[irysque]

about me , masterlist , rules

➷ current fav fandoms !!

the boys. gen v. stranger things. degrassi. the umbrella academy. marauders. harry potter.

+i’ll write pretty much any other fandom on my ‘about me’ page or that you’ll ask me to watch lol

© IRYSQUE — up and down

[yallnotogso]

the baddest girl you’ve ever seen is probably also ur favorite boyliife tumblr writer these face reveals go crazy every single time

[purplespiritimagines]

every time - tim drake

content tim drake x gn! reader, meta! reader, forget-me-not powers, memory loss, angst, hurt/comfort, slow burn, strangers to friends to soemthing more, canon-typical violence, no yn, memory loss, loneliness, identity erasure, implied childhood neglect, injury/blood, panic, gun wound, stab wound

masterlist

wordcount 7.1k

every time someone looks away from you, they forget you exist, leaving you trapped in a life of constant introductions, abandoned conversations, and grief no one else remembers causing. desperate for help, you track down red robin again and again until tim drake begins building systems, notes, recordings, and theories around the shape of your absence—even though he forgets you every time his gaze slips. but as tim’s body learns to trust you before his mind can remember you, both of you must decide whether trying again and again can be enough to turn loneliness into something like hope.

The first time you met Red Robin, he forgot you before you finished bleeding.

To be fair, it wasn’t his fault.

People never meant to do it. They didn’t mean to turn away from you in grocery aisles and leave you holding half-finished conversations like dropped glass. They didn’t mean to blink past you at bus stops, their faces emptying of recognition while your mouth still shaped their name. They didn’t mean to invite you in, laugh at your jokes, make promises, then look toward a ringing phone and turn back with polite fear in their eyes.

Can I help you?

The worst four words in the English language.

People always said them gently. That was the thing.

No one remembered hurting you. So, no one ever apologised.

You’d been twelve the first time you realised it wasn’t normal. Your teacher looked down at your homework, looked back up, and asked whose desk you were sitting in. Your classmates laughed because children could always sense when the world had found a new way to be cruel.

Your parents forgot you in pieces. At first, it was little things. Leaving your plate out at dinner. Locking the front door while you were still on the porch. Calling the police about “a child in the house” when you came downstairs for water.

By sixteen, you had learned to keep your backpack packed. By eighteen, you had learned not to tell people your name unless you were prepared to watch it die in their mouths. By twenty, you stopped expecting anyone to hold onto you.

Then Gotham happened.

Gotham had a way of making tragedies feel ordinary. A city full of curses, chemicals, ghosts, gods, monsters, and miracles gone sour. People disappeared here every day. Some of them even left bodies.

You were good at disappearing. Not invisibility, exactly. Nothing so useful. People saw you. They could talk to you. Touch you. Hurt you. Help you.

But the second they looked away, you were gone.

Not physically. Just from them.

A thought ripped clean from the page. A footprint swallowed by black water. A name left out in the rain until the ink ran.

You called it your forget-me-not curse.

A joke, originally. 

A bad one. The kind you made alone because there was no one around long enough to laugh.

You tracked Red Robin because he was the only person in Gotham paranoid enough to believe evidence over memory.

Batman would have been the obvious choice, but Batman was myth and shadow and trauma in Kevlar. Nightwing was too bright. Red Hood was too dangerous. Robin was a child with swords and the emotional range of an alley cat.

Red Robin, though—Red Robin solved things. Red Robin noticed patterns. Red Robin built answers out of scraps.

You had watched him for three weeks before you approached him.

Not stalked.

Watched.

There was a difference, though you were pretty sure the difference would not hold up in court.

He moved like exhaustion had learned martial arts. Sharp, efficient, clever. Always three steps ahead of everyone except himself. His cape snapped behind him as he crossed rooftops, and his voice over comms, when you caught pieces of it through stolen frequencies and cheap equipment, was dry enough to sand paint off a wall.

You liked him immediately.

Which was unfortunate. Liking people was how hope got its teeth in you.

Still, you needed help. So you followed him onto a rooftop in Chinatown during a rainstorm that turned every neon sign into a bleeding wound.

He had just finished taking down three men trying to move unmarked crates through the back of a restaurant. You watched him zip-tie the last one to a drainpipe, then crouch beside a broken lockbox.

“You missed one,” you said.

Red Robin spun so fast his bo staff was at your throat before your second breath.

You froze.

Rain ran down the side of your face.

His white lenses narrowed. “Who are you?”

There it was.

The beginning. Your least favourite place to stand.

“My name won’t matter in about ten seconds.”

“Try me.”

“You’re going to forget me.”

“Unlikely.”

You almost laughed. “Everyone says that.”

His jaw tightened beneath the mask. “Meta?”

“Maybe.”

“Threat?”

“To myself, mostly.”

“Explain.”

You lifted one hand slowly, pointing toward the alley below. “There’s another guy under the fire escape. He has a gun. You missed him because he didn’t come in with the others.”

Red Robin didn’t look away.

Smart boy.

His head tilted slightly. Listening.

A second later, he threw a birdarang without taking his eyes off you.

A pained shout rose from the alley.

You blinked.

“Nice.”

“Thanks. Now explain.”

“I need help.”

“With?”

You swallowed. This was always the hard part. The moment before someone knew enough to pity you and not enough to stay.

“With being remembered.”

For a second, he didn’t speak.

Rain tapped against his armour. Somewhere below, a siren cried like a mechanical animal.

Then his comm crackled.

“Red?” a voice said. “Status?”

His eyes flicked away.

Just for a second.

Just enough.

When he looked back, his bo staff snapped up again.

“Don’t move,” he said. “Who are you?”

There it was.

The ending.

Your throat tightened anyway.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “That’s the problem.”

His grip shifted on the staff. “How did you get up here?”

“I climbed.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“No,” you said. “I expect you to forget this conversation, too.”

“What conversation?”

You closed your eyes. Rain, cold and patient, slid down your neck.

“Never mind.”

You stepped backwards off the ledge.

Red Robin lunged, but you had already dropped onto the fire escape below, landing hard enough to rattle your bones.

By the time he looked down, he shouted, “Hey!”

Not your name.

Never your name.

You ran.

Behind you, Gotham swallowed the sound.

The second time you met him, you brought a folder. The third time, a USB drive. The fourth time, a whiteboard marker, because you were starting to get desperate. The fifth time, you wrote YOU WILL FORGET ME across his left gauntlet while he was distracted disarming a bomb.

He noticed the writing forty-three seconds later.

Unfortunately, he noticed it after looking away from you.

“Why does my arm say that?” he demanded.

You were sitting cross-legged on the floor of an abandoned subway station, chin propped in your hand. “Because subtlety wasn’t working.”

His eyes narrowed. “Did you write on my suit?”

“With consent.”

“I don’t remember giving consent.”

“Exactly.”

He stared at you. You stared back. Somewhere above you, a train rumbled through a city that had forgotten this station existed.

Relatable.

Red Robin looked down at his gauntlet again.

Then at you.

Then at the folder in your lap. Then at the cheap burner phone you had placed beside it, already playing a video of the two of you from fifteen minutes ago.

On the tiny cracked screen, Red Robin said, “Testing hypothesis. Subject claims memory alteration occurs when visual attention is broken. I am recording this willingly.”

Onscreen, you gave a tired little wave.

Current Red Robin went very still.

You hated this part. The suspicion. The recalibration. The way people looked at proof of you like it had crawled out of a sewer.

His voice dropped. “What did you do to me?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

The recording continued. Onscreen, Tim — Red Robin, but by then you had found his name in enough public footage and gala clips to know the shape of him outside the mask — looked intensely uncomfortable.

“Subject claims this has occurred throughout their life. Existing theory: anomalous cognitive deletion tied to direct perception. Memory resets after loss of visual contact. Physical evidence remains. Emotional impressions may remain.”

Current Red Robin slowly looked at you. “Emotional impressions?”

You shrugged, trying for casual and landing somewhere closer to wounded animal. “Sometimes people feel something. Déjà vu. Unease. Comfort. Anger. Depends on the person.”

His mouth pressed into a thin line. “What do I feel?”

You shouldn’t answer. You knew that.

Hope was a mousetrap with velvet on the spring.

Still, he asked, and you were very bad at denying yourself crumbs.

“You feel comfortable,” you said quietly. “Usually. Around me.”

He didn’t respond.

The recording ended. The silence after it was massive.

He crouched in front of you, careful and slow, like you were something wild.

“How many times have we had this conversation?”

You looked away first.

It didn’t matter if you looked away. You always remembered.

“Six.”

His breath caught. “Six?”

“Seven, if we count the rooftop, but that one was short.”

He sat back on his heels. “You tracked me down seven times?”

“You’re hard to catch.”

“You should not have been able to catch me at all.”

“Yeah, well.” You gave him a tired smile. “Being forgettable has perks.”

That landed wrong.

You saw it on his face. The way his suspicion cracked open just enough for sadness to show through.

You hated that too. Pity was a warm blanket made of needles.

“Don’t,” you said.

“Don’t what?”

“Look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re already sorry.”

His lips parted, but no sound came out.

Then his comm chirped.

You saw the instant he registered it. You saw the calculation.

His gaze flicked toward the sound.

“Wait,” you said.

Too late.

His eyes moved away.

His face emptied.

Not dramatically. Not cruelly.

Just blank.

When he looked back, he was a stranger again.

His hand went to his staff.

You exhaled shakily.

He looked at the folder. The phone. The writing on his gauntlet.

Then at you.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “I’m guessing we’ve done this before.”

Your laugh broke halfway through. “Yeah.”

His posture eased by one painful inch. “I’m sorry.”

You stared at him.

He didn’t know what he was apologising for.

He meant it anyway.

Oh, that was dangerous.

That was so, so dangerous.

Tim Drake made a problem board.

Of course he did.

You found out two nights later when Red Robin left you coordinates scratched into the edge of a takeout menu you’d taped to his belt before he forgot you.

The coordinates led to a safehouse.

Not the Nest. Not the Cave. Somewhere smaller. Older. A third-floor apartment above a closed pawn shop, with three separate exits and windows reinforced from the inside.

There was a note taped to the door when you arrived.

If you are reading this and you are the person I keep forgetting, come in. I gave you the code. If I didn’t, check under the gargoyle across the street. If you are not that person, this door is electrified. Good luck.

You smiled despite yourself.

The code was under the gargoyle.

The safehouse smelled like coffee, dust, and circuitry. Three laptops glowed on a folding table. A whiteboard stood against the wall, covered in branching theories and question marks.

At the top, in sharp block letters, Tim had written:

FORGET-ME-NOT Under it: Not invisibility. Not standard telepathy. Not illusion. Perception-linked mnemonic erasure?

Then: DO NOT LOOK AWAY WITHOUT RECORDING.

Then, circled three times: THEY ARE REAL.

You stood in front of those words for a long time. Long enough for your chest to hurt. Long enough to hate yourself for how much it mattered.

They are real.

Not subject. Not anomaly. Not possible threat.

They. Real.

Your fingers lifted before you could stop them, hovering just beneath the words.

You didn’t touch. Touching felt too much like asking.

The bathroom door opened.

Tim Drake stepped out in sweatpants, a black T-shirt, damp hair curling at his forehead, and a toothbrush in his mouth.

He froze. You froze.

He blinked at you.

You lifted one hand weakly. “Hi.”

Tim removed the toothbrush from his mouth.

There was a very long silence.

Then he said, “I’m guessing you’re Forget-Me-Not.”

“Please don’t make that my codename.”

“I already made it your case designation.”

“That’s worse.”

“I’m bad at branding.”

“I’ve noticed. Red Robin?”

He pointed the toothbrush at you. “Okay, low blow from someone whose entire thing is being forgotten.”

You stared. He stared back.

Then both of you laughed.

It surprised you so badly that you almost didn’t recognise the sound coming out of your own mouth.

Tim’s smile faded first.

Not gone. Just softened.

“Sorry,” he said. “That was—”

“Funny,” you said.

His eyes searched your face. “I didn’t hurt you?”

You looked at the board again.

THEY ARE REAL.

“No,” you said. “You didn’t.”

He nodded once, then glanced toward the mirror over the kitchen sink.

Your stomach dropped. “Tim—”

His gaze shifted. His face went blank.

You hated mirrors. You hated reflective windows. Phones. Passing cars. Anything that gave people an excuse to stop looking at you.

Tim looked back. His eyes landed on you.

His hand tightened around the toothbrush.

Then he looked at the whiteboard. Back to you. Whiteboard.

You.

“Okay,” he said after a moment. “That’s deeply unsettling.”

You swallowed the ache in your throat. “Welcome to the club.”

He crossed the room carefully, eyes fixed on you with almost comic intensity. Like a cat trying not to lose sight of a laser pointer.

“Do I know your name?”

“Yes.”

“Do I get to know it again?”

You told him.

He repeated it.

Softly. Correctly.

Like it mattered. Like names were not disposable things.

Then he wrote it on his wrist in black marker.

Your chest went tight. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I do, actually.”

“Tim.”

He paused.

It was the first time you had said his name to his face. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t ask how you knew.

He only looked at you. “What?”

“You’re going to forget anyway.”

His expression shifted. Not pity this time.

Determination. Very different.

Much worse for your heart.

“Then I’ll remember again.”

You looked away.

The words hit somewhere deep. Somewhere, still twelve years old, standing in a classroom while everyone laughed.

“You say that like it’s easy.”

“No,” Tim said. “I say that like it’s possible.”

The apartment hummed around you. Computers. Rain. Gotham breathing through broken brick.

You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to believe him.

That was the problem with starving.

A crumb looked like a feast.

Tim built protocols.

Protocol One: Cameras on before conversation.

Protocol Two: Notes visible on every surface.

Protocol Three: If he forgot you, he had to read the red folder before engaging.

Protocol Four: No sudden movements after reset, because apparently the third meeting had involved him pinning you to a wall and then feeling guilty about it for forty-eight hours, based solely on the bruise and your annoyed sticky note reading RUDE.

Protocol Five: Coffee.

You weren’t sure why coffee was a protocol.

Tim insisted it helped.

“You just want an excuse to drink more coffee.”

“That’s a serious accusation.”

“You have a mug that says ‘sleep is a social construct.’”

“It was a gift.”

“From who?”

“Me.”

You stared at him. He stared back.

Then he shrugged. “I know what I like.”

The work was slow. Messy. Painful.

Tim forgot you dozens of times.

Sometimes in the middle of a sentence. Sometimes, while reaching for a pen. Sometimes because his phone lit up and instinct won before caution.

Every reset cut, but not always the same way.

Some were clean. His face would go politely guarded, and he would ask for an explanation, and you would hand him the folder like a nurse handing over bad news.

Some were worse. Once, after a long night of testing, Tim laughed at something you said. Really laughed, head ducked, eyes bright, shoulders shaking. You had been talking about the time a mugger forgot he was mugging you halfway through and apologised for standing too close.

Tim laughed, and you laughed too, because it was stupid and awful and somehow funny in the way tragedies became funny if they happened enough.

Then he turned to grab his coffee.

When he looked back, the laughter died on his face.

He stepped back. “Who are you?”

You sat very still.

Your smile felt glued on. “No one.”

His eyes flicked to the notes.

He read them fast.

Too fast.

His face crumpled in slow motion.

“Wait,” he said. “We were laughing.”

You didn’t answer.

“I was laughing,” he said, quieter.

“Yeah.”

“With you.”

“Yeah.”

“I forgot that?”

You looked down at your hands. “You forget everything.”

Tim didn’t speak for a long time.

Then he said, “Not everything.”

You almost snapped at him.

You wanted to. You wanted to tell him not to soften it. Not to romanticise it. Not to turn your curse into a puzzle with a hidden blessing, because there was nothing beautiful about being erased. There was no secret poetry in sitting across from someone who had smiled at you three seconds ago and watching their eyes turn unfamiliar.

But then Tim touched two fingers to his own chest.

“My heart rate is elevated,” he said. “But not fear response. My shoulders are relaxed. I’m angled toward you. I reached for coffee without checking my weapon first.”

You blinked.

He looked at you, eyes steady.

“My body knows you,” he said. “Even when my brain doesn’t.”

That shut you up completely.

Tim seemed to realise what he had said a second after saying it.

His ears went pink. Extremely pink.

You stared at them because you were sad, not dead.

He cleared his throat. “Scientifically speaking.”

“Right,” you said.

“Physiological familiarity.”

“Obviously.”

“Conditioned trust response.”

“Super romantic.”

His blush deepened.

You smiled despite yourself.

Tim saw it. Something in him eased, like he had been waiting for proof he hadn’t ruined everything.

You looked away first.

Not because you wanted to.

Because wanting was getting dangerous.

You started staying longer. That was the mistake.

At first, you only came by for testing. Then for updates. Then because Tim texted a number he had written in six different places and asked Are you safe?

You stared at the message for twenty minutes.

No one asked you that. Not and remembered long enough to care about the answer.

You typed back Mostly.

His reply came instantly. That is not a yes.

You should have ignored it. Instead, you went to the safehouse.

Tim opened the door with a laptop under one arm, hair a disaster, a hoodie hanging off one shoulder.

He looked you over. “You’re hurt.”

“Barely.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“That’s what barely means in Gotham.”

He stepped aside.

You came in.

He patched your arm with hands so careful they made you want to scream.

Not because it hurt.

Because it didn’t. Because he kept looking at you. Kept his gaze trained on your face while reaching blindly for gauze and antiseptic.

“You can look down,” you said.

“Nope.”

“You’re going to tape my sleeve to my skin.”

“I have done worse with less.”

“That is not comforting.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

His fingers brushed your wrist.

You both went quiet.

Tim’s gaze stayed on yours. There were shadows under his eyes. Purple-blue and stubborn. His mouth was set in that familiar line of someone trying to outthink the universe through sheer spite.

“You’re tired,” you said.

“I’m always tired.”

“That’s not as cute as you think it is.”

“I think you think I’m cute?”

Your soul left your body.

Tim froze. His ears went pink again.

A gift. A treasure. A tiny biological betrayal.

“I meant—” he started.

“You said what you said.”

“I’m sleep deprived.”

“You’re always sleep deprived.”

“Then I’m always not liable for my words.”

You smiled. He smiled back.

For a second, there was no curse.

No whiteboard. No folder. No grief waiting in the corner with its coat still on.

Just Tim’s hand around your wrist, warm through his gloves, and his eyes on yours like looking away was the one thing he refused to lose.

Then his phone rang.

Both of you flinched.

Tim did not look away.

The phone kept buzzing on the table.

He stared at you. You stared back.

“Could be important,” you whispered.

“Probably.”

“You should answer.”

“I know.”

“Tim.”

His jaw worked. “I don’t want to forget this.”

Your breath caught. “This?”

His thumb shifted against your wrist.

His voice dropped. “You.”

Hope was a stupid thing. A stubborn weed growing through concrete.

You wanted to rip it out by the roots.

Instead, you sat very still while it bloomed.

“Tim,” you said softly. “You will.”

The phone stopped ringing.

Then started again.

He closed his eyes.

Your heart jumped.

But he didn’t turn away.

Eyes closed, he said, “Still thinking about you.”

“That’s cheating.”

“That’s science.”

“That is absolutely not science.”

“It is if I write it down later.”

You laughed, but it hurt.

His eyes opened.

He looked almost relieved to find you still there.

The phone stopped again.

A beat passed.

Then his comm went off.

Oracle’s voice filled the room.

“Red Robin, if you’re ignoring me because you found another conspiracy wall, I’m sending Nightwing.”

Tim grimaced.

“You should take it,” you said. He did not move. “Tim.”

“I know.”

You gently pulled your wrist from his hand.

He let you.

You stood.

His expression tightened. “Don’t leave.”

The words were too raw. Too young. Too much like your own secret prayers.

You swallowed. “I’ll come back.”

“You don’t have to say that just because I won’t remember.”

“I know.”

“Will you?”

You should have lied less softly.

“No,” you said. “Not tonight.”

His face went still.

You stepped back. “Because you’ll forget me, and I don’t think I can watch it again right now.”

The comm crackled.

Tim’s gaze stayed on you.

You gave him one last smile. It was probably a bad one.

Then you slipped out the window onto the fire escape.

You heard him say your name. Then Oracle said something urgent. Then the night took you.

By morning, he had sent seventeen messages. All to the number he did not remember saving.

I’m sorry.

I don’t know what happened.

There’s a note on my arm that says I hurt you.

Please tell me what I did.

Please be safe.

You don’t have to answer.

But please be safe.

You deleted none of them. You answered none of them.

Avoiding Tim Drake was harder than finding him had been.

This was unfair, frankly.

Gotham was huge. You were practically a professional non-entity. You had evaded landlords, social workers, police officers, and one very confused census worker who kept rediscovering you on your own couch.

You could avoid one vigilante. In theory.

In practice, Tim Drake was a nightmare with Wi-Fi.

He left messages in places no sane person would think to check.

On rooftops. In police scanner chatter. In the metadata of a corrupted file you had stolen from a Falcone server. Once, in a fortune cookie.

You still had no idea how he managed that.

The fortune read: YOU ARE NOT A BURDEN. ALSO, PLEASE STOP GHOSTING ME. UNFORTUNATE WORD CHOICE. SORRY.

You kept that one in your wallet.

Not because it mattered. Obviously.

You avoided him for eleven days. On the twelfth, you found Red Robin bleeding on a rooftop.

Because Gotham had a sense of humour, and it was mean.

He was propped against an air-conditioning unit, one hand pressed to his side, cape torn, breathing shallowly. Three unconscious men lay scattered around him. A fourth crawled toward a gun.

You kicked the gun off the roof.

The man looked up at you, startled.

Then he glanced away toward Red Robin.

When he looked back, confusion washed over his face. “What the—”

You punched him.

He went down.

Red Robin made a sound that might have been a laugh if it weren’t wrapped in pain.

“Nice,” he rasped.

You crouched beside him. “You’re an idiot.”

His lenses were cracked. One had gone dark, leaving a sliver of blue eye visible beneath the mask.

He looked at you. Really looked.

Your chest ached.

“You came back,” he said.

“You got stabbed.”

“Technically shot.”

“Do not get pedantic while bleeding.”

“Sorry.”

You pressed your hands over the wound. He hissed. “Where’s your emergency beacon?”

“Damaged.”

“Comms?”

“Jammed.”

“Backup?”

He gave you a weak smile. “You?”

“Terrible plan.”

“Working so far.”

“Tim.”

His smile faded. The exposed corner of his eye softened.

“I know you,” he whispered.

Your hands froze. Blood slicked your fingers.

“What?”

“I don’t—” He swallowed hard, face twisting. “I don’t remember. But I know you.”

You tried to breathe. “Tim, stay with me.”

“Trying.”

“You need pressure here.”

“Okay.”

“And you need to keep looking at me.”

His laugh came out broken. “Was already planning on it.”

You hated how that hurt. You hated how good it felt.

You dragged him upright, and he leaned heavily against you. Too heavily. His head dipped toward your shoulder.

“Eyes on me,” you said quickly.

He forced his head up. “Bossy.”

“You like it.”

“I feel like that’s true.”

“It is.”

“Good to know.”

You half-carried him across the roof toward the stairwell.

Halfway there, the door slammed open.

Nightwing burst through, escrima sticks raised.

Behind him came Batman.

Of course. Of course, the universe looked at your worst night and said, Actually, let’s add the emotionally constipated bat-themed father figure.

Nightwing saw Tim. Then saw you.

“Step away from him.”

Tim’s grip on you tightened.

“Don’t,” he said.

Batman’s eyes narrowed. “Red Robin.”

Tim breathed hard. “They’re helping.”

Nightwing looked at you.

Then away, scanning the roof.

Then back.

His expression blanked. “Who are you?”

Your stomach sank. Tim went rigid against you.

“No,” he snapped. “Look at the notes.”

Nightwing blinked. “What notes?”

“Left gauntlet,” Tim said through gritted teeth.

Batman moved first, taking Tim’s wrist carefully.

Written across the inside of Tim’s gauntlet in white marker were the words: IF SOMEONE IS WITH ME AND YOU DON’T KNOW THEM, TRUST THEM. MEMORY HAZARD. DO NOT LOOK AWAY.

Batman read it. Then looked at you.

You expected suspicion. You got it.

Then he looked at Tim’s blood on your hands.

You expected threat. You got that too.

But beneath both, there was calculation.

“Can you get him downstairs?” Batman asked.

You nodded.

Nightwing stared at the message on Tim’s gauntlet, face pale.

“How long has this been happening?”

“Long enough,” Tim muttered.

His knees buckled. You caught him with a panicked noise.

Batman stepped in, taking some of his weight.

For one terrible second, Tim’s gaze slipped from you to Batman.

You felt the exact moment he forgot. His body went tense. His hand jerked toward his weapon.

Then stopped.

His eyes dropped to his wrist. To the writing. To the blood. To your hands still holding him up.

He looked at you again.

No recognition.

But his shoulders eased.

His voice came out hoarse. “Hi.”

You almost broke.

Right there on that rooftop. With Batman watching and Nightwing confused and Tim bleeding between your fingers.

You almost shattered into every version of yourself that had ever been left behind.

Instead, you smiled. Small. Devastated. “Hi, Red.”

His eyes flickered. “Red?”

“You hate when I call you that.”

“I do?”

“Yeah.”

He considered this. Then, barely audible, “Feels familiar.”

Batman’s jaw tightened. Nightwing looked like someone had punched him in the chest.

Good.

Let them see it. Let someone else hold the horror for once.

Tim swayed.

Batman said, “Move.”

So you did.

The Cave remembered you better than people did.

Computers didn’t forget unless told to. Cameras kept your shape. Motion sensors tracked your movement. The Batcomputer marked you as UNKNOWN ENTITY until Tim, pale and stitched and furious from the medbay cot, demanded Batman change it.

“To what?” Batman asked.

Tim looked at you. He had forgotten you three times since arriving.

Each time, he read the notes. Each time, his face did something painful.

Now he sat upright despite Alfred’s stern disapproval, one hand pressed to his bandaged ribs, eyes stubbornly fixed on you.

“Forget-Me-Not,” he said.

You groaned. “Tim.”

“It’s accurate.”

“It’s corny.”

“It’s poetic.”

“It sounds like a Victorian ghost with abandonment issues.”

Nightwing, who had been trying very hard not to stare at you and failing because staring was now medically necessary, whispered, “Kind of on brand, though.”

You pointed at him. “Don’t encourage this.”

Nightwing held up both hands. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Then he looked away toward Batman.

His face blanked.

He looked back at you. Startled. Tim pointed at the gauntlet.

“Oh, come on,” he said, horrified. “I did it again?”

“Yep.”

He dragged both hands down his face. “This sucks.”

You laughed.

You didn’t mean to. It just escaped.

Nightwing looked stricken. “That was insensitive. I’m sorry.”

“No,” you said. “It does suck.”

Tim smiled faintly.

Batman did not. Batman had been watching the recordings.

All of them. Every safehouse interaction Tim had saved. Every reset. Every time Tim’s face went from warm to blank. Every time you flinched like you had been slapped, and then patiently explained your own existence again.

Bruce Wayne had an excellent mask. Batman had a better one.

Neither was good enough. Not for this.

When Tim finally fell asleep — reluctantly, after Alfred threatened sedation with the casual authority of a man who had raised vigilantes and regretted much — Batman approached you near the computer.

You stiffened.

He stopped several feet away.

“Tim trusts you,” he said.

You looked toward the medbay. Tim’s face was turned toward you even in sleep. “He trusts evidence.”

“No,” Batman said. “He trusts you.”

You laughed under your breath. “He forgets me.”

“Those are not the same thing.”

You hated him a little for that.

For being right. For saying it in that gravelly voice, like truth was a verdict.

“He shouldn’t,” you said.

“Why?”

“Because I’ll get him hurt.”

Batman said nothing.

You looked at Tim again.

“He keeps trying to remember me. He gets distracted. He hesitates. He writes things on his skin and loses sleep and builds systems and—and cares.” Your voice cracked. You hated that. “He cares, and he doesn’t even get to keep why.”

Batman was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “Tim is very difficult to stop once he decides someone matters.”

Your throat tightened. “Bad survival trait.”

“Yes,” Batman said. “It runs in the family.”

That almost got a smile out of you. Almost.

Bruce looked toward the medbay.

“He has been calmer,” he said.

“What?”

“Recently. Still sleep-deprived. Still reckless. Still Tim.” A pause. “But calmer.”

You stared at him.

Batman’s gaze returned to you. “I didn’t know why.”

You had no idea what to do with that.

So you did what you always did. 

You prepared to leave. “I should go.”

Batman’s voice sharpened. “That’s not necessary.”

“It is.”

Tim stirred faintly in the medbay. Your feet rooted to the floor.

“He’ll wake up,” you said. “He’ll forget. Then he’ll remember from notes, then he’ll feel guilty, then he’ll try harder. It’s a loop.”

“Then we break it.”

You looked at Batman. Something like anger sparked under your ribs.

“You can’t punch this.”

“I’m aware.”

“You can’t adopt it either.”

One corner of his mouth twitched.

Tiny. Devastatingly father-like.

“I’m aware of that as well.”

“Then what?”

Batman’s eyes moved to the computer. “Tim has theories.”

“Tim has a caffeine addiction and a martyr complex.”

“He also has a working prototype.”

You froze.

Bruce tapped a key.

A file opened.

CONTINUITY ANCHOR — FMN PROJECT

Your breath stopped. Schematics filled the screen. A visual tracking system. HUD integration. Facial recognition. Constant line-of-sight proxy through micro-cameras. Audio prompts. Haptic alerts. A recording loop designed to feed Tim reminders before, during, and after attention breaks.

A way to outsource memory. A way to build a bridge over the gap.

Not a cure. Never a cure.

But a handrail in the dark.

“He didn’t tell me,” you whispered.

“He likely intended to finish it first.”

“Of course he did.”

Because Tim Drake would rather bite through his own tongue than offer hope before he could guarantee it.

Your eyes burned.

On the screen, beneath the diagrams, was a note.

Not technical. Not polished. Just Tim’s writing, rushed and uneven.

They deserve continuity. Even if I can’t give memory, I can give consistency. That has to count for something.

You covered your mouth.

Batman looked away. Then immediately looked back, jaw tightening as his memory reset.

You laughed wetly.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Annoying, isn’t it?”

Batman stared at the screen. Then at you. Then, very carefully, he said, “I understand why Tim is angry.”

That undid you more than pity ever could.

Tim woke three hours later and forgot you before saying good morning.

His eyes opened. They landed on you.

Blankness.

Then he saw the note taped to the ceiling directly above his bed. YOU KNOW THEM. DO NOT PANIC. ASK FOR THE BLUE FOLDER.

He stared at it. Then exhaled.

“Morning?” he guessed.

You sat beside the medbay cot, knees pulled to your chest. “Afternoon.”

“Did I sleep?”

“Under duress.”

“Alfred?”

“Alfred.”

He nodded gravely. “Powerful man.”

“You have no idea.”

His gaze drifted to your face. Stayed there.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

You sighed. “Tim.”

“No, don’t ‘Tim’ me. I know you hate it when I apologise for something I don’t remember doing—”

“I never told you that.”

His mouth shut.

You raised an eyebrow.

He looked briefly smug. “Physiological familiarity.”

“You are impossible.”

“I feel like you’ve said that before.”

“Many times.”

“Nice.”

You shook your head, but you were smiling.

He noticed. Tim always noticed. Even when he forgot why it mattered.

His expression softened. “You stayed.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

You looked at your hands.

Because you were tired. Because he kept trying. Because you had spent your whole life being temporary, and Tim Drake had looked at your curse and said, then I’ll build something that lasts.

Because hope had teeth, yes. But maybe you were tired of bleeding alone.

“You got shot,” you said.

“Again, technically stabbed after being shot.”

“Tim.”

“Right. Not the time.”

A quiet beat passed.

Then he said your name.

You looked up.

He was watching you with that unbearable focus.

“I don’t remember meeting you,” he said.

“I know.”

“I don’t remember most of our conversations.”

“I know.”

“I don’t remember why you look sad when I look away.”

Your throat tightened.

“But I know I hate it,” he said softly.

You stared at him. Tim’s fingers curled against the blanket.

“I know there are gaps,” he continued. “I know something is missing. Every time I reset, it’s like walking into a room after someone has stopped crying. I don’t know what happened, but I know it mattered.”

Your eyes burned. “Tim—”

“I’m not saying that fixes anything.”

“Good, because it doesn’t.”

“I know.”

“You don’t.”

His face changed.

You regretted it instantly. But the words were out now, and maybe they deserved air after all.

“You don’t know,” you said, voice shaking. “You don’t know what it’s like to have to prove you exist every single day. To explain yourself over and over until your own name sounds fake. To watch someone care about you and then lose it because they looked at a clock.”

Tim went very still.

You stood because sitting hurt too much.

“You don’t know what it’s like to be someone’s favourite person for five minutes and a stranger for the rest of your life.”

Silence.

Huge. Electric. Tim’s eyes did not leave you.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

You laughed once, broken and sharp. “I know.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“No.”

“What does?”

You looked at him. He looked so tired. So young, suddenly. Not Red Robin. Not the genius detective. Just Tim, with messy hair and stitches in his side and your name written on his wrist like a prayer he refused to stop saying.

“I don’t know,” you admitted.

Tim absorbed that. Then he nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“If there’s no fix yet, then we start with no fix.”

“That’s not a plan.”

“It’s the beginning of one.”

Despite everything, a laugh trembled out of you.

He smiled faintly.

“There it is,” he said.

Your heart did something stupid. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Look at me like that.”

His smile faded. “Like what?”

“Like I’m someone you could keep.”

Tim’s expression went quiet. Then he reached toward the tray beside him, picked up a marker, and wrote something on his palm.

He turned it toward you.

TRY.

One word. Three letters. Ridiculous. Insufficient.

Everything.

Your breath caught.

“That’s not enough,” you said.

“I know.”

“You’ll forget.”

“Probably.”

“It’ll hurt.”

“Probably.”

“You’ll get tired.”

His eyes sharpened. “No.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Yes,” Tim said. “I can.”

You wanted to argue. You wanted to run. You wanted to believe him so badly it felt like standing on the edge of a building with no grapple and calling it flight.

Tim lowered his hand. “I don’t get to choose what my brain keeps,” he said. “But I get to choose what I do about what it loses.”

You pressed your lips together.

He swallowed. “And I choose to try.”

Your vision blurred. “Every time?”

His voice softened. “Every time.”

You looked away.

For once, someone else remembered the important part.

The prototype was ugly.

You told Tim this. He looked offended.

“It is functional.”

“It looks like a beetle married a security camera.”

“That’s mean.”

“It has antennae.”

“They’re signal stabilisers.”

“They’re emotionally antennae.”

Tim scowled at the device clipped onto his cowl.

Nightwing, who had been instructed not to look away and had taken this to mean he should stare at you with the intensity of a golden retriever witnessing a magic trick, nodded. “It’s a little buggy.”

Tim pointed at him. “You’re not invited to science anymore.”

“I was invited to science?”

“No.”

“Harsh.”

The Continuity Anchor worked. Mostly.

Tiny cameras mounted in Tim’s cowl maintained visual contact when his eyes moved. His HUD displayed a small marker whenever you were in range. If all visual tracking broke, an audio cue played in his ear.

You know them. Look for notes. Do not panic.

Tim recorded it himself.

You hated the first version. He sounded too clinical.

The second version was worse. Too gentle.

The third version made you leave the room.

You came back to find Tim sitting alone, staring at the recorder.

He looked up at you.

“I don’t know how to talk to myself about you,” he admitted.

Your anger dissolved on impact. “Try talking to me.”

So he did.

The final version said Hey. You forgot. That’s okay. They’re real. You trust them. They are not leaving because of this unless you make them feel like they should. Be kind. Start there.

You listened to it once. Then never again.

It lived in Tim’s ear now. A tiny ghost of himself, guiding him back.

The first field test happened on a rooftop at dawn.

Gotham stretched around you in bruised purples and dirty gold. The city looked almost soft from up there, which was one of its better lies.

Tim stood beside you in full Red Robin gear, the new system humming faintly.

“Ready?” he asked.

“No.”

“Great. Me neither.”

You gave him a look.

He smiled. Nervous. Hopeful.

You hated how beautiful he looked in the thin morning light.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m going to look away.”

Your stomach clenched. “Okay.”

“I’ll look back.”

“You might not know why.”

“I’ll have help.”

You nodded.

He took a breath. Then slowly, deliberately, Tim Drake turned his head and looked out over Gotham.

The world did not end. For him, maybe it shifted.

For you, it cracked open.

His profile was sharp against the sunrise. The wind tugged at his cape. One second passed. Two. Three.

Then he turned back.

His eyes found you. For half a heartbeat, there was blankness.

A terrible, familiar void.

Then his HUD must have triggered.

His hand twitched.

His gaze dropped to the writing on his wrist.

Then back to your face.

Recognition did not return.

Not fully. Not magically.

But something else did.

Choice.

“Hi,” Tim said softly.

Your eyes stung. “Hi.”

He stepped closer. “Did it work?”

You laughed, and it came out like crying. “Depends what you mean by work.”

“Did I panic?”

“No.”

“Did I threaten you?”

“No.”

“Did I make that face?”

“What face?”

“The one that makes you look like you’re trying not to disappear on purpose.”

Your breath left you.

Tim’s mouth tilted, small and sad. “I don’t have to remember everything to notice you.”

That was unfair.

That was devastating.

That was Tim.

You wiped at your face quickly. “This is still going to be hard.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m still going to get hurt.”

“I know.”

“You can’t just tech-solution your way out of grief.”

He winced. “That one felt personal.”

“It was.”

“Fair.”

You both stood there, the sun rising behind Gotham’s teeth.

Then Tim held out his hand.

Not grabbing. Not assuming.

Just offering.

“You don’t have to,” he said.

You stared at his hand. “How very dare you be respectful right now.”

His lips twitched. “Trying something new.”

“It’s rude.”

“I’ll stop immediately.”

“No.”

The word came out too fast.

Tim’s smile softened.

Slowly, like approaching a scared animal or a miracle, you placed your hand in his.

His fingers closed around yours.

Warm. Careful. Real.

He looked down at your joined hands.

Your heart lurched. “Tim—”

His gaze snapped back to your face.

Still there. Still knowing enough.

The camera on his cowl gave a tiny mechanical whirr.

He grinned. “Science.”

You laughed wetly. “Dork.”

“Accurate.”

He rubbed his thumb once across your knuckles. “Can I ask you something?”

“You usually do.”

“Have I asked you on a date yet?”

Your entire brain short-circuited. “What?”

“I’m guessing no.”

“Tim.”

“That sounds like no.”

“You cannot ask me out because your own tech is bullying your memory into cooperating.”

“Actually, I can do whatever I want. I’m very stubborn.”

“You got stabbed yesterday.”

“Shot, then stabbed.”

“I swear to God—”

“Coffee,” he said.

You stopped.

His thumb moved again. “Just coffee. Somewhere public. Somewhere with reflective surfaces covered if needed, cameras on, notes ready, exits clear. Worst first date ever, logistically, but emotionally? Strong concept.”

You stared at him.

He looked nervous now. Actually nervous. Tim Drake, who fought assassins and solved murders and apparently stared down gods with caffeine and audacity, was nervous because he had asked you for coffee.

Your heart broke in a new direction. A better one, maybe.

“You might forget halfway through.”

“I might.”

“You might look back at me and not know we’re on a date.”

“I might.”

“That would be awful.”

“Probably.”

“And you still want to?”

Tim’s voice went quiet. “Yes.”

You searched his face.

There was no perfect answer there. No cure. No promise safe enough to build forever on.

Only Tim. Only trying. Only a boy with too much grief and too little sleep, holding your hand like forgetting was not the same as letting go.

You squeezed his fingers.

“Okay,” you whispered.

Tim’s smile bloomed slowly. The sunrise caught on his lenses, turning them gold. “Okay?”

“Coffee.”

“Coffee,” he agreed.

“And if you forget, I’m leaving you with the bill.”

His smile widened. “Reasonable.”

“And I’m picking the place.”

“Smart.”

“And no making Forget-Me-Not my codename.”

He hesitated.

“Tim.”

“Fine.”

“Tim.”

“Fine.”

You laughed. He looked at you like the sound was something worth surviving for.

Then, because the universe was still cruel but maybe not only cruel, Tim looked away.

A gull cried overhead.

The city moved.

His hand stayed in yours.

The device in his cowl whispered softly.

His fingers tightened.

Then he looked back.

For one splintered second, his face was blank.

Your heart braced itself.

Then he glanced at his wrist. At your hand. At your face.

And smiled.

“Hi,” he said.

You smiled back, tears slipping hot down your cheeks. “Hi.”

Tim lifted your joined hands, pressing his mouth gently to your knuckles.

Not because he remembered everything.

Because he chose to begin again.

And for the first time in your life, being forgotten did not feel exactly like being gone.

[irysque]

saddest thing i’ve ever read

[hughies-uptowngirl]

does anyone else squeal at the sight of jack quaid like a beatles fangirl in 1963. god knows i do ♡ ꒰ᵕ༚ᵕ⑅꒱

[0220611]

Blood, sweat, and silver linings

It's the last thing I wanted (tell me, which side are you on, dear?) — It's the first thing I'd do (give me some tips to forget you) — I tell you my problems (have I become one of your problems?) — And you tell me the truth — It's the last thing I wanted (everything that's mine is a landmine) — It's the first thing I'd do (did my love aid and abet you?) — I tell you that I think I'm falling back in love with you (back in love) — Back in love with you — Alcott, Taylor

Masterlist: 💌

Synopsis: There are quarrels that pass like summer storms, and there are quarrels that leave the house feeling smaller afterward. Theirs, tonight, was the second kind. The dishes were washed in silence. The water was run too hot, and too long. And when he came to the door with a pillow under his arm, quite certain that the kindest thing a man could do was remove himself from the room he had darkened, she found she had exactly enough patience left to tell him he was wrong.

Some fights don't have a winner. They just have two people who ran out of ammunition at roughly the same time, and stood there afterward in the ringing quiet, unsure what to do with hands that had spent the last twenty minutes reaching for the worst possible words instead of each other.

That was us, in the kitchen, past midnight, with a whole day's worth of dishes between us and nothing left to say, and a silence so total I could hear my own pulse in my ears, could hear it the way you hear your own heartbeat in a pillow at night, too loud, too present, refusing to be ignored.

I turned the tap on because it was something to do with my body that wasn't shaking, because if I stood still one more second I was afraid of what my hands might do — reach for him, or slam something, I genuinely didn't know which, and neither felt survivable. He came in a minute later. I heard him before I saw him, the particular weight of his footsteps, the ones he uses when he's trying to walk lightly and forgetting, in his own grief, how loud a person becomes even barefoot. He picked up the towel without a word, and something in my chest lurched at the sound of the fabric coming off the hook — small, ordinary, and somehow unbearable, because it meant he was staying, and staying was the last thing either of us had earned the right to expect from the other tonight.

I handed him a plate. My hand shook, just slightly, passing it over, and I hated that it shook, hated that my body was still keeping some kind of ledger of the last hour that my pride wanted no part of. He took it. Our fingers didn't touch. I noticed that they didn't touch — noticed it the way you notice the absence of something you didn't know you were braced for — the careful half-inch gap we both kept without discussing it, like touching by accident might reopen something neither of us had the strength to survive twice in one night.

He dries dishes like he's handling something breakable that isn't the dish. Slow. Deliberate. Both hands, always both hands, like carelessness were a kind of violence he refuses to commit even by accident. I've always loved that about him, that unbearable gentleness, and tonight it very nearly broke something open in my chest, watching him be that careful with a ceramic bowl an hour after being so uncareful with me. I don't think he even noticed the contradiction. I don't think he ever does, in the moment — that's the quiet tragedy of him, that he pours all his tenderness into the things that can't be hurt by his temper, and forgets, until it's too late, that the person three feet away might have needed some of it too.

I scrubbed a pan long after the food had come off it, my knuckles going raw and pink under water that had started too hot and stayed that way because I refused to adjust it. Somewhere in there I glanced sideways — just once, just a fraction of a second — and caught him mid-exhale, this small, controlled breath through his nose, his shoulders drawn up tight around his ears like he was trying to physically occupy less of a kitchen he owns just as much as I do. Something in me ached at that, sharp and sudden, an ache I had no room for yet, and I looked away before he could catch me looking, because I wasn't ready to let my face do anything soft. Not yet. Not while the wound was still that fresh.

When the last pot went into the rack, neither of us moved. We just stood there, side by side, staring into gray dishwater like it might finally say the thing neither of us could. My chest was so tight it physically hurt to breathe past it, a real, physical ache behind my sternum, and I dried my hands on my own shirt instead of taking the towel from him, because his hands, right then, felt like something I couldn't trust myself around — not fear of him, never that, only fear of what my own softness might do if it got too close to him too soon, how fast it might fold, how little it would take. I walked out without a word, and every step away from that kitchen cost me something.

He stayed behind. I heard the water keep running. I heard him wipe a counter that hadn't needed wiping in ten minutes, the cloth moving in slow, aimless circles, and something about that — a man who has survived five hundred years of history reduced to cleaning an already-clean counter at midnight because his hands didn't know what else to hold, because his hands were the only part of him he still trusted to behave — cracked something wide open in my chest that I shoved back down, hard, because I did not have room for it yet.

The shower ran too hot. It always does, on the nights that earn it. I stood beneath it with my forehead nearly against the tile, my whole body curled slightly inward, and let the water hit the back of my neck like it might, if it tried hard enough, actually rinse something out of me. I replayed the fight in broken, out-of-order pieces — a sentence here, the exact register his voice had dropped into near the worst of it, the specific silence that had followed the thing I'd said, the thing I felt leave my mouth and regret before it had even finished landing, felt it the way you feel a stone leave your hand a half-second too late to call it back. I am not a woman who takes pleasure in cruelty.

I get nothing from it, nothing at all, no relief, no righteousness, only this hollow, sick feeling afterward. But I know him well enough, after all this time, to know exactly which door to knock on if I wanted to do damage, and some ugly, cornered, exhausted part of me had knocked on it anyway, hard, and I hated her — that part of me — standing there under water too hot to actually comfort anything.

I turned it off before I was ready to stop being alone. My hands were trembling slightly when I reached for the towel, and I noticed that too, filed it away with everything else I didn't have the bandwidth to examine yet.In the mirror, I did the whole routine on something close to autopilot — cleanser, toner, the serum whose name never sticks, moisturizer worked in with both palms, slow, deliberate, like I was trying to press something calmer into my own face through sheer repetition, through muscle memory, because my mind had nothing left to offer.

I avoided my own eyes for most of it, actively, on purpose, because I didn't trust what I'd find there. Near the end I forced myself to look anyway, forced my own gaze to hold in the fogged glass, and felt something in my throat go thick and swollen at what looked back — someone tired in a way that had nothing to do with the hour. That was the worst one we've had, I thought, plainly, without flinching from it.

I turned off the light and stood a moment in the dark hallway, just breathing, my hand pressed flat against my own chest like I could hold something in place by force, before I let myself go to bed at all.

The bedroom was cold and unlit. I got under the blanket without turning anything on, curled toward the wall instead of the middle, which is the closest thing I have to a small, silent flag staked into the mattress that says I am still hurting, even now, even like this, please don't ask me to pretend otherwise yet. I lay there a long time in that heavy half-place between waking and not, aware enough to still feel the ache sitting low and constant in my ribs, when I heard it — the hallway floor, giving under a foot trying very hard, and failing, to be silent.

I didn't move. My whole body went still, listening, and I let myself hear the specific hesitation in it — the pause before a person decides whether to actually cross a threshold or just stand in the dark a while longer, arguing with himself, alone. I already knew, with the particular dread of knowing someone down to the very architecture of his fear, exactly what I would find if I opened my eyes. My heart was pounding by the time I did.

I opened them anyway.

He was there. Backlit by the hallway light, so still he could have been carved that way, one hand pressed flat and white-knuckled against the doorframe like he needed it to keep himself upright, and under the other arm, held a little too carefully, like evidence he was ashamed to be caught holding, a pillow.I looked at the pillow first. I needed the extra second — needed it badly — before I let myself look at his face, because I already knew, with a certainty that made my chest hurt in advance, exactly what I'd find there.

When I finally did look, really look, past the pillow, past the practiced stillness he wears like armor, something in me gave out entirely, all at once, no warning. The anger was still there. It hadn't gone anywhere. It was allowed to stay as long as it wanted to stay.

My knees actually weakened at the sight of him — uselessly, absurdly, lying flat on my back, which should not be a thing that can happen to a person horizontal in bed, and happened anyway, some old gravity in my chest pulling toward him even now, even furious.

"You weren't actually going to sleep down the hall." My voice came out rough, cracked at the edges, stripped of anything performative, worn down to the studs by the whole night.

He didn't answer right away. I watched his jaw work, once, twice, watched his throat move as he swallowed something down, watched his eyes drop to the floor and then lift again like even that much eye contact cost him more than he had left to spend.

When he finally spoke, his voice had none of its usual composure in it at all — smaller, thinner, careful in a way that had nothing to do with elegance and everything to do with old, learned self-preservation, the kind you build brick by brick over centuries until it becomes indistinguishable from your own skin.

"I thought it might be a mercy," he said, so quietly I had to strain to catch it. "For you. One night without me in the room."

"A mercy." The word came out of me sharp, almost a laugh, except there was nothing funny sitting in my chest, only something raw and disbelieving. "Since when do I need mercy from you sleeping ten feet further away?"

"Since I said the things I said tonight." His voice dropped even further, and I watched something in his throat work again, hard, like he was fighting to keep it together at all. "I keep hearing myself say them. Over and over. I don't know how you're supposed to lie next to that."

"By lying next to you. That's how." I sat up slowly, the blanket sliding off my shoulder, cold air hitting my skin, and I looked at him properly — unguarded, too tired for anything but plain, unbearable truth.

"You don't get to decide unilaterally what I can and can't survive being near, Armand. That decision was never yours to make. That one's mine."

"I only wanted to make it easier." His voice cracked, visibly, on easier, and I watched him hear it crack, watched something like shame move across his face at his own voice betraying him.

"Easier for who." The words left me sharper than I intended, and I let them stand anyway, because they were true and because some things need to land hard to land at all.

"Because it is not easier for me. Lying in here alone, replaying the worst fight we have ever had, wondering if you're somewhere down that hallway convinced you've ruined something you haven't ruined. That isn't mercy, Armand. That's just you, alone, punishing yourself somewhere I can't reach you to tell you you're wrong and I don't want that. I have never once wanted that, not for one single second of one single night."

He was quiet for a long moment, longer than felt bearable, and I watched something in his face struggle — visibly, painfully, the way it does when he's holding two true things at once and hasn't yet learned that they don't have to cancel each other out.

"I don't know how to sit in a room with you," he said finally, so low I felt it more than heard it, "after I've hurt you. I never have. I feel it happening — the wanting to leave — before I've even decided to do it. It's already moving my feet before my mind has caught up."

"I know." Something in me softened completely at that, all at once, every sharp edge going quiet in the same breath. "I've watched it happen to you more times than I can count. It's not new information to me. But knowing where it comes from doesn't mean I have to let it win. Not tonight. Not this time."

"What if I do it again? Next time."

"Then I'll say this again, next time." I held my hand out into the dark between us, and it was steadier than anything else about me felt in that moment. "As many times as it takes, Armand. I promise you I am not running out of this. I have more of this in me than you think. Now come here — before I have to get up and drag you by the collar myself, because I genuinely might, and I am too tired tonight to make that threat elegant."

Something in his face cracked loose at that — not quite a smile, just the ghost of one, startled out of him despite everything, despite the weight sitting on both of us — and it was enough. It was enough to finally get his feet moving.He set the pillow down on the floor instead of finishing the gesture properly, his hand lingering on it a beat too long, like some part of him still wasn't sure he was allowed to let go of it yet. He crossed the room slower than I expected, each step almost disbelieving, the walk of a man approaching something he had been taught, over centuries, that he did not get to have more than once.

He sat on the very edge of the mattress, spine too straight, hands knotted together hard enough that I could see the tendons standing out beneath his skin even in the dark. For a moment neither of us said anything at all. I just looked at him — the tired, uncertain line of his mouth, the white press of his own fingers into his own knuckles, like he needed something to hold onto that wasn't me yet, in case I changed my mind, in case he needed both hands free to leave quickly.

I didn't wait for him to decide the rest on his own. I reached out and pulled him down by the arm, and he came — off balance for half a second in a way he never lets himself be, a small, involuntary sound catching in his throat at the loss of control — and then his whole weight was against me, giving way all at once, like he had been holding himself upright by sheer, exhausted will for the last hour and had only just been handed permission to finally, finally stop.

I gathered him in properly. Not a token arm slung over him — both arms, one hand sliding slow into his hair, the other spread flat and warm against his back, and I felt him go rigid beneath my palm for one long, terrible second, some old, trained reflex bracing for the comfort to be yanked away as fast as it had arrived, his whole body waiting for the other shoe. And then he broke. Folded into me completely, his face pressing hard into my throat, his breath leaving him in one long, uneven shudder that had absolutely nothing composed left inside it, nothing performed, nothing held back.

"There you go," I murmured against his temple, pressing my mouth there, soft, unhurried, feeling him shake faintly under the words. The anger in me had gone quiet for now, tucked somewhere it could wait until morning without disappearing entirely. "I've got you. I've got you. You're not going anywhere tonight, and neither am I."

He made a small, broken sound against my throat, not quite a word, more like something finally allowed to escape after being held too long, and I felt his hand come up and fist — careful, disbelieving — into the back of my shirt, like he needed physical proof under his own fingers that I was real, that I was staying, that this wasn't about to be taken back the moment he let his guard down completely.

I kissed the crown of his head. Then his temple again. Then just rested my mouth there, breathing him in, feeling the frantic, stuttering beat of his heart slowly, slowly learn how to slow itself down against mine, matching itself to me the way it always eventually does.

"I'm still upset with you," I whispered, and even as I said it my thumb was moving in slow, soothing circles at the back of his neck, because both things were true at once now and I had stopped needing them not to be.

"That doesn't cancel out any of this. I need you to understand that, all the way down, not just for tonight. You can survive me being angry, Armand. I promise you can. I'm not going anywhere. I'm just going to be a little annoyed with you while I hold on to you anyway."

He let out something that was almost a laugh, thin and wet and utterly disbelieving, and pressed closer instead of pulling away, closer than before, like he was testing whether that was allowed too, and I felt something in his chest finally, finally unclench beneath my palm, some old, tight thing letting go for the first time all night.

"You know what I was thinking about, in the shower earlier. I was thinking about how you always stir things that don't need stirring. Every single time I'm cooking, without fail, you come and stand next to me and pick up the spoon like the pot was going to give up without you, and I used to find it so annoying, genuinely, I used to have to actively stop myself from saying something about it. And now I just — hand you the spoon. Without thinking. Because somewhere along the way it stopped being annoying and started being just the way things are in this kitchen, the way things are in this house, the way things are with you."

"And I don't know why I'm telling you that right now except that I've been lying here thinking about how much of you has just — quietly become part of how I live, without either of us making a big decision about it, and it makes the idea of you sleeping down the hall tonight feel so ridiculous I can't even hold it in my head properly. Like rearranging furniture in a room you've already memorized in the dark. Nothing would be where I expected it. I'd keep reaching for things that weren't there." A pause, long, unhurried.

"I'm still upset with you. I'll probably be a little upset tomorrow too. But you're part of how this place feels, and I don't know how to explain that any better than that, and I just needed you to know it tonight."

He lifted his head slowly, and I let him, and for a moment we just looked at each other in the dark the way you only look at someone when you've run out of anything left to perform for them — no composure between us, no careful choosing of words, just his face close to mine and both of us a little wrecked and a little relieved and too tired for anything but the plain fact of each other.

He opened his mouth once, closed it. Tried again.

"I don't know how you do that," he said finally, so quietly it barely made a sound. "Look at me like that. After a night like this."

I didn't answer him. I didn't have an answer that wouldn't have taken an hour to say properly, and we were both too far past the hour for that. So I just looked at him a moment longer, the way he'd asked about without meaning to ask, and then I pressed my lips to his forehead, slow, and pulled him back down, and that was the end of it. That was enough. The dark settled around us, and neither of us said another word, and somewhere in the quiet after that, finally, we slept.

A/N: Hiii hellooo. so. this took me an embarrassingly long time to write for something that is essentially just two people doing dishes and having feelings about it. I rewrote the kitchen scene so many times I started to genuinely resent the dishes, which is saying something because I already resented them before I started 🤍

I don't have a lot to say about this one except that I've been thinking about armand's specific brand of self-destruction for a while now — the leaving before you're asked to leave, the shrinking, the pillow under the arm at midnight — and I needed to write someone who just refused to let him get away with it quietly without making it a whole thing. I think that's the most loving thing you can do for someone like him, honestly. just keep the light on and tell him to get back in bed.

Anyway, I hope you're warm wherever you are and that nobody you love is sleeping in the guest room tonight <3

[maplemackintosh]

Pretty When I Cry

𝖩𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖮𝗀𝗂𝗅𝗏𝗂𝖾 𝗑 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

𝖲𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗒: James, who constantly follows you around, finds himself debating his career after something happens with a patient, so you invite him out for drinks to talk. What could possibly go wrong with that?

Warnings: Death mentioned, crying, SMUTTT holy fuck this is a lot of dirty shit, handjob, semi-public handjob, oral sex (both male and female receiving), riding, names, the word 'pathetic' used to degrade, dacryphilia, degradation, praise, pet names used (baby), ma'am kink, no use of a condom (they just raw dog this shit bruh). MINORS DNI WITH THIS, THIS IS STRICTLY 18+ !!

a/n: guys, I'm sorry to admit, but I am in fact horny for this man. It's most definitely ovulation, but I don't care. I need him NEOW. So yes, I wrote this on Easter Sunday, and I'm sure that's a sin somewhere, but I genuinely don't care. It's 11 at night where I live, I'm watching Caseoh, and I'm listening to old Rihanna, so I'm basically in heaven right now. Also, no, I haven't watched the most recent episode where Ogilvie cries after losing the patient and is found by Whitaker in the Ambuance bay, but I've seen clips on TikTok so this is based off of that. wc. 10,159 (holy shit guys this was so long)

James Ogilvie loves to follow you around. 

You noticed it on the second or third hour he was there. 

He was always behind you, even though you weren’t his assigned R2. He asked you multiple questions over multiple minutes, kept looking towards you to see if you caught him correcting dosages and calling out the right names for things, etc. 

You knew he liked being smarter than most people. That was more than apparent on multiple occasions. So, when he started coming up to you, asking questions once again, to try and show off his knowledge, you had just had about enough. 

“Should I start fluids?”

You don’t even look up at first, you’re halfway through a chart, pen moving quickly, mentally juggling three different patients and a lab result you’re still waiting on.

“Yeah,” you say, distracted. “Go ahead.”

“Okay.”

It happens again, not ten minutes later. “Do you want me in room three or five?”

That makes you glance up. Ogilvie’s already standing there, chart in hand, eyes on you. He’s focused on your face in a way that feels just a little too intent for such a simple question.

“Do whatever you want, Ogilvie. Three is fine,” you answer.

“Got it.” He turns immediately, like the decision unlocked something, and disappears down the hall. You frown faintly, but it doesn’t stick; there’s too much going on to think anything about it.

By mid-shift, it’s constant. Not annoying, not yet exactly, but noticeable in a way that starts to itch at the back of your brain.

“Is this okay?”, “Should I call for labs?”, “Do you want me to page cardio?”, “Should I—”

“Yes, Ogilvie,” you say, cutting him off gently but firmly. “That’s fine.”

“Okay.”

Always okay.

He always responds with okay. An immediate response. ‘And soon enough, he’ll be waiting for permission to breathe’, Cassie told you. 

“You realize he’d let you ruin his life if you asked nicely, right?” The voice slides in from your left, dry and amused.

You don’t need to look to know it’s Trinity Santos. Still, you do. She’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching Ogilvie move between rooms with a kind of lazy curiosity. Like she’s observing something mildly entertaining.

You exhale through your nose. “That’s dramatic.”

“Is it?” she tilts her head. “Watch him.”

You don’t respond right away, but you do watch. 

“I dare you to call him over here. Say his name and watch him come running.” Trinity tells you, poking your arm. 

“That’s mean, Trinity.” You say, continuing to watch as Ogilvie looks over at where you two are standing for a moment before looking back at the patient, smiling. “Come onnnn.” Trinity practically whines. “The day is almost over, night shift is coming in soon. I want to have some fun before the day is over.” 

You roll your eyes. “You owe me a white-claw.” You tell her before calling him over. “Ogilvie.” You barely even raise your voice as he appears almost instantly.

“Yeah?” he asks, a little breathless, as he got there faster than he expected to.

And then he just… waits expectantly. Eyes on you. His shoulders were slightly squared. Hands still. So ready. The realization settles slowly.

You hand him a chart. “Take this one. Initial workup.”

“Okay,” he says quickly, already reaching for it. “Yeah, I’ve got it.”

He’s not incompetent. Not even close. Maybe a little apathetic, but he’s good, careful, and attentive. He notices things other people miss. Which is why what happens next shouldn’t have happened.

A patient comes in just before you’re all supposed to clock out. He complains of having chest pain. Being mid-fifties, you have a fear of it being a heart attack. He looks pale, and he’s sweating buckets, but when he clutches his side like he’s trying to hold something in his body together, your mind shifts to maybe appendicitis.

His vitals aren’t great, but not immediately catastrophic. They’re somewhat manageable, and you’ve definitely seen worse.

“Ogilvie, take point,” you say, passing him the chart. “Run the initial workup. I’ll check in.”

“Okay,” he says again, quick and certain. “Yeah.” There’s no hesitation from him and no uncertainty. At first, everything goes exactly as it should. EKG. Labs. Monitoring.

He moves efficiently, calmly, voice steady as he talks the patient through everything. You pass by once, glance in, and see everything under control, so you keep moving. He’s got this. He’s not alone either, he has Trinity and Robby. 

But even with all the help, the patient still crashes. 

While the patient was quick to get here, the appendicitis had gone too long untreated, and he had succumbed to it. Everyone held a moment of silence for the patient, then tried to clean the room for another. 

It wasn’t until about 30 minutes later that a few of you realized the obnoxious intern was not…here. 

“Where’s Ogilvie?” Robby asked, looking around the room. All of you shrugged, you included. “Go find him.” He says, pointing to you. 

You nod, and as soon as Robby turns his back, you look at Trinity, Cassie, and Perlah, raising your arms in a ‘what?’ gesture and giving them a ‘wtf why me’ before going off to find wherever the overachiever went. 

It was warmer outside than in, and you let out a breath as you looked around the ambulance bay. 

“Ogilvie?” But there’s no answer. You shrug, figuring, “Hey, good enough”, and turn to walk back inside. But over the potted plants near the sliding doors, you see a head of blond curls peeking through the greenery. “Ogilvie?” You say again. 

But he’s quiet. He looks like he’s trying to shrink away. Like, if he stays small enough, he won’t exist at all.

You step closer now. “James?” He finally looks up at you, and you realize that he’s been…crying. He’s been crying. Why has he been crying? “What’s wrong? Why are you out here? And why are you crying?” you ask, softer now. 

He doesn’t answer, he just keeps looking at you. It looks like he doesn’t even know why he’s crying. He doesn’t even know what crying is. He seems as though he’s waiting for you to tell him what this is, whatever he’s feeling. What to do with it, how to fix it.

You hesitate, just for a second, before you decide to sit down beside him. You notice the surgical gown that he hasn’t taken off yet is covered in blood. The concrete is cold through your scrubs, and somewhere behind you, ambulance doors slam.

Neither of you speaks for a long moment; there’s just the sound of his uneven breathing. 

“You can’t save everyone, y’know? I learned that the hard way.” 

“I didn’t know what to do.” His voice is quiet. It sounds like it took too much from him to even say that.

You sigh. “You did,” you say gently. “You handled it. It was a tough case—”

“I thought if I just—” he exhales shakily. “If I did everything Robby said, it would be fine.” He swallows hard. His hands curl slightly against each other. “Can you just…” he starts, voice barely above a whisper. “Tell me what I should’ve done?”

The question lands right in your hands. Your instinct is immediate. Answer him. Fix it. Fix how he’s feeling, give him something solid to hold onto. But you stop. Because now you see it. The way he’s been leaning on you all day without you even realizing it.

He likes you. A lot. Probably more than just an intern and an R2, whatever an R2 can mean to someone like him. You already know he wants any attention he can get, to be praised and told he did a great job. But you can’t give that to him, you don’t want to give in. You want him to figure this out for himself this time. As you said, you can’t save everyone who comes through those doors. 

You shake your head. “No.”

He flinches at your answer. Confusion replaces the sadness, just for a second. “What? Why?”

You take a breath. “Because you do know what to do, James.”

He shakes his head and laughs ruefully. “I didn’t—”

“You did,” you interrupt, softer this time. “You followed Robby’s orders, right? Sometimes that’s all we can do.”

He shakes his head, frustration creeping in. “If you had been there—”

“No.” This time, your voice is more firm. “You can’t keep doing this,” you say quietly. “You can’t wait for someone else to tell you how to do your job. Most of the time, you’re figuring it out as you go.” His shoulders tense, and his gaze drops again. “I’m not always going to be there. And as I said, we can’t promise everyone we will save them.”

For a second, you think he’s going to shut down again. Retreat back into that quiet, unreachable place of his. But thankfully, he doesn’t. “I just didn’t want to mess it up. It….” He exhales before continuing. “It sucks to mess up.” 

“Hey,” you say, softer now. He doesn’t look at you, so you nudge his shoulder, gently. “Hey. Look at me.” He does, but he’s reluctant. “You’re allowed to mess up,” you tell him. “It’s your first day still, mind you.” 

He frowns immediately, like the concept is foreign to him. “Not like that.”

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Even like that.” He shakes his head; he doesn’t believe you. You exhale slowly. “James… you don’t have to get everything right just to be good at this.” You soften your voice even more. “You don’t have to earn anything.”

That’s all you say. You two both go back to staying silent, listening to the sounds of the city. The far-off police sirens howling, car horns honking, people on break chatting away as they walk by, coffee in hand. 

You debate asking your next question, but you had always appreciated it when Dana or Mateo asked. You suck in a breath, looking at Ogilvie, who is still staring at the ground. You do have to admit to yourself that he’s kind of cute. “Do you want to get a drink after shift? I mean,” you add, a little quieter now, “you don’t have to. I just thought it might help. It always helps me.” 

He studies your face. You watch his eyes move around as you look back at him. You look at his own eyes before dropping down to his lips and then back up again. He seems like he’s trying to figure out what the right answer is, so you add: “You can say no.”

That seems to snap him out of whatever hypnosis he’s in because he replies, “…Why would I?” he asks, genuinely.

A small, breathy laugh escapes you. “Just…think about it,” you say, shaking your head slightly. “Slow down before answering right away.” 

You grab your bag from the locker room, rolling your shoulders as you step out into the cool evening air.

The sky is dim, washed in a muted blue-gray that sits just before full dark. The world doesn’t know what just happened inside those walls, and you like it. You always try to separate your home and work life, but now it’s sort of blending as you see Ogilvie. 

You spot him a few feet away. He’s standing near the edge of the parking lot, hands shoved awkwardly into his jacket pockets, shoulders slightly hunched like he’s not entirely sure what to do with himself. He looks… out of place. Not in scrubs anymore, not actively working, just standing there, waiting.

For you.

“You still up for that drink?” you ask as you approach.

He straightens almost immediately, as the sound of your voice pulls him back into reality. 

“Yeah,” he says quickly. Then, softer, like he’s correcting himself, “—yeah. If you are.”

You nod toward the street. “There’s a place a couple blocks down. Nothing fancy.”

“That’s fine,” he says, falling into step beside you without another question.

The walk is quiet, but it’s not uncomfortable. He asks a question every now and then, and you, being you, answer every time. The city hums around you in low, distant sounds—cars passing, the murmur of people further down the street, the occasional flicker of neon from half-lit storefronts.

Ogilvie keeps his hands in his pockets the whole time.

His shoulders brush yours once, just barely, and he shifts immediately, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to take up that much space.

You obviously notice, but you don’t say anything. You’re testing the waters as well, doing this. 

The bar you arrive at is small. A dimly lit interior spills out onto the sidewalk, warm yellow light cutting through the cool evening air. The sign above the door flickers faintly, and inside, the noises are low. There are soft conversations all around, the clink of glasses, muted music humming somewhere beneath it all.

It’s not crowded, but there are certainly a lot of people here. 

“This okay?” you ask, glancing at him.

He nods. “Yeah. It’s good.” There’s something almost relieved in his voice. Inside, the air is warmer. It smells faintly of alcohol and wood polish. The lighting is low enough that you can see, but it takes your eyes a few seconds to adjust. You catch a booth in the far corner that’s free, so you motion towards it. 

You slide into it, your back to the wall behind you, as James slides into the other that’s facing you. “What do you want?” you ask, glancing over at him.

He blinks, the question catching him off guard. “Uh…whatever you’re getting is fine.”

You tilt your head slightly. “That’s not how this works.” There’s the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of your mouth. “Pick something.”

He looks at the menu like it’s more complicated than it should be, like there’s a right answer hidden somewhere between the lines. “…Tequila?” he says finally, uncertain.

“That works,” you nod, standing up and stepping out of the booth. “I’ll go get us a bottle of Tequila and two shot glasses. Maybe some limes while we’re at it. I’ll be back.” You give him a small smile and a squeeze on his shoulder. 

You ask the bartender for two glasses and a full bottle, giving him the money and making your way back over to your quaint little booth. You pour some for Ogilvie and then yourself, counting down the first shot as you knock it back. 

It goes down easier for you, not as easily for James. The burning sensation crawls down your throat, and it’s just enough to make you feel a little better about today. Across from you, James coughs slightly after his, his shoulders tensing before he exhales, a little surprised.

“Okay?” you ask, amused.

“Yeah,” he says quickly, clearing his throat. “Yeah, that’s—yeah.”

You huff a quiet laugh before pouring more liquid into the two shot glasses and knocking it back again. James handles it a little better this time around. “So,” you say, resting your elbow on the table, your chin propped lightly in your hand. “Do you always do that?”

He blinks. “Do what?”

“Look at me like you’re waiting for something.”

His face flushes almost immediately. It creeps up from his collar to his cheeks, quick and unmistakable. “I don’t—” he starts, then stops. “I mean—I didn’t realize I was—”

“You were,” you say, not unkindly. “All day.” 

He looks down at the bar, fingers brushing lightly against the rim of his glass. “Sorry.”

You reach out without really thinking about it, and your hand lands lightly on his forearm. Warm and solid. It makes him still instantly. “Hey,” you say, softer now. “Don’t apologize. It’s fine.”

He glances up at you, clearly thrown off—not just by the words, but by the contact. You can feel it under your hand, the way his muscles tense, the way he seems to freeze for a second, like he doesn’t know what to do with it. “You don’t have to apologize for everything,” you add.

He swallows. His gaze flickers—not away, but down, just briefly, like he’s aware of how close you are now. Of your hand still resting on him.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “No more apologizing.” 

You don’t move your hand right away, and you don’t really want to. There’s something about him like this—flustered, a little overwhelmed, trying so hard to get it right even now—that pulls at you in a way you weren’t expecting.

You pull your hand back eventually, letting it drop to the table, fingers brushing against your own glass. “Another?” you ask.

He nods. By the third shot, there’s a looseness to him now, a slight delay in his reactions, like he’s not filtering himself as carefully. His shoulders aren’t as tight. His posture isn’t as rigid.

And when he looks at you, it lingers, just a little longer than before. You notice. Of course you do.

“You’re staring,” you say lightly, a hint of a smile tugging at your mouth. His eyes widen slightly.

“I—no, I wasn’t—I mean—”

“You were,” you interrupt, softer this time.

He huffs out a small, nervous breath. Then, after a second, he responds with “…Sorry. You’re just…really pretty.” 

You laugh. You actually laugh this time. And without thinking, you reach out again, your hand brushing his arm this time. “James.” You tilt your head slightly, studying him. “You know,” you say, voice dipping just a little, “you’re allowed to look at me.” Your gaze drops briefly to his mouth.

When you look back up, he’s already looking at you, and there’s something new in it. Something that wasn’t there before. You lean in, just a fraction. It’s not enough to cross the line, but it’s certainly enough to make heat start to curl in your stomach and between your thighs.

Your hand lifts again, this time settling more deliberately against his shoulder, your fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his shirt. And the best part of all of this is that he lets you do it. He’s so willing in this situation. Always so willing. 

Your heart kicks a little harder in your chest because suddenly, it’s not about whether you can, it’s more about whether you should.

“James,” you murmur.

His name sounds different like this. You like the name, James. It suits him. “Yeah?” he breathes. He’s looking at you as if you asked—

But you stop the thought before it can continue as your mind remembers Trinity’s voice echoing in your head. You realize he’d let you ruin his life if you asked nicely, right? Your grip on his shoulder softens. You don’t pull away, but you don’t close the distance either. Instead, your thumb brushes lightly against him, against the collar of his throat, and you watch as his Adam’s apple bobs in response. 

You smile—just a little. “Slow down,” you say quietly.

He blinks, clearly not expecting that. “What?” he asks, a little dazed. 

You chuckle. “Nothing,” you say, leaning back just slightly, enough to give him space. “Just… don’t let me make all your decisions tonight, okay?”

“‘M’not.” He says, shaking his head. “I promise.” 

“If you say so.” You release his shirt, and he slumps back against the booth. 

The night stretches as you keep pouring the Tequila. You’ve moved from sitting across from him to sitting next to him now. You look at him while he talks, your face resting in your hand that leans on the table. 

Every time he tries to make eye contact with you, he sees you’re already looking at him, so his eyes go back to the wall or the window or just something else that’s not you. You clearly make him nervous. 

And he’s cute when he’s nervous. Really cute. It’s not just the alcohol talking. 

Your foot finds his leg under the table, and you begin to move it up and down, slowly. You watch as he stumbles over his words, his hand going to your thigh. But then you’re quick to pull your shoe away, and he looks more sad than he was in the ambulance bay. 

He leans in to kiss you, but you stop him, shaking your head. “Mmm. Keep talking. I like listening.” You tell him, and he nods, continuing with his story about something stupid he did as a teenager that was a dare from his friends. 

Your hand goes to his thigh, and you look up at him. He’s biting his lower lip and looking up towards the ceiling. He won’t look at you. 

“Tell me if this is not okay, okay?” You tell him, reaching your free hand up to grab his chin, forcing him to look down at you. 

“Mhm.” He nods vigorously. 

“Words.” You reply. 

“O-okay.” He tells you. 

You smile, nodding. “Good. Keep going.” You lean into him as he begins to talk once more, and you press your lips against the side of his throat. At the same time, your hand slides higher, and you hear him choke. Your lips curl into another smile against his skin, and you go even higher, reaching the top of his jeans. 

“Is this okay?” You ask him, breaking away from him for a moment. “Shit. I should’ve asked before this but are you clean?” 

“Yes and yes.” He says, looking as though he’s in bliss and you’ve barely touched him. One of his hands finds yours and slowly begins to guide it between his thighs. He’s breathing fast, his chest moving up and down quickly as he continues to slowly move your hand along. 

When you finally make contact with the bump of his jeans, he lets out an audible sigh and a ‘fuck’. His shoulders shake as he lets out a small, humorless laugh. It’s more like a breath of relief as he pulls down his fly, and you sneak your hand underneath the fabric of his boxers. 

He’s heavy in your hand as you grasp him, and above you, James gasps as your stomach twists with butterflies. “Good. I am too. Shhhh.” You have to tell him, trying to remind him that you are both still in a bar. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He apologizes. Your thumb comes up to swipe over his tip, and his knee makes contact with the table, and it makes you laugh, burying your face into his neck. “Fuck, I’m sorry,” he apologized again, and you shook your head. 

“It’s okay. But if you want me to keep going, I think we should leave here.” 

He just nods, scrambling to re-button his pants and make sure you two both look like you didn’t just give the start of a hand job, before you guys walk out of the small bar. 

The walk back to your apartment feels like the slowest thing in the world. You’re both walking side by side, obviously, on the sidewalk as you reach for his hand. He lets you take it, but he’s hesitant about it still. 

He doesn’t touch you in any way besides that. He still has a hard-on in his pants, and you’re trying your best to quickly get back home to finish this up, but you’re both still slightly stumbling and bumping into each other. 

Which is why you’re so incredibly grateful when you finally reach the front door of your brownstone. 

You pull him inside, immediately connecting his lips with yours, and kicking the door shut. “Jesus Christ.” You sigh into his mouth, grabbing at his clothes. His hands are still by his side, even though you know he wants this too. “What’s wrong?” You ask, pulling away. You wipe the spit from your lips, your chest heaving. 

“What? Nothing’s wrong.” He pants, moving in to kiss you again, but you stop him with a hand to his chest. 

“You’re not touching me.” You state, plain as day. 

He looks down at his hands. “Oh, I.. ‘cause I didn’t know if you wanted me to. O-or not.” 

“Of course I want you to.” 

“Okay. Okay.” He says, leaning in to try and kiss you again, and this time you let him. You grab his hands too, putting them on your hips. You can feel him shaking and hear his shaky breathing as he exhales. 

“Why’re you so nervous, hm?” You ask him and he honestly doesn’t know. James Ogilvie is not a nervous person. But by god as soon as he gets a pretty girl in front of him…it all goes to shit. He can’t think of any other words except for ‘okay’ and ‘yes’ and ‘fuck’. He thinks about if you would like it if he called you ‘ma’am’ but he doesn’t voice that out loud. 

“Don’t know.” he replies. 

“It’s okay. You don’t have to be nervous with me.” You smile, trying to make him feel a little more at ease. “Or are you nervous because…you’ve never…are you a virgin?” 

He bites his bottom lip, looking down at you. “Um…I mean, I’ve never…I’ve gotten like…ha-hand jobs before but never…” 

“Oh.” You say, understanding. “Okay, that’s okay. Do you want me to fix that, or would you rather just take it slow?” 

“I want you to fix it. Please?” He begs. And he just begs so nicely that you can’t say no, really. So, you grab him by the hand and lead him to the living room, gently pushing his shoulders, urging him to sit down on the couch. 

You kiss him again, and he whines against your lips as your tongue glides with his. He’s still so hesitant to touch you, and you have to grab his hands again to tell him it’s okay to touch you. 

“James, you can touch me whenever you want. It’s okay.” You reassure him. 

“I know, I know. I-I just…” 

“Do you like it when I tell you what to do?” You ask the question that’s been on your mind all day, even though you absolutely, with no doubt in your mind, know he does. He likes it when anyone tells him what to do. He likes it when he’s praised for doing a good job, he likes it when he’s asked questions he can easily answer, and he even likes it when Trinity says some sort of sarcastic comment towards him because it means at least someone is paying attention to him. 

He nods, looking up at you. His hands rest on your hips, too scared to move them away from where you placed them. 

“Can I tell you something?” You swallow, leaning back. “I think you’re pathetic-”

“So pathetic,” He whispers, his head coming forward to bury itself in your stomach.

“Take your pants off for me, yeah?” You ask him, and you watch as he unbuttons his jeans and pulls down his fly, his thumbs catching the hem of his pants and ever so slowly pulling the fabric downwards. Your breath stutters as his skin and blond, coarse hair are gradually revealed right in front of your eyes, the hemline making a mouthwatering triangle shape that runs alongside the lines of his Adonis belt. 

“Jesus, Ogilvie.” You whisper, watching the show. You figured he was at least somewhat lean, as he had a tenancy, whether intentional or not, to show off his biceps as he hauled a patient off a stretcher onto an actual bed, or helped Robby restrain someone, etc. But you didn’t know he was this…well…jacked. 

When he stops just at the very base of his cock, it takes you a second to realize he’s waiting for you to tell him to keep going. Your eyes flick down to look at him, slowly running his thumb along the slope of flesh peeking out of the blond curls. 

Oh fuck, how did you even get to this point right now? And why are you so wet already? 

“Keep going.” 

He’s immediately using his other hand to reach inside and shift up just a bit before he eases his cock out of his pants by cupping his balls and letting the fabric hooked in his thumb rest under them before he shuffles the fabric all the way down his legs, resting at his feet. 

He’s already half hard for you, already thick as he carefully lowers himself back down again onto the cushions. He’s pretty. He looks…good. His cock looks really nice. 

God, you want him in your mouth. You have no idea why that’s your first thought. Okay, well, no, that’s not exactly true- you know exactly why that’s your first thought, especially when you can physically see him getting harder and harder right in front of you, watching her trace his fingers down his shaft and lazily brush them over the head. 

“I…do you not want to…do this…anymore?” He asks, out of breath. The head of his cock lies against his stomach. His hands go back to your hips and tighten on them, his breathing subtly picking up.

“What? God, no. I just want to look at you. You’re so pretty.” You settle into his lap, feeling his cock brush against your cunt through your pants. His hands are now on your sides. “Did you know that? And I want to help you forget about today.” You catch the fabric of his shirt near his neck. 

“I’ve been told once or twice.” He says, trying to be funny, but he stops trying when you yank his collar to the side and lick a slow, hot, wet line up his throat. “I…I-fuck- that…you feel good…and…and…I want you to help me forget-” 

His breath catches when you bite down on the thick cord of muscle that connects his neck to his shoulder. He murmurs your name when you reach between the two of you and wrap your hand around his hard cock. 

“I really want to fuck you,” you whisper against his skin, feeling him shudder under your lips as you slowly pull your hand up nd down the thick length of him. “But right now, I think you should lie back and let me suck your cock for a little bit. What do you think?” 

He doesn’t answer with words, but he throbs under your hand, and his body is surprisingly malleable as you urge him to move back more, just enough for you to slip between his already spread enough legs. You keep stroking him the entire time, sucking marks down his neck. 

At one point or another, you decide that his not having his shirt off isn’t sufficient enough, so you reach down and pull it up from the bottom, lifting up up up- up until he does the rest, pulling it over his head and letting it fall somewhere on the floor. 

Your free hand rests gently on his soft abs, and you lean your head up to whisper against his lips, “Will you let me suck your cock, James?” 

“No one’s ever…how do you even know you’ll-” 

“Like it? That’s up for me to decide. You just lean back and take it, okay? I know you like to be told what to do, so shut up and listen, okay?” 

“Okay.” He nods; his back is now right up against the sofa cushions. “Is it- h-how do you- does it always feel this good?” 

“You’re a doctor intern. You tell me. You’re smart enough to figure it out.” You tell him, beginning to slide down his body. 

“I-yeah, yeah, you’re right.” 

The warmth that settles in the pit of your stomach is intensified by the clear drop of precum shining at the tip of his cock, which is now achingly swollen and a shade darker in color than a few seconds ago. “Keep talking,” you whisper. “I like hearing you stutter over your words.” 

And then you slide his head into your mouth and let your tongue flutter gently along his frenulum. Ogilvie instantly goes rigid and grabs a fistful of the couch’s armrest, his back arching a little and his head peering up towards the ceiling. You hum as you taste his precum, slowly brushing your tongue over his tip to see if you can get any more out of him like this without going deeper. 

“Fuck-” he whines while lifting his hips, every muscle in his body tensing under you. “Y-your mouth is- fuck-” he gasps when you gently swirl circles around the pulsing head, his open palm circles around the pulsing head, his open palm coming down hard on the cushion beside him with a dull thud. “-fuck, your mouth is s-so, fe-feels so good.” 

You pop off of him, and he whimpers. He actually whimpers, and that just makes you more delirious with pleasure as you look up at him. He looks down at you at the same time, stomach pushing up and down as he breathes heavily. 

“I’ve barely touched you.” You smile, sliding your hands down to take off his shoes and then his jeans, throwing them somewhere you couldn’t care less about at this moment. You take him back into your mouth, and he moans, jerking forward as you open your jaw and take him down a few inches so he can really feel your throat. You’re satisfied when his head falls back, and his hands go to your hair. 

He’s gentle, so so gentle. As much as you don’t want to admit it, you do get why he’s only had a hand job. He’s not the most friendly person, but he grows on you. Takes a while, but he does. 

You slowly begin bobbing up and down, dragging the flat of your tongue along the underside of his shaft and getting him nice and wet. His thighs almost feel like stones he’s strained so hard. You can only get around half of him in your mouth without straining for it, so you soon lift off him and start coating your palm and fingers in spit. His head rears immediately, exposed chest heaving as he watches. You never knew he was this big.

“You’re so tense, James,” you murmur, reaching down and starting to jerk him with your slick hand. He doesn’t relax into it; instead, he straightens his back even more, his hips starting to thrust into your grip. “Do you want me to stop?” 

“Fuck, no. Please don’t do that. Don’t stop. I just…I want to ple-please you so bad.” He moans, the exact opposite of relaxed. “You-” 

“This is all about you, James.” 

“But I read once that-” he cuts himself off with a groan when you take him back down again, only deeper this time. And then he relents and starts slowly fucking into your mouth, gradually rolling his hips further and further with every thrust. One hand fists itself into the blanket while the other holds your hair back as you open your throat and work the rest of his length. 

When you take him down as far as you can, and you drop your free hand to cradle his balls, Ogilvie just about loses his mind. 

“C-can I fuck you? At some point? Pl-please?” He starts rasping at the ceiling. “Please, l-let me please you too? I-I want to make you feel go-good too, like you’re doing to me…” 

You hold there and swallow around his thick cock, letting your other hand slither down between your own legs and start rubbing your clit. Thank god you were wearing an easy pair of pants that you could slip your hand into. He probably can’t see you do it from this angle, but it feels so much better this way, regardless, having him as far down as your throat as possible and listening to him babble while you touch yourself. 

The sound you make pulling off him to breathe isn’t necessarily the most attractive thing in the world, but with the way he groans and tugs your hair gently in response, you’d think it was the sexiest thing he’s ever heard. You keep jerking this throbbing cock and rubbing circles around your lit, before moving down to take one of his balls into your mouth. 

His grip tightens, along with the soft skin under your tongue. “W-wait, wait, wait, stop, st-stop I don’t-” 

You look up at him. He’s covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and everything about him is unbearably stiff, even with the way his body is sprawled out, and his chest rocks up and down with exertion. You obviously pull off of him again, not wanting to go against his wishes and continue. 

It might be too much for him, seeing as this is his first time getting head, and he might need a break. That or he doesn’t want to continue anymore. Which in that case, you’ll help him clean up and make sure he’s okay. 

“S-sorry, I just- I was-” he gasps, “I wa-I was about to cum-” 

“I want you to cum,” you murmur, blinking up at him and dragging your tongue up the length of his swollen, throbbing cock. “That’s why I’m doing this.” 

“I didn’t know if I- if I was allowed to.” 

“You what?” You ask, spitting on him. 

“If I ha-had to ask. I know some girls don’t like it.” 

“You don’t have to ask me, Ogilvie.” But suddenly it comes clearer to you. He loves asking. He wants to ask if he has permission to cum for you. You look at his face, and your lips spread into a smile. “Ohhhh. You like asking, don’t you?” And he nods in response. “What did I say about words?” 

“Yes. Yes, I like asking.” 

You get another idea too and decide to push him. “Yes, what?” 

“Y-yes…ma’am?” 

“There you go.” You kiss his thighs, and it makes him whine. “I want you to cum for me, okay?” 

“Okay.” He whines, nodding as you start to gently suck on his tip and look up at him innocently after telling him you want to swallow his load. Maybe he could’ve stopped the way his balls suddenly pull up tight, the way his grip on your hair turns to steel, and his head rolls to the side. 

There’s a subtle shift of his head too, and you finally know that he can see your hand moving between your legs. You can tell because he makes a sort of sob/choking sound and his stomach flexes. 

“O-oh fuck. I’m cumming, I-I’m gonna cum.” He warns you, and then he’s cumming down your throat exactly like you wanted. There’s a second between the moment of detonation and the explosive result of it. It’s just enough time for him to slowly tilt his chin up and let out the smallest, quietest moan you’ve heard from him this whole night before his cock starts throbbing on your tongue, his balls working to steadily pump cum up his shaft. 

You pull up a little bit, swirling circles around his head as the first spurt hits your tongue, moaning at the taste of him, which makes him hoarsely whine your name. You swallow everything he gives you until he’s trembling on your couch. 

You suck on him a little longer after that, and just look at how stunning his body is exposed and spread out for you on the couch like this. “If-if you keep doing that, I’m go-gonna get hard again,” he eventually tells you, his voice coming out sounding like sandpaper in his throat. 

You hum and finally pull off of him. “You like overstimulation too, huh?” You lean down and bite at his hipbone, which has him jerking in response. 

“Is it that obvious?” He asks you, smiling a little as you crawl back up his frame into his lap. 

“Can I test it?” 

“Can I eat you out first?” 

“You still want to? I figured you’d be a little too tired.” You push some of his curls out of his face. 

“God no,” he shakes his head, looking at you still in your clothes. “Please, can I eat you out? Please? Please, please, please,” he begs you, kissing your neck. 

“Yeah, baby.” You nod, your hands tangling into his hair before he’s standing both of you up. 

“Can we go to your bedroom…or is that off limits?” he jokes, and you laugh a little. 

“No, it’s not off limits. Come on.” 

You hear yourself take one shaky breath as you stand, grabbing his hand and guiding him behind you to the last door in the hallway to the right. You don’t get too far into the room before he’s closing the door and pushing you up against it. He kisses you and moans when he tastes himself on your tongue. 

“Could you take off your shirt?” He whispers, his hands coming down to the hem of it. He’s gotten bolder with his handling. You nod, and he slowly lifts your shirt, his fingertips grazing your skin, which makes you shudder in response. “Pants too?” He asks, and you nod. 

Once your shirt is thrown off, he drops to his knees and begins to take off your pants along with your underwear. He presses his lips to your hipbone, and you groan. He looks up at you with his brown eyes, and you have to bite your lip to suppress a moan. 

“Don’t tease me. I didn’t tease you.” 

“I’m not teasing,” he says, kissing the tops of your thighs. “I would never tease you.” 

That’s when he finally makes contact with your cunt, and you hiss. You look down at him, your hand tangled in his curls, as a soft, dexterous heat slowly envelopes your clit. It nearly hurts with how good it feels. You were so focused on giving Ogilvie pleasure that you didn’t realize just how pent up you were. The noise you make is indescribable in its obscenity. His mouth is a furnace, a slick furnace between your folds, and his tongue comes out like velvet to flutter gently over your clit, humming low in his throat as he tastes you for the first time. 

This feels amazing. It feels like heaven, having him on his knees like this for you. He knows as much about you as you do about him, which is absolutely nothing, as this is his first month in the ER as an intern. But you both now know the taste of each other’s pleasure, which has to count for something. 

“James…oh, fuck-” Your words are barely discernible. His fingers curl against your thighs, his tongue starting to swirl gentle circles around your swollen clit. Your hips almost feel like they’re doing too much to seek out more pleasure, rutting against his mouth. But he seems to like it, moaning each time it happens. And he keeps his eyes on you the entire time. “I thought you said you were a virgin.” You ask him, but it’s not really a question, more of a statement. 

Part of you doesn’t want him to answer, because that means he’ll have to stop whatever he’s doing with his mouth to give you this much pleasure. “I am,” he says, licking his lips. “Doesn’t mean I haven’t read a book or two to know what most women like. Can I use my fingers?” 

You nod, out of breath. “Yeah. Use your fingers.” And you nearly combust as he sinks two of his fingers deep inside your cunt. “Oh-f-fuck-” You can’t tell if the short, rough little growl he makes into your warmth is from the way your fingers feel tugging on his hair or the way you feel clamped around his own, but it still rocks down your spine and sparks lightning deep inside nonetheless. It doesn’t matter, because he pulls them out and then pushes them back in again, doing it steadily over and over, until you’re sweating, hips arching in presentation. 

He continues to lick his hot tongue through your folds and finger fuck you, so utterly slow and steadfast that you’re so close to just completely pulling him back up to his feet and riding him until he’s past the point of tears. 

You feel something wicked beginning to burn in your core, spreading along the muscles in your pelvis. It rises up through your abdomen like high tide, seeps down into your knees, and wraps around them. Your breathing gets more shallow.

“I’m gonna cum,” you breathe, everything inside you quickly pulling up fierce and tight, your chest heaving, and your grip in his hair turning to iron. “-oh fuck, James, I’m g-gonna cum- I-” 

But then his mouth leaves you at the same time his fingers do, and there’s a split-second delay in his rhythm before both his mouth and his fingers come back- only his fingers feel a bit slicker than they did moments before. 

Something about it hits you just right, settles down low, and locks your hips in position. “Yes, fuck right there, right there!” 

A quiet whine rumbles low in his throat, and then he takes a second to softly suck on your clit as if he could pull it out of you that way. His fingers curl, press up hard against something that almost makes your knees buckle, and you have to stifle a yelp when your body suddenly erupts in searing hot pleasure above him. 

Your back arches away from the door, and a white light flashes, your thighs going rigid and your pussy flooding itself between your legs. You shatter, cumming in his mouth, wailing his name while he moans and whines raggedly and drags you through it. It’s hot and wet, and everything feels like it’s not important, just you and everything he’s giving to you. 

Things slowly return to you one by one; his tongue still fluttering against your clit, the angle of his fingers still touching that spot within you. The solid weight of him between your knees helps to somewhat ground you, and you realize that your fingers are clamped tight in his hair. 

You loosen up your grip on his scalp, and he slowly pulls out of your swollen heat and holds your thighs open with wet fingers, pausing to give your sensitive clit a few more gentle sucks, and only lets go once you tap on his head to stop. 

You’re still trying to calm your breathing when he stands and kisses your face all over before pressing his lips to yours. You can taste yourself on him as you feel his fingers fumble with your bra clip. 

He takes it off successfully and drops it to the ground. You notice that he’s moving his hips against your thigh, groaning quietly to himself. You watch him rub his hardening cock against your skin, and his head slowly tips back at the sensation. 

“Wi-will you let me- ju-just for a second, let me put it in? Ngh- righ-right now?” His breathing stutters, hips beginning to rock against yours. “Let me-f-feel you?” 

For being such an asshole, he becomes such a pleaser when he’s rubbing his hard cock against you, doesn’t he? You don’t even respond, just desperately start moving off and away from the door towards your bed. His exhale is shaky as he follows, his hands grasping at your hips. 

God dammit, you never thought sex with Ogilvie could feel this good. You and Trinity, as well as Victoria, a little bit, all made bets on who is the best in bed. Of course, it was just between the three of you; it never went any further than that. Occasionally, Dennis would join in, but that was it. 

You had told them all that you know for an absolute fact that Jack Abbott and Cassie McKay were the best in bed. Parker Ellis, too, and Emery Walsh. Trinity said there was no way Dr. McKay was good in bed, as she hadn’t had any tail since Chad. Trinity voted for Yolanda and, against her better judgment, Langdon. But you told her Yolanda doesn’t count, as she knows Yolanda is good in bed. 

Dennis said Dana looks like she’d be good, and Robby, too. Victoria said Langdon as well as Cassie. 

But all four of you agreed strongly that there’s no way with that attitude and know-it-all behavior, Ogilvie was good in bed. God, were you so wrong. 

The bed is soft underneath you, and it doesn’t take long for Ogilvie to follow suit. “Shit,” he huffs, breaking away from you. “I-I don’t know..” 

“What to do? Yeah, I know.” You said before switching positions, so you’re now on top. “I’ll show you. That’s what good R2’s do, right?” You bury your face into his neck and reach your hand down between you two, stroking his cock again. He sucks in a deep breath, his body jerking when you grab onto his cock and downright purr into the crook of his neck when you find him rock hard and throbbing. 

“R-right ma’am.” He whines. 

You move so you’re hovering slightly above him, your legs on either side of him. Your hips move forward, engulfing the hard underside of him between your slick, swollen lips. His entire body shudders at the blazing heat of you, and he grits a curse when you gradually begin to move back and forth along the thick length of him.

“Such a good boy.” You whisper, your hands coming to press down on his shoulders as your hips drag against his, sliding his cock through your drenched slit, pressing a gentle kiss to his neck. “You still okay? I’m on birth control, so I’m just going to-” 

“Ye-yes. I’m still okay-” He gasps, tilting his head to give you more room and hands coming down to clamp tight over your hips, “fuck, I’m- I’m so good. Please do it. I do-don’t care.” 

“Good,” you breathe into the crook of his neck, grinding your pussy against his throbbing cock. You gasp, tightening your hold around him as your clit drags over his thick erection. “Such a good listener, too. When you want to be.” 

“Fuck, thank you,” he whines, slowly tipping his head back. “Please, please don’t tease me. I’ve been go-good, lik-like you said.” 

“I know,” you whine too, rolling your hips along his body. 

“You-” James cuts himself off abruptly with a groan, his grip turning to steel on your hips. “I’ll always listen to you.” His fingers dig into your hips so hard, you’re forced to immediately stop gliding your pussy over him. One of your hands moves to clamp down over his shoulder while the other threads through the thick locks at the base of his neck. You pull your hips up and tilt them just a bit, just enough to position the tip of his cock at your entrance. 

You bite his neck and slowly start to sink onto him. He lets out a choked cry as you shove your cunt the rest of the way down his thick cock and then further, pressing him up so far inside you with such a chaotic movement that he lets out a sob next to your ear. 

Fuck, he hits amazingly sweet from this angle. He stretches you and fills you spectacularly, forces you to yield to him while you breathe heavy through your nose, wondering how dark a bruise he’ll have on his neck from your bites and kisses. 

Ogilvie likes it, though. You can tell. His hand comes up to the back of your neck, silently asking you to lean down and kiss him while you gradually begin to pull your hips up, clamp down around him as hard as you can, and slowly drag his thick cock out of your cunt. He likes this. He likes feeling your teeth in his neck while you start to fuck yourself on him. 

“Oh my god,” he nearly spits, his hand squeezing your thigh hard enough to leave a mark. You honestly should’ve given him a moment to adjust to you, to feel you, but you had completely forgotten this was his first time from the way he had made you cum seconds earlier. “F-fuck this is- god this feels amazing- ho-holy fuck.” 

You whimper, also thinking how good it feels. How the head of his cock is pushed up tight against your G-spot, spreading wildfire in your lower belly and seeping through your pelvis and into your upper thighs. You just started, and it’s already becoming a hassle for you. But fuck, you grind the head of his cock slowly and hard inside you and try not to dig your nails into his arms where your fingers are clutching tight. 

“Is this what you think about wh-when you look at me at work like that?” You whisper, already half out of your mind with the aching bliss, saying whatever the fuck comes into your head first and not thinking anything past it. “When I guide your hands on a patient or when I praise you for getting a diagnosis right, hm?” 

“Yes, yes god yes!” He sobs, his hips jerking up into yours almost unintentionally with the sentiment. “Oh, my god.” 

“And will you be thinking of this?” you moan, starting to move as best you can with his thrusts. His fingers are scraping down your back, the pleasure obviously being too much for him. It just adds to the slowly building pleasure inside you until it’s simmering and burning under your skin. “The next time I tell you ‘good save’ or when I guide your hands again? I bet you will. You really are that pathetic, aren’t you?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” He cries, but it’s way too breathless. “I-I’m not gonna last- I ca-an’t-” 

You can hear how wet you are. Your pussy is nearly drowning him now, slick and hot and drenched as you roll your hips up and down on top of him. “Does me talking like that turn you on?” You murmur, breathing hot air onto his neck and riding his cock slow and steady. 

He can’t make any sounds anymore. No more words come from his mouth as your hand comes up to dig into his cheeks, forcefully opening his mouth. Only moans and whines grace your ears. 

You watch as his stomach tenses up again, and you know he’s about to cum. You lift off of him and delight in his confused reaction. “Wha-what? Why’d you do that? I was so close, please! Are you kidding me-”

He cuts himself off with a grunt as you slowly sink back onto him. Your cunt tightens around him, and the power trip you’re experiencing from this is starting to get to your head, you fear. You feel brash. Reckless and bold, and it translates into a quicker pace of your hips, shoving down onto him at the apex of his thrusts upwards and hitting a spot inside you that he had somehow found with his fingers as well. 

“Answer my question,” you pant, still holding his jaw. 

“What que-question?” God, he’s so drunk on you, he can’t even remember what you had asked of him. 

“Does it turn you on? To hear me talking like that? Calling you pathetic for following me around all day like a little lost puppy? Do you rub one out in the bathroom after each shift with me?” 

“You’re- fuck-” He drags his nails down your arms, leaving marks. “You’re asking if it…if it tu-turns me on to hear you tell me what a good job I did?” 

“I us-used to think about it,” You gasp, your eyes squeezing shut and just trying to breathe through it. “Some-sometimes. I knew it got to you in a different way than it would just from being praised normally. Used to get off thinking about it. Used to think about you, like this, and touch myself and make myself cum on the floor of my apartment.” 

The sound he makes is one you haven’t heard yet. You watch as his face contorts into pleasure and he begins to tell you he’s about to cum again. You slip off of him once more, and he fully whines this time. It turns into a string of curse words as he nearly sobs into the air and desperately claws at you. 

You finally decide to let him cum once you know he won’t automatically do it as you slip him back inside you. Your hips don’t give his cock time to realize that he’s back inside of you as you just begin moving at a rapid pace. Your thighs hurt, they’re on fire, but the sounds coming from him make your motivation skyrocket. 

He full-on fucking sobs now, his chest heaving as he cries. You look down at him, and he looks beautiful, really. He looks so fucking good as he cries for you, whining and whimpering and sobbing your name as you move on him. 

It’s fucking debilitating. It’s madness. The pleasure flowing through both of you feels like you’re about to explode. You just dig your nails into his shoulders and listen as he cries brokenly for you at the ceiling, letting his hips collide roughly with yours as you fuck him down hard into the mattress of your bed. 

Your mouth is at his neck as you grit the words darkly against his throat. “Fuck, you’re amazing. You’re so good. Such a good boy, listening to me, doing exactly what I tell you to do.” 

“I’m-” He gasps, eyes screwed up so tight you don’t notice the tear slipping down his cheek. You lean down to lick it. “It’s ca-cause I like you.” 

“Fuck- of course you do. All those longing looks from across the nurse’s station while I talk to Trinity. You think I didn’t notice those? You’re not as bright as you say you are, are you? Hm?” Fuck, he’s hard and throbbing, and he probably can barely hear you over the sound of his crying, so fucking close to the edge and begging for you. “If you want me that bad, next time take me to the bathroom and beg me to get on my knees for you.” 

You shift your weight so you can use one of your hands to grab his and lead it down between your legs. “Come on, Ogilvie. Come on. I know you can do it. Make me cum, and I’ll let you cum too, m'promise.” You feel like you can’t even breathe anymore. “Does that sound good?” 

“Ye-yes.” He wails, beginning to rub tight circles over your clit and pounding directly into your G-spot with such precision and force, your eyes roll back, and white-hot pleasure licks its way up your spine. 

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum, James,” you whisper, your voice frantic and rushed and breathless as your hands plant themselves on either side of his head. Everything inside you suddenly pulls up sharp and burning, and you’re already starting to bear down on him, starting to slowly squeeze his cock and tighten down hard in preparation for it. “I’m gonna cum, James, you-you’re gonna make me cum-” 

He begins to babble, but you don’t hear him. Everything is suddenly drowned out by the roaring of blood rushing through your ears, your body locking down so fucking tight around him. Ogilvie keeps going as your orgasm slams through you with such force that your voice cracks. He rubs at your clit and makes sure with the right amount of pressure for you, which forces you even higher through the explosive pleasure and muttering filth about how gorgeous you are, how he’ll never stop looking at you across the Nurse’s station, how he wants to make you cum so many more times, but he can’t hold it back- 

“I’m gonna cum, fuck, please can I cum?! Please? Please, I’ve been good this who-whole time, please,” he cries and whimpers, stuttering to a halt inside you. You can feel him swollen and throbbing hard inside you now that he’s still. Can I- can I cu-cum inside you? Please? Oh fuck, please? I can’t, I can’t hold it anymore, I can-” 

“Yes,” you gasp, not needing anything else. “Please.” He can cum wherever the fuck he wants to. His body jolts with pleasure beneath you, and a sob tears itself from his throat as he immediately does as he’s told. He cums, spurting thick ropes of his warmth inside you and gasping out curses and thank you’s. 

His entire body is spasming as it happens, and you hear him whimper your name as he lets go. When Ogilvie’s body finally stops shaking, and he slows down your movements with his hands on your hips, you wait a few seconds before asking.

“What the fuck have we just done?” 

a/n: need him BAD

[irysque]

holy shit

[man1cpixiedreampuppy]

the idea of dennis not really having any girl friends when he was younger and also growing up with only brothers so sometimes trinity says stuff and he's like 😦 what. like he makes her laugh really hard and she's like "oh my god huckleberry, stop making me laugh or i'm gonna pee" and he's like what the fuck do you mean

[tulipfields11]

ex-husband!frank langdon x reader

cw: coparenting, divorce

frank might be ooc, this is my first smau

reblogs will always be appreciated <3

[verussy952]

I’m afraid of social media, but I want to share my fan art

[evvergreen]

tumblr is the website for if you're just someone's weird sister

[dennyzswurld]

➤ 𝐏𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔 - one shot

ian mckinley x shy!photographer!reader

tags : fluff, reader is very awkward, mention of the cry_wolf movie, reader and ian are both loners.

request from @rikisluv

a/n: one request down. one more to go. (stay tuned for a perry miller fic)

You sat on the bleachers, looking over the empty football field, your camera lying in your lap. Lunch period just began so you decided to head outside to eat lunch alone. It wasn’t unusual for you to do stuff like this. You preferred to be alone. Anyways, the cafeteria was way too loud.

It was still early in the school year, the weather was beautiful. Warm air surrounding you but with a soft breeze, hinting at autumn’s arrival. You picked up your camera, lifting it up so your eye was level with the viewfinder.

You took a few photos of the field, zooming in on the goal posts. You kept taking shots of the scenery for a few minutes, getting some good pictures. Eventually, lunch period was ending, so you got up to walk back over to the school.

As you approached the entrance you heard a voice behind you.

“Nice camera.”

You turned around, seeing Ian McKinley standing there.

“Sorry, were you talking to me?” You asked.

“Well, you’re the only one around. So I’d assume so.” He replied, sarcastically

“Right…” You muttered. “Thanks.”

You were about to walk away but he spoke again. “I saw you. Uh, on the bleachers, taking photos.”

You nodded, “yeah. The football field has a nice view. And it gives me something to do while I’m out here.”

“You always sit outside during lunch?” He questioned.

“Yeah…The cafeteria is just too crowded and nosy. I prefer to be out here…Alone.” You said.

“I get it. People suck.”

You let out a huff of laughter at that. “You can say that again.”

It was silent for a few moments after that. “Uh, look, I’d love to chat but the bell is about to ring.” You turned around, getting ready to go.

“Yeah, you’re right.” He agreed. “Oh, but before you leave. I never got your name.”

You looked back over your shoulder and said your name.

“And I’m Ian.” He stated.

“I knew that.” You smiled.

—

A few days later, you were sitting at your usual spot on the bleachers. It was a nice day again. The sky was clear, the sun was shining. Perfect weather, really. You had just finished eating your lunch when you heard footsteps.

You looked up instinctively, seeing a very familiar face.

Ian McKinley.

He keeps walking towards you until he’s right next to you, sitting down on metal. “Hey.”

“Hi, Ian.” You greeted back, a little confused as why he was here.

“You take any more pictures recently?” He asked.

You nod, taking your camera out of your bag. Clicking through photos, turning it towards Ian so he can see.

“You’re a really good photographer.” He complimented.

A smile tugged on your lips at his comment. You looked down, feeling a bit bashful. “You’re just saying that.”

“I’m serious.” His voice, genuine.

You lifted your head up, slightly. Looking into Ian’s blue eyes. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

The two of you fell into a comfortable silence, just enjoying the nice weather. Then, suddenly Ian stood up.

“Take a picture of me.”

You raised an eyebrow, “really?”

“Yeah, now come on.” He persuaded.

“Okay, okay.” You lifted up your camera to your eye. “Do something cool.”

He lifted up one hand, flipping the bird. And twisting his face into a playful snarl. You press the shutter button, taking a few photos of him. Once you were done, Ian sat back down, looking at the camera.

“You look great.” You said, sarcastically.

“Damn right.” He laughed.

You and Ian sat there for a while, just talking. Until lunch was over.

“Alright, we gotta get to class.” You stated, grabbing your belongings and standing up.

“Aw, but I was having so much fun bothering you.” He joked.

You rolled your eyes. “Poor Ian.”

“Wait, can I get your number?” He asked.

You raised your eyebrows, surprised he wanted your number. You looked into his eyes. Trying to see if he was joking. Ian was asking for your number? The Ian who never talks to anyone?

“Uh, sure. Yeah that’s cool.” Your lips lifting in a half smile. You dug through your bag, finding a pen. You gestured for his arm. Which he lifted up. You grabbed his arm, gently, carefully writing your number on his wrist. “There.”

“Cool, I’ll call you later.”

—

Hours later, you sat on your bed. You grabbed your camera that sat on the nightstand. Turning it on, you went to the photo gallery. Clicking through pictures until you found the ones you took of Ian. You paused, and just looked.

It was a dumb photo. But for some reason? You couldn’t stop looking at it. Suddenly, you start to feel butterflies in your stomach. You then looked over at your phone, hoping he would call.

Did he forget? No, he was the one who asked you. But then, after a few minutes of waiting. Your phone began to ring. You quickly grabbed it, flipping it open and holding it to your ear.

Ian’s voice came over the speaker. “Hello.”

You lost track of time after that. You and him talked for hours, about nothing and everything. You really enjoyed having conversations with him. He was easy to talk to and you didn’t feel like you needed to pretend to be someone you’re not.

You eventually got off the call because your mom called you for dinner. But after the call, you didn’t stop thinking about him. If anything, you thought about him more.

And over the next few weeks, you and Ian started hanging out more. You ate lunch together everyday and called everyday.

And your feelings for him never went away. You wanted to say something to him but you were too afraid of rejection. So you stayed quiet.

—

One day, you just got out of math class. You stopped by your locker to put away your math book when someone tapped you on the shoulder. You turned around and saw Ian standing there.

“Oh, hey Ian.” You said, happy to see him.

“Hi.” He avoided eye contact, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“Yeah? About what?” You asked.

“Uh. Well I was wondering if maybe—“ he trailed off.

“What?”

“Sorry, I don’t know why I’m so nervous.” He apologized, a strange look for someone so outspoken. “What I’m trying to say is…Would you want to go out with me…On a date or something?”

You swore your heart was about to jump right out of your chest. Ian just asked you out. Like for real. You stared at him for a bit, trying to see if he was joking. But he wasn’t.

“Uh…Yeah! Of course!” You exclaimed.

Ian let out a sigh of relief, smiling now. A real, genuine smile. One that you hadn’t really seen from him much. “Okay, cool! How about this weekend? There’s a showing of Cry_Wolf at the cinema.”

“That’s perfect.” You replied.

The bell rang after that. Ian walked away. But you stayed standing there. Still in disbelief that you were going on a date with Ian McKinley.

You let out a huff of laughter, realizing things this year were going to get a whole lot better.

[bunnygirlsephi]

nettspend let me touch you. just let me touch you. one time.

[bsmnt-eyes]

the idea of posting fanfic is so nerve racking !!! like last time i did that i was 12 what if it's shit and they take me out back and beat me to death with one trillion baseball bats

[velvetdestroya]

I always wonder what he’s thinking during times like this. Frank taking a break during My Chemical Romance’s set November 6, 2006 at Liverpool University in Liverpool, England.

[photo credit;jenni] 

[venomssos]

these photos are so important to me.

[awkward-bob-reynolds]

[bambeloniii]

 If I had this man and some bum ass pirate tried to take him from me the movie would’ve been over in 10 minutes.

I would emerge covered in blood and victorious