed dip at Robby’s arrival, you felt him gently run a washcloth between your legs. It was intimate and caring in a way you were unfamiliar with. Vulnerable in a way that made your throat feel scratchy.

“Let me help you readjust,” Robby said, after finishing. You heard the washcloth tossed into your laundry basket.

You let Robby ease you off the mound of pillow propping up your hips. The bad leg was a little stiff, but not painful as you rolled over on your side. It’s the first time you caught a glimpse of Robby. His skin was still flushed and his glasses were perched precariously on his nose. There was a crooked smile on his face as he leaned over and kissed you.

It was his eyes that caught your attention the most. They always held emotion. You had noticed the pain and heartbreak all those nights at the bar. Now, however, slowly laying down next to you, his eyes were soft, creased with a happiness that seemed to be foreign on his face.

“I’m glad you let me talk you into this,” you admitted.

He shifted so you were wrapped in his arms, chest to chest, nose to nose. The blankets were still kicked to the end of the bed, but neither of you felt cold. Brushing you nose with his, he said,

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hmm. This was very nice. Memorable. I can confirm that you do fuck. And you fuck well,” you announced.

Robby chuckled and pressed a soft kiss to your lips.

“Was that all this was? A fuck?” His voice was vulnerable.

You knew the question was coming, which is why you didn’t stutter over your answer,

“Depends, on if you plan to keep your promise of reminding me how great I am all the time.”

“I think it’s something I could make time for,” he said grinning.

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More of an author's note: I can't remember if I saw the sad paddington bear thing on tumblr or not. If I accidentally stole this from someone let me know and I'll tag and credt. I just couldn't find anything when I looked.

Hope you all enjoyed!

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join the taglist for my stories here.

[thatfictionalwh0re]

How I look at the invisible camera when I specifically look up angst, but all I see is smut

[bobetthebuilder]

Ya know what I hate… when ur part of a fandom so niche that there is literally NO fanfics or imagines out there to read that don’t have smut😭😭😭