masterlist [kiri, she/her, INFP, poc, failed english (*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ*.ﾟ]
DISCLAIMER: be aware of all disclaimers i put in my work. therefore dni if any of my content warnings make you uncomfortable. feedback and criticism are always welcomed but should be respectful
𝙍𝙀𝘾𝙀𝙉𝙏 𝙒𝙊𝙍𝙆𝙎: dating taskmaster | lunchbox | livin' on a prayer | off the race | instinctive | do i wanna know? [most recent]
REQUEST INBOX: OPEN for akotsk
requests are open, take note that it takes time for me to write for that reason, be patient. specify in your request what YOU want the story to be, and i’ll try in the best of my abilities to bring it to life.
things i do not write: nsfw/smut & dark content
Requested by anon: John Walker x reader based on the song Moral of the Story by Ashe . They used to be married with no kids, after tfaws she left him only to come across him during the events of thunderbolts. John attempts to reconnect with her as he never stopped loving her.
Description: You never expected to be blindly sent to kill your ex-husband, but when you cross paths again in looping shame rooms, it’s like going through the pain all over again.
Tags/Warnings: Language. So much ANGST. John being an emotional rollercoaster. Shame rooms. Lots of fighting and regret.
Note: This turned out longer than expected but I loved writing this (my angsty heart is thriving) I'm currently obsessed with this man so expect more about him.
Masterlist
John Walker liked to think he always had the answer to everything. Or at least, most of the time. His brain ran on tactical planning, constant gears grinding with strategy and precision. He was the guy who accounted for every variable, every angle, every possible risk.
But right now? He had no idea how the hell he'd ended up in this situation. Out of all the threats he could've anticipated, out of all the variables he could've ever considered, he sure as hell never expected one of them to be named Bob.
Yes, Bob.
The weird guy that popped out of nowhere, in a bunker buried in the middle of nowhere.
That clean slate Valentina had promised him seemed to be slipping from his fingers by the minute. It was the last thing he could afford himself to screw up, with all his past failures clinging to him like heavy chains.
And yet here he was, stuck with the blonde he'd been sent to kill, a phasing assassin, and Bob.
Middle of fucking nowhere.
"Come on Bobby, you missed legs, arms and torso day" John mocked him, as he pulled him out the elevator shaft they were using to escape.
But the moment Bob's hand touched his, the world around him melted into a black shadow as it shifted around him.
The once warm air went stiff, cold.
When he turns around, he's suddenly back in his bedroom. Those godforsaken walls he once shared with you.
He takes a step forward, his pulse accelerating, and he's met with a scene his mind only replays when he isn't punching someone, when it gets too quiet.
And the first thing he sees, is you.
The ghost of you standing by the bedroom door in front of him, arms folded tight over your chest like they were the only thing holding you together.
It was too quiet, almost, the only sound being the zipper of a duffel bag his past self had thrown onto the bed.
"You're leaving already?" you past self broke the silence, voice so soft it barely reached him.
You didn't sound angry. You didn't even look like you had the energy to fight, not anymore.
John takes a step forward, watching how his past self didn't even throw a glance your way. The prick was too busy yanking dirty clothes from the bag and swapping them out for clean ones.
"You just got here" you mumbled, quieter now when he didn't answer.
John remembered this moment differently. He remembered you nagging, picking up a fight. But standing here now, watching like some unwilling spectator in a memory he didn't want to relive he really saw it, saw ... you.
Staring at him with glossy eyes, looking like not one single bone in your body wanted to fight him that day. You just stood there, still hoping that somehow this time it would land, that he would listen.
"Yeah, well" He muttered, eyes locked on a dirty torn off pair of boots he needed to get rid off. "Val needs me again. You already know how it fucking goes."
A quiet sob was caught in your throat. He saw now how you tried to swallow it, like you'd done a hundred times before.
"I haven't seen you in weeks, John. Is it really that easy for you to leave me? Every goddamn time?" you said quietly.
And fuck, he cursed when he heard it, it didn't even sound bitter. It was desperate, tired.
He scoffed, and let out that bitter, dismissive laugh he always pulled when he didn't want to feel anything. "Jesus Christ, are we doing this again?"
He didn't stop packing, like the answer to all his problems was hidden in a pair of socks rather than just turning around to look at you.
"Doing what, John? You choosing to leave every time instead of fucking talking to me?"
There it was, the anger he remembered.
"Then yes, John, we're doing it again. It's always your need to feel important. Like if you're not out there 'saving the world' you're nothing in here" you finally snapped. The ache in your chest made your words feel sour as they left your mouth.
That's what got under his skin. He saw it in the way his past self stiffened, jaw tightening with that same goddamn temper he could never quite control.
"You think I like doing this? You think I like risking my ass every time to come home to this? To another one of your guilt trips?" He's yelling at this point, throwing the holster in his hand back in his bag.
You looked like you'd been slapped.
"This?" you repeated stunned, pointing at yourself with your hands. "You mean me? I'm this'"
He turned to the door then, finally. But not to deny it, or to apologize or to even spare one single glance at you. It was to grab a jacket hanging on the doorknob.
He didn't say anything. Just grabbed his duffel bag and tossed it over his shoulder like the argument was some inconvenience he could just walk away from.
He keeps pretending to ignore you when he walks past you by the door, but a hand pressed to his chest stops his getaway.
"This is the last time I'm asking you to stay" You warned him. The lump in your throat betrayed you, what you wanted to sound firm came out like a child plea.
He didnt even flinch. He brushed it off and kept walking, thinking he'd come back home in a day or two, bring some takeout and fuck it out like always.
"Jonathan..." Your voice sobbed his name as he made his way to the front door.
Yet still, he never looked back. And neither did you.
That was the day you gave up on him. He remembers coming back a few days later, your favorite takeout in hand, only to find a half empty closet, empty drawers.
An empty home.
And now? Now it burned him watching it from the outside. Watching you blink away tears while he was too busy being an asshole.
His eyes burned, as his heart clawed its way up into a painful knot his throat.
He snaps back to reality when Yelena calls out to him. All eyes watching him, but his were locked in the tempting elevator's dark void.
What the fuck are you doing, John?
They’ll see right through your bullshit.
"Im fine" He said, a little too quick for comfort.
But with a plastic smile plastered on his face, his mask falls back into place like muscle memory.
Once again, how the hell did he end up in this situation?
And because karma seemed to have fun making John Walker's life even more miserable, he'd ended up tied in a half collapsed gas station.
Hostage to none other than Bucky Barnes.
Naturally, he just couldn't help himself to mock Bucky's absurd political position. Though in his defense, the bastard kept gettting on his nerves. They already knew each other, so why was Bucky being such an idiot about the whole Bob situation?
So John did what he always does. He fucked around and, as usual, found out.
"Yes. I know you, John" Bucky’s tone was calm, but the hint of a smirk hid behind his words. "And you've made your choices. I know it's been hard since your wife left you, but that is no one's fault but yours"
The cruel words rolled out his tongue like he's been waiting to throw them in his face since he found him in the blown up limo they'd use to escape.
John just stares at him for a second, then his eyes drift to a particular paint chipping spot on the wall.
Yelena turned towards him, lips parted in surprise.
'I've got a gorgeous wife waiting for me at home' she remembered him saying it back in the bunker.
Liar.
Yelena had believed him back there. She knew a thing or two about John Walker, having read his file, recalled your name and picture being printed out next to 'affiliations'.
Must've been exhausting carrying that rage for two, was her first thought, but she wouldn't say it out loud. Not when he was giving her that kicked puppy look.
Cause he didn't shy away from her eyes, didn't say a thing. All he could do was give a small, tight shrug that said it all: add it to the fucking list of things I've screwed up.
Yelena didnt press further.
He was grateful for that, and for Ava being too busy bickering with Alexei to pester him any further about the matter.
But then, Bucky's stance shifted.
"Shhh" he hissed, hand going up to his lips. Alexei and Ava immediately stopped talking.
In a different occasion John could've laughed at the sight of Bucky Barnes looking like a guard dog about to bite, but if he was tensing up like that, it couldn't mean anything good for anyone. So he listened.
That's when he heard it too. An almost undetectable soft thump, but his enhanced hearing catches it. It was the slight creek of metal, straight above them.
"Someone's on the roof" John said at the same time as Bucky.
Everyone looked up. But before anyone could think about what it could be, the ceiling exploded.
The roof came crashing down in a cloud of smoke and ash. The room burst in chaos between shouting and coughing, debris flying everywhere as a smoke grenade rolled past their feet. All John could see was the flicker of Yelena's widow bites glowing blue as the haze blinded the room.
Then, a pair of boots landed hard on the floor.
He hears some struggle between Bucky and the unknown intruder, and then a thud of heavy metal hitting the floor. It must've been Bucky's arm slamming against the concrete.
Someone had taken him down.
"I'm not here for you" the intruder said, a woman's voice muffled by a mask.
John instantly frowned. Even with the sound of debris falling down and the fighting in the room that muffled voice sounded familiar to him.
"I don't care" Bucky growled back.
The fight went on, blows landing hard and fast. Whoever she was, was determined to take him out.
But Bucky was the fucking Winter Soldier.
John feels Yelena drop next to him, then what must've been Ava falling unconscious as well, as the smoke hit their systems.
"Lena!" Alexei shouts.
"Okay now, what the fuck is going on?" John choked out, coughing.
He hears the fight halt for a second when he spoke.
The intruder recognized the voice. His voice.
You recognized his voice.
Bucky got the upper hand at the distraction, catching your wrist mid swing. He slams you to the ground with a quick motion, pinning you down with his knee and pressing his metal hand against your throat.
You gasped, struggling, eyes wide with fear under the mask. Next thing you knew his gun was pointed at your head.
As the dust cleared enough for John to see the scene, his face turns to horror.
He sees the mask, and immediately knows.
You're about to get blasted into next week by Bucky.
"Bucky–Stop! Stop! It's Y/N!"
John broke his cuffs in one go, his arms fighting against the bent rod holding him back.
Bucky froze, confused. He ripped off your mask, and there you were, gasping for air. Still beneath his knee, throat red where his hand had been.
"Shit" Bucky breathed, when he recognized you. But before he could lift his weight off you, John tackled him to the ground.
The girls jolted back to consciousness at once. Coughing as they sat up.
"What the hell is going on?" Yelena rasped, seeing John on top of Bucky and you standing beside them.
"Man come on, I didn't know it was her!" Bucky snapped, twisting beneath John to shove him off.
You sat up in your spot on the floor, coughing, one hand still braced against your throat.
And then you saw him, that voice you heard. God, it had been years.
"John?" you said, voice hoarse. You wished it really wasn't him.
He pried his eyes off Bucky without loosening his grip, and half turned to you.
"Oh, you have to be kidding me" You curse, a hand covering your face.
It was really him.
You pushed yourself to your feet, ignoring the pain. "Get off him you idiot, I'm fine"
John didn't argue. Just got up and backed off, hands on his hips.
Everyone stared at him like he'd just grown second head. Why didn't he protest?
Bucky immediately got to his feet, annoyed, brushing dust from his shirt.
"So ... who even are you?" Ava asked. She was still tied up and this was getting annoying.
"Y/N Walker," Yelena replied, the name burned into her memory from that file.
"That's not my name anymore," you snapped, too fast, too sharp.
John's jaw clenched, eyes going back to that same chipped spot on the wall.
"Wait, you were his wife?" Ava asked, incredulous. "What, Steve Rogers wasn't available?"
Bucky bit his tongue to keep himself from saying something.
"Ava..." Yelena warned, voice low.
As much as Yelena might've loved to take a jab at Walker herself, she didn't, his expression had left a feeling on her chest that stuck to her more than it should've.
"No but really, where'd you even find this guy?" Ava pressed on, like the idea of you marrying John Walker had personally offended her.
You turned slowly, your glare enough to shut her up for half a second.
"Give me a fucking break, Ava. When you're young, you fall in love with the wrong people sometimes." you snapped, without even thinking.
The words tasted like regret as soon as they came out. And you knew the way John stiffened meant they landed like a blade on him.
His gaze burned the side of your head.
If he'd only looked at you like that then.
"Is no one going to mention she tried to kill Mr. Soldier?" Alexei chimed in, at least the drama was interesting.
"I wasn't going to kill him," you muttered, rolling your eyes. "I just needed to knock him out long enough to get rid of you—"
You pause, the pieces clicking together.
"Goddammit. Valentina." You muttered under your breath.
That bitch. She'd really sent you to kill your ex husband without even telling you. What is he going to think about you? That this is what you'd turned into?
"Wait–you work for Valentina now?" John asked, like the words physically hurt, like he couldn't believe that's the path you had taken.
"It's not like that, John," you sighed, suddenly aware of how many eyes were watching. "I was angry at everything. At you. I figured... if running helped you escape your life, maybe it would help me too."
He didn't speak, but you saw it in his face. The guilt, the disbelief.
Had Val gotten to you the same way she got to him?
"She told me she lost a facility to some rogue agents" you explained, more to yourself than to anyone else.
"Yeah" Yelena cut in, "Because she tried to kill us."
You blinked. And suddenly, it all made sense.
You turned back to John.
“She didn't tell me you were one of them."
Your eyes locked on his, for some reason needing him to believe you. To see the truth in you, if nothing else. He barely nodded, but it was enough.
And then, from the corner, Ava scoffed.
"Pfft... perfect family" Ava muttered under her breath, shaking her head at the lie he'd told.
It had been perfect once, you thought. The dates. The proposal. The wedding. The honeymoon. The house with the porch swing.
The high school sweethearts who got married right after graduation because you couldn't keep your hands off each other.
The partying, the late night drives, the making out in parking lots, it was reckless and "romantic", all that was okay as teenagers.
But running wild has a way of turning volatile.
And then suddenly you were grown ups, trying to build a life, a home, a future. But your boy? he only knew how to fight. Maybe for the country. Maybe with you. Maybe both.
That's what he loved, really. The fighting. The heat.
Screaming, slamming doors and then fucking it off was the usual. The real break? Was when there was no more yelling, the unbearable silence.
Silence in a home you thought was built on love. Turns out it was just paper house you burned out.
All that "marry your high school sweetheart, build a dream life behind a stupid white picket fence" bullshit?
Propaganda. Nothing more than that, a fraud.
You weren't perfect, you knew that. Maybe you were even selfish. But was it selfish to want to be wanted?
To want John to look at you like your company meant more than his next mission?
It didn't seem fair.
You thought you had your lives figured out. But then he was made Captain America. You were there when he went to the army. When he lost people. When the world turned its back on him.
But when he got the serum? It was different.
All that pressure. The eyes on him. Expectations he could never live up to, no matter how right he tried to follow the orders.
And he tried. God, he tried. But the weight of it all twisted something in him.
He started carrying it alone like he had to. Like letting you see the cracks would make them real. He stopped talking, started shutting you out.
And in the end, the silence between you became permanent.
So it wasn't the fight, the heat, or that stupid shield what got to you.
It was the quiet between two people who forgot how to ask each other for help.
—
It all happened too quickly. Even for John.
One second you were helping a little boy who fell, the next he saw you dive straight to push Yelena, shoving her away from a collapsed beam.
You barely dodge it.
But now there you were, in the middle of the chaos, standing directly in Sentry's line of sight.
John saw the way your body stiffened. You knew it. And he knew it too.
You made eye contact with him, just long enough to hold the blue of his eyes. That look, carved into his memory forever, like you were trying to memorize his face, like this would be the last time you'd see him.
He was horrified. He wanted to scream. He did scream your name so loud, so broken, it tore through the chaos and made the others flinch. But not even his enhanced speed could reach you fast enough.
One second you were there, and then the next ... nothing.
You turned to nothing more than a black shadow spilling on the ground.
John stopped dead in his tracks, wide eyes staring at the shadow where you stood. He blinked a few times, trying to make sense of what he just saw.
No. This wasn't happening to him again.
The ringing in his ears drowned out the screaming around him.
Not again. Please, not again.
It was Lemar. It was Afghanistan. It was everything all over again.
It was you, gone.
No, this couldn't be real.
He didnt give Bucky enough time to grab him. He didn't even think twice about it. He ran straight into the void, his footsteps so heavy they tore through the pavement, cracking it beneath his boots.
All he knew is that he couldn't fail at another thing in his life.
When darkness surrounded his eyesight, he crashed onto a wall. His ragged breath was the only thing he could hear as he came to his senses, and realized he was thrown into the same memory, that same room he had stepped in before.
"You're leaving already?"
Your voice behind his back startled him, and he whipped around expecting to see you. The real you. But it was your ghost.
"No, fuck that" John growled, marching forward. "I'm not watching this again."
He grabbed the shoulders of his past self who kept stuffing clothes into the bag like it wasn't costing him everything.
"Look at her, you fucking idiot!" He yelled at himself, shaking his body. “She’s right there!”
His past self looks at him with that same smug, distant, uncontrolled anger he used on everyone else.
John barely had time to react before he was spun around and yanked into a chokehold by himself. His arms crushed his windpipe like a vice.
"Should've done that when you could Johnny" Past John muttered coldly.
John fights to free himself from the chokehold, kicking wildly, clawing at his own arms, struggling against his own brutal strength.
He could feel his breath giving out.
"She’s not here anymore, John" You said, and if felt like adding salt to the wound.
This was it. This was the punishment. Watching himself ruin everything and then being choked by the same hands.
And then, it stopped.
The grip vanished. He collapsed onto the carpet, coughing, gasping for air.
The scene resets.
"You're leaving already?"
"No, no, no" He grunts, dragging himself up from the floor, looking around for a way out.
He spins, breathless. "Nice place, Bobby” he mutters bitterly under his breath, looking around like a caged animal.
He slams himself into the wall next to him, bent shield first. Nothing. The plaster doesn't even crack.
I have to find her. Where is she?
"Come on, baby. Where are you?" He spins again, searching for something, anything. A door, a window, a crack in reality.
His eyes catch on two mirrors standing side by side against the far wall. They shouldn't be there, they weren't before.
Both reflecting something different from what they were supposed to.
Two different scenes.
He steps towards the first one and sees those fucking pillars. The blood stain on the concrete. The day Lemar had–no. He turned his face away violently, he'd save that one for his nightmares.
He turns his eyes to the other mirror and catches the sight of an office. Your lawyers office.
He finds a silhouette across the room, watching the scene unfold on repeat. It’s you. The real you.
He puts his bent shield in front of him and pushes through the glass, landing hard in a new memory.
The crash doesn't startle you. You stand frozen, eyes glazed, watching the scene replay again, the end of your marriage looping in front of you like a broken film reel. Your back is to him.
John doesn't move forward, he can't.
He feels like throwing up when he sees it. The mahogany walls. The glass table. That goddamn vanilla air freshener like this wasn't the worst moment of your lives.
The moment he signed the papers.
You were separated by that long glass table. You sat beside your lawyer, hands fiddling in your lap, eyes glued on him. He was across from you, beside his lawyer.
And worst of all, his past self doesn't look at you. Not even now.
He just sat there, head hung low as he fiddled with the corner of the page. Your fresh signature next to his empty spot mocked him.
He'd told himself that day he couldn't take your angry eyes. But looking now he sees the truth. You weren't angry. You were grieving.
Hoping he'd just meet your eyes one last time. Like maybe if he did, you could still fix it. Maybe he'd remember how he used to look at you, like you were everything.
Like he still had some love left for you.
The pen next to the papers laid untouched for too long. He was dragging it out.
"We just need your signature, Mr. Walker, and we'll be settled" your lawyer said. Her voice slices through the tension like a knife.
It made him flinch, of course she was in a rush. For her, it was another Tuesday. For you, it was the end of the world.
And for him, it was losing the love of his life.
He gathered the guts to finally reach for the pen, signed with one quick stroke, and tossed it back onto the table. The glass cracked where it fell.
Then came the screech of his chair, echoing off the polished floor, and the sound of his boots walking away.
The scene restarts.
John takes a shaky step forward. "Hey" he whispers, voice rough. You flinch. "It wasn't supposed to end like that"
"You just ... wouldn't look at me" You reply, your back still turned away.
"I couldn't" He blurts. "I couldn't see you not wanting me anymore. Wanting to end it all"
You spin around, voice breaking with anger. "Look at my face, John. Did I look like I wanted to end it?–I waited. I thought if you just looked at me, maybe we could salvage something. But you didn't. You never did"
He can't speak.
God, he'd thought about that day a thousand times. About every way he could've stopped it, every word he should've said. But right now? that you're in front of him, sobbing and shaking, he was speechless, too ashamed.
"I tried to be there for you. After the captain America mess, Lemar, the government turning their back on you" You cry, remembering all the shit they put him through. "But you kept pushing me away, like being out there was the only place you mattered. Like having me wasn't enough for you."
"It wasn't like that" he said, shaking his head. "After everything I ruined, the field was the only place I felt like I was doing something right."
You cut him with just one line.
"I'm sorry our home didn't feel like that to you."
The pain in your voice hits him like a train. His pathological need to feel useful, needed, like his skills still held some value, had already taken so much. Then he gave it the last thing that still loved him. You.
"I used to think I knew everything about you" you whisper, shaking your head. "But then you got the serum and it turns I never really knew you. God, I really tried to."
You wipe your eyes, and John feels the earth drop from under him.
"I know I made too many mistakes. But it was real" he says, desperate. "You did know me, you loved me as much as I loved you."
He still remembered everything. The way your laughter filled the room after he made a stupid joke. The way your hands always found his, in crowds, in private, even in your sleep. The way you looked at him like he was worth saving, even when he wasn't sure he was.
"We were never what they made us out to be" you said, bitter. "We thought we were in love, but we were really just in pain."
You lie. Because it's the only way left to protect yourself.
Because you still remember too.
The way his arms felt around you, safe, strong, like the world couldn't touch you as long as he held on. The rasp in his voice when he was half asleep, mumbling nonsense against your neck. The way he made love to you like it was the only way he knew how to say I'm still here.
And the way he looked at you, like you were the one good thing in a world that had taken so much from him.
But you also remembered when it started to change, when the look in his eyes started to fade. The never ending fighting. How the conflict just kept escalating, becoming bigger than it should've.
And it hurt like hell.
He wants to punch a wall. To throw himself into that void he'd seen earlier. He sees right through you, he knows you're lying. He knows you remember as much as he does.
And the scene kept playing behind you, over and over.
"No" He snapped. "We loved each other. I loved you. I still fucking do."
He points at himself with both hands, and that's when you see it.
A glint of silver poking out under his left glove. His wedding ring.
And that's what breaks you.
Because you can't answer. You can't admit you still love him too, not after all he's done. Not when he still wears the symbol of a promise he broke.
He steps forward, hesitating and you turn your face away, but he doesn't stop, not this time. Cause all you ever needed was for him to stay, to fight for you the same way he fought out there.
And now? He would crawl to the ends of the earth if you asked.
So he keeps walking, until he's in front of you.
Your hands cover your face as the sobs tear out of your chest, and his arms wrap around you without hesitation. One hand on your back, the other pulling you into him as he rests his chin on your head.
Your cries break against him.
How could he have hurt you like this?
You don't know how much time passes as he holds you. How many times you heard the pen crack the glass. All you felt was the pressure of his arms wrapped around you.
And slowly, your sobs soften. All that's left is the quiet shake of your chest against his.
"I'm sorry" his voice cracked the silence. This time, he means it with everything he has left in him.
You didn’t respond. You couldn’t.
Because what do you even say when the apology comes years too late? When the damage has already carved itself into the walls of who you are?
So you just stand there. Wrapped in arms that used to mean home. Sinking into a chest that once felt like safety. Trying to remember how it used to feel.
And maybe that's the tragedy, that after everything this is the closest you've felt to him in years.
And it wasn't enough, not now not ever.
“Please…” he breathes, his voice scraping at the back of his throat. “Please, just… let me try to make things right.” his voice cracks, it’s raw.
And for a second, you freeze. Just long enough to feel it, something you wanted to hear too long ago.
Then you pull away, not harsh, but before he can say more.
You don't want to hear it, not his pain, not his regret, not his late promises.
But his hand catches yours.
“Don’t leave me again, please.” His eyes search yours, desperate.
“John, you left me first” You shake your head, pulling your hand but he doesn’t let go.
“I don’t know if I can fix what I broke. And I know I lost the right to ask for anything from you. But if there’s a part of you, even a small one that still thinks of me when it’s quiet, then let me try. Cause I sure as hell think about you all the damn time”
You look at him, and it’s like he finally lets you see through him. Like he finally opened up the gates he shut on your face all those years ago.
“I was so scared” he admits, eyes looking to the ground. “Of all the weight, of failing, of not being enough for that shield or for you. And I didn’t know how to say it without sounding weak. So I fought everything instead, even…even you.”
“I would give anything just to go back to before I fucked it all up. To that night in the kitchen, when you asked if I still saw you in my future… and I stayed quiet.”
You feel something twist in your chest at that memory, the way his silence echoed louder than any fight you had before.
“I should’ve said yes. God, I should’ve said yes.”
There’s too much in you, too much pain, too much tired, too much history.
But for one second, you let yourself look at him. And it’s just your John in front of you. Bruised and begging.
And maybe that’s what love looks like sometimes.
Just the quiet, broken voice of someone asking for a second chance, even when they know they don’t deserve one.
Your throat feels tight, that fight in the kitchen.
You remember the way you leaned against the counter, arms crossed over your chest, trying not to break while your heart thudded like a war drum.
“Do you still see me in your future, John?”
He didn’t say anything. Just looked at you with eyes that didn’t hold an answer.
And now here he was, years later. Begging to rewrite a chapter that had already been printed and bound in the pages of your life.
You take your hand back, gently this time.
“You always had perfect timing” you say quietly, voice steadier than you feel. “Just never when it mattered.”
His hands twitch, like he’s ready to beg, to reach, to hold on, but you shake your head.
“I don’t know what this is anymore,” you whisper. “What is left of us, or if there’s anything left at all.”
His silence says more than words ever could. You let it stretch for just a second too long.
You meet his eyes, steady, unwavering.
“I need you to understand that I’m not her anymore. I’m not the girl who built her life around you.”
He nods slowly. He’s not the same guy who did that to you either.
You take a breath, slow and shaky, fingers lifting to the collar of your suit. For a second, you hesitate, then pull it down just enough to reveal a chain.
A ring dangles there, silent and gleaming like a ghost.
His breath hitches like you just knocked the air out of him. His eyes drop to the ring, and for a second, he forgets how to stand.
You still have it, you didn’t discard it, you carry it with you.
Just like he does.
“You kept it…” he says, barely above a whisper.
His voice cracks like a fault line, and your chest tightens because you weren’t supposed to make this harder. You were supposed to walk away and leave no room for what ifs.
John takes a slow step forward, not touching you, just standing close enough that you can feel how badly he wants to.
“Can I…” His voice falters. “Can I still try?”
You say nothing, just looked at him. Really looked at him.
The dark under his eyes, the tired weight in his voice. The ache of someone who finally understood the cost of his actions.
You bit your tongue. You wanted to say yes, that was the worst part.
And maybe that’s the moral of the story. Some mistakes get made, that’s alright, that’s okay. In the end you choose what you think it’s better for you.
Even if sometimes it meant to throw yourself back again into what once destroyed you, because maybe, just maybe, it’s the only thing that can put you back together.
━━━━━━━━━━━ ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ━━━━━━━━━━━ comments and reblogs save author’s lives, thank you so much for reading <3
Uncle Toji comes around once in a blue moon at family gatherings, but never staying for long. Each visit, you remember seeing him wear the same black shirt and sweatpants over and over again, as if he didn't have another pair of clothes. Not to mention that you'd always find him either eating or drinking. Or even having both in hands.
No one really talks to Toji, and Toji doesn't talk unless spoken to, either. So when interacting, it's usually a miss. Even as a kid you've always wondered why everyone ignored him, or how some of your family members weren't keen on inviting him. He looks scary, sure, but the one time you spoke to him he just seemed like any other person. Like someone who just wanted to be acknowledged. But maybe not.
Despite Toji's looks and how he acts, he doesn't drink anything with alcohol like the other adults. When he's drinking something, it's juice, soda, or water—pretty much anything that isn't alcohol. You have seen him take a smoke break or two at the side of the house before, though, far away from the kids and everyone, really. You caught him once, and he had jokingly offered you to smoke as well, then immediately declining when you actually wanted to.
He's also surprisingly well versed and knowledgeable on certain subjects and topics, and you would've never found out if he hadn't seen you studying. He's good at math and history, and helps you understand the terms by using short, simple words. One time, he had given you information on history for your project after just one look."I didn't know that happened," you'd say, and he would provide you with a low chuckle, amused. "Pretty bad, huh?"
He doesn't look like the type, but he remembers things easily. Except for names. And it's weird because he remembers a lot of movies, new and old, their titles and the actors that starred in it. You started to suspect that he either doesn't put the effort to remember other people's names, or just purposefully forgets. Either way, uncle Toji is confusing.
Like everyone in your cursed family, Toji is nowhere near a good person. He feels cracked, forever in shards, unable to fit back together. Everyone seems to notice. And everyone seems to ignore it.
He's intimidating and strong, but at the same time he can look the opposite, even with his physique. Everyone seems to ignore it. To look away, to whisper and judge. To laugh and mock what they created.
And sometimes it hurts you, too, knowing you could never say the things you want to. You were, after all, still a mere child. And words from someone so young wouldn't do anything, no matter how comforting you could be.
Speaking of comfort, Uncle Toji brings comfort to a lot of the kids in the Zenin family. Which was weird, because the adults do not trust him with a lot of things. All they do is ridicule him, either behind his back, or subtly. Yet even though Toji was confusing, he was more comforting than the fathers and mothers the children belonged to. You could see that he never really minded, gaze softening ever so slightly despite his hesitance.
"You should be a father." You told him out of the blue, causing the man to cough, choking on his spit. "What makes you say that?" A hum. "You're nice." Then a pause. "I wish you were my father instead."
Those were one of the rare times his gaze softened in the Zenin household.
his wife ── michael robinavitch
michael 'robby' robinavitch x wife!reader.
summary: robby doesnt advertise his marriage. so when his wife shows up at ED to discuss their son, safe to say the residents were shocked. now they wonder how the two of you met. this throws him back to when he was a ms3.
content warnings: reader and robby w/ 2 year age gap. thought to be 22 and robby 24 when met, around when he'd be a MS3. fluff. med school robby. lightly flirty young robby. lil mention of mature content so pls mdni 18+. reader is clinical psychologist/completeting masters to be one. lowkey implied fem reader shorter than robby. im short im sorry. he adores his wife like hard. two kids.
authors notes: lowkey med school au and robby who isn't as emotuonally consipated in the show. lowkey wanna do a few bits here and there about their life but not sure lol. inspired by this meme.
word count: 4079
Everyone was aware of the chain that hung around Robby’s neck. It peeked from under his scrubs sometimes. Though, no one knew what might be on the chain. There might be nothing or there could be something. Either way, it was always tucked under his shirt.
Nobody questioned it, never really thought to. He’s a private person. Residents don’t ask about his personal life. But they get curious when he steps out to the ambulance bay sometimes, phone to ear.
Santos thinks that maybe he’s faking to take a break. Whitaker thinks he might be talking to a relative, parent or sibling. Javadi thinks … Well, she isn’t quite sure what to think. But she doesn’t think its what Santos or Whitaker’s thinking.
So when a gorgeous woman strolled into the department, beelining towards the charge nurse with a smile, they were confused to say the least. You seemed to be friendly and familiar with Dana, greeting each other like old friends.
The med student and two residents share subtle looks, watching the interaction.
“Is my husband around?” You asked Dana, glancing around to see if he was nearby. It was never predictable where he might be. It’s not uncommon for him to not answer his phone when he works and you don’t blame him. It’s understandable. But it’s rare for you to show up at the department, that usually means it’s important.
The three watching noticed your eyes wandering, quickly busying themselves. Santos and Javadi looked at the same computer, as if they were reading results together. While Whitaker fumbled with the chart he’d picked up. The two women look at him in disbelief and annoyance. Smooth.
“Trauma one. He’s in a mood.” Dana pre warned you, giving you a knowing look. You weren’t surprised by the fact, very aware how moody Robby can be when he’s stressed.
“Not surprising.” You huffed out a dry laugh. “When isn’t he?”
“True that.” The charge nurse hiffs, knowing you'd understand more than anyone. But you’re able to diffuse him unlike anyone else.
“Alright if I hang around?” You asked, knowing the answer but much preferring to be sure instead of assuming.
“Of course.” Dana assured you, well aware you don’t like to presume but instead hear directly. Everyday is different in the ED. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, just Levi.” You explained, not details but enough for her to understand that something had happened. Your son could get into his own mess these days, he’s 22 and at college, figuring out his life. Didn’t mean he didn’t avoid doing dumb shit.
Before Dana could respond, her mouth hanging open before shutting as a painstakingly familiar voice rang out.
“What’re you doing here?” You heard your husband’s gruff voice, head turning as he wandered up beside you. He pressed a kiss to your head before his eyes returned to your face. Concern was etched across his features, worried that something was wrong. You didn’t show up here without a reason.
Javadi tried to not look invested but she was, Robby was married? Santos and Whitaker thinking the same thing. And this woman is his wife? No way. That can’t be right.
“Your son decided that getting drunk and running around campus was a good idea.” You informed him dryly. This is the second time you've talked about this. Not that you were angry but more annoyed. You had to leave work, because Robby couldn’t, to go and get him from the police station by his campus. “Naked.”
“Why is he always my son when he does something stupid?” Robby inquired in disbelief before shaking his head immediately. It was too early for this, barely 8:30am. “Actually, don’t answer that.”
He knew that if either of you had passed the doing something dumb gene, it was him. He had never done something quite like that but he was the more reckless between the two of you. He didn’t need to have his workplace hear about some of the dumb things he’s done in his 20s.
Levi isn't a bad kid. Just tends to do dumb things.
Javadi, Whitaker and Santos all shared glances in utter shock. This man has a son? A kid? No way. They don't believe they’d heard this correctly.
“Anyways. He’s alright. But he called Jack who called me.”
“Fuck.” Your husband signed, hanging his head low before looking back at you. “You going to get him?”
He gave you a look that said you gonna go or… not to rush you out but instead to figure out why you were hanging around with your shared son behind local station bars.
“Yeah.” You nodded, pausing before you explained absentmindedly. “Letting him sweat a bit.”
“You’re evil.” He commented dryly.
“It’s why you married me.” You grinned.
He huffed a soft yet dry laugh. He won’t even deny it. Your nature was one of the many reasons he’d fallen inlove with you in the first place. He knows how incredible of a mother you are. He’s cherished raising children with you. He’d never seen you so soft and loving. He sometimes still found it hard to believe you had married and had kids with him.
But he was aware that you weren’t going to let this stint slide.
“That’s why you’re here?” He quizzed, almost a little amused, though pissed that his son had done something so stupid. This would be something you two would discuss with him later.
“Partially. But thought I'd tell you before Jack blabs at shiftchange.” You answered, not going to have spoken to him later about this. It was too important. And you knew Jack would’ve let him know this evening. Better if it comes from you.
Jack has been a staple in your kids' lives since he’d met Robby years ago. When Robby had started working at PTMC as an attending, you’d been pregnant with your second child. When Jack had joined a few years later, your kids were 8 and 6 at the time. He’d immediately grown attached, loving them like they were his own. They adored him, not having a day without him since (minus when he’d been in the army and deployed).
As much as he loves them, he made it clear he wouldn’t keep things from you and Robby. Especially when it’s important. He loved them. But he loves you both too. All of you are like his family. He wasn’t going to lie.
“Good thinking.” He nodded, appreciative you’d told him instead of letting him be blindsited later.
“I’ll head out.” You said, wanting to get this whole thing sorted and just get back home. Not like you’d go back to the office. Thankfully your appointments were all via zoom today, it helped. “Hopefully won’t take too long but i’ll let you know.”
“Alright, thanks.” Robby replied, pressing a kiss to your forehead. It was something he always did when you’d separate for the day. “See you after work.”
“I love you.” You said softly, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his lips.
“I love you, honey.”
You waved goodbye to him and Dana, turning back around and heading back to your car.
“You’re married?” Santos blurted in disbelief, unable to keep it in. Whitaker nudged her with his elbow in panic, she should not have said that.
He looks over at her, pulling the chain out from under his undershirt. The chain dangled with a gold band hanging from it. His wedding ring. “26 years.”
He doesn’t hide he’s married. He just doesn’t find himself needing to share that information unwarranted. He loves his wife and kids but he prefers to keep his family outside of the workplace. So if he’s not prompted, he doesn't talk about them.
“How… when … what?” Santos stammered, in disbelief he’s been married. To you. For 26 years.
“You didn’t know?” Langdon quizzed the three as he wandered to the desk, amused at their shocked expressions.
“Don’t act like you didn’t react the same way when you found out.” Dana mused, shooting Langdon a knowing look.
He can’t even deny it. When he discovered his attending’s long-lasting marriage, he was shocked. The man didn’t seem emotionally capable. But must've been wrong. He’s grown to know that over the last few years when he’d seen you two interact.
Robby is a man inlove.
“How’d you meet?” Javadi mustered up the courage to ask, curious to hear how you’d met. Especially since you’d been married for so long.
Robby huffed a laugh at the memory, recalling the evening you’d met. It was forever seared into his memory.
1995.
Robby was out with a couple of his med school classmates for a rare night out between rotations. Being a MS3 was intense, going from classroom to real direct-contact work with patients.
The four of them were mostly sharing how their recent rotation had been. They’d all been put into different specialties. Paediatrics, orthopaedics, cardiology and gastroenterology.
He was mid laugh when his eyes glanced over the room, eyes locking on you. It felt like his breath had been pulled from his lungs.
You were out with friends for a monthly catch up. Since you’d both graduated and begun your career’s, you rarely get to spend time together. The two of you made it a point to organise a once a month where you’re both free to catch up in person. Talking on the phone can only do so much for a friendship sometimes.
The two of you were chatting, discussing recent events in your lives. She was halfway through telling you about an incident at her new job.
“God, can you believe it?” She said in disbelieving scoff. “I mean, who in their right mind thinks that it’s okay to show up drunk and deny the whole thing, it's just dumb to try and gaslight your boss.”
“That’s so fucked. Please tell me he was fired. Or at least suspended.” You said in disgust, already hating whoever this guy was.
“I wish.” Your friend shook her head in annoyance. She went to take a sip of her drink, to realise it was empty. “But I will say that I need another drink.”
“I’ll get some.” You said as you stood up with a chuckle, grabbing your wallet. Though you gave her a playfully pointed look. “Don’t venture anywhere.”
“No promises.” she teased, though not really planning to go anywhere. She was the type to just wander away without prompt. But honestly, so are you. She’s just worse than you, especially when intoxicated.
You chuckled and rolled your eyes at the tease, but accepted it. It's normal for the two of you, the teasing. But you do hope she won’t venture far if she decides to.
You made your way to the bar, sliding up between a tall man and a woman, there being a gap. They weren’t interacting so you took it as a safe spot to choose. It didn’t take long for the bartender to make it to you, barely 30 seconds.
“What can I get for ya?” He asked, leaning forward slightly to make sure he could hear you. It wasn’t too loud but to be safe.
“Vodka lemonade and a vodka coke please.” You asked kindly, always making sure to be nice to staff. He nodded and got to making the drinks.
Robby glanced down at you when he heard the honeyed voice. Oh shit. It’s you. He made an effort not to stare at you from a distance when he’d noticed you earlier. He’s not shy but he respects you’d been with a friend and he’d been with his. He barely noticed the bartender he’s spoken to before, placing the beers he’d asked for in front of him.
“Thanks.” He said to the guy but he made no effort to move. He glanced down at you again, at the same time your eyes had flickered up to him. You gave him a smile before looking back ahead of you, eyes seemingly glancing around behind the bar.
Robby’s attention went back to the bartender as he dug out a few bills and handed them over. He gestured with his head towards you besides him. “Her’s too.”
The bartender nodded, not really having much of a thought as he put the money through, conversing with the other bartender for what you’d asked for to figure out the total cost.
Your head had snapped up towards him, eyebrows slightly furrowed. You’ve had guys offer to buy you drinks, your friend too. Though never had been quite as forward as this.
“That’s awfully nice of you.” You commented dryly, looking up at him. You were a little suspicious. But you can't help but think of how gorgeous he is. It’s not actually fair. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch.” He said honestly, offering you a grin that made your heart skip a beat. Fuck this guy.
“But it got you talking to me.” He added a beat later, that breathtaking grin widening a smidge.
“Ah, so that was your plan, huh?”
“No, kinda just happened in the moment.” He said with a shrug, grin not faltering. It wasn't a total lie. He had been thinking about ways he could start a conversation with you. He normally can do without ease. But you’d made him throw away the idea of using shitty pickup lines.
“In the moment.” You chuckled, a grin of your own forming. Somehow you could tell it wasn’t a complete lie, but he wasn’t telling the whole truth. For not, you wouldn’t question it. As gorgeous as he is, you didn’t plan on hanging around long. You had your friend to get back to.
“That hard to believe?” He teased, having noted you seemed to be somewhat amused.
“Nope, but you can’t tell me you don’t already have a list of pick-up lines ready to go.” You joked, but half-meaning it. He was unfairly attractive and you’re sure he knew it. No doubt he could easily get a girl’s attention.
The bartender placed your drinks in front of you. Thanking him, you turned back to the man you’d been interacting with.
“You got me.” He chuckled, not going to deny it. “But they don’t seem like something you’d be interested in”
“Now that's a line.” You laughed, grin turning into a genuine smile.
That smile? That nearly stopped his heart.
“Maybe it is.” He said with a light laugh, not denying but not having intended on it being that way. But really, anything to make sure you kept smiling like that. He leant his head slightly forward towards you, speaking in a conspiratorial murmur. “Did it work?”
“I’m not at liberty to answer that.” You chuckled, unwilling to admit that maybe it was. It might just be his pretty face. But you weren’t immune.
“Besides, I have my friend to get back to.” You added, gesturing over to your friend. When your eyes landed on her, she seemed to be occupied with a guy. The two close together as they seemed in deep conversation. Good for her.
“Ah, that's one of mine.” he chuckled, eyes having followed where you’d directed and seeing it was one of his friends with your friend. He hadn’t quite anticipated his friend chatting with yours. But it certainly seemed to work in his favour here so he won’t complain.
“Yeah?” You quizzed but weren’t completely convinced he hadn’t coordinated that.
“Not my doing. Promise." He chuckled, raising his hands in faux-defence, sensing you thought it may have been. He meant it, genuinely not having a single thing to do with the situation. But he thought of it as good luck.
Your eyes drifted back to him, eyebrows raised. You looked at him for a few beats before grabbing your friend's drink and one of his beers. “Don’t move.”
He didn’t say anything as you left him, and your own drink. Not a smart move but it hadn’t even occurred to you in the moment. You made your way back to the table your friend was at, placing the drinks down in front of her and her guest. You subtly winked at her before you turned back and headed towards the drink and man you’d left.
As you slid back besides him, he felt elated. He hadn’t felt this excited to just talk to a woman in well … ever.
“Gonna tell me your name or am i gonna have to guess?”
“Michael. But you can call me Robby.”
“I don’t see how that correlates.” You mused, raising an eyebrow at him. You don't exactly see how those names worked together. Robby? You think Robert.
“Robinavitch.” he explained with a chuckle, eyes dazzling.
“Ah, gotcha.” You nodded with another light chuckle. Last name. You told him your name in return.
He repeated your name, letting it roll off of his tongue. He liked it. It was your name after all.
The two of you converesed. You discussed your lives, work, study, friends, hobbies. You discovered he was a third year med student, just completing a rotation in cardiology. He mentioned he liked the idea of emergency, wanting to help people at the hardest point of their lives. You respected it, understood it even. You were hanging onto every word he spoke, enjoying the words rolling off his lips and interested in what he was saying. That hasn’t happened in a long time.
He discovered you had graduated with a bachelor of psychology last year, now practising as such as you worked on completing your masters of clinical psychology. You explained how you want to conduct cognitive clinical assessments for patients who think they might have ADHD, autism and anything else that might support patients understand what is going on inside their brains. You didn’t go into details but you had admitted you’d had your own struggles with mental health. That being a huge part of wanting to support others with theirs. You wanted to work in a few areas of psychology, he had gathered.
You two spoke for hours. Literally hours. About everything and nothing at the same time. You joked, had serious topics at hand and discussed absolutely anything either of you could think of.
You checked the time on the wall with a glance, realising it was nearing 12am. God, you’d been talking to him since about 9, knowing you’d been here since at least 8 when you and your friend had arrived. Neither of you even touched your drinks, both just sitting there useless.
“Not to cut this short…” You said with a light huff as you got up from the seat you’d been on. Eventually the two of you had drifted to an empty table, finding it more comfortable to be seated as you chatted. But he would’ve happily stood there in discomfort if he got to hear your voice. Not that he’d admit that. “...but I should go, it's nearly 12.”
He looked at the clock as you spoke, eyes widening in surprise. It had been 3 hours? That’s how long he’d been talking to you. It felt like it had been 30 minutes. His eyes drifted back to you, not going to argue. He should probably find out if his friends are still here or not. You’d both noticed yours and his friend leaving earlier, so you didn’t need to worry about her being alone.
“Yeah, it was great talking to you.” He said with a soft smile. He was disappointed you were leaving but he understood. And he wasn’t going to make assumptions. Not with you. Other women he may have made some sort of line, getting them to go home with him or vice versa to never see them again the next day. But he didn’t want to do that with you.
“You too.” You replied with a smile of your own. “Bye, Michael.”
“Bye.” He smiled, his lips tugging wider at the use of his first name. Not his nickname. But his name. He watched as you waved and made your exit, eyes trailing you as you walking out the front door. He let out a small sigh, disappointed you were gone. He realised a moment later that he hadn’t even asked for your number. The thought slipped. Likely to avoid the anxiety. He;d never been anxious to ask a girl for her number before.
Meanwhile, the cold air was a welcomed slap to the face from the heat of inside the bar. It was soothing. But you couldn’t help the disappointment you felt. You had really begun to like him. You’d spoken for hours. Not like you’d spilled your entire life story. But still, you thought something was there. Something you hadn’t felt before. Not with your exes.
You became annoyed. Had he not felt that? Or did he? Either way, he didn’t ask for any form of contact details for you.
With a huff, you turned back inside and marched towards him.
Robby was shocked when he saw your figure storming towards him. He had just stood up to go in search for his friends.
“Okay. We have something. There’s this … this… I don't know … spark. It's there.” You ranted, eyes wide as you looked up at him. You wished you could blame it on the alcohol because this was not something you did. But you couldn’t help but blurt this at him. You can be embarrassed later. “We’ve been talking for hours. Literal hours. And you don’t ask for my number? Seriously? What the fuck?!”
His eyes were wide in shock as you spoke before softening. He hadn't exactly anticipated you running back to tell him off. It was hot. A soft grin tugged at his lips at each word you said.
“What?” You asked him in annoyance, arms now crossed over your chest.
“Is it too late to ask for your number?” He questioned, a hint of tease mixed in the hope in his voice. He had wanted to ask but had been caught off guard by you leaving. He was nervous at the prospect. What if you’d said no? That’d have just about broken his heart.
“You’re asking now?” You asked dryly. “Because I yelled at you?”
“First, you didn't yell. You firmly stated your annoyance.” He corrected genuinely but firmly “second, i wanted to but i got nervous.”
“Nervous?” you quizzed, not quite believing that. He hadn’t been nervous the entire time you’d spoken to him. Not openly anyways.
“Yeah. Nervous.” He admitted without shame. “Beautiful girl I've been talking to all night rejects me? That's nerve-wrecking.”
“Enough with the lines.” You responded dryly. He hadn’t really given you lines but that didn’t automatically exclude him from going to use them.
“Not a line. I'm serious.” Robby said, sincerity seeping through his voice. His eyes didn’t leave yours. He wanted you to know he wasn’t trying to be smooth. Just honest.
You stared at him for a few moments, debating if you could trust it. He sounded painfully sincere. You don’t think you can fake this kind of honestly.
“Still want my number?”
Present.
“I love her.” Javadi rushed out immediately, then flushing with embarrassment as she realised she said that outloud. Her hand covered her mouth in shock at her own words.
Robby just chuckled, which surprised her and the two residents.
“She’s incredible.” He commented fondly. His mind reeled with thoughts of you. Both from recent years and the early times of your relationship.
“Careful, you’re sounding human.” Dana joked, though she had grown fond of the dynamic between you and the attending. He was practically a different person with you. Your kids too.
“Don’t let my daughter hear that, she’ll use it against me.” He joked back, having broken out of his thoughts and preferring the humour based dynamic in the workplace. He didn’t need to be vulnerable here. Not about his family.
Before anyone could respond, he headed off. Intending to see a patient, check in to see how his residents are doing. But he’d instead slowed his moments and pulled out his phone, pulling up your text chain.
Husband <3: if he claims he was dared, you’re going to let me eat you out
Wife: if he says that he’s made a mistake and won’t do it again, you’ll eat me out
Husband <3: deal
“I’m sorry … DAUGHTER?!”
He heard the disbelief of his resident, ignoring the question and instead pocketing his phone continuing on his day. He’s the chief attending here. At home? He’s just a man who’s obsessed with his wife.
rules: make a new post with the names of all the files in your wips folder. people send an ask with the title that most intrigues them, then tell them something about it/post a snippet!
Robby raises a brow, but remains with his back turned while looking for the proper injection to administer.
A smile tugs at your lips. "I am."
"Would it be inappropriate if I asked for your number?"
You grin, then softly shake your head. "It would only be inappropriate if I gave it to you. I'm very flattered, and there's no harm in trying, since the worst you can be told is no, but I'm afraid that's the answer I have to give as your healthcare provider."
Robby breathes a sigh of relief.
"Can't blame me, right?" your patient, Shane, asks while rolling his head to the side to look up at Robby. "I mean, look at her."
Robby nods while turning around—syringe in hand. "I do. Every day."
"Lucky bastard," he replies playfully. "Don't have any idea how you get an ounce of work done with her walkin' around."
Robby swings around to your side of the bed before taking hold of Shane's IV.
"Can't tell me you're not interested," he insists, trying to get a reaction out of him.
Robby glances to you while pushing down the plunger. "Alright, Casanova, this'll help you to relax."
McKay nearly walks past Robby, but pauses to follow his line-of-sight to the trauma room ahead. "Is she alright in there?"
He turns to her with furrowed brows and an expression like he's only just suddenly remembering where he is. "Hm?"
She nods toward the room you're stationed in. "You keep staring."
He shrugs while sliding his hands into his pockets and returning to watching you and the patient he can't get rid of fast enough. "Just keeping an eye on things. He got a little flirtatious earlier."
McKay leans her head to the side. "Are you..." She takes a step forward and her jaw falls slightly open while also smiling in amusement. "Are you jealous?"
He scoffs while shaking his head. Still, though, he doesn't look away. "No."
Cassie snorts while walking away. "Sure thing, chief."
"He leaving soon?" Robby asks when you join him between exam rooms.
"Another hour and he should be ready to be discharged."
"And you didn't give him your number, right?" he asks while pretending to flip through paperwork that he's not really reading.
You roll your eyes. "Of course not. I already turned him down when you were in there."
He shrugs nonchalantly. "Just making sure. Seemed to be smiling an awful lot."
Another smirk tugs at the edge of your lips. "Yes, well, he was very charming. And handsome."
Robby turns to you with crossed arms. "So am I, but I don't have your number."
Your snort while your brows knit together. "Do... Do you need it?"
He considers for a moment while regarding the bustling room around you. Finally, he looks at you again. "Yes, I think I do." Slipping his phone from his pocket, he pulls up his contacts before extending the device to you.
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multiple one piece boys
Cuddling Headcanons | @sordidmusings
Zoro, Sanji, Nami, Luffy, Usopp, Mihawk, Buggy, and Shanks
Rushing to your aid! | @worstgenerationloser
Ace, Shanks, and Beckman
ᝰ Dracule Mihawk
“Everywhere is good but home is…” | @undiscovered-horizon
Mihawk is not exactly fond of his in-laws. Nevertheless, he compliantly tags along whenever you pay your parents a visit. If it makes you happy, he’s willing to bite his tongue. For a day, at least.
calling Mihawk to tell him that you’re angry | @theladyofmanyfandomsfanfiction
You invent a ridiculous sword style to tease Zoro, and Mihawk humorously backs you up, turning a quiet afternoon into a chaotic, laughter-filled spectacle.
the warlord’s wife | @sanjisleggy
Sunlight in the Garden | @sunandflame
How Many Knives Are Too Many! | @ageingfangirl2
You are a bounty hunter and friends with Mihawk. He finds your presence intriguing because of how open you are but deadly when you have to be. Drinking some wine together you recount an encounter with a few marines and Mihawk is not at all surprised with the outcome.
The Blade And The Princess | @/ageingfangirl2
The reader is a princess on a remote island taken over by the Marines because her father may or may not have helped some pirates. To make sure the reader doesn't escape, Dracule Mihawk, the greatest swordsman and warlord, was ordered to 'babysit' you, but he gets more than he bargained for because you're not some pampered royal.
Guests! | @mostlymihawk
How Mihawk behaves when Shanks and his crew visit.
This Was the Very First Page, Not Where the Story Line Ends | @alisonwritesimagines
You and Mihawk set sail to travel around the world.
You’ll Be Mine and I’ll Be Yours | @/alisonwritesimagines
Mihawk finally asks you to be his.
worship you. | @romancedawn333
mihawk lays his eyes upon you, turns into a simp. he needs you like water.
A Bounty As Boundless As The Sea, pt 2, pt 3, pt 4, pt 5, pt 6, pt 7, pt 8, pt 9, pt 10 | @rainbowmoonstonestories
Constantly evading capture due to a bounty on your head, you were forced to embrace the life of a pirate, despite your initial desire for a thrilling adventure and a simple exploration of the world. One fateful day, the Marines dispatched Dracule Mihawk to hunt you down, plunging you into a game of hide and seek with the formidable Warlord of the sea throughout the East Blue. However, to your surprise, the man proved to be less bloodthirsty and hostile than you had anticipated. His piercing, hawk-like eyes, shimmering with a deep golden hue, left an indelible impression on your mind, while his apathetic yet self-assured demeanor ignited a newfound sense of intrigue within you.
Imagine | @/undiscovered-horizon
Mihawk prefers to keep work and his private life separate. On one rare occasion when these two have to comingle, Mihawk is rather upset at the attention you attract
A Vintage Bouquet Masterlist | @/gav-san
Trapped in a monastery and threatened with an impending marriage, you'll strike any deal with a Pirate to escape what your father has in store for you. This has some significant consequences when you accidentally marry him.
ᝰ Portgas D Ace
RED HANDED. | @mugiwarie
shanks was just visiting an old friend, but to his surprise, he sees more than one—though the other isn’t necessarily… a friend.
Portgas D Ace | @lumiluffy
you accidentally drool on ace while napping with him. he reacts in the most ace way possible.
One Day, Maybe | @inseobts
a quiet day with a lost child makes you see ace—and viceversa—not just as pirates, but as something far more dangerous: a future worth protecting.
Patching Up Ace's Wounds | @nina-ya
cupid's help | @sanjisprincesswifey
Blinders On | @froggiewrites
You're in love with Ace. Everybody seems to know this but him.
Taking the hit for him | @/grandline-fics
cosmic joke | @gav-san
Having Ace as a soulmate is like dating a clingy campfire with feelings. He’s loud, loyal, and fully prepared to self-immolate if you so much as shiver, mentally or physically. He’s been obsessed since puberty—and yes, he still thinks spontaneous combustion is a valid love language. “If my soulmate’s cold, I’ll just set myself on fire. Easy fix.” Now you are scared and cold.
My Moon, My Sun | @sophville
You and Ace are a thing. An un-named thing. But Ace wants you to know you’re the only moon to his sun.
Firefly | @/sophville
How you meet Fire Fist Ace, Luffy’s brother. Is there something in the Alabastan air?
Stay Close | @fluffshisuga
A crowded dock. A sudden grab. Ace doesn’t use his fire- but he doesn’t need to. Some things burn hotter when held back
Stay Right Here | @/fluffshisuga
It's only been a day. Apparently, that's long enough for Ace to decide you've been gone forever- so your return is met with laughter, spinning, and a hug that lingers just a little too long. Later, when you finally get a moment to relax in the sun, he decides you're the perfect place to nap.
ᝰ Captain Smoker
the jacket stays open | @xoxolaw
in which a few careless comments from recruits lead to Smoker leaving his office very… visibly taken.
DO I WANNA KNOW? | @controld3vil
Tashigi, the new recruit, has already latched onto you like her last lifeline. Unfortunately, your captain isn’t too happy about it.
once every month | @/demonpiratehuntress
there was almost nothing the Marine captain was afraid of...the one exception being you during your worst week
Smoker X New Marine!Reader | @onebitch-aka-piece
Smokeshow | @spinningwebsandtales
ᝰ Buggy the Clown
Imagine | @/theladyofmanyfandomsfanfiction
Imagine Buggy’s reaction when you’re put on the stand…
5 + 1 | @crazy0t
The Five Times Buggy Attempted to Confess his Love and the One Time You Put Him Out of his Misery (plus a bonus at the end)
Better As A Head | @/alisonwritesimagines
You get to know Buggy as you and your friends look for Nami.
Still Better as a Head | @/alisonwritesimagines
You reunite with Buggy in Loguetown.
cosmic joke | @/gav-san
Having Buggy as a soulmate is like dating a bedazzled midlife crisis with finger guns.He’s loud, needy, and fully convinced your silence is part of a long-running flirt bit. He’s been obsessed since the bond activated, and yes, he genuinely thinks psychic balloon spam is an acceptable love language.“If my soulmate’s ignoring me, I’ll just somersault into their dreams in a rhinestone thong. Easy fix.”Now you are being haunted by glitter.
Found Treasure | @/writinggodess
ᝰ Red Haired Shanks
Better the Devil You Know, Than Your Pirate Soulmate | @ghostiequill
You've never believed in soulmates, until a certain red-haired pirate kidnaps you from your wedding, insisting you're his.
Ok so significant other is injured. Trips or falls, and the men have to be summoned. What is going through their minds. Little angsty after those lovely fluffy blurbs
thank u <333 hope you like it!
AKOTSK MEN - REACTING TO THE NEWS ABOUT YOU BEING INJURED
baelor
When they tell Baelor you fell and injured your ankle, he stops what he's doing immediately. In the middle of a council meeting? Some other matter that needs his attending? Nothing is more important than rushing to your side. My love, he sits right next to you in bed, does it hurt too terribly? You try to seem collected, but when he looks at you like he will crumble if you are hurting too bad, you stop resisting your tears. Baelor has to kiss them off your cheeks as the maester tends to you and reassure you that you will be okay.
maekar
Maekar's first instinct is to question the poor maid who brought him the news. She knows nothing, but he keeps asking questions as he walks quickly to your chambers. He grumbles the entire way, even curses the guards at your door. Someone should remind him that it is you who needs to be calmed down, not him. He relaxes when he sees you lying on your bed as the maester checks your ankle. He was picturing the worst case scenario the entire way. You will be my death, he whispers as he settles down next to you after everyone else leaves, almost had a heart attack on the way here.
valarr
Valarr runs in the corridors to get to you. His calm and collected attitude dissolves, he runs as if the entire keep is under attack. What happened? he asks, holding your hand on the sheets, are you alright? Is it broken? Does it hurt too much? My sweet girl, I apologize for not being with you. You have to assure him that you feel alright, only hurting a little, but the maester will give you something for the pain. You even kiss his cheek as you tell him he cannot always be by your side and accidents happen sometimes. He lets out the breath he has been holding, gives you a kiss back.
aerion
Aerion feels this protective urge hit him when he finds out. He walks in slow and steady steps, taking the news in, planning to punish anyone who is responsible for your accident. Tell me, he demands as he watches the maester tending you, did someone push you? Who did this to you? He will gladly punish anyone who dares to touch you, you need to tell him you just fell down. I am in pain, stop questioning me, you say, come here. He settles down next to you with a whispered curse, stares at your swollen ankle. Give me a kiss, you say just as demanding as he is, stop asking for names to punish innocent people. He has to do as you say, you are in pain after all.
firelord!zuko bids you farewell to help the avatar.. it’s been a first time in a longg time he’ll be away from the palace, from his advisors, from you!! you’ll try to persuade him to stay, but it doesn’t matter, he’s already set on leaving. you even joke that him leaving would actually be a good thing as everyone likes you wayy more than him (respectfully).
imagine rhat will set him off, firelord!zuko will just give you a look, showing you what he wants to say without even saying it. man will you the driest response and says we’ll see about that… when in fact, firelord!zuko comes back, he’ll first notice how much livelier the palace feels. he watches as you passed by servants, maids, advisors, all offering you smiles and gestures. and as a way to cope, he’ll just pout about it and not say anything.
i don’t think i have the strength to write this or not but just imagine it for a second 😭
The break room is one of the few places in the ED that ever feels still, even when the rest of the department is humming just beyond the walls, the low buzz of monitors and voices muffled just enough to give the illusion of quiet as you stand at the counter, waiting for the coffee machine to finish its slow, sputtering drip. You lean one hip against the edge, arms loosely crossed, your eyes half-focused on the dark liquid filling the cup as your mind runs ahead of you, patients, staffing, the board, the thousand small decisions that never quite stop, even when you try to give yourself a minute. The door opens behind you.
“Hey,” you say, reaching forward to grab your cup as the machine finishes.
Dr. Mel King doesn’t answer immediately, which is enough to make you glance over your shoulder. She looks… off. Not wrecked. Not frantic. But quieter than usual, her energy pulled inward in a way that doesn’t fit her.
“Hey,” she replies after a second, moving toward the fridge like she forgot why she came in here halfway through getting there.
You straighten slightly, watching her, your tone shifting without making a big deal out of it.
“You good?” you ask, calm, easy, giving her space to either brush it off or step into it.
She huffs a small breath, pulling the fridge open and staring into it like the answer might be in there.
“Yeah,” she says automatically.
You don’t call it out. You just take a sip of your coffee and lean back against the counter again.
“Okay,” you reply.
A beat passes.
“My sister is sleeping with her boyfriend.”
The words come out flat, like she’s testing them out loud for the first time. You blink once, processing.
“Becca?” you ask gently.
She nods, still facing the fridge even though she’s not looking at anything inside it anymore.
“Yeah. Becca.”
You shift your weight, softer now.
“And… that’s upsetting because…?” you prompt, giving her room to define it instead of assuming.
She shuts the fridge and leans back against it, arms crossing tight over her chest.
“Because it’s… serious,” she says, searching for the right words. “Like, six months, meeting parents, talking about moving in, into the same apartment but still, that kind of thing.”
You nod slowly.
“Okay,” you say. “So not casual.”
“Not casual,” she echoes, shaking her head. “And she’s just… fine. Like this is what people do. Like this is normal.”
There’s something sharper in her voice now, something closer to frustration than hurt.
“And you don’t think it is,” you say.
“I don’t know,” she admits, her shoulders dropping slightly. “I just—” she exhales, running a hand through her hair, “it makes me feel like I’m… behind or something.”
You tilt your head slightly.
“Behind?”
“Yeah,” she says, finally looking at you. “Like everyone else is out there having these relationships, figuring out their lives, and I’m just… here. Working. Existing. Not even close to any of that.”
That lands differently now. Not betrayal. Not heartbreak. Just… comparison. And that quiet, creeping feeling of being left out of something you’re not even sure you want yet. You push off the counter slightly, closing the distance just enough to make it feel less like a lecture and more like a conversation.
“You’re not behind,” you say, your tone even and certain.
She lets out a breath. “Feels like it.”
“I know,” you reply. “But that doesn’t make it true.”
She watches you, skeptical but listening.
“You’re in residency,” you continue. “You’re working hours that would break most people, you’re carrying patients, making decisions that actually matter, and still showing up every day ready to do it again. That’s not ‘behind,’ Mel. That’s… a lot.”
She shifts slightly, some of the tension easing out of her shoulders.
“And your sister choosing to be in a relationship,” you add gently, “doesn’t mean you’re missing something. It just means you’re in a different season.”
She huffs a small breath. “That’s a very nice way of saying I have no life.”
You smile faintly. “It’s a very accurate way of saying your life just looks different right now.”
That gets the smallest hint of a real reaction, the edge of a smile that doesn’t quite fully form but lingers.
“I don’t even know if I want that yet,” she admits. “That’s the stupid part.”
“Then it’s not stupid,” you say simply. “It’s honest.”
She looks at you again, something in her expression softer now, less defensive.
Before she can respond, “Trauma, five minutes out!”
Dana’s voice cuts through from just outside, sharp and immediate, pulling both of you back into the reality waiting on the other side. You glance toward the door, then back at Mel. You reach for your coffee, taking one last sip before setting it down.
“Hey,” you say, catching her attention again.
She looks at you, a little more grounded than she was a few minutes ago.
“It’s going to work out,” you tell her. “And if you need to talk, really talk, I’m here. Okay?”
She nods, small but real.
“Okay.”
“You’re not alone,” you add.
That lands. You can see it.
“Thanks,” she says quietly.
You give her a small nod, then turn and head for the door, stepping back into the noise and movement of the ED, but when you glance back once before leaving, he looks a little lighter. And for now, that’s enough.
******
The nurses’ station is one of those places that never truly quiets, even in the rare moments when no one is actively shouting for labs or calling out a blood pressure or chasing down a transport, because there is always the underlying hum of the department pressing in from every side, monitors chirping, phones ringing, printers spitting out papers no one wants, and somewhere beneath all of it the constant awareness that the next thing can go bad in a second.
You are charting and monitoring, which means your brain is split in twelve directions at once, one eye on the board, another on staffing, another somehow on room turnover and the attending coverage and which nurse is about to lose patience with which resident, your pen tapping once against the clipboard in your hand as you update something and then immediately move on to the next problem before the first is even fully solved.
That is why, at first, you almost miss the sigh. It is not quiet, exactly. It is theatrical enough that it cuts through your concentration, heavy and deliberate and meant to be heard, and when you glance up, you find Samira planted at the edge of the station, looking as though the world has specifically and personally offended her.
You keep working, eyes moving from the board to the chart in your hand and back again, but your voice softens with easy familiarity. “That was dramatic even for you. What’s wrong?”
Samira exhales again, this time with more purpose, leaning one hip against the counter and folding her arms across her chest in a way that tells you this is not a passing complaint but a full grievance she intends to air out.
“My mother,” she says darkly, as if that alone should explain everything.
You glance sideways at her. “That sounds promising.”
“It isn’t,” she says. “She is marrying some man from New Jersey and selling my childhood home.”
That gets more of your attention. You look up fully now, brows lifting slightly. “Marrying?”
“Yes,” Samira says, clearly offended by the concept itself. “As if she has completely lost her mind. She met him, what, a year and a half ago, and suddenly she is willing to unload the house I grew up in so she can move into his terrible little coastal fantasy or wherever the hell he lives.”
You cap your pen and set the clipboard down, giving her more of your focus now that you can tell this is not just irritation but something deeper, something tangled up in memory and change and the strange grief that comes when the places you thought were permanent start disappearing.
“You think he’s awful?” you ask gently.
“I think,” Samira says, lifting one shoulder with sharp, dismissive precision, “that any man willing to marry my mother at this stage in life is either deeply suspect or unbelievably dull.”
You cannot help it. You smile.
Samira catches it immediately and narrows her eyes. “Do not laugh at me.”
“I’m not laughing at you,” you say, though your tone gives away that you are at least a little amused. “I’m just not sure you’re being entirely fair to this poor man who, for all you know, could be lovely.”
“He is from New Jersey,” she says, deadpan. “That already puts him at a disadvantage.”
You laugh outright then, low and brief, and shake your head. “Maybe your mother just wants company.”
Samira’s expression shifts, not much, but enough for you to see the sore spot under the annoyance. She looks away, gaze skimming over the board before she says, quieter and more cutting than before, “Doesn’t everyone?”
The question hangs there for a moment, fuller than the words themselves. You study her face, and then answer in the same calm, even tone you use with frightened patients and overtired residents and anyone else who needs steadiness more than reaction. “Yeah. I think most people do.”
Samira lets out a short breath through her nose and shakes her head. “Well, Dr. Robby clearly doesn’t.”
The words are out before she means to let them be, and you can tell instantly by the way she stiffens, the way her mouth presses flat as her eyes flick to yours in immediate regret.
“Oh God,” she says, straightening. “I didn’t mean—”
You stop her with a small shake of your head and a quiet look. “What did he do?”
She hesitates, and for a second you think she might backtrack, might give you some vague version of nothing, but then her shoulders slump a little and she looks more tired than irritated.
“He called me slow,” she says. “Again.”
Your expression changes before you can help it, not dramatic, not enough to inflame it, but enough that she notices.
Samira gives a humorless laugh and rubs her palm against the counter. “I was talking through fellowship options with him earlier. I said I’ve been thinking about geriatrics and before I could even really get through the pros and cons, he said I’d probably be good at it.”
You nod once. “You would.”
She looks at you sharply, and then continues, voice dry and wounded all at once. “That’s what he said too. But apparently because it’s a slower pace.” She pauses, then adds with bitter emphasis, “Because I’m slow. And stupid.”
You frown immediately. “Did he actually call you stupid?”
Samira rolls her eyes, though there is no real humor in it. “No. I added that part in myself.”
“Samira.”
“What?” she says, throwing one hand out. “It’s the implication.”
You hold her gaze steadily. “No, it isn’t. Not unless you decide it is.”
She looks unconvinced, and beneath that you can see the real injury of it, not just annoyance at Robby’s bluntness but the ache of someone who is already uncertain and does not need their fear translated back to them in the worst possible language.
You soften your voice. “You are not stupid.”
Samira looks down for a second, jaw tight.
“You are one of the best physicians in this department,” you continue, with enough certainty that she has to at least hear it even if she is not ready to believe it yet. “You listen when everyone else is talking over each other. You catch the things patients are actually trying to say instead of just the easy, surface version. Your bedside manner is strong because you reason with people instead of bulldozing them. You make them feel heard, and that matters more than some people in emergency medicine like to admit.”
She is listening now, even if she still looks skeptical, her arms crossed tighter as if holding herself together while you go on.
“And yes,” you say, gentler now, “those are all qualities that would make you good in geriatrics. They would also make you good in a dozen other specialties. Moving carefully is not the same thing as being slow in the way you mean it, and it sure as hell is not the same thing as being less capable.”
Samira’s eyes lift to yours then, and for the first time since she walked up, some of the brittle defensiveness slips.
“You really think that?” she asks, quieter now.
“I do,” you answer simply. “And I think you know it too. I just think you’re in one of those lovely moods where you’d rather believe the worst version of everything.”
That earns you a tiny exhale that is almost a laugh.
“Maybe,” she says.
You do not mention Robby again. You do not try to explain him, or soften him, or make excuses for what he may or may not have meant. You know better than to step into the middle of a frustration when what Samira actually needs is not defense of him but steadiness for herself.
So instead you say, “You do not have to choose your entire future based on one tired conversation in the middle of a bad shift.”
Samira tips her head, conceding the point without fully admitting it. “That is annoyingly reasonable.”
“I’m excellent at annoyingly reasonable,” you say, picking your clipboard back up.
That almost gets a real smile out of her. Before either of you can say anything else, a nurse calls her name sharply from down the hall, and Samira turns instinctively toward the sound.
“I have to go,” she says.
“Go,” you reply. “And Samira?”
She glances back.
“You are not slow,” you say. “You are thorough. There’s a difference.”
Her face shifts at that, some guarded, private thing in her eyes easing just slightly.
“Thanks,” she says, and this time it is sincere enough that you feel it.
Then she is gone, pulled back into the motion and noise of the department, and you stand there for a moment longer than you need to, watching her disappear into the hall, hoping that maybe, at least for today, she believes you a little more than she believes the voice in her own head.
******
The apartment is quiet in a way that feels earned. Not empty, not lonely, just still, the kind of stillness that wraps around you after a long day and asks nothing of you except that you breathe and exist and let your body catch up to everything it’s been carrying.
You sink deeper into the bath, the water still warm enough to ease the tightness in your muscles, bubbles clinging lazily to your skin as the soft, low light from the lamp in the corner casts everything in a golden haze that feels a world away from the fluorescent brightness of the ED. Your head had been pounding earlier, a dull, relentless ache that sat behind your eyes and made everything feel sharper than it needed to be, but now it’s faded, replaced by that heavy, post-shift exhaustion that feels almost like relief.
You close your eyes for a second. Just a second. And then the front door opens.
You don’t move, but your lips curve slightly, your body recognizing the sound before your mind fully catches up.
Robby.
A few minutes pass, footsteps, the quiet rustle of him setting things down, the familiar rhythm of him moving through the apartment, and then the bathroom door opens just enough for him to lean his head in.
“There you are,” he says.
You open your eyes, turning your head slightly to look at him, your expression softening without effort.
“Hey,” you murmur.
He takes you in for a second, his gaze dragging just slightly over the scene, the bath, the low light, the way you’re sunk into the water like you’ve finally allowed yourself to stop, and something in his expression shifts, the tension he walked in with easing just a fraction.
“Rough day?” he asks, though his tone suggests he already knows the answer.
You let out a quiet breath, tilting your head back against the edge of the tub.
“That obvious?”
“Yeah,” he says, stepping fully into the room now. “You only do the spa setup when it’s been that kind of shift.”
You huff softly, not denying it.
“Your turn,” you say, glancing at him again. “How was yours?”
He exhales, running a hand through his hair as he moves closer, eventually lowering himself down to sit beside the tub, one arm coming to rest along the edge near you.
“Gloria’s on me about resident scheduling,” he says, his tone edged with irritation. “Apparently I’m not ‘circulating coverage expectations clearly enough,’ which is her polite way of saying she thinks things are slipping.”
You wince slightly. “Oof.”
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Yeah.”
There’s a beat. Then you glance at him again, something more thoughtful slipping into your expression.
“I played Mom today,” you say.
That catches his attention. His brow lifts slightly, curiosity replacing some of the frustration.
“Oh yeah?” he asks. “To who?”
You shift slightly in the water, turning just enough to face him more directly.
“Your residents,” you reply.
That earns you the faintest hint of a smirk.
“My residents are adults,” he says.
“Debatable,” you counter lightly.
He huffs, but there’s no real argument behind it. “Alright. Go on.”
You take a breath, then start with Mel, explaining the break room conversation, the quiet way she’d admitted how out of place she felt watching her sister’s life move in a direction she wasn’t even sure she wanted yet, the comparison, the pressure, the way it had settled on her shoulders without her fully realizing it. Robby listens, his expression thoughtful, his posture relaxed but attentive. Then you shift to Samira.
His expression changes almost immediately.
“She told you that?” he asks, his tone sharpening slightly when you repeat her words about being called slow.
You nod. “Yeah.”
He exhales, already gearing up to respond.
“I wasn’t—”
“I know,” you cut in gently, not harsh, but firm enough to stop him before he builds a defense.
He pauses, watching you.
“You’re too hard on her though,” you continue, your voice calm but certain. “And before you argue, just, hear me out.”
He doesn’t interrupt this time. You lean your head back slightly, your gaze drifting for a second before settling back on him.
“She reminds you of you,” you say. “Back then. When you were still figuring things out and everyone around you was faster, louder, more decisive.”
His jaw tightens just slightly. You don’t stop.
“And instead of giving her room to grow into that, you push her like you were pushed,” you add. “Which worked for you, sure. But it’s not working for her.”
There’s a long pause. Robby doesn’t immediately respond. Instead, his hand slips into the water, warm fingers brushing gently against your shoulder, the movement absent at first and then more intentional, slow, steady, easing some of the tension you didn’t even realize was still sitting there.
It feels… really good. You let out a soft breath, your eyes closing briefly as you lean into the touch.
“That’s… a take,” he says finally, quieter now.
“It’s the right one,” you murmur, not opening your eyes yet.
His fingers continue moving along your shoulder, down your arm, the water shifting softly with each pass.
“You think I’m being unfair,” he says.
“I think you’re being you,” you reply. “Which is great for the department. Less great for someone who doesn’t operate like you do.”
Another pause. This one softer. Less defensive. You open your eyes again, glancing at him, catching the way he’s looking at you now, really looking, like he’s turning your words over instead of rejecting them outright.
“You gonna sit there all night,” you ask lightly, “or are you getting in?”
He snorts softly. “I hate baths.”
You tilt your head, one brow lifting. “You do.”
“They’re too hot,” he adds. “And I feel like I’m being boiled alive.”
You smile faintly. “Dramatic.”
“Accurate,” he corrects.
You shift slightly in the water, the movement sending a small ripple toward him as you meet his gaze.
“Yeah,” you say, softer now, a hint of teasing slipping in, “but you love me naked against you.”
That gets him. A small, reluctant smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, his hand pausing against your shoulder as he shakes his head.
“You’re not subtle,” he mutters.
“Never claimed to be,” you reply.
He studies you for a second longer, then exhales, already starting to push himself up from the edge of the tub.
“This is a terrible idea,” he says.
You smile, settling deeper into the water as you watch him.
“And yet,” you murmur, “you’re still getting in.”
He doesn’t argue that.
******
The bedroom is dim, lit only by the soft spill of light from the hallway and the faint glow from the street outside filtering through the curtains, the kind of quiet, intimate darkness that makes everything feel closer, warmer, more contained. You’re stretched out beneath him, the sheets tangled low around your legs, your skin still faintly warm from the bath, from the slow unraveling of the evening, from the way everything between you had softened and steadied after the conversation that needed to happen.
Now, though, there’s nothing soft about the way his hands move. Robby’s palms slide along your hips, firm and familiar, his fingers pressing into your skin as if he needs to feel you there, real and solid beneath him, the weight of him grounding and steady as he shifts just enough to settle between your legs.
“God,” he mutters under his breath, more to himself than to you, his voice low and rough in a way that makes your chest tighten.
Your hands slide up his arms, feeling the tension there, the strength, the way he’s holding himself just barely in check as his mouth finds your collarbone, then lower, his lips warm against your skin as he traces a slow path downward. You tilt your head back slightly, your breath catching, your fingers tightening just a fraction against him as you feel the familiar pull of it, the way he knows exactly how to undo you without even trying.
“Robby—”
Your phone rings. Loud. Sharp. Completely out of place in the quiet of the room.
You freeze for half a second, your eyes snapping open as the sound cuts through everything, and Robby groans immediately against your skin, his forehead dropping briefly to your shoulder in clear frustration
“Don’t,” he mutters.
You huff out a breath that is half-laugh, half-exasperation, reaching blindly toward the nightstand.
“It might be important,” you say, even as your voice is a little breathless.
“It’s not,” he insists, his hands tightening slightly at your hips as if that might physically stop you.
You manage to grab your phone anyway, glancing at the screen.
“Mel,” you say.
That gets just enough of a reaction from him that he shifts back slightly, though not far, his body still close, still hovering over you in a way that makes it very clear he is not done with this moment. You swipe to answer.
“Hey, are you okay?” you say, trying to steady your breathing.
On the other end, Mel launches right in.
“Okay, so quick question, Becca just told me she’s using condoms but now she’s thinking about going on birth control and I don’t know if that’s overkill or responsible or—”
You blink, your brain taking a second to catch up as Robby leans back in, apparently deciding that if you’re going to take the call, he’s not obligated to stop what he’s doing.
“Mel,” you say, trying to focus, though your voice wavers slightly as his lips brush your skin between your breasts again, slower now, more deliberate, like he’s testing how much he can get away with.
“—because like, is that normal after six months or—”
“It’s—” you inhale sharply, your free hand coming up to press lightly against Robby’s shoulder, attempting to push him back just a little.
He resists. Of course he does. Not forcefully, not in a way that ignores you, but in a playful, stubborn way that makes it clear he’s not interested in surrendering the moment entirely.
“Robby,” you whisper under your breath.
He doesn’t stop. You try again, a little more firmly this time, shifting your weight just enough to create space.
“Hold on,” you say into the phone, your tone apologetic but strained. “Yes, Mel, honestly, it’s probably a good time for her to consider some form of contraception if she’s thinking about it more seriously.”
“Okay, because I told her that too, but I wasn’t sure if I was projecting or—”
Robby’s voice brushes low against your skin, barely above a whisper. His tongue dipped into your bellybutton.
“Hang up the phone.”
You let out a small, breathy laugh despite yourself.
“I can’t just—” you start, your words catching slightly as his hand shifts along your side.
“Yes, you can,” he murmurs, his tone equal parts amused and impatient. “You absolutely can.”
“—and I think,” you continue to Mel, valiantly trying to stay on track, “that it’s more about what makes her feel comfortable and in control of her choices than anything else—”
“Okay, yeah, that makes sense,” Mel says quickly. “I just didn’t want to tell her something wrong.”
“You didn’t,” you assure her, your voice softening as you finally manage to push Robby back just enough to look at him, your expression caught somewhere between exasperation and laughter.
He just looks at you. Completely unrepentant.
“Also,” Mel adds, “sorry, I know it’s late—”
“It’s fine,” you say, though your tone clearly suggests the opposite as your attention flicks back to Robby, who is very clearly losing patience. “I said you could call it you needed-hey!”
His hand reaches up. Fast. He plucks the phone cleanly from your hand before you can react, lifting it to his ear for the briefest second.
“Dr. King,” he says calmly, “you’re doing great. But you can talk to your friend tomorrow.”
And then he ends the call. Just like that. He tosses the phone onto the bed beside you, out of reach, before your brain can even fully process what just happened.
“Robby—” you start, half laughing now.
But you don’t get any further. Because he’s already back, his hand coming to your jaw, guiding your face toward his as he leans in and kisses you. This time there’s nothing distracted about it. No interruption. No hesitation. Just heat and certainty and the kind of focus that makes everything else disappear, his frustration from earlier folding into something sharper, something more deliberate.
Your hand comes up instinctively, tangling lightly in his Star of David charm as you lean into his chest, the last remnants of the interruption slipping away as easily as it came.
When he pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead brushing yours, there’s a faint smirk at the corner of his mouth.
“You’re done taking calls,” he murmurs.
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself, your voice soft.
“Apparently.”
*****
The nurses’ station is chaos in its most organized form, a constant rotation of voices and movement and information being exchanged faster than anyone outside the department could follow, and somehow, in the middle of it, you’ve carved out exactly enough space to stand there with a plastic container of salad and a Diet Coke that’s already sweating onto the counter. You take a bite between updating the board, your eyes flicking up every few seconds to track movement, to anticipate what’s coming next, to keep everything just a step ahead of where it might fall apart.
It’s not glamorous. It’s not calm. But it’s yours. And for a brief moment, it’s manageable.
“Stealing five minutes?” Robby’s voice comes from just behind you, low and familiar enough that your shoulders relax a fraction without you realizing it.
You don’t turn right away, just lift your fork slightly in acknowledgment. “Trying.”
He steps in beside you, close enough that you feel the warmth of him at your side, his hand coming up almost automatically to rest against your back, fingers pressing lightly in a slow, absent rub that feels grounding without drawing attention. You don’t comment on it. Neither does he.
He reaches past you, grabbing your Diet Coke without asking, taking a long sip before setting it back down exactly where it was.
You glance at him sideways. “Rude.”
“Necessary,” he counters, already looking past you toward the board.
You shake your head slightly, taking another bite. “Have you eaten?”
He exhales, the sound half-dismissive, half-resigned. “I will.”
“You said that three hours ago.”
“I meant it then too,” he replies, his tone dry but not defensive.
You open your mouth to push it, to tell him to go now instead of later, but someone calls his name from across the station and his attention shifts immediately.
“I’ll get something,” he says, already stepping back. “Finish your rabbit food.”
You roll your eyes. “It’s a salad.”
“Same thing,” he tosses over his shoulder as he walks away.
You watch him go for a second longer than you need to, your expression softening just slightly before you turn back to your food and catch Samira staring at you. Not subtly. Not casually.
You pause mid-bite, lowering your fork slowly. “What?”
Samira doesn’t answer right away, her arms folded tightly across her chest as she watches the direction Robby just disappeared in, her expression caught somewhere between irritation and something more difficult to pin down.
“Why can’t he be nice to me?” she asks finally.
You blink. “I’m sorry—what?”
She turns to you then, frustration written clearly across her face. “Not like…that,” she says quickly, gesturing vaguely between you and the space Robby occupied a moment ago. “Not in a relationship way. I don’t want that.”
“Okay,” you say slowly.
“I just mean,” she continues, her tone tightening, “why does he have to be such a dick about everything?”
You don’t react immediately. You just listen. Because she needs to get it out.
“He cuts me off,” she says. “He corrects me mid-sentence, he pushes, he—he never just…lets me be right without making it feel like I barely got there.”
You tilt your head slightly, your fork resting against the edge of your container now, forgotten.
“And I know he’s like that with everyone,” she adds quickly. “I’m not special. That’s not what this is.”
You nod once. “Okay.”
“But he’s not like that with you,” she says, quieter now.
That lands differently. You don’t answer right away. Instead, you study her for a second longer, watching the way she holds herself, the tension in her shoulders, the frustration that’s not entirely about Robby, not entirely about work. And then something clicks. You set your fork down.
“Samira,” you say, your tone shifting slightly, more curious now than reactive, “when was the last time you went on a date?”
She freezes. Actually freezes.
“What?” she asks, like you’ve just changed languages mid-conversation.
“A date,” you repeat calmly. “When was the last one?”
She blinks, her gaze darting away for a second as she tries to recover.
“That’s not—what does that have to do with anything?”
You don’t let it go.
“When was it?” you press gently.
She hesitates. Then shifts.
Then finally mutters, “It’s been… a while.”
“How long is ‘a while’?”
She exhales sharply. “Months.”
You raise a brow. “Try again.”
She groans under her breath. “Okay, fine. Longer than that.”
You nod slowly, like you’ve just confirmed something.
“Do you want me to set you up with someone?” you ask.
The reaction is immediate. Samira laughs. Not sharp. Not defensive. But bright and a little unexpected, her entire demeanor shifting in a way you haven’t seen before, something softer and more open slipping through.
“Are you serious?” she asks.
“Very,” you reply.
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, suddenly looking a little less like the confident attending who walked into this conversation and a little more like someone caught off guard in a way she didn’t see coming.
“I mean… I wouldn’t hate that,” she admits, her voice lighter now, almost, dare you say it, hopeful. You smile faintly, something settling into place.
“Okay,” you say. “I’ll think on it.”
She shakes her head, still smiling slightly. “This is ridiculous.”
“No,” you reply. “This is necessary.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s no bite to it now.
“Go back to your salad,” she says, pushing off the counter. “Before you start trying to fix my entire life.”
“No promises,” you call after her.
But you’re already thinking.
******
Later that night, the world feels different. The park stretches out in front of you in soft shadows and dim lighting, the sound of the city muted by distance, replaced by the faint rustle of leaves and the steady rhythm of your footsteps beside his. Robby walks with his hands in his pockets, his shoulders looser now than they were earlier, the tension of the shift worn down into something manageable. You glance at him.
“I had a conversation with Samira today,” you say.
That gets his attention.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you reply. “She thinks you’re a dick.”
He huffs. “That’s not new information.”
You smile faintly. “No, but her reasoning was interesting.”
He glances at you. “Which is?”
“She doesn’t think you’re like that with me.”
He doesn’t respond right away. Which is, in itself, a response.
“She’s frustrated,” you continue. “And I think part of it is work, but part of it is… something else.”
Robby exhales, his gaze drifting ahead. “I’m not getting involved in my residents’ personal lives.”
You snort softly. “That’s rich.”
He looks at you. “What?”
“You’re a hypocrite,” you say simply.
His brow furrows. “How?”
You stop walking for a second, turning to face him fully.
“Your resident’s personal life?” you say. “Have we met?”
He blinks. Then exhales. “That’s different.”
“Is it?” you counter.
“Yes,” he says immediately. “It is.”
You hold his gaze for a second longer, then shrug slightly.
“Doesn’t matter,” you say, starting to walk again.
He follows, his tone more cautious now. “What are you planning?”
You don’t answer right away. You let the silence stretch just long enough to make him feel it.
“You’re going to have to get involved,” you say lightly.
He groans. “No.”
“Yes,” you reply.
“With who?” he asks, already regretting the question.
You glance at him, a small, satisfied smile pulling at your mouth.
“Jack Abbot.”
You keep walking. Leaving him standing there for half a second longer than he intended, his entire expression caught somewhere between shock, disbelief, and the dawning realization that you are absolutely serious.
“Absolutely not,” he calls after you.
You don’t even turn around.
“Oh, it’s happening,” you toss back.
******
The bar is dim in that deliberate, after-work kind of way, low amber lighting casting everything in a soft glow that feels forgiving after the harsh brightness of the hospital, the hum of conversation blending with the quiet clink of glasses and the low thrum of music that no one is really listening to but everyone somehow feels.
It is not fancy. It is not curated. It is exactly the kind of place people from the ED end up in after a long shift, close enough to stumble to, loud enough to drown out the day, and just relaxed enough that no one has to pretend to be anything other than exhausted.
You slide into the booth first, Samira just behind you, her movements just a fraction tighter than usual, her shoulders held a little higher, her eyes scanning the room in that subtle way that tells you she is very aware of herself right now.
“Relax,” you murmur under your breath as you settle in, nudging her lightly with your elbow. “It’s drinks, not a deposition.”
She huffs softly. “I know.”
“You don’t look like you know.”
“I look perfectly normal,” she says, smoothing a hand down the front of her blouse like that proves the point.
You bite back a smile.nAcross from you, Jack slides into the booth with the ease of someone who has never once in his life been nervous about a social situation, his arm draping casually along the back of the seat as he glances between the two of you with open curiosity.
“This feels like a setup,” he says immediately.
You keep your expression neutral. “Does it?”
“Yeah,” he replies, leaning back slightly. “You don’t just ‘grab drinks’ with me. You have ulterior motives.”
Robby slides in beside him, slower, more observant, his gaze flicking briefly to you before settling back on Jack.
“You’re not that important,” he says dryly.
Jack grins. “See, that’s hurtful.”
Samira lets out a small, quiet laugh at that, the tension in her shoulders easing just a fraction.
Good. You glance at Robby. He glances back. There’s a flicker of something there, amusement, suspicion, the faintest hint of what are you doing?…and you ignore it completely.
“So,” Jack continues, turning his attention to Samira, “you got dragged into this too?”
Samira straightens slightly, her composure snapping back into place just enough.
“I was invited,” she says, her tone measured.
“Same thing,” Jack replies easily.
You watch the exchange, something in you settling as the conversation begins to move, to find its rhythm, Samira answering, Jack pushing, Robby occasionally cutting in with dry commentary that keeps everything grounded.
For a few minutes, it works. It actually works. Samira relaxes, her responses becoming more natural, her humor slipping through in small, sharp comments that catch Jack off guard in a way that makes him laugh. Jack leans forward slightly, more engaged now.
Robby watches. You listen. And then, it hits you. Not all at once. But enough. Jack doesn’t know. You see it in the way he talks to her, the easy, open curiosity, the lack of that subtle shift people make when they know they’re being introduced to someone intentionally.
You glance at Robby. He does not look back at you this time. Oh no. You narrow your eyes slightly. He absolutely knows. He just didn’t tell Jack.
You take a slow sip of your drink, considering your options. Then you set it down.
“Robby,” you say sweetly.
He looks at you immediately.!That was his first mistake.
“Come with me to get another drink,” you add.
He blinks. “You have a drink.”
“I want another one,” you reply.
“You’re fine,” he says.
Second mistake. You reach across the table, grab his wrist, and pull.
“Up,” you say.
Jack laughs immediately, leaning back to get out of the way. “Oh, this is good. This is very good.”
Robby resists for approximately half a second before standing, letting you drag him out of the booth and toward the bar, his expression caught somewhere between irritation and reluctant amusement.
“What are you doing?” he mutters once you’re out of earshot.
You turn on him immediately.
“He doesn’t know,” you say.
“Who?” he asks.
“Jack,” you snap. “He doesn’t know it’s a date.”
Robby pauses. “Oh.”
You stare at him.
“Oh?” you repeat. “That’s your response?”
“I thought you told Samira,” he says.
“I did tell Samira,” you reply. “You were supposed to tell Jack.”
“I assumed he’d figure it out,” he says.
You laugh, incredulous. “He thinks this is a casual drink, Robby.”
Robby exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Alright. I’ll fix it.”
“You better,” you mutter.
There’s a beat. Then his mouth twitches slightly.
“You’re enjoying this,” he says.
You don’t even pretend to deny it. “A little.”
He shakes his head, already turning back toward the booth.
“Come on,” he says.
You follow him back, your expression carefully neutral again as you slide back into your seat beside Samira, who immediately glances at you with a subtle, questioning look. You give her the smallest nod. It’s happening. Across from you, Jack looks between you and Robby, already suspicious again.
“What did I miss?” he asks.
Robby leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table, his tone casual but deliberate.
“Jack,” he says, “this is a date.”
There’s a pause. A full, beat-long pause. Jack blinks. Once. Twice. Then looks at Samira. Then back at Robby. Then at you.
“…well,” he says slowly, a grin spreading across his face, “that explains a lot.”
Samira exhales, half-laughing, half-mortified, but there’s a softness in it now, something less tense, more real.
You sit back slightly, satisfied. Robby glances at you. You meet his gaze. And for a second it feels exactly like you hoped it would.
******
The apartment is quiet again, but this time it’s the kind of quiet that settles in after something good, something full, something that leaves you both a little lighter than you were before. You move through your routine slowly, deliberately, the soft glow of the bathroom light reflecting off the mirror as you finish your skincare, fingers moving automatically through the steps you’ve done a hundred times, your mind drifting back through the evening, the way Samira had relaxed, the way Jack had leaned in, the way Robby had watched you like he always does when you’re in your element.
By the time you step into the bedroom, he’s already there. Robby is propped up against the headboard, glasses low on his nose, a book open in his hands, one leg stretched out under the sheets and the other bent slightly as if he hasn’t fully settled yet.
You don’t say anything. You just climb in beside him, the mattress dipping under your weight as you slide close, turning into him instinctively, your arm wrapping across his chest as your cheek presses lightly against his shoulder.
He doesn’t look up right away. But his hand moves. Of course it does. It comes to rest at your side, fingers sliding slowly along your ribs in an absent, familiar rhythm as he keeps reading, the quiet intimacy of it wrapping around you in a way that feels just as comforting as anything louder or more deliberate.
For a few minutes, you let it be. The quiet. The steady movement of his hand. The soft sound of a page turning.
“Do you think Samira went home with Jack?” you ask.
Robby doesn’t even hesitate. “No.”
You tilt your head slightly against him. “You didn’t even think about it.”
“I’m not thinking about it,” he replies, his tone already edged with annoyance. “And I’m not talking about it.”
You let out a soft laugh, the sound muffled slightly against his shoulder.
“Oh, come on,” you tease. “You’re not even a little curious?”
“No,” he says flatly, turning a page. “I am actively choosing not to be curious.”
You shift just enough to look up at him, a grin tugging at your mouth.
“You’re no fun.”
“I’m plenty of fun,” he counters dryly. “Just not about my colleagues’ personal lives.”
You laugh again, the sound lighter this time, and he finally glances down at you, the corner of his mouth betraying him with the faintest hint of a smirk.
“There it is,” you say softly. “You do care.”
“I don’t,” he insists.
“You absolutely do.”
He exhales, shaking his head slightly, but the tension in him has already eased, the irritation replaced with something softer, more familiar.
“Go to sleep,” he mutters.
“Make me,” you reply, settling back into him.
He doesn’t respond to that. Not with words, anyway. A few minutes pass like that, the quiet returning, the rhythm of his hand against your side slowing as the book begins to lose his full attention. Then, finally, he closes it.
The soft thud of it against the nightstand feels louder than it should in the stillness of the room, and the lamp clicks off a second later, plunging everything into a gentle darkness that feels more like a cocoon than an absence. He shifts beside you, turning fully this time, his arm sliding around you as he pulls you closer under the sheets.
“Are you done mothering for a while?” he asks, his voice lower now, closer.
You huff softly against him. “I can’t help it.”
“I beg to differ,” he replies, his hand moving up your back slowly, thoughtfully. “If you’re so busy taking care of everyone else… who’s taking care of you?”
The answer comes out before you even think about it.
“You are.”
The words land. And the room shifts. You feel it immediately, the way his body stills just slightly, the way his hold on you tightens just enough to register, the silence between you suddenly carrying more weight than it did a second ago.
Your breath catches, just a little. You hadn’t meant to say it like that. Hadn’t meant to say it so easily. You open your mouth, ready to backtrack, to soften it, to turn it into something lighter, but he doesn’t give you the chance.
Robby pulls you closer instead, his hand sliding up along your spine as he leans in and kisses you, deep and steady and grounding, the kind of kiss that doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t overthink, just answers. You melt into it, your hand coming up to his face, fingers brushing along his jaw as his thumb presses warm against your back, his touch sure, certain. When he pulls back just enough to speak, his voice is softer than you’ve heard it all day.
“I’ll take care of you,” he murmurs.
Something in you goes warm and quiet all at once, like the words settle somewhere deeper than you expected, your thumb tracing slowly along his cheekbone as you look at him in the dark.
And then, because you are still you, you tilt your head slightly and murmur, “If I’m the mom of the ER… does that make you Dr. Daddy?”
“Absolutely not,” he says, dropping his forehead to your shoulder as you burst into laughter beneath him, your whole body shaking with it as he exhales in mock defeat.
“You walked right into that,” you manage between laughs.
“I did not,” he mutters.
He lifts his head just enough to look at you, his expression caught between exasperation and something undeniably fond.
“You’re unbelievable.”
You grin, still breathless. “You love me.”
He doesn’t even hesitate.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. And this time, there’s nothing to laugh about. Just the quiet, steady truth of it as he pulls you back into him, the night settling gently around you both.
heyyy… so i dont think i ever said hi on here?? like i dont ever post these kinds of things, but i wanna do something different and be more active!!
anyway me writing rn has gone to dookie 😭 i took a break yeah and started on this dunk piece but i literally have no idea where it’s going?? but i made it, so i should know… but i dont…..
I'm just Curious about what you're working on right now =^= I am really excited to hear about your new work
heheh… i just started writing a request for dunk!! I know i said this before but im superrr slow at taking request i cannot keep a consistent schedule:,( so i appreciate you being patient <3
here’s a little sneak peak tho!!
“It’s going to cost you five hundred dragons.”
“W-What?!” Egg finally lifts his head to find Dunk looking at the colorful fabric. On the table lay an array of many patterned cloths, all stitched beautifully with a needle and a pair of hands. The woman behind the stand looks at the knight wth neutral indifference, watching his every move.
“Ser–”
“Not now, Egg,” Dunk waves his hand, dismissing the boy. He’s deep in contemplation, as Egg shuts his mouth and watches him look at the fabric meticulously. It was an odd scene to witness.
“I just need a blanket to sleep with, nothing more,” the tall man explains, and in his hands juggling with teh currency he had left. “I– I only have two stags.”
“These fabrics are hand-woven with the finest handiwork you can find,” you say, not once backing down. You then gesture to the table on your right. “I suggest you look at the plain fabric. They’re alot cheaper.”
Egg eyes down at the rainbow array of woven clothes. Surely Dunk could’ve stopped at any other vendor, with a much nicer smile? You didn’t seem interested in haggling and too firm on not lowering the prices.
“A solid-colored will charge you one stag each.”
“Ser, is this all necessary?” The little boy pops up beside him. The man jumps, startled. “Maybe we should find food—“
“No, Egg,” Dunk snaps, and with time, more force. Reaching into his pocket, the man plants the stag coin on the table. “I’ll take this.”
You smiled, placing the coin into your pocket. “It is yours.”
Dunk nods, and takes one long piece of field around his shoulders. It was long enough to cover three men— however for now it’ll be only him and Egg. And this time, Egg simply looks at you with blank indifference then back to the knight he’s squired to.
“That was a stupid mistake.”
“What do you mean?” The taller man grunts. “You said the other day you were cold during the night. I thought it would help if I bought something warm for you.”
While the gesture is nice, Egg simply frowns at Dunk’s simpleness. Clearly he is not as adept in the world as he has been through textbooks.
“We are in Dorne, Ser Duncan.” He points out, making a strong emphasis on the word Dorne. “It’s never cold here!”
pairings: captain smoker x gn!vice captain!reader
synopsis: Tashigi, the new recruit, has already latched onto you like her last lifeline. Unfortunately, your captain isn’t too happy about it. [ao3 link]
notes... SOO one episode in, and i folded..
tags: reader is a motherly figure to tashigi, smoker being the father figure lol, reader has no devil fruit and a sniper, pissed reader, hints of hurt comfort, canon typical violence, and zoro cameo lol
Tashigi was lost again.
Before she knew it, she got sidetracked and ran into a random stranger. In the process, all the paperwork she carried flew out of her arms and spilled onto the ground like a typical scene in a rom-com. Tashigi felt mortified. Not only was this her first mission assigned by you, but it was something you asked so casually of her. It meant a lot to her when you asked for her help. Tashigi immediately drops to the ground, hands scattered to find her missing glasses. She felt helpless without them, and for a split second, she felt the impending doom of failing you, her Vice Captain.
Luckily, the man she bumped into was a nice gentleman. He noticed how skittish she was and how desperate she seemed in a few short moments. The man must’ve felt pity for her, as he casually picked up her glasses and tapped her shoulder just once.
“Here.”
Tashigi turns and reaches her hands around the familiar frames.
“My glasses!” she jumps, and places them back on, finally having a full glimpse of the man who saved her a day’s trouble. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
That was it, and the man simply walked away. Tashigi wanted to extend her thanks, but was cut short by the ringtone of her snail radio.
She paused.
Tashigi knew perfectly well who was on the other line. That specific ringtone she pleaded with operators to rearrange for you was unmistakable. It was your favorite melody, of course, something you mentioned in passing, in hopes she would stop missing your calls. You were her superior after all. Another missed call would’ve left her on clean-up duty again. She unclasps the small speaker from her belt and raises it to her ear.
“Vice Captain!” The dark-haired marine greeted with formal hesitation. “I was just going to radio you!”
“Tashigi,” The rookie freezes, recognizing your stern, cold voice. She unconsciously looks down in shame. Even though you weren’t there in person, she knew you could imagine her in the same predicament.
“Where the hell have you been? I told you to radio me when you reached the shop.”
She leans further into the speaker. “I accidentally ran into someone.” Instinctively, she could feel you rolling your eyes. “But I’m here! I promise!”
“You better,” you murmured, the distinctive background noise of super-intendents murmuring about. You desperately wished to be anywhere other than in another meeting. However, your Captain, Tashigi’s mentor, unfortunately, was not present at the moment and left things for you to deal with the consequences. God, you wished he were here instead of you. “Pick up my order and return to bass.”
“Y-Yes, Vice Captain!” Tashigi salutes before catching you hanging up. Relief floods her nerves as the marine rookie turns back and spots the sword shop she had been looking for. The man she also bumped into seemed to have gone in a similar direction. So perhaps she could extend her thanks anyway.
Tashigi did not want to disappoint you; she clearly looked up to you with utmost respect and admiration from afar. Clearly, she did not want to get on your bad side, as that alone was a bad idea. Nonetheless, she ponders these possible outcomes to avoid them at all costs.
You weren’t a difficult Captain to please. In fact, some would say you were nicer than Captain Smoker on a good day. That’s at least if no incidents have happened within twenty-four hours in Loguetown. However, that has not happened since the beginning of the festival for Gold Roger’s anniversary.
Some would say you were a killjoy, never taking any real part in any fun activities. Even in your leisure time, you’re still in the office, doing paperwork rather than doing anything else.
But you are good at your job. Tashigi believes this because she has seen you many times outside of your office. You’d stop by your local bakery to buy cute pastries for the Navy. You even helped a lost little girl find her parents, simply because you saw her standing alone in the middle of the street. You have what it takes to handle a unit full of new rookies. It’s not like you had a choice, though.
For now, you’re stuck playing Captain, at the same time, waiting for the real captain to show up.
Tashigi hopes you will be pleased with your order when she personally hands it to you. You collect swords as a hobby, having a vast collection in your office on display. To say she was jealous, but more amazed by how you were able to collect so many rare items. Part of her wish was that she could ask more about your collection.
From the outside, you were simply the Vice Captain of Loguetown. You showed kindness to locals and greeted business goers with good luck with their businesses. You were confident in the way you commanded the room without the need to shout. When you were on patrol, low-life criminals and pirates alike were scared of you. Not because you had a devil fruit or something up your sleeve.
Simply because you didn’t. What made you more terrifying to pirates was the lack of Devil Fruit. You were good with a long-range shotgun because you had a good eye to lock onto targets.
In reality, Tashigi saw you as someone she wished to strive for. You were the perfect example of what a Captain should be. Caring, providing constructive criticism, you were good at your job because you didn’t boss people around, you guided them, with constant care and support.
That is why she was more than happy to deliver your package. Even though you could’ve picked it yourself, she, many times, persisted in doing it. She might also have added that she was going to visit the sword shop for herself, to make it more convincing. But the way your eyes softened by her persistence makes her relieved that you trust her enough.
She just hopes she could say the same for your captain.
When you ended the call, you felt a headache slowly creep up. You were tired, exhausted from all the interaction you had to put up with since Smoker left. Figures, you knew that the upcoming festivals would require more soldiers and security around Loguetown. This week alone, you’ve apprehended only ten men. However, since then, more and more pirate ships have come to witness the anniversary of Gold Roger’s death.
The others in the room seemed to be background noise for you now. You never paid attention to these kinds of team meetings, especially since you figured they were useless. You thought of backing out many times; however, you were pursued by your subordinates.
You couldn’t help but ponder angrily at how casually he acted when a call from a neighboring island called for him. At first, you volunteered to go there yourself. Yet your captain was persistent and left all of his matters to you.
What a prick, you mumbled. You’re not even aware when he will be back, but for the time being, you’ve done your diligent best to take care of things. It was a little less than twenty hours, but in the Marines, there is always work to be done. Within that time span, you managed to talk on the phone with captains, make appointments, and address status reports from all of your subordinates.
You needed a drink, maybe two. But for now, you wanted to clear your head from all this madness. Tonight, a grand festival will be held in front of Roger's grave. And a celebration of any kind will likely attract a few more pirates. God, you wished you were back in your own office and for a moment, had some privacy.
In the corner of your eye, a young rookie steps beside you. You don’t even blink in his direction; however, you see his hesitation to speak up. Instead, you wave your hand, allowing him to step forward.
“Captain Smoker has returned, and he is looking for you.”
“Great,” you huffed, already your unprofessionalism cracking, revealing your anger. In a quick recovery, you straighten yourself from your seat and look at the young man. Your face held deep weariness; you’ve been awake for nearly twenty-four hours, and it showed. “Well, where is he?”
“East Ports.” He says, completely frozen under your gaze.
You nod, barely sparking the soldier's next thought. Whatever had him so afraid wasn’t your concern. With a small gesture, you dismiss him and step outside the camp.
Not much was ever said about your relationship with your Captain. Still, people around the base had their opinions. Most would say you complemented him perfectly; you were the shield to his sword. Whenever he was away, you stepped in to fill his place. That didn’t mean you weren’t frustrated every time he disappeared for a meeting with the higher-ups, leaving you alone to manage all the work in Loguetown.
Some would say it’s expected for your role as Vice Captain. But you would disagree, and say that your Captain is careless about the way he treats you. It would be best if he talked to you more often. But Smoker has never been talkative. Most of the time, you talk about marine work and petty arguments. Even sometimes, he’d be gone the next morning, with you having no clue of his whereabouts until Tashigi comes to inform you.
To say that communication wasn’t your strongest suit, even as a Marine. You dread speaking to your Captain as much as possible; however, unfortunately, you were the Vice Captain. You were expected to deal with his shenanigans, no matter how long he’s been doing it for hours at a time.
That was when you finally spotted him, having just parked his motorbike, you merely frowned.
Smoker, on the other hand, can read you pretty well. The two of you have worked together for a long time, learning from each other's habits. And with this one, he’s aware where your frustration is coming from. Even though he can’t blame you, he won’t admit it without you explicitly telling him.
“Vice Captain,” he huffs, blowing twin puffs of smoke from his two cigars.
You cross your arms. “Captain.” You look behind him as a few marines take his motorbike back into the nearby garage. “How was the call?”
“Fine,” he says with a sigh, clearly not in the mood for this. “Look, I know you’re upset, so just spit it out already.”
“You were gone for nearly twenty-four hours!” You snap, glaring at him, disgusted by the assumption. “You don’t just disappear and expect me not to say anything about it.”
“I left you a note. What’s more to say?” He grunts, making his way past you. It only darkens your glare. Really? You were fine with your Captain leaving a note about his whereabouts, but his attitude this morning only soured your mood.
“What’s more to say?” You try to catch up to him. “First, you didn’t even warn me of your meeting with Admiral–”
“I mentioned it in the note.” He shakes his head, clearly not having it with your childish outbursts. These were the many rare times your fuse had gone off. On other occasions when he has gone away, you were fine. However, on the day of Roger’s anniversary? You were suddenly fuming at how much more chaotic the island has become. And understandably so, you were.
“So that’s your excuse?” You bite back as the two of you are finally led into a small alleyway. The few bystanders minded their own business, immediately recognizing both of your faces, and chose to respect your privacy. In Loguetown, people saw you as heroes, people who protected them from great danger. Seeing the two of you argue back and forth was a normal occasion for them.
“The Admiral was clearly upset you didn’t show up.”
“Well, you took care of it, didn’t you?”
“Because I had to!” You clapped back, practically steaming out smoke from your ears. Even the other Marines chose not to intervene, knowing the two of you were not in the best moods. “I understand they need you on missions, but come on, on the day of Roger’s Death? On one of the busiest days of the year?”
“I came back, didn’t I?”
You were silent for a moment. “You weren’t there when I had to arrest those three guys in the morning. They were Devil Fruit users, but they left many injured and destroyed a lot of homes.” This time, your voice was steadier, yet held the same intensity. Your Captain was a stubborn man, but so were you. You would be the last person to ever admit defeat. Even if you were on your last breath, you would never yield. Not even against your Captain if it meant it.
Momentarily, your white-haired Captain blinks. “I heard.” He pauses, taking a step back. “How many?”
You pout, looking away into the busy crowd. “Twenty of our own, and twelve civilians.” There was a sense of guilt in your soul for not being able to protect those people. Then again, you weren’t a Devil Fruit user; you were just a normal Marine with good aim and training. You did your best to lead everyone to safety; however, even that wasn’t enough.
Smoker nods, now in deep contemplation. “You did well, though.”
You shake your head. “How can you say that?” Your gaze locks onto his. “Twelve innocent people nearly died, and twenty of our own– I feel like I should’ve done more. If you were here–”
“If I were here, the outcome would’ve been the same,” he replies, with his cigars no longer in his hand, and you realize it's the longest you’ve seen him without smoking a cigar. “You did well, take the credit.”
You don’t take his compliment easily. Instead, you frown childishly.
“I hate you.”
“Yeah, well, you say that to me every day,” he rolls his eyes, clearly with a hint of sarcasm. You can see his faint smile, and even you form a small grin. “Seriously, you did what you could.”
“I know,” you groan, hands covering your face. You rubbed your eyes in exhaustion. “God, I need a drink.”
The smoker couldn’t agree more. He, too, was running on little sleep, and alcohol seemed to be fitting for your afternoon reward. In these small moments, when you are away from the Marines and people, you can be yourself for a bit. You could complain for all you wanted, because Smoker didn’t mind; he, in fact, found it amusing that you were so uptight about keeping a stern and emotionless facade in front of your peers. Even though, on rare occasions, he has seen you break for the slightest reasons. In these moments, the two of you can acknowledge your similarities and mend your frustrations.
Tashigi is running. As fast as she could. She spots you and then your Captain, walking in the far distance. Great, right when she wants to make a good impression on her superiors, she clearly misses the mark and comes crashing in late. With your sword secured around her shoulder, she pauses and watches the two of you.
Tashigi wouldn’t mention it out loud, but the whole reason why Loguetown surprisingly has a good reputation was that the two of you. When you and Smoker work together, you somehow fall into an easy flow, often bouncing off each other’s ideas and handing off tasks to your soldiers simultaneously.
She admires you both greatly. And she’s grateful for how you treated her lately, never once yelling at her or criticizing her clumsiness for the delay. To put it, you were the two people she could rely on most.
For a moment, the dark-haired marine observes the way you talk to Smoker, all sarcasm and dismissive anger. Huh, she recognizes that maybe you were no longer angry at him anymore.
Smoker tilts his head at something you said. He then takes a puff of his cigar and blows it in your face, ultimately making you roll your eyes, smacking his side not too hard.
The rookie freezes, almost unable to comprehend how the two of you can be so genuine with one another. At one moment, you were fuming with rage at Smoker, criticizing and blaming all of your problems on him. And then the next, the two of you were cool, laughing at jokes and making fun of each other.
Were you two married?
“Tashigi,” In panic, the girl glances up to find you and Smoker in front of her. “There you are.”
“Yeah,” she replies, rubbing her arms, unsure.
You raised a brow. “Are you alright?”
She paused. “What?”
“You said you bumped into someone before visiting the shop.” You explain, and suddenly she remembers why she seemed so out of breath. “You didn’t break your head, right?”
“No!” Catching onto your joke, she freezes but then accepts it with a flustered smile. “I’m fine.”
“Good,” you hum, letting the air hang longer than usual. “Have you eaten yet?”
“No, I haven’t!” At the same time, you and Smoker look at her with almost fondness. Much like two parents checking on their child. The white-haired Captain exhales another puff of smoke as you give her a caring smile.
“We’re actually going to the bar for lunch. You can come with us.” You placed a hand on your hip, tilting your head with patient ease. Tashigi is enamored, completely star-struck by the invitation. Having lunch with you? It sounded like a dream, something she had been looking forward to for quite a while. Not many people are invited by you; you prefer to keep your distance from coworkers.
“I would love to!” She shakes her head enthusiastically.
“You’re never excited when I invite you out,” Smoker grunts, playfully. He glances at you, and you’re wearing a smug smile that says it all.
“Clearly, I’m her favorite.” Now you’re pushing it, crossing your arms all proud and mighty. The rookie stares back and forth at your banter, clearly struck by your cheery attitude and Smoker’s genuine amusement?
“We should go now before any more trouble interrupts our lunch.”
Both you and Tashigi nod in agreement. But before you head to the bar, Tashigi stops.
“Wait, I almost forgot!” She reaches behind and pulls out the sword wrapped in linen. “Here’s the sword you ordered!”
“Wow,” you hold the sword in your hands, feeling its weight. “Thank you, Tashigi.”
“N-No problem! If you ever want to go shopping for swords, I would be more than happy to tag along!” she nervously adds, and you respond with a warm smile.
“Sure, if I’m ever free, I’ll ask Smoker if you are.”
Your Captain rolls his eyes. “You don’t need to ask.”
“I know,” you said, clearly pushing Tashigi’s favoritism. Smoker’s glad you’re back to your old self, but now you’re really pushing it. “But just in case–”
“Are we going to get lunch now?” He asks, more annoyed this time.
“Oh! I think I heard they added a few new items to their menu!” Tashigi adds, already leading the way to the bar.
— summary: his young, pampered wife craves a babe of her own, and maekar finds himself powerless to deny her what she desires most.
— word count: 1k
— warnings: +18, smut !!! (minors dni), age gap, breeding kink, unprotected sex, creampie, riding. hes such a girl dad😭
It was no secret in the Red Keep, nor in the damp halls of Summerhall, that Prince Maekar Targaryen was a man carved from harshness. The weight of his crown—not of a King, but of a perpetual second son—was nothing compared to the crushing burden of fatherhood. He looked upon his sons and saw only mirrors of his own failures: Daeron’s drunken escapades, Aerion’s burgeoning madness, and the quiet, distant gazes of the younger ones. They were a thicket of thorns he lacked the patience to prune.
He was too old, he told himself, too hardened by the anvil of life to learn the soft touch required to guide them.
But then there was you.
Young, the youngest wife he had ever taken. You were as sweet as summer honey, understanding and patient with his sons—who, in truth, were closer to your own age than your husband ever was. You were a creature of soft patience and maternal grace and utterly insatiable.
The making of another baby was a ghost of a topic. You never asked, and he never offered. Maekar believed the world had seen enough of his blood; he had no desire to unleash another troubled soul upon the Seven Kingdoms.
But he saw it in the way you looked at him—the silent, aching plea in your eyes when he made love to you. He knew you longed for a babe of your own, a creature to love and protect. His child.
Even in the heights of your very active passion, Maekar was a man of iron will. He had fought Blackfyres and survived a hundred melees, and he exercised that same grim discipline in your marriage bed. No matter how your beauiful body squirmed beneath his, no matter how desperately your cunt tightened around him—slick, supple, and pulsing with a life of its own—he somehow always found the strength to pull out.
He would ignore the way your walls clung to him, the way you tried to milk the very soul out of him, and he would spill his seed across your belly instead of within the warmth of your womb. At times it was upon your breasts, at others on your arse, or even over your face and mouth. But never, not once, would he let it fill your insides.
“You know I cannot, my love,” he would rasp, eaning down to press a remorseful, fleeting kiss to your brow.
You would only roll your eyes and pull him down for a proper kiss, tasting the salt of his skin.
It was not until one hushed night, with the moon hanging high and him newly returned from a grueling day of contending with his father, the King, that you finally made up your mind.
“It would be a beautiful babe, Maekar,” you insisted against the pulse of his throat, moving atop him with a slow, languid rhythm that had him groaning under you.
Maekar hissed, his big hands gripping your hips, urging you to quicken the pace.
“Of that I have no doubt, wife,” he growled, his voice breaking as you took him even deeper, your hot core squeezing him with agonizing perfection. “But beauty does not dictate the madness of the blood. My line is… f–fraught.”
“Do you not think I would be a good mother?” You stopped mid-stroke, sitting back upon his thighs, your pout visible even in the dim moonlight.
His brow furrowed and he reached up, his thumb grazing the swell of your arse. “I did not say that. You would be the finest mother the West has ever known. It is my own hand I fear. My guidance has ever been a blunt fucking instrument.”
His violet eyes drifted shut as you began to move on him again. Every tilt of your hips was a prayer, every wet slide of your body against his was a temptation that threatened to break his legendary resolve, the silent vow he had sworn to himself never to bring another of his heirs into this world.
You leaned down, nipping at his earlobe. “We shall learn together, my Prince.” You gripped his broad shoulders, your chest heaving, the slick friction of your union echoing obscenely in the quiet chamber. “I want to make you a father again, Maekar. To my child. My womb was made for you to take. Let me claim what is my right as your lady wife. Let me carry your seed, p–please”
The words acted like a spark in a dry hayloft. Something primal roared to life in the Prince’s chest. In one fluid, powerful motion, he flipped you beneath him, his weight a crushing, welcome heat all over you. He drove into you with a ferocity that stole the air from your lungs, burying himself so deep you felt the fat tip of his cock against your throat.
“Oh—Maekar—” you gasped, your voice a broken, sweet melody of surprise and delight.
He caught your leg, hoisting it high until your knee hooked firmly around his waist, his rough palm slapping your thigh in a silent command to follow with the other. You obeyed him with urgency, locking your limbs around his frame in a vice-like grip.
“A daughter,” Maekar pleaded, his hoarse voice cracking as the crest of his release loomed over him like a crashing wave. He trembled violently as he pinned you beneath the weight of his command, his hands gripping your legs and forcing them tight all around his hips, ensuring there was no escape for him, nor for you, this time.
“Give me a d–daughter,” he choked out, his eyes blown wide and glassy with a rare hope. “One who looks like you. Please.”
And he finally came, with a guttural, soul-shattering cry, filling you to the brim. His his seed pulsing and surging into the deep warmth of your womb in one heavy wave after another. Pouring into you the life and warmth you had craved so much.
Nine moons had turned and you had given him what he asked for.
Maekar held your daughter very carefully, gazing down at her with eyes that had grown soft and full of adoration. One of his fingers was caught in her tiny hand, her grip firm even as she drifted in a placid sleep.
You watched them with a fond, tired smile, resting your chin upon his shoulder as he sat perched on the edge of your bed.
You pressed an appreciative kiss to his cheek.
“My little dragon,” he cooed into the crown of the babe's head, his lips lingering there. “My sweet, summer girl.”
