➵ summary : maybe you love each other, maybe you don’t. when a deal between your fathers leaves you forcefully wedding kim taehyung, arguably seoul’s most powerful CEO, you’re prepared for a loveless marriage of eternal regret and unhappiness. but maybe, it doesn’t turn out that way after all.
➵ warnings : swearing, mentions of alcohol consumption, mentions of anxiety, mentions of confrontative violence (with other characters, not each other), lots of feels concerning forced marriage, a bad ex (reader’s), mentions of bad sexual experiences with ex (consensual, just bad sex), explicit sexual content, oral (m. and f. receiving), unprotected sex, penetrative sex (chapters have their own warnings!)
➵ a/n : thank you so much for all the support on this series! i couldn’t be more grateful ♡
➵ playlist : sweet night by v! the lyrics fit this series perfectly 🥺
➵ status: (complete) ✓
↠ chapter one : “my forever’s falling down” (11k)
↠ chapter two : “on my pillow, can’t get me tired” (10k)
↠ chapter three : “the window opened one time with you and me” (17k)
↠ chapter four : “feels like a river’s rushing through my mind” (16k)
↠ chapter five : “would it be alright, if i pulled you closer?” (17k)
↠ chapter six : “my heart is pounding tonight” (25k)
↠ chapter seven : “i’m wondering if you’d want me now” (22k)
↠ chapter eight : “i still hope the door is open” (38k)
↠ chapter nine : “i wanna ask you, if this is all just in my head?” (32k)
↠ [bonus!] chapter nine. five : “you are too good to be true” (6k)
↠ chapter ten : “how could i know, one day i’d wake up feeling more?” (36k)
↠ chapter eleven : “i’m wondering, are you my bestfriend?” (34k)
↠ chapter twelve : “sharing my fragile truth” (50k)
↠ chapter thirteen : “i had already reached the shore” (37k)
↠ final : “we were ships in the night” (55k)
↠ epilogue : “a sweet night” (3k)
drabbles :
↳ “the very first christmas”
↳ “comfort”
↳ “one-year anniversary”
↳ “one week without sex”
↳ “remote control”
↳ “peanut butter & business trips”
↳ “welcome home, cheater”
↳ “my wife is having a baby!”
↳ “daddy day care” coming soon!
faq : when do you update?
randomly! i used to produce a chapter every week or so, though with school and work things got busy :( i do work on my updates everyday though ! i also get very active on my blog and inform everyone before a release, so you don’t have to worry 🥺
what does mid!tae look like?
what’s the timeline of the mid!couple’s relationship?
what’s domestic/at home mid!tae like?
what happened to the camera?
how are real-life taehyung and mid!taehyung alike?
what do mrs. choi and seo’s schedule look like?
what did mrs. choi and seo do during the events of chapter 8?
what was taehyung’s mindset during the events of chapter 7?
what was taehyung’s pov when they first started getting intimate?
brat! reader demanding boyfriend 𝒔𝒖𝒌𝒖𝒏𝒂 to hold her hand while he carries all the bags
your hands feel weird. empty, you note suddenly.
then you look at your boyfriend walking just 2 steps ahead of you. both of his hands full of shopping bags and grocery packets.
it must be heavy. it is heavy. that's why sukuna is carrying them and not you. you give a sigh of appreciation as your eyes roam over his frame.
tall , dressed in dark shades, muscles pulled taut. quite the head turner. and more than capable of carrying a few bags, you mentally note.
your friends often complained about their partners expecting to split the baggage. half n half and shit that felt so absurd to you that you had obnoxiously bragged about your husband demanding that you 'do not lift a single finger'.
the girls had the audacity to look skeptical.
you pull up the camera app on your phone and click record.
"baby?" you call out, pretending to scroll. the camera records your man as he half turns his head.
"why aren't you holding my hand?" you demand like a spoiled brat. you catch the faint upward tug of his lips as he turns his head to face forward again.
then he releases his pinky from under his grip on the bags and slightly points it. you let out a happy sound and grab onto it. making a point of zooming in your camera on the view.
then you reverse the camera and film your face.
sukuna often tells you to wipe that smug look off your face. but how can you when you bagged such a hot deal?
so you give your brattiest grin and lean your head against his bicep. the camera doesn't capture his face, he is too tall for that.
sukuna doesn't comment, even as he watches the display. what can he say? he quite likes being shown off by his princess.
comeover.김태형 ・ brothers bsf!kth x f!reader ・ nsfw ・ not proof read
wc 1k
synopsis your brothers best friend is off limits. or so you thought.
content fingering, penetrative sex, dirty talk (?)
a/n little drabble as my debut post.. i haven’t written in a minute so pls don’t throw your tomatoes just yet
“You came.” You said, almost a question upon seeing the man standing in your doorway.
“Uh huh.” Was all he said before he was on you. Lips crashed onto yours, hands cupping your face.
It’s probably not the best idea to ask your brothers best friend to come over because you’re horny, but you did it anyway. So far, you had no complaints.
Your hands tangled in his hair once you processed what was happening. “Tae,” you murmured against his lips. He hummed in response, gave one more sloppy kiss before pulling away.
“What am I doing?” He whispered, more to himself than to you.
“Hopefully me.” You half joke. He lets out a shaky laugh at that, resting his forehead against yours.
“We can’t do this.” Despite his words, he didn’t make any effort to pull away.
“Then why’d you come over?” Your words rang in his head. Why did he come over? He dropped everything over a text, just to come kiss you? He was gonna finish what he started.
He closes his eyes for a second, praying for your brother’s mercy, before slamming his lips back onto yours. The kiss was hungrier than before—determined.
He kicked the door shut behind him, walking you down the hall towards your bedroom, stumbling and knocking into walls in the process.
He didn’t hesitate to climb atop you after laying you down, his thigh slotting between your legs as he kissed you.
You felt on fire. The recklessness of it all had heat pooling in your belly, though the main cause was the fine man on top of you kissing down your neck.
“Tae,” your breath hitches at the slight friction his leg is giving you, but it’s not enough. As if he read your mind, his hand traveled from your side to beneath your bottoms, making contact with your clit. You moaned shamelessly as he rubbed circles through your panties, his fingers occasionally dipping towards your hole.
“You’re so wet already.” He groaned, his other hand pushing up your shirt to give him access to your breasts. “God, these tits are perfect.” He dipped his head down to give a tentative lick to the peak before wrapping his lips around it and sucking, making you gasp.
His other hand had snuck its way into your panties and was teasing your hole.
“Taehyung, please.” You arch your chest into his mouth as he switches to give your other breast attention while simultaneously slipping a finger inside.
He almost immediately adds another, slowly thrusting and curling inside. “So wet for me, huh?” He lifts off your breasts to watch your reaction, knowing you were close so soon. “Gonna come from just my fingers? You wanted me that bad?”
You nod mindlessly, brows furrowed and back arched as you moan. His fingers speed up, helping you get closer to your release.
“Can’t believe you texted me like that. You’ve thought about this before, haven’t you?” He asked.
“You still showed up.” You managed to shoot back despite your state. Taehyung chuckled. You still had that smart mouth you always did—though now he was prepared to fuck it out of you.
Quick seconds later of incoherent babbles and repeats of his name, you came around his fingers. Before you could protest, he brought his fingers to his mouth and licked them clean, humming at the taste.
Glancing down and seeing the bulge in his jeans sent a new wave of arousal throughout your body. Though you had just came, you were already craving more, and he could tell.
You both undressed, not before Taehyung fished a condom out of his back pocket. Seeing him fully bare before you was a sight you always wanted to see. Abs, biceps, not to mention his rock hard dick that was tormenting you.
“Like something you see?” He teased, noticing your staring as he rolled on the condom. You rolled your eyes, though inside you were a little nervous. You weren’t sure it was gonna fit. But Taehyung, the man he is, could read you like a book. “I’ll go slow, ‘kay?” He assured, climbing back on top of you and aligning himself with your entrance.
The first inch stung, but once he was fully bottomed out and started to move, any pain you had felt quickly dispersed into pleasure.
“Faster,” you breathed out, needing more. He listened, thrusts speeding up while still hitting just as deep. “Oh my—fuck, Taehyung!” You cried, head falling back and arching into him as he repeatedly hit that sweet spot inside you.
“You feel so good,” he grunted, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “So tight, so perfect.” You reveled in the beautiful moans that escaped his mouth, the soft feel of his hair between your fingers, and the way his cock twitched inside of you.
“Fuck, I’m close.” He groaned, picking his head up to look at you. “Look at me, baby.” Your heart does a little flutter at the name, and you force your eyes open.
“Tae, I’m gonna—“
“Come for me.” And you do. Shortly after, his thrusts become uneven before stilling with one last thrust as he dumps his load into the condom.
You’re left there sticky, hot, and breathing heavily into each other’s mouths as you process what just happened.
You don’t remember what happened in the few minutes afterward, but you’ll never forget how he looked when he laid beside you all fucked out. It was unspoken, but you knew that wouldn’t be the last time.
summary: you have a sex dream about your attending that leaves you hot, flustered, late for work, and completely off your game. then things go from bad to worse when gossip spreads and the entire emergency department finds out—including dr. robby.
notes: i honestly haven't been this excited or motivated to write in forever, and i just really hope it doesn't suck. this one feels a little different, kind of like... it just flowed? my writing feels less mechanical, i think? i don't know, i feel like i've been stuck in a rut and even though this isn't perfect, it feels like i finally enjoy writing again. i put so much love into this and tried so hard to get the characters right, i just really hope you guys enjoy! please, please let me know what you think!
warnings: more sitcom than drama (just let them have a good day, i beg you), swearing, italics, reader can drive, medical descriptions, blood, medical procedure descriptions (it's not super graphic though), most definitely incorrect medical information (my friend is a doctor, i am not), implied age gap but never specified, very likely incorrect tagalog (i'm sorry in advance), reader doesn't know tagalog, implied smut but nothing explicit, reader gets injured (and stitches), and making out (on shift, lol, nothing graphic but still, mdni please).
word count: 12763
You wake all at once.
Not slowly, not gently, but with one sharp inhale like you’ve surfaced from deep water.
For a second you don’t know where you are. Your room is too warm, the air too heavy, every inch of your skin flushed and slick with sweat. Heat clings to you, your heart pounding wildly in your ears, sheets twisted tight around your legs, and for one disorienting moment you swear you can still feel him—warm hands, breath close, the dizzying pull of something forbidden and overwhelming.
The echo of his voice follows you up from sleep, low and wrecked and impossibly real.
Dr. Robby.
Your stomach flips.
“Fuck,” you mumble into your pillow, already mortified, already knowing your brain has crossed a line it absolutely shouldn’t have this time.
Because it didn’t feel like a dream. It still doesn’t. Fragments flash behind your eyelids—the way he touched you, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it, the teasing burn of stubble where he shouldn’t have been close enough to touch.
You roll onto your back and drag both hands over your face, groaning quietly as awareness settles in piece by piece. Your pulse refuses to slow, every nerve still humming like your body missed the memo that none of it actually happened.
You stare at the ceiling.
“…You have got to be kidding me.”
This wasn’t random. Not by a long shot.
It was him. Your attending. The stubborn, overworked, infuriatingly competent man who makes unresolved emotional baggage look hot. The man you have to see in barely two hours.
A small, helpless sound escapes you as you roll onto your side again, squeezing your eyes shut.
This is a problem.
A very real, very immediate, absolutely unprofessional problem.
And yet, you still don’t move. You lie there too long, cheeks burning despite the fact that no one else can see what you’re replaying in your mind. Warmth lingers beneath your skin, pooling low in your belly as you let yourself remember every phantom touch. Every whispered word. The look in his eyes as he’d settled between your legs and—
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
You bolt upright, your hand flying out to find your phone.
You’re still hot, still flushed and sticky. Still half-dreaming about Robby and his goddamn hands—but now? Now you’re late. Horribly late. Because that alarm isn’t your wake-up alarm—it’s your backup alarm. The one that goes off when it’s time for you to leave for work.
“Fuck!”
You throw the covers back and rush into the bathroom. You strip quickly out of your damp sleep shirt, tossing everything on the floor before stepping into the shower without even waiting for the water to warm. Which is exactly what you need, you remind yourself as you hiss beneath the cold spray.
Fifteen minutes later, you’re standing in front of the mirror in your black scrubs, trying to fix your hair and will the colour to drain from your cheeks. But it’s stubborn. Bright. Hot to the touch and utterly telling.
“Jesus Christ,” you sigh, squeezing your eyes shut for a second too long.
A second you don’t have.
With a deep breath, you turn, grab your bag, and sling it over your shoulder, wondering whether running to the hospital might actually be quicker than your usual commute at this time. Traffic is never great—you never truly know which route will get you there fastest—but now you’re about to hit peak hour.
You spend the entire drive trying to think about literally anything other than the dream—patient charts, upcoming shifts, whether your stethoscope is in your bag or your locker—but your thoughts keep slipping sideways, traitorous and vivid.
So vivid.
Stop thinking about his hands.
Stop thinking about his voice.
Stop—
You groan softly and turn the radio up louder.
It doesn’t help.
By the time you pull into the hospital parking lot, you’re almost twenty minutes late. You slam your car door shut, hike your bag higher on your shoulder, and practically run toward the ER doors.
“Woah,” Donnie says, quickly stepping out of your way. “Someone’s in a hurry.”
You don’t reply. You just keep going until you hit central, then slow to a hurried walk—head down, eyes fixed on your feet, praying everyone is already too busy to notice you.
“You’re late,” Dana says.
You stop mid-step, more out of habit than intention.
“Yeah, I’m sorry. I—”
“Shit, hon, you okay?” She steps around the desk, peering over her glasses. “You look like you’re burnin’ up.”
You step back before she can press a hand to your forehead.
“I’m fine, I swear.” You keep backing up. “Just my—my car’s A/C isn’t working and I’m a little warm. That’s all.”
You know she doesn’t believe you. This is Dana you’re talking to, not some brand-new, bright-eyed RN. Dana can see through any and all bullshit, and by the look on her face, she isn’t buying this at all.
“I’m fine,” you say again, forcing a smile before turning sharply on your heel.
Only to turn right into something solid.
Warm. Tall. Unmoving.
“Shit, I—”
You look up.
And your entire nervous system shuts down.
Dr. Robby.
“Sorry,” you blurt instantly, stepping back so fast you nearly trip over your own feet. “I didn’t see—I mean, I was looking, just not—”
His hand is still wrapped around your elbow, grounding you in place, and for one terrible second all you can think about is how close he is. How close he’d felt last night. How real it feels right now.
His eyebrows lift slightly, confusion flickering across his face. “You alright?”
“Yes,” you say too quickly. “Fine. Totally fine.”
You are not fine.
Your face feels nuclear, and you’re suddenly aware of everything at once—his height, his proximity, the way his sleeves are pushed up, the fact that he’s looking directly at you like he’s trying to figure something out.
His head tilts slightly.
“You’re late,” he says, not unkindly.
“I know.”
Neither of you move for a moment.
You can feel your pulse in your throat. Your chest. Lower.
“I—I’m gonna—”
You don’t even finish before you turn away, hurrying down the hall toward the lockers. Every inch of your skin feels like it’s on fire—and every thought in your head is so wildly inappropriate for where you are right now you feel like you might throw up.
“Damn.” Santos appears beside you, her eyes flicking between your face and the tablet in her hands. “Either you’re febrile or you just did something really embarrassing.” She tucks the tablet under her arm. “What gives?”
You shoot her a flat look as you key in the code to your locker. “Nothing gives. I’m fine.”
She snorts. “Sure. That tone is really selling it.”
You take a deep breath and turn toward your locker, shoving your bag inside before unzipping your jacket and shrugging off. You stuff that in too—then sling your stethoscope around your neck, shut the door, and turn back to your fellow R2.
She looks concerned now, brows drawn as her eyes track over your face and neck.
“You’re seriously flushed,” she says. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”
“I’m fine.” You turn and start walking back toward central. “Just running late, okay? Now can I start my shift before—” You stop yourself, his name catching somewhere in your chest. “Before I have an attending down my throat for slacking off?”
God. You could have chosen better words.
“Okay, whatever,” Santos mutters, holding her tablet out again. “Sorry for caring.”
She gives you a sarcastic little eye roll before veering off around the other side of the nurse’s station and ducking into one of the active patient rooms. You watch after her for a second before a voice across the room steals your attention.
He’s on the other side of central, nodding along while Mohan and Whitaker brief him on a patient—and looking entirely too hot for seven-thirty on a Monday morning beneath harsh fluorescent lights.
“Stop it,” you whisper to yourself, pausing at the nurse’s station to collect a tablet.
“Stop what?”
You startle, head snapping toward the man suddenly beside you.
“Jesus Christ, Dr. Abbot,” you sigh. “Are you trying to get me admitted for a heart attack?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “You already look halfway there.”
You roll your eyes. “Okay, I get it. I’m red and I’m sweaty—can everyone please stop commenting on it now?”
He chuckles. “Sorry. Didn’t realise you’d already been bullied about it.”
You sigh again and turn your attention to the board, tipping your head back to read it.
“Why are you still here, anyway?” you ask.
“Wanted to see my favourite resident,” he says. “You sure you don’t want to come back to nights?”
You huff a laugh through your nose. “I love you, Abbot, but nights aren’t for me.” You glance across the nurse’s station, where Dana and Robby are now discussing the latest incoming trauma. “I just miss Dana too much.”
Abbot snorts. “Dana?”
You look back at him. “Yes. Dana.”
Amusement flickers across his face. “You sure?”
“Yes,” you say, too quickly. “I mean, who—what else would—”
“Doctors,” Javadi interrupts, stepping in front of you both. “Sorry to interrupt, but could I get a second opinion on a patient in South Twenty-One, please?”
Abbot nods, glancing at you. “I’ll go. You settle in.” The corner of his mouth lifts a little higher. “Maybe check in with your attending.”
Then he turns and walks away with Javadi at his side.
You stare after him—eyes wide, pulse racing, wondering what the fuck he meant by all that.
You’ve always suspected Abbot might be a mind reader, but that? That was something else. Too knowing. Too dangerous. And now you need to figure out what the hell he thinks he knows.
“Doctor,” Perlah calls from behind the desk. “Could you check on Central Twelve? She’s still complaining of pain after morphine and Zofran.”
You turn to her, shaking your head as if that might knock your thoughts back into place. “Uh—yeah. Of course. Central Twelve, heading there now.”
She gives you a curious look, brows drawn, but you turn away before she can ask any more questions.
On your way to C12, you pull up the patient’s chart—seen by Whitaker about half an hour ago—and double-check the morphine and Zofran doses she received. You pause just outside the room, drawing a deep breath and reminding yourself that you are at work. You don’t have time to be flustered. You don’t have time to worry about what Jack Abbot may or may not know. And you definitely don’t have time to obsess over the imaginary rasp of Robby’s beard against your thigh that you can somehow still feel.
When you push the door open and step inside, you’re the picture of professionalism. You offer the patient a polite smile, introduce yourself, and start the routine checks that feel more like second nature than work.
After the exam and a brief conversation, you order two more milligrams of morphine, review the labs Whitaker sent, and make a note to check back in fifteen minutes. Then, still intent on avoiding your attending, you bury your nose in your tablet and move on to the next patient waiting in South Sixteen.
Pressure-like chest pain. Diaphoretic, no shortness of breath. Initial ECG normal. Labs pending.
“Alright, Mr. Mullens,” you say, squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm. “We’re going to get some scans done so we can get a better idea of what’s going on. If the pain gets worse before then, let us know.”
The man nods. “Thank you, Doc.”
You smile, stepping out into the hallway. “I’ll be back soon to check in.”
As soon as you turn around, you look for Robby, making sure you’re not about to run into him again. Literally.
You spot him all the way across central, walking with Santos toward the North hallway. Good. You’re safe. And if all goes well, maybe you’ll manage to avoid him for the entire day. Maybe you won’t have to come face to face with the face you can still see buried between your legs.
Fuck.
Your pulse kicks, heart beating too fast as you remember the way his eyes had watched you in your dream. It’s almost too much. Even the phantom memory of it is making you breathless.
God. If it ever actually happened, you might pass out.
“Why would you even think of that?” you mutter to yourself, stopping at the nurse’s station.
When you finally look up, Perlah and Princess are watching you closely, speculation sparkling in their eyes.
“Sobrang pula ng mukha niya,” Perlah murmurs.
Princess nods. “Hindi lagnat ’yan.”
Perlah lowers her voice even more. “Sa tingin mo ba may kinalaman ito sa crush niya?”
They both laugh quietly, turning away from you as if it isn’t you they’re gossiping about.
“Malinaw,” Princess says.
You give them both a tight smile before glancing up at the board, searching for something suitably distracting and far away from nosy nurses and unfairly attractive attendings.
You’re just about to head back toward the South hallway when a gurney crashes through the ambulance bay doors.
“Trauma Two!” Dana calls. “Robby!”
Abbot is already moving, meeting the paramedics halfway and guiding the gurney toward T2.
He points at you as he walks. “With me.”
“Shit,” you mutter, dropping your tablet on the desk and jogging over.
“Thirty-two-year-old male, MVC, restrained driver,” the paramedic says. “Front-end collision, airbags deployed. No LOC. Increasing shortness of breath during transport. Breath sounds decreased left side.”
“Let’s get him on monitor,” Abbot says, moving to stand opposite you at the head of the bed. “On my count.”
Robby steps in at your side, like he always does—close enough that you feel him before you see him.
His arm brushes yours.
Your stomach flips.
Focus.
“One. Two. Three,” Abbot counts.
You transfer the patient from gurney to trauma bed, and Santos starts cutting away clothes.
“Two large-bore IVs,” Abbot tells Jesse. “Trauma labs. Portable chest X-ray.” Then he looks at you, brows raised. “Breath sounds?”
“Oh—uh—” You fumble with your stethoscope, pressing it to each side of the patient’s chest. “Diminished on the left.”
You reach for the patient’s neck, fingers steady despite the noise around you.
“Trachea midline.”
Abbot nods, then turns to Santos. “Let’s get ultrasound.”
“BP holding?” Robby asks.
The sound of his voice sends goosebumps racing along your arms—and you shiver before you can stop yourself.
“Pressure’s 118 over 76,” Jesse replies. “Stable.”
Robby glances at you, brows drawn. “You okay?”
You nod quickly, without looking up. “Never better.”
“Absent lung sliding on the left,” Santos announces.
“Likely pneumothorax,” Abbot says, looking at Robby.
“Sats dropping,” Jesse calls. “Eighty-nine.”
Robby nods once. “Okay. We’re putting in a chest tube.”
“Chest tube tray. Twenty-eight French. Left side,” Abbot orders.
You try to move out of the way, but Robby’s hand catches your elbow—and you can’t help but look up. His dark eyes meet yours with an intensity you’ve never noticed before, and suddenly your lungs forget how to work.
“You’re up,” he says. “I’ll walk you through it.”
You know there’s no time to argue. You know you can’t. Shouldn’t. This is your job. And it’s not like you could say no to this man even if you wanted to.
You swallow. “Okay.”
Robby nods, then looks at Jesse. “Alright, let’s get some lido. Sutures ready. Hook up suction.”
You turn back to the patient, watching Abbot position the left arm above his head while Jesse preps the area—chlorhexidine swab, sterile drape. The rustle of sterile gowns and the snap of gloves fill the room as you pull on your own and push a pair of protective glasses up your nose. Then you grab the lidocaine from the tray and lean over the patient’s left side, steadying your hand as you guide the needle in.
The room is quieter now—save for the steady beeping of the monitors—chaos narrowing into focus as everyone watches you sink the needle into the patient’s skin.
“A little deeper,” Robby murmurs.
Your breath catches, but your hands stay steady.
You can feel him just behind you, leaning close, his warmth bleeding through your scrubs and setting your whole body on fire.
“Now find the rib,” he instructs. “Stay above it.”
You discard the needle onto the tray and start feeling ribs, counting down until you find the space.
“Scalpel,” you say, refusing to take your eyes off the spot your fingers found.
Jesse places the scalpel in your hand, and without hesitation, you cut a three-centimetre incision.
“Good,” Robby murmurs.
Your pulse thrums beneath your skin.
“Clamp,” you say, your voice almost breaking.
Jesse takes the scalpel from your hand, replacing it with a curved clamp.
You insert the clamp, pushing past muscle layers, and begin to spread. It feels forceful. Too much. Invasive, even though you know this is exactly what you’re supposed to do.
Robby steps closer. “Commit to it.”
His hand covers yours to adjust the angle, add pressure—until you feel the pop. And it takes every ounce of your self-control not to react. Not to whimper at the very normal, very professional way your attending is guiding you right now.
“Now sweep,” he says, so close you can feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek.
You insert your finger into the space, confirming entry into the pleural cavity and checking for adhesions—then nod. You don’t dare turn your head as you hold your hand out for the tube. He’s too close, too warm. You can smell the faint scent of soap on his skin even over the antiseptic and metallic tang in the air.
“Inserting tube,” you say, more to yourself than anyone else.
You start guiding the tube in—slow and controlled—feeling every millimetre of movement.
Until it stops.
Too much resistance.
“Up,” Robby says, his hand covering yours again. “Aim higher.”
He adjusts your wrist slightly, guiding the pressure.
You swallow hard and nod, hoping no one else can hear your uneven breathing—but knowing Robby definitely can.
He helps you apply more pressure, firmer now, angle corrected, and the tube starts moving again.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl. Keep going.”
Your brain short-circuits.
Heat floods your face. Your chest. Lower.
His voice echoes from your dream. Breathless. Panting. Words whispered against your skin.
Fuck. Now is not the time.
You tighten your grip on the tube and push.
Then—
A rush of air.
“Air return,” Abbot says, a hint of pride in his tone. “Now secure it.”
Robby steps back, and you hear the snap of his gloves coming off.
“O2 sats climbing,” he announces.
“Cool,” Santos says, grinning at Abbot’s side. “I’m doing the next one.”
You barely look up. You can’t. Your whole face feels like it’s on fire. You've never blushed this hard before. You’ve never been this hot in your life. And you’ve definitely never been this horny in the goddamn trauma bay.
“You good to finish up?” Robby asks Abbot.
Abbot nods.
From the corner of your eye, you see Robby step toward the door, glancing over his shoulder with a small, impressed smile.
“Nice work, Doctor.”
You don’t reply. You just nod, lips twitching with a soft smile as you keep your eyes on the patient.
As soon as you finish suturing and securing the tube, you step back, tearing off your gown and gloves as if that’ll somehow give you a reprieve from the heat beneath your skin. Jesse takes your place beside the patient, nodding along to Abbot’s orders while he and Kim start cleaning up.
You shove your gown, gloves, and glasses into the biohazard bin and head for the door without looking back—which is exactly why you don’t notice Santos trailing you.
“That was so cool,” she says, startling you.
“Jesus,” you mutter. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
She frowns. “Sneak? I was right behind you. It’s not my fault you’re all weird and jumpy today.”
“I’m not—” You glance across central to make sure Robby isn’t somewhere in your path to the ambulance bay. “I’m not weird and jumpy.”
Santos scoffs. “Right. And I’m not behind on my charting.”
You don’t bother arguing with her. You just keep walking—and she follows. All the way through the ER and out to the ambulance bay, where you stop just before the curb and draw a deep breath. It isn’t nearly as refreshing as you’d hoped, but a break from the fluorescents is always welcome.
“Okay,” she says, folding her arms. “What is with you today? You’re never this off. I’ve seen you perform procedures you’d only read about without a single assist from the attending. And I know you’ve done a chest tube before.”
You don’t answer. You don’t even look at her. You just tip your head back and stare at the roof of the ambulance bay, wondering whether it might collapse and save you from this conversation.
“And on that note,” she goes on, “Dr. Robby knows you’ve done a chest tube before, so why the hell was he being so patient? I swear he’s got a soft spot for you. Javadi pointed it out a few weeks ago and I honestly don’t know how I missed it. I mean—has he ever yelled at you?”
You finally look at her, brows drawn. “I—uh—no, I don’t think so.”
“Exactly,” she says, stepping closer. “And please tell me I heard wrong, but did he say good girl to you back there?”
As soon as she says it, your cheeks burn with renewed intensity. You can feel your heart in your throat, beating out of rhythm and way too fast for someone who is definitely not in a life-or-death situation.
And Santos notices—because of course she does.
Her eyes go wide. “Oh my God. This totally has something to do with Dr. Robby.”
“Shut up,” you mutter. “It’s not—”
You stop yourself, squeezing your eyes shut and pinching the bridge of your nose.
Santos isn’t going to let this go. You know her. She’s too inquisitive, too nosy, and there’s not nearly enough chaos today to distract her.
“Okay, fine,” you sigh, looking up, face burning. “I had a sex dream about him and now I can’t stop thinking about it.”
She stares at you for a second.
“A sex dream?”
You nod miserably.
Her mouth twitches—then she snorts.
Not a polite laugh. A full, startled snort she tries—and fails—to muffle behind her hand.
“Oh my God,” she says. “I knew you had a thing for him, but a sex dream?”
“Would you stop saying it?” you hiss, glancing nervously around the empty ambulance bay.
She laughs a little harder. “Was he good?”
“Oh my God,” you mutter, dropping your head into your hands. “I regret everything.”
“Hey,” she says, still laughing as she drops a hand on your shoulder. “For what it’s worth, I’m pretty sure he’d go there if you asked.”
Your head snaps up. “If I asked?”
She shrugs. “Why not shoot your shot?”
“Because he’s my boss!”
“He’s your attending,” she says. “Technically, Dr. Underwood is your boss. Dr. Robby just supervises you.”
You shut your eyes again and draw a deep breath, trying to steady your pulse.
“Okay,” you say, squaring your shoulders. “I’m done with this conversation. I’m going back to work, and you’re not telling anyone what I just told you. Okay?”
She mimes zipping her lips. “I’m a vault, I swear.”
You nod. “Good.”
Then you turn and start walking back inside, trying not to conspicuously check for Robby on your way to the nurse’s station. Santos is still at your heels, still wearing an amused grin as if your humiliation is her exact brand of humour.
“One more question,” she says, stopping beside you as you grab another tablet from the rack.
You sigh. “What?”
She leans in. “Did he say ‘good girl’ in the dream too?”
Your pulse jumps.
“Goodbye, Dr. Santos,” you say, turning quickly on your heel.
“I’m taking that as a yes,” she calls after you.
You ignore her, turning toward S16 to check on your chest pain patient.
“Hey, Mr. Mullens,” you say as you push back the curtain. “How are you feeling?”
The older man sits up a little. “I’m okay.”
“Good.” You pull up his chart on your tablet. “The pain hasn’t gotten any worse?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
“That’s good to hear,” you say, quickly flicking through his lab results. “Your first labs look reassuring, but we’ll repeat them in a couple of hours just to be safe.”
You glance up, and he nods.
“Thank you, Doctor.”
You smile softly. “If the pain gets worse, or if you start having trouble breathing, press the call button.”
“Will do.”
You offer him one last nod before tucking your tablet under your arm and squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm as you exit the room.
The second you step into the hall, you take a deep breath, finally feeling like your lungs remember how to work. Like your pulse might finally be settling into something resembling a normal rhythm. Like maybe—just maybe—you can survive the day if you stay distracted with work long enough not to think about last night.
About his voice—low and rough in your ear, whispering something you can’t quite remember.
Except the way it made your spine arch.
Or the moment he’d braced his hands on either side of you, his head dipping just enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath before he—
“Doctor.”
You jerk slightly, heat rushing straight back into your face as the memory evaporates.
“Sorry—what?”
Whitaker, now standing in front of you, clears his throat. “Nothing. I just—you looked a little out of it.”
You shake your head and turn toward central. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m a little off today.”
He nods, falling into step beside you. “Santos mentioned.”
Your head snaps toward him. “Santos mentioned what?”
“Just that you were out of it today,” he says quietly, staring at the floor.
You stare at him. “And?”
He shrugs, but it’s stiff. “And nothing.”
You stop at the nurse’s station and drop your tablet on the desk.
“I swear to God, Whitaker, if she told you—”
“She didn’t tell me anything,” he says, clearly panicked now. “I—I’ve got to go check on a patient.”
Then he’s gone, hurrying off toward the South hallway.
Fuck.
You told Santos barely ten minutes ago and she’s already told Whitaker?
So much for being a vault.
“What’d I tell you about swearin’ on God, little lady?” Dana asks, peering over her glasses from the other side of the desk.
You sigh, resting both forearms on the counter. “Sorry. Rough morning.”
“Tell me about it,” she says, glancing down at her tablet. “Sprained ankle in North Four wants an MRI and a wheelchair escort to the parking lot. Psych hold in B2 tried to climb out the bathroom window. Ogilvie ordered the wrong labs and blamed the computer. And someone—” she pauses, squinting toward where McKay is assessing a patient, “—keeps leaving half-empty coffee cups everywhere like we’re running a café instead of an emergency department.”
You huff a quiet laugh.
“And we’re only on hour two,” she adds, looking back up at you.
“Lucky us,” you mutter.
She sets her tablet down and slides her glasses off, folding them into the breast pocket of her scrubs.
“What’s with you, hm?” She leans in. “First you’re late, then you run out of trauma like you’re about to pass out. That’s not like you, kid.”
You shrug. “Just a little off today.”
She watches you for a second, her eyes narrowing just a fraction. She’s not stupid. She knows there’s more to it than that—but Dana isn’t the type to push.
She hums quietly.
“Alright,” she says. “I’ll pretend I believe that.”
You give her a small, appreciative smile as you push off the counter. “Love you, Dana.”
She just shakes her head, the corner of her mouth lifting as she glances back down at her tablet. “Yeah? Then check on North Four for me and see if you can get ‘em discharged.”
You nod. “North Four, on it.”
You start to turn away, then stop yourself and swivel back toward her.
“Hey—uh—is Abbot still here?” you ask.
“No, he left right after the MVC trauma,” she replies without looking up.
“Oh.”
“Why? You need him?” she asks. “I’m sure whatever you need, Dr. Robby can—”
“No,” you say quickly. “Nope. I’m good. Totally fine. Don’t need anything at all.”
You hug your tablet to your chest and start turning away again.
“Everything’s fine!”
You don’t dare look back. You just keep walking toward the North hall, completely missing the sceptical look Dana sends after you—and the confused look on Robby’s face as he glances between the two of you.
On your way to N4, you pull your phone out of your pocket and tap on Dr. Abbot’s contact, typing quickly.
So much for saying goodbye to your favourite resident.
Then you hit send and tuck your phone back into your pocket.
You’re not actually offended. Not really. This is the ER. People barely have time to finish a sentence, let alone say goodbye.
You’re just… nervous.
Nervous because Abbot thinks he knows something—and you need to figure out what that is before he decides to say something to Robby and make this whole situation infinitely worse.
You stop outside N4 and take a deep breath—your hundredth deep breath of the morning. You can do this. This is the easy part. The patients. The work. The familiarity of what you do every day. You just need to focus on this for the next twelve hours and definitely not the way you can still feel the weight of his hand on your hip, steady and certain, holding you exactly where he wanted you as he—
“Nope,” you tell yourself out loud. “Absolutely not. Focus.”
You shake your head as you step into the room and slide the curtain back, greeting the patient with your practiced mask of cool, calm, and collected. You manage to convince them they don’t need an MRI, since their ankle is only sprained, but you do get Ahmad to escort them out in a wheelchair—and now you owe him ten bucks and a bagel tomorrow morning.
Then you move on to the next patient. And the next.
The next few hours pass by in a blur of minor catastrophes. A migraine that melts away with the standard cocktail of Toradol, Reglan, and Benadryl. A Lego piece extracted from a three-year-old’s nose while Whitaker distracts the squirming patient. Three stitches in the eyebrow of a man who swears he doesn’t drink before 10AM—even though you can smell the alcohol on his breath. An overworked woman with chest pain that turns out to be a panic attack. A teenager with a swollen knee and a devastated look on his face when you suggest he might be benched for the rest of the season.
And at half past noon, you step into C9. Mid-thirties, right lower quadrant abdominal pain, nausea, mild fever—what you can already guess is appendicitis.
“Hi, Ms. Park, how are you feeling?” you ask, squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm.
She winces. “Not so good.”
“It says here you’re having abdominal pain, nausea, and a bit of a fever,” you say. “When did that start?”
She nods. “Early this morning. Four, maybe.”
You set your tablet on the cart, grab a pair of gloves, and drag a stool beside the bed. “Mind if I take a look at your abdomen so I can get a better idea of what’s going on?”
She nods and tips her head back against the pillow, hands falling either side as you start palpating her lower abdomen. It doesn’t take more than a few presses for her to hiss and lift a hand, trying to push you away.
“Sorry,” she says, voice strained. “It hurts a lot.”
“That’s okay.” You scoot back and rise from the stool, peeling off your gloves. “I’m going to order a CT scan to take a better look, and we’ll give you something for the pain and something for the nausea in the meantime.”
You step around the bed and grab your tablet off the cart.
“A nurse will come in shortly to start fluids too,” you add. “You’re probably a little dehydrated if you haven’t been able to eat or drink much this morning.”
She looks at you with wide eyes. “I don’t know if I want a CT. Isn’t that a lot of radiation?”
“It’s a relatively small amount,” you reply evenly, “and it’s the best way for us to see what’s going on inside your abdomen. I can assure you, it’s very safe.”
“I try to avoid unnecessary radiation,” Ms. Park argues, shifting uncomfortably. “Is there another option?”
“Ultrasound can sometimes help, but it’s not always reliable in adults,” you say. “A CT scan will give us the clearest answer.”
She hesitates, eyes dropping to her lap. “Well—could I please speak to the doctor in charge?”
You open your mouth to reply when someone steps in beside you. Tall. Solid. Close enough to make your pulse skip and your stomach take a nosedive.
“You are,” Robby says, arms folded. “She’s the physician managing your care right now, so we’ll follow her recommendation.”
You step to the side, nearly tripping over nothing, clutching your tablet to your chest.
“Uh—Dr. Robby, this is Ms. Park,” you say quickly. “Thirty-five, right lower quadrant pain since early this morning. Nausea, no vomiting, low-grade fever at triage. Tenderness at McBurney’s point. I’ve ordered labs and a CT abdomen to rule out appendicitis.”
Robby nods once. “That sounds appropriate.”
Ms. Park sighs.
“Alright,” she says, a little more pleasantly now. “If that’s what you recommend.”
She doesn’t even look at you as she says it—her eyes stay fixed on Robby, softening in a way that makes you briefly consider poking her appendix again.
Not that you can blame her.
Your gaze flicks to Robby, wondering if he’s noticed the sudden change in demeanour—or the way she’s practically making heart eyes at him.
But he isn’t looking at Ms. Park.
He’s looking at you.
You clear your throat, quickly glancing back down at your tablet. “Uh—that’s good. Great. I’ll finish the orders now, and a nurse will be by shortly with some pain relief.”
Ms. Park gives you a brief nod before turning back to Robby with a smile that makes you want to roll your eyes. Robby just nods, squirts a pump of sanitiser into his hand, then steps out of the room—and you try not to follow too closely.
You slide the curtain shut before turning into the hall, half expecting Robby to be gone—but he isn’t. He’s still standing there, holding his tablet in one hand while the other scrubs at his jaw in that mildly anxious way it always does.
“Nice work in there,” he says without looking up.
Heat floods your face.
“Thanks,” you say with a tight smile. “And thanks for backing me up.”
He glances at you over the top of his glasses.
“You had it handled.”
You clutch your tablet to your chest. “Well—uh—thanks anyway.”
Then, before you completely lose the ability to function, you turn on your heel and start down the hall—but not fast enough to miss Dana’s voice.
“Careful, Robinavitch,” she says dryly. “You’re hovering.”
“I supervise,” Robby mutters.
Dana hums.
“Uh-huh. I’ll pretend I believe that.”
Hovering?
You tighten your grip on your tablet as you hurry down the South hall, pretending you know where you’re headed.
Robby wasn’t hovering. He was just doing his job. Right?
He hovers around every resident and med student.
It’s not like he was—
You shake your head.
No—Dana’s just teasing. It’s her thing. It’s practically her love language.
You stop short when you reach the end of the hall. Elevator ahead. Restrooms to your right.
Nowhere else to go.
“You okay, Doctor?” McKay asks, stepping out of the ladies’ room.
You blink. “Uh—yeah, I just—”
You’re not sure what excuse to use now—standing in the middle of the hall, staring at the elevator, white-knuckling your tablet like you’re one bad patient away from a psychotic break.
“You look like you’re buffering,” she says, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Why don’t you take a break?”
You shake your head. “I don’t need a break.”
Her brows lift as she gently places a hand on each of your shoulders, turning you back the other way. “Alright. Well, why don’t you go sit down and catch up on your charting?”
She starts guiding you slowly back up the hall.
“Charting,” you echo, a faint frown forming between your brows. “Yeah. That’s a good idea, actually. I haven’t done much all day.”
She nods. “See? I’m full of good ideas. And you are seriously concerning me today.”
You give her a look. “I’m fine. Everyone is just being—”
“Caring?” she offers.
You roll your eyes. “Overbearing.”
She shakes her head, laughing quietly as she steers you toward the nurse’s station.
“Here,” she says, pulling out a chair in front of a vacant computer. “Sit.”
“Yes, ma’am,” you mutter, dropping down at the desk.
She steps behind you, pushes the chair in, then leans over your shoulder.
“Good girl,” she murmurs.
Your entire spine locks.
“What was that?”
McKay straightens, already grinning.
“Charting,” she says lightly, tapping the monitor. “Try it.”
“But—you just—”
She laughs under her breath, already backing away.
“Finish your notes, doctor. You don’t want to have to stay late.”
Then she’s gone, shaking her head again as she disappears back toward triage.
You sit there for a few seconds longer than you should, staring after her while your brain desperately tries to reboot.
“Fucking Santos,” you mutter, finally turning back to the computer.
“You called,” Santos says, appearing on the other side of the desk.
Your eyes snap up. “You.”
Her brows lift. “Me?”
“Yes,” you snap. “You’ve been telling people.”
She tries—and fails—to suppress a smile.
“Not technically.” She leans forward, resting both forearms on the counter. “I only told Huckleberry, but McKay overheard. Can you blame me, though? It’s the most interesting thing to happen around here today.”
“Yes,” you hiss. “I can blame you. And I will blame you if—”
You stop, your eyes flicking past her to where Robby has just stepped out of C8, chart in hand and head bowed. Santos frowns for a second before following your gaze over her shoulder.
She snorts. “Oh my God. You can’t even function.”
“Who can’t function?” Whitaker asks, stepping up beside Santos.
You drop your head into your hands and sigh. “Great. They’re multiplying.”
Santos leans closer. “Hey, what’s the song that plays in your head whenever he walks past? Is it, like, SexyBack, or more… Like a Prayer?”
Whitaker snorts softly, his cheeks turning pink.
You glare at Santos. “Neither.”
“You’re right.” She nods thoughtfully. “I can practically hear the Careless Whisper sax playing in your mind right now.”
Your eyes go wide as you snatch a pen off the desk and lob it straight at her—but she dodges it easily.
“Wow,” she says, still laughing. “I’m on fire today.”
“Is that so, Dr. Santos?”
You recognise the voice before you even see him—because of course you do. You dream about that voice.
“That would mean you’ve caught up on all your charting and discharged your patient in North One?” Robby asks as he steps up beside Santos.
Her grin drops. “Uh—yeah. Actually, I was just on my way to North One.”
Her eyes slide back to you as she pushes away from the desk, lips pressed tight to keep herself from laughing.
“Dr. Whitaker,” Robby says. “Are you hovering?”
Hovering?
Whitaker glances up. “Oh—uh—no. I was just finishing some orders.”
“Good. You can finish them on your way to discharging South Twenty.”
Whitaker nods, barely even glancing at you as he grabs his tablet off the desk and turns toward the South hall.
Then Robby looks at you, holding up the pen you threw at Santos.
Your pulse stutters.
“Think you lost this,” he says, leaning forward to drop it on the desk.
“I threw it,” you blurt.
He hesitates, the corner of his mouth twitching before he turns away.
“I know.”
You watch him go until he turns a corner and disappears—then you look down at the pen.
“Fuck,” you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I need today to end.”
You slide the pen aside and force your attention back to the computer—to the cursor blinking patiently beside the single word you’d managed to write since sitting down.
Right.
Charting.
You manage exactly four more words before you’re interrupted again—something about your abdominal pain patient in Central Nine.
With a sigh, you push away from the desk, grab your tablet, and head for C9.
After confirming Ms. Park does indeed need an appendectomy and contacting Garcia for a surgical consult, Dana stops you in the hall to ask if Mr. Mullens can be discharged from South Sixteen. Then Javadi grabs you to present a calf laceration that you end up supervising while she sutures it, and after that Whitaker calls you in for a second opinion on a dizziness patient in North Five.
The hours start to blur together. You bounce from one room to another, just barely finishing your notes in between patients and med students and reviewing labs. By the time you finally make it back to the desk again, you’ve almost—almost—forgotten about why your heart is still beating a little too fast.
“Back to charting?” Princess asks.
You nod. “The never-ending task.”
She gives you the same quiet, speculative smile she gave you this morning.
“You seem off today,” she says.
“I’m fine,” you mutter. “Just tired.”
“And red,” she adds before turning away.
You frown, pressing a hand to your ridiculously hot cheek as you turn back toward the computer. If this keeps up, you’re more likely to end the shift as a patient than a doctor.
With a small sigh, you scoot your chair closer to the desk and pull the chart back up. Your eyes flick to the corner of the screen, to the little clock telling you that you only have a few hours left. A few hours to finish your charting, discharge a couple more patients, and keep avoiding Dr. Robby. Then you’re free. Then you’ve got at least eight solid hours to sort yourself out before you’re back here tomorrow.
Just as you position your fingers over the keyboard to start typing, your phone vibrates in your pocket—and your pulse jumps.
Abbot.
You quickly pull it out, swipe up, and open the notification.
Sorry. Too busy mourning the loss of my status as your favourite attending.
Your stomach drops.
What the fuck is that supposed to mean?
You stare at the text for an unreasonable length of time—heart pounding, face burning, thoughts racing. Abbot definitely thinks he knows something. Something he shouldn’t know. Something he’s probably very wrong about. Something you need to figure out and shut down immediately.
Before he decides to say something to Robby about whatever it is he thinks he knows.
“Hey,” Dana says, stopping on the other side of the desk. “Thought you were working?”
You clear your throat. “Uh—yeah. Sorry. Got distracted.”
Her brows lift. “Distracted, huh? That’s exactly what we want in emergency medicine.”
Then she shakes her head and walks away.
You tuck your phone into your pocket and turn your attention back to the chart in front of you. The chart of exactly five words—the first of many unfinished charts standing in your way of going home on time.
And today is not a day you want to stay back.
Your fingers hover over the keyboard again, eyes flicking over the few words already written. It takes a minute—probably longer than it should—but eventually you remember how to do your job and start typing.
The ER fades into background noise—monitors beeping, nurses chatting, the rumble of beds rolling past—and for the first time all day, you feel focused. Steady. Until—
“Robby,” Dana calls, “can you come over here for a sec?”
Your fingers slow over the keys—and against your better judgment, you glance up.
“Mrs. Alvarez,” Robby says fondly. “What brings you here?”
Your brows draw together as you study the older woman sitting on the bed. She looks familiar, and Alvarez rings a bell, but you can’t quite place it.
“Perlah,” you say, without fully looking away from the woman. “Who’s Mrs. Alvarez?”
“She used to work here,” Perlah replies. “She was the night shift charge nurse before Lena. Partially retired a couple years ago, but she’s covered a shift or two since then.”
You tilt your head. “Oh.”
“She probably asked for Robby,” Princess chimes in. “She always had a soft spot for him.”
Perlah tries to muffle her laughter. “Katulad ng ibang kakilala natin.”
Princess laughs behind you, but the sound barely registers. You’re too captivated by the scene unfolding in front of you. The very normal, very professional interaction that is hardly out of place in an ER—yet for some reason, it feels like you’re watching an adult film made specifically for you.
Mrs. Alvarez’s bed is parked up against the wall—a sight that would normally remind you to look for patients to discharge, but right now that’s the furthest thing from your mind.
Robby has pulled a stool up beside her, leaning in while she talks, forearms resting loosely on the bed rail. He nods along as she explains what’s wrong, his expression soft, his posture relaxed. There’s absolutely nothing obscene about it—but your pulse is still racing.
There’s just something about the way he listens—really listens—that makes it difficult to look anywhere else. That makes it difficult not to envy Mrs. Alvarez right now.
“Let’s take a listen,” he says after a moment, voice low and steady.
Your stomach does a strange little flip.
It’s such a normal sentence. Completely harmless. Totally professional. You’ve probably said the same thing yourself at least three times today. But hearing it in that voice—calm, warm, just rough enough at the edges to carry across the department—does something deeply unhelpful to your concentration.
He slips the stethoscope from around his neck, the tubing sliding through his fingers with the kind of easy familiarity that only comes from years of doing the same motion over and over again. The movement is quick, practiced, almost absentminded.
Still, your eyes follow it.
They follow the way he leans forward, one hand bracing lightly against the mattress while the other presses the diaphragm of the stethoscope gently against Mrs. Alvarez’s chest.
“Deep breath for me.”
Your pulse stutters.
Because suddenly—unhelpfully, vividly—you remember exactly how those hands felt in the dream.
The same steady fingers. The same calm voice, dropped just a little lower when he leaned close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath near your ear.
His hand had been wrapped around your wrist—firm but careful—guiding your hand above your head and pinning it against the pillow.
“Hold still,” he murmured.
The memory is sharp enough that for a second you can almost feel it again. The weight of his body pressing into the space between your knees, the quiet authority in his voice when he spoke, the way his fingers tightened against your skin just enough to keep you right where he wanted you.
Your hands had curled into the bed sheets as his lips traced the line of your jaw, his voice dropping again—softer now, almost thoughtful.
“Look at me.”
Your breath had caught in your throat when you did.
Because he was watching you the same way he watches patients—calm, focused, completely absorbed—except the attention felt different in the dream. Slower. Heavier. Like he was studying every reaction you gave him and deciding exactly how much more you could handle.
Your pulse had started racing the second his gaze dropped to your mouth.
It wasn’t subtle.
Just a brief shift of his eyes—thoughtful, almost curious—but the heat that followed it made your stomach tighten.
His thumb found its way back to your jaw, tracing slowly along the curve of it as if he were considering something. Following the line of your chin as he tipped your head back just slightly beneath his hand.
You hadn’t realised you’d stopped breathing until his fingers stilled.
“Breathe,” he said quietly.
The word brushed over your lips.
You remember the way your chest rose when you obeyed him—slow, unsteady—and the way his gaze followed the movement before drifting back to your mouth again.
God.
The corner of his mouth had lifted slightly then, like he’d noticed exactly what he was doing to you.
Like he wasn’t in any hurry to stop.
His hand slid from your jaw to the side of your throat, fingers warm against your skin, thumb resting just beneath your chin as if he were holding you there—not tightly, just enough that you stayed exactly where he wanted you.
And the entire time he watched you with that same quiet concentration.
Like this was just another thing he was very, very good at.
“Hey,” Santos says, appearing beside the desk. “Your abdominal pain in C9 just went upstairs.”
You blink at her. “Already?”
She shrugs. “Garcia signed off.”
You nod once, shifting awkwardly in your chair as you turn back toward the computer, trying very hard to ignore the heat pooling low in your belly.
“You good?” Santos asks, as if you haven’t been asked that enough today.
You clear your throat, eyes flicking briefly back to Robby and Mrs. Alvarez. “Yeah. Fine.”
She follows your gaze, the corner of her mouth twitching.
“Wow,” she says. “You’re down bad.”
You glare at her. “I’m charting.”
“You’re drooling.”
You quickly lift a hand to your mouth, swiping at the corner.
Santos grins. “Well, it depends who you’re asking, because if you ask—”
“Santos,” you warn.
She laughs. “Come on. It’s just a joke.”
“Isang biro?” Princess says, smiling. “Walang nakakatawa sa paraan ng pagtitig niya kay Robby.”
Your stomach drops.
You might not understand Tagalog, but you sure as hell know what that last word was.
“Santos,” you say, slowly rising from your chair. “How many people have you told?”
She presses her lips together sheepishly. “Again, technically? Just Huckleberry.”
“And—and I haven’t told anyone,” Whitaker adds quickly.
“Ano ang pinag-uusapan nila?” Perlah says behind you.
Princess shrugs. “May alam lang na sikreto si Santos.”
Your eyes widen. “Santos, I swear—”
“Relax,” she says. “They’re not talking about the dream. They were talking about your staring.”
Princess steps forward. “A dream? What dream?”
You bury your face in your hands. “Oh my God.”
“Wait,” Perlah says. “Did she have a dream about—”
Santos smirks. “Yep.”
“Oh,” Princess gasps. “That’s why she’s been so weird today.”
Perlah snorts.
Princess mutters something else in Tagalog that makes them all laugh again.
“Oh my God, Santos!” you say again, louder this time. “I’m just trying to get through the day without my attending finding out I had a sex dream about him and you’re telling the entire emergency department?”
Silence.
Perlah is staring at you.
Princess is staring at you.
Whitaker looks like someone has just pulled the fire alarm inside his head.
And Santos—
Santos is very carefully not looking at you anymore.
“What?” you snap. “No more jokes?”
No one answers.
Instead, Princess’s eyes flick slowly past your shoulder.
Whitaker clears his throat.
Santos presses her lips together, the corners twitching like she’s fighting for her life not to laugh.
“What?” you repeat, glancing over your shoulder.
And there he is.
Your attending—standing just a few feet from the nurse’s station, tablet still in one hand, glasses sliding slightly down his nose as he looks at you over the top of them.
Your stomach drops so violently it feels like all your organs have fallen out of your body.
He clears his throat.
Once.
“Alright,” he says evenly. “Back to work.”
That’s all it takes.
Perlah and Princess busy themselves on the other side of the nurse’s station.
Whitaker rushes off toward triage.
Santos lingers just long enough to give you a look that promises she will never let this go before she slips away too.
And then it’s just you.
And him.
He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just adjusts the tablet in his hand, pulls his glasses off, folds them into the pocket of his scrubs, and turns away.
And as he steps away, you could almost swear you see the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Almost as if he’s fighting a smile.
But that would be ridiculous, right?
It takes an embarrassingly long time for you to remember how to move.
How to function.
You can feel Perlah and Princess watching you. Waiting for you to do something other than stare at the spot your attending had been standing when you announced your sex dream about him to the entire department.
God.
This has to be some kind of HR violation.
Robby is probably on his way to find Dana right now so she can tell you to go upstairs and talk to someone about misconduct. If you’re not fired, you’ll be transferred.
Or worse—night shift.
You gasp and fumble for your phone, pulling it out of your pocket.
Abbot's message thread is already open when you swipe up and start typing.
What’s that supposed to mean?
Then you hit send and tuck your phone away again.
It’s a ridiculous thought, but maybe if you can talk to Abbot and explain that this was all just one giant misunderstanding, maybe he can convince Robby not to hate you for it. Maybe he can convince Robby to let you finish your residency at PTMC without it being painfully awkward for both of you.
Because as funny as this is to Santos and the nurses, you’re not so sure Robby will see it that way.
Not when you’ve let it affect your work.
Not when you just embarrassed him—and yourself—in front of the entire emergency department.
You draw in a slow breath and grab your tablet off the desk.
All you can do now is your job.
All you can do for the next hour is avoid Robby and pray Abbot will hear you out when he comes back on shift.
You turn deliberately toward the North hallway and pull up the lab results for Whitaker’s dizziness patient, keeping your eyes fixed on your tablet as you walk.
The department hums around you like it always does—monitors beeping, beds rolling past, nurses calling out vitals—but you can still feel eyes on you. Whether it’s the nurses or the med students, or even a patient who overheard your outburst, you know you’re being watched.
Whispered about, probably.
But if you don’t look up, it doesn’t count. Right?
By the time you circle back to central, Mrs. Alvarez has already been discharged, which you take as a small mercy. Then you duck into South Fifteen to check on a teenager with a sprained ankle who is mostly interested in whether he can still play soccer this weekend. After that it’s a quick review of labs for a chest pain patient in Central Ten—normal troponins, thank God—and a brief stop at the nurse’s station to sign off on discharge instructions Dana has already printed.
None of it requires you to look up very much.
Which is ideal.
You spend the next half hour moving steadily from room to room—listening to a set of lungs for a persistent cough in North Three, answering a worried daughter’s questions about her father’s blood pressure in South Twenty-Two, and checking a set of repeat vitals on a dehydration case Princess flagged earlier. Every task is perfectly ordinary. Completely routine.
And through all of it, you make a very conscious effort not to look for your attending.
Not that you’re avoiding him.
Obviously.
You’re just… busy.
You still see him, though—across the hall, talking to patients, nodding along while med students present. He doesn’t look up. Never looks at you. Just keeps walking, keeps working, keeps nodding.
Like nothing happened.
And somehow, that’s worse.
You’re on your way back from dropping discharge paperwork at the front desk—walking a little slower than you should as you wonder how long until the end of your shift—when McKay calls out from triage.
“Hey, you busy?”
You stop mid-step. “Always. What’s up?”
“Can you grab me a suture kit?” she asks. “I’m out in here.”
“Of course. What size?”
“Four-oh nylon. Whatever's closest.”
You nod. “On it.”
“And maybe send a med student to grab more from supply,” she calls as you walk away.
You don’t reply. You just duck into Trauma One—thankfully empty—grab a kit, then call out to Ogilvie on your way back, telling him to go get more suture kits for triage as soon as he’s free. You don’t even wait for him to answer, but you do hear him turn to a nurse and ask where supply is.
You wedge your tablet under one arm as you head back toward the triage bay. With the kit held against your chest, you start peeling back the sterile packaging—since you know McKay’s already halfway through cleaning whatever it is she needs to suture up.
You’re just being helpful.
But the plastic seam is stubborn, and just as you turn into the bay the wrapper gives with a jerked tear—and the scalpel slides free.
You shift to catch it, but the blade grazes the inside of your upper arm before you can pull away.
“Oh—shit.”
It’s not dramatic. Just a sharp sting at first, and for a second you assume it’s nothing more than a scratch.
Until the warmth starts to trickle down your arm and drip from your elbow.
“Damn,” you sigh, watching a small droplet of blood hit the floor.
McKay glances up, eyes going wide. “What the hell happened?”
She quickly takes everything out of your hands, and you lift your arm to inspect the damage.
“Scalpel slipped.”
McKay winces. “That’s going to need stitches.”
Ignoring the confused patient still sitting in the triage chair, she grabs a wad of gauze off the cart and presses it against your arm.
“Hold this,” she says. “I’ll go get someone to take over here, then we can—”
“It’s alright,” a familiar voice says from somewhere behind you. “I’ll deal with this.”
Your stomach drops.
“Oh.” McKay glances over your shoulder, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Thanks, Dr. Robby.”
Fuck.
You turn slowly, one hand still clamped over the gauze on your arm.
He’s already so close—barely half a step away—and you have to tip your head back to look up at him.
“Let me see,” he says, voice low.
You hold your arm out obediently.
His fingers brush yours as he peels back the gauze, and your pulse jumps.
“Alright.” He nods once, something indistinguishable flickering across his face. “That needs stitches.”
Before you can respond, his hand closes lightly around your wrist, guiding your arm back toward your side as he turns you with him.
“Come with me.”
The touch is brief, professional—but when his hand shifts to the small of your back to steer you out of triage, the warmth of it makes your heart stutter out of rhythm.
“Dana,” he calls, walking quickly through central. “What’s open?”
Dana looks up from the desk just as the two of you pass. Her gaze flicks from the gauze on your arm to Robby’s hand still resting lightly at your back, and something sharp and knowing slides into her expression immediately.
“Central Eleven just got cleaned,” she says.
Robby nods once. “Thanks.”
Dana’s brows lift just a fraction as she watches the two of you step into the room, like she’s just connected several very interesting dots.
You move automatically toward the bed, trying not to feel disappointed when Robby’s hand leaves your back. He shuts the doors on both sides of the room, then slides the curtain closed—and every move makes your heart rate climb higher.
“Lay back,” he says.
Your whole body flushes with heat as you adjust yourself on the exam bed, trying desperately not to think about the other circumstances in which he might give you that instruction.
He rolls the stool beside the bed and reaches for your arm, turning it out gently.
His fingers are warm as he removes the gauze.
You try not to think too hard about his fingers.
“It’s a clean cut, at least,” he says after a second.
You nod. “Sharp blade.”
Like he didn’t already know that.
He releases your arm long enough to pull on a pair of gloves and gather what he needs from the tray beside the bed. You watch him move around the room with that same quiet efficiency that has been ruining your concentration all day—steady hands, calm voice, not a hint of hurry even though the department outside the door is probably chaos.
“Come a little closer,” he says, almost absentmindedly—as if he doesn’t know what saying something like that is going to do to you.
You shift against the mattress while he lifts your arm again, angling it under the exam light.
He’s so close now you can hardly breathe. You can feel his breath against your cheek, his warmth bleeding through the thin fabric of your scrubs, every touch careful as he starts cleaning the cut.
The antiseptic stings enough to make you tense.
“Easy,” he murmurs, steadying your arm. “It’s not that bad.”
“I’m aware,” you say quickly. “I do actually work here.”
“Yes,” he says mildly. “I’m aware of that too.”
You risk a glance at him then—and immediately regret it.
He’s standing now, leaning close enough that you could count every fleck of grey in his beard. Close enough to notice the way his glasses have slid slightly down his nose while he concentrates on the wound. His fingers move with careful precision as he prepares the needle driver, completely focused.
Completely calm.
Completely unaware that your brain is still stuck somewhere between the nurse’s station and a very inappropriate dream.
“Hold still,” he murmurs.
Your stomach flips—and when you squeeze your eyes shut, that exact moment from your dream flashes through your mind again.
The lidocaine burns for a second when he injects it, and you suck in a breath before you can stop yourself.
“Breathe,” he says automatically.
God.
If he could stop with the direct quotes from your dream, maybe you would actually be able to breathe.
You clear your throat, staring stubbornly at the wall now while he begins the first stitch.
“Try to relax,” he adds quietly.
You let out a short, incredulous laugh. “I’m trying.”
His hands pause for the briefest moment.
Then he glances up at you over the rim of his glasses.
“You of all people should know better than to open a suture kit while walking.”
You let out a small, embarrassed breath and shift slightly on the bed while he works, trying not to react every time the needle passes neatly through the edge of the cut.
“Sorry,” you mutter. “It’s been a weird day.”
“Mhm.”
The sound is absentminded, the same one he makes when a patient is explaining symptoms he already understands. His attention stays on your arm while he ties the knot and reaches for the next stitch, movements calm and precise, like this is the most ordinary thing in the world.
“You seemed a little distracted earlier,” he adds after a moment.
Your stomach tightens.
“Busy department.”
He hums again as he adjusts your arm slightly.
“Not exactly what I meant.”
You stare at the ceiling again, your pulse racing dangerously fast.
“It’s not unusual, you know,” he says after a moment, his voice calm and thoughtful as he works. “There’s actually quite a lot of research on it. In high-stress environments people’s subconscious tends to latch onto someone they admire rather than… straightforward attraction. It’s a way of organizing all that pressure—long hours, constant adrenaline, the need to trust the people around you.”
He pauses briefly to adjust the stitch.
You feel like you’re about to throw up.
“Hospitals are particularly good at creating that kind of dynamic,” he goes on. “Everyone’s exhausted, everyone’s relying on each other, and if there happens to be someone who seems steady in the middle of all that—someone people look to when things go wrong—it’s very easy for admiration to blur into something else.”
Another small pause, the thread tightening neatly under his fingers.
“It’s rarely intentional,” he adds, quieter now. “Most of the time the person experiencing it doesn’t even realise what their brain is doing.”
You finally look at him. His face is barely inches from yours, close enough that you can see the faint crease between his brows while he concentrates on the last stitch, all of his attention focused on closing the cut.
“Wait,” you say slowly. “So… I—I’m not fired?”
His hands still for the briefest moment before he glances at you, genuine confusion flickering across his face.
“Fired?”
You swallow. “For… you know. The thing I said. Out there. To the entire department.”
He huffs a small laugh—barely a breath.
“Why would you be fired?” he says mildly. “Embarrassing yourself in front of the nurses isn’t exactly grounds for termination.”
Your face burns.
He sets the needle driver down and reaches for the scissors, his tone settling back into that same calm, matter-of-fact rhythm.
“You shouldn’t have let it distract you from your work, though,” he continues. “That’s the only part I was concerned about. But one off day doesn’t suddenly erase an otherwise solid record.”
You stare at him.
“Concerned?”
“Mhm.”
He snips the suture, then reaches to adjust your arm slightly under the light, examining his work.
“First you were late,” he says, almost absently. “You were flustered during the chest tube. You’ve been avoiding traumas all day—” His eyes meet yours briefly. “And your attending. You’ve barely caught up on your charting, and you’ve unintentionally encouraged the nurses’ gossiping.”
Your stomach drops.
“Not to mention,” he adds, just a little drier now, “the pen you threw at Dr. Santos for—what? Teasing you, I presume.”
Your brain short-circuits.
Because suddenly, Dana’s voice echoes through your mind.
Careful, Robinavitch. You’re hovering.
Hovering?
Like the way he’d stood so close while you placed that chest tube. The way his hand had settled at your back when he guided you out of triage.
Why was he even there to begin with?
Santos’ voice cuts through your mind next.
I swear he’s got a soft spot for you.
I’m pretty sure he’d go there if you asked.
And suddenly the entire day looks… different.
Not like an attending keeping an eye on his resident.
Like a man trying very hard not to make it obvious he was paying attention to you.
Robby smooths the edge of the dressing over the sutured cut, pressing it down carefully as he glances back up at you.
“Keep that dry for the next—”
And that’s the moment your brain finally catches up.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, your hand shoots out and grabs the front of his scrubs, fingers bunching the fabric at his chest as you pull him the few inches closer.
Then you kiss him.
It’s not graceful.
It’s barely even planned.
Just a quick, impulsive press of your mouth against his—warm and startled and over almost as soon as it begins.
For half a second, he doesn’t move at all.
“Oh—fuck. I—”
You drop his shirt like it’s suddenly on fire and lean back on the bed, horrified.
“I’m so sorry,” you blurt. “I don’t know why I just—”
The apology dies halfway through, because Robby hasn’t stepped away.
He hasn’t leapt back, shocked or offended. He’s just… there.
Where he was when you grabbed him—close enough that you can still feel his warmth, with one hand resting lightly near your arm where he’d been finishing the dressing. For a second he simply watches you, studying your face with the same quiet concentration he uses when he’s working through a diagnosis, like he’s trying to decide whether the last thirty seconds actually happened.
Your pulse is hammering.
“I shouldn’t have—” you try again.
His hand lifts.
The movement is slow, deliberate, and before you can finish your sentence his thumb and forefinger settle lightly around your chin, tilting your face upward just enough that you have to look at him.
Your breath catches.
He hesitates for the briefest moment, his gaze moving across your face as if he’s still weighing the decision.
Then he leans in.
The first contact is firmer than you expect—his mouth warm and solid against yours, the faint scrape of his beard against your skin as he adjusts the angle. His glasses are still on, the frame nudging the bridge of your nose when he shifts closer. His nose bumps yours before he tilts his head, finding a better position.
For a second it’s almost restrained.
Then it isn’t.
His grip on your chin tightens a fraction as he deepens the kiss, tipping your head back against the pillow while he leans over you. The change is sudden enough that your hands catch the front of his scrubs again without thinking. The fabric bunches in your fingers as he moves closer, the pressure of his mouth shifting—slower now but more certain, like he’s stopped pretending he’s about to pull away.
The beard you’d been trying not to notice all day brushes your cheek again when he moves, softer than you expected, and when his teeth graze your lower lip for half a second the sound that escapes you is embarrassingly honest.
He exhales quietly through his nose against your skin.
Not stopping.
If anything, the opposite.
His free hand comes down beside your shoulder on the mattress to brace himself as he leans over you, the movement tilting your head back further while his mouth finds yours again—deeper this time, the rhythm of it suddenly practiced enough to make your stomach flip.
Like this is something he hasn’t done in a while.
But definitely knows how to do.
And the entire time his thumb stays lightly under your chin, holding you exactly where he wants you while he kisses you like he’s still trying to decide whether this is a mistake—and losing that argument by the second.
You barely notice when he shifts closer again, the movement subtle but unmistakable, his hand tightening slightly against the mattress beside you as if he’s about to lean in further, about to let himself forget the door, the department, the fact that this is an exam room in the middle of a shift—
The curtain whips open.
“Been looking for you, Robinavitch—”
Abbot stops dead.
For half a second no one moves.
You’re still on the bed, Robby bent over you, your hands fisted in the front of his scrubs while his hand is still braced beside your shoulder.
Abbot’s gaze flicks from your grip on Robby’s shirt, to Robby’s face, to the dressing he’d just placed on your arm.
His eyebrows climb slowly toward his hairline.
“Well,” he says after a beat. “I wish I could say I'm surprised, but…”
Robby straightens immediately.
Not panicked. Not flustered.
Just very, very still for a second before he adjusts his glasses and steps back from the bed like he’d simply been finishing a routine procedure.
“Jack,” he says evenly.
Abbot folds his arms, the corner of his mouth already curling upward.
“Michael.”
The silence stretches just long enough for the humiliation to fully settle in.
Abbot glances at you again, then back at Robby.
“Should I come back later,” he asks mildly, “or are you two… just about done here?”
The heat that floods your face is instantaneous, and you slide off the bed so fast you nearly fall.
“Don’t get it wet for twenty-four hours, stitches out in a week unless there’s redness, swelling, drainage, fever—I know the drill,” you ramble, slowly backing toward the door.
Robby has already turned back to the tray, calmly disposing of the suture needle like none of this is remotely unusual. Only the faint redness creeping up the back of his neck gives him away.
Abbot doesn’t move. He just stands there, arms folded, with a look of deep theatrical satisfaction on his face.
“This,” he says pleasantly, “is exactly what I meant, by the way.”
Your stomach drops.
“What?”
His brows lift.
“Your text.”
Your eyes widen.
Abbot tilts his head, studying you for a moment before glancing toward Robby again.
“I mean, honestly,” he adds. “I leave you two alone for what—ten hours?”
“What day shift does is none of your business, Dr. Abbot,” you mutter, trying to slip past him.
Abbot’s mouth twitches.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” he says. “It seems very much like my business now.”
You snort, the sound escaping before you can stop it.
“Don’t be jealous,” you say, glancing over your shoulder as you step out the door. “He’s still your boyfriend.”
Behind him, Robby drops the gauze into the bin and gives a quiet shake of his head, laughing softly despite himself.
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs.
Abbot’s eyebrows shoot up.
“Your girl, huh?”
Robby scrubs a hand over his beard and turns away.
“Shut up.”
You’re not sure you were supposed to hear that last bit—but it makes your heart race anyway.
The second you step into the hallway, the emergency department crashes back in around you—monitors beeping, nurses calling for labs, a stretcher rattling past that you have to dodge. Almost like the last fifteen minutes never happened at all.
“Hey, Doc,” Princess calls from the nurse’s station. “North Five, dizziness patient’s daughter is looking for a doctor, but Whitaker’s stuck in chairs.”
“And Javadi needs you in South Seventeen,” Perlah adds. “Something about a rash.”
“Oh—and imaging’s back on your sprained ankle kid,” Santos says. “He’s asking when he can get out of here.”
You nod. “Uh—right. Okay, yeah. I’ll just—”
“Hey,” Dana cuts in, appearing beside you. “You okay? How’s the arm?”
You blink down at the fresh dressing like you’d almost forgotten about it.
“Oh. Yeah. It’s fine.”
She studies it for a second before her gaze drifts up to your face—and her brow lifts.
“Uh-huh,” she says slowly.
You frown. “What?”
“Nothing,” she says lightly, starting to walk away. “Just thought that looked like beard burn.”
She gives a small shrug, then glances back over the top of her glasses.
“But I know my doctors are far too professional for that.”
Your entire face goes hot.
You open your mouth—then close it again, because there is absolutely nothing you can say to that without making it worse.
Santos leans across the desk at the nurse’s station, squinting at your face.
what do we think about sleepy sex with hotch…. 🤤 (cw: some somnophilia) not proofread <3
picture it: like genuinely this man is exhausted. the kind you can just feel in your bones, one that threatens to kill you right then and there, yet all he can focus on is you.
maybe he’d been gone for a while. a case that had a mental and physical toll on him; his mind had been, to put it blankly, fucked. the contents were horrific and he’d been distracting himself ever since. not only that but he’d also been lacking proper sleep and actually eating meals (and despite what he says, takeout for the insert number here time in a row is not a meal).
through it all, you were the thing keeping him sane. each text message checking in, every late night and secret phone call he’d take just to hear your voice and to remind himself of something real and not downright disturbing in the world of unsubs and murder.
he may or may not have also gotten himself off once with the photo he keeps of you in his wallet, but he keeps that to himself.
and when he enters the house you two share, all he wants is you. it’s quiet, the lights downstairs turned off. he finds you in the bedroom, curled up and out like a light. some novel you’d been reading disregarded on his side of the bed.
he moves it gently, making sure not to bend the spine too much or move your bookmark on the page you’d fallen asleep at. then he removes his clothes, leaving him in just his boxers. it feels good to actually sit on his own bed, hand trailing up your bare thigh.
it’s almost romantic, the way he just watches as your chest rises and falls with each breath. he lets out a deep shutter when he feels you bare underneath the nightgown you’d had on. and his mind reflects. you’d made a comment once about how if he came home and you were asleep, he could feel free to you. you didn't mind, you wanted it rather.
and gosh did he want it too. he took his time to kiss at your thighs, his hands pushing that little nightgown up higher. his lips trail up against your skin, placing a light kiss at your pelvic bone before he’s gently spreading your folds.
he can hear the little whimper that illicits. he presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. “just me, sweetness. you okay if i continue?” he whispers. once you murmur a “please, yes, please”, he decides he just has to oblige!
he can tell you’re still in the stage between fully awake and still holding onto whatever dream you were having, and that’s where he’d prefer to have you as his tongue licks a long, wet stride up your slit. he actually moans at the taste, his hands digging into the skin at your thighs.
he lets his tongue tease you for a moment, before he's eating you out like a man fucking starved. aaron is the kind of guy who could get off of eye contact alone while his tongue thrusts in and out of your hole. but he’ll settle for watching you fight the sleep off to be awake for him.
he relishes in the tiny whimpers and barely audible moans he manages to pull from you. even more so when your hand tangles in his hair as he pushes a finger inside while his tongue works on your clearly neglected clit, sucking and twirling his tongue around it. “that’s it, pretty girl. let me hear you, hear how good im making y’feel.” his voice is low, husky. it almost sounds not like his own, but he doesn’t care.
when he pushes you over the first climax, he’s grinning against your mound. you can feel it. “pretty girl.” he places a kiss against your clit before he’s climbing to be overtop of you, kissing you deeply. you can taste yourself against his mouth.
“you ready for me to be inside of you, honey?” he pushes to keep your thighs open as he places a knee between them. you nod, pathetically so but you could care less about how desperate you look, hands grabbing his arms. “please, aaron. need to feel you.”
who is he to say no?
by time he’s inside of you? you’re fully awake as he’s thrusting into you. you swear you can see a bulge of him in your stomach, but your eyes are too heavy to fight to keep open as pleasure overtakes your senses, replacing each cohesive thought with repeats of his name and more.
he gets to get actual moans and whimpers from you as he burrows deep inside of you, letting your walls pulsate around him as the length of him sits in you. he moves, gently so, and you swear you’re seeing stars.
“you’re doing so good for me, honey.” he praises, breath warm against the shell of your ear. “gotta cum for me again, ‘kay? need to feel it, baby.”
“please, aaron.” it doesn’t need to be said what you’re begging for. to help you get there, his thumb presses against your clit, rubbing the still sensitive bud of nerves. he always adores seeing the highs he gave you: eyes rolling back in your head, back arching as he has to pin your hips down to be able to keep fucking you through it.
your next climax doesn’t take long to come (pun intended) and he’s not far behind you. he spills out in you, because aaron totally has a breeding kink and im going to elaborate on that later. once you both settle, he pulls out and moves to let his head rests against your thighs to watch the aftermath as you catch your breath from the world shaking orgasm your boyfriend just gave you, your own climax mixing with his. his finger pushes it back inside, and he grins at the moan it illicits from you.
after you’re washed up by an ever affectionate aaron, he lays you down and kisses the crown of your head gently. it’s a stark contrast to the man he can become during sex, all dirty talk and little apologies for how greedy he is with your cunt.
he covers you up, large arms keeping you in place as they wrap around your waist. “gotta start coming home more often like this.” he says, and he grins when you do.
Zuko breaking etiquette and running to sweep you into his arms every time he sees you because he still can't believe he gets to do it. He gets to say that you're his. He squeezes you so tight and whispers that he loves you each and every time because to you, he's not a king. To you, he's just your love. And there's nothing he ever wanted to be as much as that.
I need hotch with angry bau reader 😔😔 I’m genuinely so pissed off recently and him calming me down would actually heal me
over the line
you and me both 😣 cw; bau fem!reader, established relationship, typical cm case descriptions, a misogynistic rude officer, hurt to comfort <3 wc; 1.2k
You’d just finished another debrief on a case you already knew would be especially difficult. After all, it wasn’t every day you were called out after only one victim; this one had been so brutal that nobody wanted to give the guy a chance to do much as think about making it serial.
Now, you were all gathered around the table, deep in discussion of victimology. But despite the focus, you still caught the murmur of a side discussion to the left of you.
"Don’t know why we’re even trying to find this guy. Way she was flirting, sounds like she had it coming." One of the officers snickered under his breath, muttering to his colleague. He got a laugh in response. A laugh. Un-fucking-believable.
You were already in a bad mood hearing about the case on the jet, but rehashing it brought an even sicker feeling to your stomach. It didn’t help that your features left you a practical mirror image to the victim. It may have well been you plastered up on that board.
You turned towards the officer, your expression full of shock and disdain. "What did you just say?"
Sharing a glance with his friend, he realized he had two options: retreat and shut up, or continue to be an asshole. Clearly he chose the latter, the option that fed his ego. “I said she had it coming. Look at her,” he added, gesturing towards the table with open disgust.
The crime scene photos. The victim bound and mutilated. The defense marks were clear as day, painting the image of her struggle in your mind as if you’d watched it happen right in front of you.
"She had it coming." You repeated, taking an authoritative, threatening step towards him. The rest of the group fell silent, their attention snapping to you. "You think she asked for this to happen? Is that what you think?"
He shrugged, a smirk forming on his face. He challenged you right back: Yes.
A sharp, disbelieving laugh tore out of you. Your fists clenched as you stepped in again, deliberately invading his space. “Maybe we should hand you over to him next,” you snapped, your voice rising with fury. “Then we’ll see how fast you realize nobody asks for this.”
“From the looks of it, I’d think he’d prefer you.”
“Oh-”
Before you could finish, Aaron intervened, gently yet resolutely grabbing your elbow. He held back the Sweetheart that threatened to pass his lips. "Agent. A word, please."
"Get your men in order. It's disgusting." You snapped at the chief as he joined the rest of you, arriving too late to stop what had already been said.
Your glare didn’t waver as Aaron began to guide you away. You allowed him to do so, even as anger burned hot in your chest, your hands still trembling at your sides. His grip was grounding, even as your pulse still pounded, rage coursing through your veins.
"I don't care if I was out of line." You started rambling as soon as the conference room door shut behind the two of you. "I wasn't going to stand there and let him belittle that poor girl."
Now, finally able to use the endearments he’d grown accustomed to, Aaron tried, “Sweetheart-“
"The fucking audacity.” You let out an exasperated sigh, beginning to pace. “Again, I don’t care if I overstepped, I don’t care how ‘unprofessional’ it was. He had no right - none - to speak about her like that, to twist what happened into some sick joke.”
"That's not why I pulled you away. I was afraid you'd start swinging at the guy."
You scoffed, averting your eyes, though the tension in your expression didn’t ease. Crossing your arms tightly over your chest, you shook your head, your jaw set. "He deserved it."
"He did. He was out of line, and thought he could get away with it without consequence. You made sure he didn’t.“ Aaron's lips tugged into a smile, referring to you barking at the person in charge. "And you did my job for me. Maybe you should do it more often."
You laughed gently, but it faded as quickly as it came. You felt yourself coming back down, the anger no longer flaring but settling into something quieter, heavier.
“Hey.” His hands rested gently on your forearms, holding you still and steadying you once more. While appropriate, an outburst from you was rare. "Do you want to talk about it?"
As Aaron studied you, his brown were soft and full of concern. He could see the exhaustion etched into your features, the way your shoulders carried the weight of the past few days. The empathy you felt for the victim.
He was infuriated by the way the officer had spoken to you, and in moments like this, he almost wished he didn’t have a badge - or the restraint that came with it; sometimes it would be nice - and warranted - to be able to use his fists to make a point. He ached at the thought of how it must have made you feel, even as a quiet sense of pride settled in at how you’d handled yourself.
You shrugged, biting on the inside of your cheek. To hold back tears? Buying time to answer? You weren’t quite sure.
Quickly glancing around to make sure no one was coming, he pulled you into his arms and held you close. There were no words that felt right - sometimes, that was just how it was. So he held you tighter, hoping it might be enough to say what he couldn’t.
You sank deeper into his touch, letting out a sigh as he pulled you close. For the first time in days, the tension in your shoulders began to ease. His embrace was familiar and loving, a quiet refuge from everything that had come before. If only you could stay here forever, wrapped in this quiet safety, shielded from all that was cruel and ugly.
"It's getting to me too." He offered softly. You weren't the only one visualizing yourself as one of the victims, and the thought unsettled him deeply.
You hummed sadly into his chest, burying your face deeper into it. For a moment, you were overtaken by the juvenile notion that you could hide here forever.
Much too soon, a knock on the door signaled that the two of you were needed. Aaron sighed and pulled back reluctantly, maintaining his hold on you. “Do you need another minute? Can I get you anything?”
Did you? Maybe you could manage, but the thought made your stomach twist into knots. Back into the suffocating atmosphere of the bullpen where horror awaited. Back to the misogynist asshole who thought he could belittle and poke fun without consequence. It would be much easier to stay here and hide - concealed and safe. But you couldn’t. You owed it to the victim. You had to see it through.
At your prolonged silence, and from the expression of unease that grew quietly on your face, Aaron decided for you. “Take all the time you need, sweetheart.”
“No, no, I’m okay,” you started to protest, rather unconvincingly - the shakiness in your voice giving you away. “I just want to catch this son of a bitch unsub.”
“Take two more minutes.” Aaron pressed a kiss to your forehead, reaching for the doorknob.
“Is that an order?”
With the door open halfway, he turned back, the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “If that’s what it takes.”
when the heat gets too bad that you can’t even consider cuddling aaron to sleep—he has some thoughts about that or clingy!hotch
Hotch knew it was hot. He felt it in the way his clothes stuck to his skin with every step and how the air-conditioning and fan only seemed to dry the sweat on his skin, leaving him an uncomfortable sticky mess.
He also knew however, that despite all other circumstances, it was usually expected that when the both of you retired to bed; you did so in each other’s arms.
Which is why when he got under the covers and tried to wrap his arm around your waist, instead of being met with you snuggling further into his arms—he was met with you pushing him away from you.
“No.” you huff, budging further away from his outstretched arm.
Hotch stared at you in disbelief, “No?” he asked incredulously.
“Too hot.” You whine, tugging the sheets off next and throwing your leg over to your own side of the bed.
“It’s too hot to cuddle?” He scoffs distastefully, glaring at your bare legs as if they’ve personally offended him.
“Shh.” You mutter more to yourself, swatting your left arm back half-heartedly in annoyance.
“No!—no shh! You just pushed my hand away!” Aaron whispers harshly, and you know he’s pouting without even having to turn to look at him.
“Hotch, it’s hot—I’ll hug you tomorrow.” you’re honestly just saying it to appease him, if the temperature is anything like today’s—you’re not even willing to entertain the idea of Aaron’s furnace of a body holding you.
Imagining it right now is like your own personal form of torture.
“Oh, so I’m Hotch now too huh? Might as well just ask me to sleep in the guest room at this point.”
You turn over and Aaron perks up, thinking you’re about to surrender yourself to your rightful place in his arms.
Instead, you reach for the spare pillow between the two of you and chuck it at his head.
“Hey!” he yelps, grabbing the pillow and tugging it out of your hold and throwing it off the bed.
There’s silence for a few moments after the struggle and you begin to doze off, hoping that the sweet release of sleep will bring you refuge from this heat induced torture.
“We never sleep without you being in my arms” he huffs, dropping his arm finally and settling onto the bed.
He crosses his arms in annoyance, turning to look at you and scoffs again when he finds you peacefully resting with your eyes closed.
“Stop looking at me.” You mumble groggily, shuffling so you turn back to face him, your shirt rides up slightly and Aaron can’t help but fix his eyes on the sliver of skin being exposed on your back.
Your one eye peeks open and you snort when you see his wistful expression, “Baby—it’s one night.” You reason.
He snaps his gaze to yours, “Oh, so we’re back to baby then? What happened to ‘Hotch’ huh? Might as well just call me ‘Mr, Hotchner at this rate considering—”
“Oh my god you’re insufferable when you want to be.” You snap at him.
“Come and cuddle me and I’ll shut up.” He retorts back tauntingly.
You huff, sitting up in vehemence and glaring at him, “You’re an evil man.” You accuse, tugging off your shirt and leaving yourself in your bra and sleep shorts as you move closer to Aaron.
Aaron who smirks wickedly and before you can even think about moving back to your side of the bed, wrestles you into his arms despite your grumbles and complaints.
“Mmm, better.” He hums contently while you accept your fate of feeling your body practically stuck to Aarons by the sheer amount of moisture in the air and on your skin.
“This is awful.” You complain, your voice muffled into the cotton of Aaron’s sleep shirt.
“For you!” he agrees pleasant as ever, as if he’s not the one who put you in this position.
“I’m right where I wanna be.”
If Aaron wakes up in the middle of the night with a pillow in his arms instead of you and a subsequent pillow and duvet wall separating the two of you. That’s his own business.
At some point, you’ve gotta look out for number one.
warning ladies !! do not spit in gojo’s mouth unless you’re ready for him to nut instantly!
“c’mon baby,” he whines, voice all breathy and cocky, his blue eyes sparkling looking greedy. “i’ve been good. spit in my mouth, please?”
you laugh, because this six-foot-whatever menace who can literally warp reality is pouting like a brat because he wants your spit.
“you’re so fucking weird, toru.”
“you are weird,” he corrects instantly, tongue already poking out a little. “now c’mon.... i’m dying here. my dick’s so hard it’s bout to file a complaint.”
you roll your eyes but lean in anyway, gripping his jaw with one hand, thumb pressing into the soft skin just under his bottom lip. he opens wider, eyes half-lidded, that signature gojo smirk twitching at the corners because he knows exactly how nasty this is.
you gather it slow on purpose, letting him watch, then spit directly onto his waiting tongue. thick, warm, right in the center.
the sound he makes is downright criminal. a broken little moan-groan that vibrates straight through his chest and into yours.
“fuck— again,” he gasps, “do it again. spit like you mean it.”
you do it again, messier this time, letting some of it miss and drip down his chin. he doesn’t even wipe it. just lets it slide while his eyes roll back.
“you’re actually getting off on this, huh?” you tease, grinding down slow on the massive bulge straining against the fabric. “big bad strongest and all it takes is a little spit to make you stupid?”
“shut up and degrade me properly,” he whines, but he’s grinning like an idiot, tongue still out. “call me a nasty little slut or sum. i’m literally leaking for you right now.”
you laugh again, i mean you can’t help it. before you do the request, you reach down and shove his sweats just low enough to free him. he’s flushed dark at the tip, already dripping down the shaft.
“open wider, pretty boy.”
he obeys instantly, loving every second of being absolutely humiliated by you.
you spit again, then lean down and lick into his mouth, tasting yourself on his tongue while you sink down onto his cock.
satoru’s whole body shudders. he moans into your mouth, hands scrambling on your hips, already babbling.
“more!! fuck— spit on me while you ride me. please baby i’ll do anything. i’ll buy you a country. i’ll cancel infinity for the rest of the night. just keep spitting in my fucking mouth—”
Your voice cracks, raw with frustration, “Why can’t you just listen?”
You’re pacing, fists clenched, eyes burning, and he’s there −still and unflinching, a storm barely contained behind his gaze. Jungkook doesn’t soften or soothe, but edges nearer, the heat of his presence already on you, daring you to continue.
“You’re shaking,” he says, eyes holding yours, his voice edged with something dangerous. “Talk to me −or don’t. But don’t lie to me.”
Your anger spikes at the dominance in his tone. You want to push him away, but the intensity in his stare pins you, makes your own words feel small and ridiculous. You know you’re being irrational, taking it out on him −and he knows it too.
When you start to yell and flail, he holds you with ease, firm and unmoving. Every shout, every heated breath seems to feed him rather than scare him off.
“I’m not leaving,” he growls softly, almost a challenge.
The inferno inside you clashes with the fire in him. Both of you tense, unrelenting, but there’s a strange magnetism in it, like a pull you can’t deny.
Your anger dissipates as you allow Jungkook to take you into his arms, succumbing to his heat, consumed and drawn in, your temper rendered powerless against him.
KIM TAEHYUNG/V ❤︎
Your anger hits like a tidal wave, loud and unrestrained.
“I’m done repeating myself!” you scream, feeling your hands shake.
Taehyung doesn’t flinch or ease back. He just leans against the doorway, arms crossed, watching you like a predator assessing its prey. The intensity in his gaze makes your chest tighten, almost daring you to continue.
“You’re angry,” he says slowly, his voice low and deep. “−Why don’t you tell me why.”
It’s the calm command in his tone that throws you off.
You want to storm past him or yell louder, but his presence is magnetic and dominant, impossible to ignore. Taehyung doesn’t chase your anger, he draws it out, makes it his to hold. Every word you throw at him feels like it lands on something unshakable, solid, immovable.
When he steps closer, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him, you realize you don’t want to push him away.
“I’m listening,” he repeats, softer this time, but no less in control.
His calmness is infectious and you find yourself stumbling over your words, your anger starting to mix with something else. Exhilaration, tension, and the undeniable pull of his calming presence.
Even as your fury rages, you feel yourself folding under it, unwillingly, completely consumed by the strength he wields over both the room and you.
KIM SEOKJIN/JIN ❤︎
You feel the frustration building like a pressure cooker inside you, and when it finally bursts, there’s no holding back. Your voice echoes across the room, sharp and biting.
Jin freezes mid-motion, fork halfway to his mouth, wide-eyed. His usual playful smile is gone, replaced by something softer and more cautious, as if he’s stepping on fragile ground.
“Why do you always… never−,” your words stumble, too fast and too angry.
Jin sets the plate down, wipes his hands, and slowly approaches. “Hey,” he says gently, “look at me. Tell me what’s wrong.”
The softness in his tone grates at first, because he’s too cool when you’re practically shaking with rage. You catch the slight quiver in his jaw though, and the way he’s trying to calm you without dampening your fire.
You hate that it works, and that his patience makes your voice tremble. You want to keep yelling, but now your anger has a weight −a shape− and when he finally pulls you into a careful hug, you feel reassured and let yourself simmer down.
Grumbling, but slowly, you let his warmth bleed through the cracks in your anger.
YOONGI/SUGA ❤︎
Your blood has started to boil, words clawing their way out of your throat before you even think.
“I’m tired of this!” you snap, hands trembling, chest tight.
Suga sits across from you, calm as ever, eyebrows slightly raised, watching you like he’s trying to decode a puzzle. His silence frustrates you more. He doesn’t immediately react or yell back, letting your anger crash over him like waves.
You want him to fight, to defend himself, but he just sits there, watching and waiting.
“I said I’m done!” you shout, pacing, fists clenched.
Finally, he sighs quietly and leans back. “Okay,” he concedes with a murmur. “Then tell me why. I’ll listen, but I need you to actually say it.”
That’s the problem. His quiet, unshaken presence forces you to confront yourself instead of hiding behind the heat of your words. You pause, gaping, the anger still hot but now edged with confusion.
Yoongi doesn’t mock you, he continues to wait, letting you dictate things at your own pace.
Slowly and begrudgingly, you start speaking, spilling the storm in fragments, and he meets every piece with unshaken and unyielding patience until the fury inside you softens enough to let him in.
PARK JIMIN ❤︎
“Why won’t you understand?!” you yell, your voice cracking, words hitting him like a shockwave.
Your chest feels tight, your hands trembling as the frustration finally explodes.
Jimin flinches, his eyes wide and warm, hurt flashing there for a brief moment before he gathers himself.
He steps in, careful not to crowd you. “Hey, hey −it’s okay. I’m listening,” he says gently, his voice almost a whisper.
His presence is different from the others, it’s warm and delicate, like a hand held under a rushing river, steadying the current.
It works like a charm, and you can’t help but marvel how his gentle tone makes your voice falter and causes the words you thought were sharp and jagged to fall softer than you intended.
Jimin keeps his unwavering gaze on you, refusing to let your anger define the moment.
Your shoulders sag slightly, the tension leaking out slowly. He reaches for your hands, small and tentative, and the fire in your chest starts to dull. You want to argue, to fight it, but deep down, you can’t deny his quiet care which is like a soothing balm to your soul.
Against your own will, you begin to let the anger fade.
HOBI/J-HOPE ❤︎
You feel the frustration twisting in your stomach, and before you can stop yourself, you yell. “I can’t deal with this right now!”
Your hands fly up, your words spilling like a storm.
J-Hope freezes for a split second in shock before almost instinctively he grins, but it’s not the usual teasing grin. It’s softer and more careful, as if he’s trying to catch you before you fall.
“Whoa, hey −breathe,” he says, moving closer, his energy bright but not overwhelming.
You glare, arms crossed, but he doesn’t back off. He crouches slightly, tilts his head, and his voice stays light, steady, “I get it, I get it. You’re mad. Let it out.”
Something about the way he says it makes your fire flare even more, how can he stay so positive when you’re so close to spiralling. Hobi doesn’t try to fix you or tell you to calm down. He doesn’t tell you to calm down, and instead he mirrors your energy, bouncing it back with just enough warmth to make the anger feel less suffocating.
Eventually, you’re shouting less and breathing more. He nudges your shoulder gently, grinning that ridiculous, stubborn smile.
Against your better judgment, you feel the tension inside you softening, just a little, because he refuses to let it consume you alone.
NAMJOON/RM ❤︎
Heat rises in your chest, every word from him pushing you closer to snapping.
It’s like your mind refuses to filter or hold back, and the frustration spills over. Namjoon, usually so calm and thoughtful, watches you carefully without interrupting. He doesn’t scold, or say anything −he just listens, his presence steady but also unnerving.
You hate that he sees right through you, that he can read the storm behind your eyes without a single word.
“You’re− you’re just not listening!” you yell, hands flailing, the anger spilling out raw.
Namjoon flinches slightly at the volume, but then his voice, still miraculously patient, cuts through your chaos. “I am listening. I just want to understand.”
And somehow, that makes you more annoyed. How can he stay so calm while you’re a volcano about to erupt? You grit your teeth, ready to fire another retort, but then his hand reaches yours, warm and soothing.
You pause. The fire in you doesn’t vanish yet, but his patience is a mirror. You see yourself, not just the anger, and suddenly you breathe.
Jungkook sits at the kitchen island, earbuds dangling around his neck, and nudges you gently.
“Listen to this intro,” he says, eyes bright with excitement, “−You’ll feel it.”
You do, and the reaction is immediate. An involuntary smile, a small laugh, and a tilt of your head. He watches every twitch and flinch, seemingly fascinated by your engagement. When a rapid beat comes, he taps your hand to sync it with his own rhythm, grinning as you start tapping along.
“Yeah, that’s it!” he exclaims, voice tinged with joy.
He leans back, letting the music take over, humming harmonies under his breath that only you can catch. There’s a quiet intensity in his gaze, a mix of pride and wonder, as if your enjoyment is a secret performance he’s watching unfold.
When the album has played through, he shakes the hair out of his eyes and beams at you.
“I loved seeing how much you liked it, it was honestly better than headphones alone,” he admits. “−You turned every note into a memory.”
KIM TAEHYUNG/V ❤︎
Taehyung reclines on the couch with his usual relaxed elegance, fingers drumming lightly along the armrest to the album’s opening beat.
You sit beside him, leaning into the soft curve of his shoulder, and he watches you more than the screen or speakers.
“You know, the way your expression changes, it’s like the colors in a painting shifting,” he tells you, his voice low and velvety.
He hums along with subtle improvisations, letting his deep baritone wrap around the music. Occasionally, he observes you carefully, eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to gage your reactions.
When a sensual line comes, he brushes a stray lock of hair from your face, eyes meeting yours for just a moment, a shared acknowledgment of the song’s meaning.
When you reach the end, he leans back, his hand resting over yours. “You have a way of making it deeper,” he says. “−The sound feels alive with you.”
KIM SEOKJIN/JIN ❤︎
Jin hums along softly as the album starts, the corners of his mouth quirking with amusement when you flinch at an unexpected chord.
You sit leaning against him, and he wraps an arm around your shoulder, fingers lightly tapping your arm in time with the rhythm. Every so often, he makes an exaggerated face at the chorus, and you laugh despite yourself.
“This one’s always my favorite,” Jin enthuses after a specific line, “−But listen to this part here.”
You glance at him, caught in the gentle warmth of his smile, and see how much attention he’s paying to you, waiting for the smallest flicker of expression to meet his own.
As the songs play, he hums little improvised harmonies, his voice threading seamlessly with the recorded tracks. When the album finishes, Jin sighs dramatically, leaning back on his hands with his eyes closed.
“You know,” he says, opening one eye to peek at you, “−Watching you listen is the best part. You make the music feel alive.”
YOONGI/SUGA ❤︎
Suga sits on the floor, knees drawn to his chest, and gestures for you to sit opposite him. The opening beats of Arirang hit, and he leans forward slightly, eyes sharp and observant.
“Notice the layering here,” he says, voice low, almost a whisper, pointing to a subtle percussion line.
You try to catch everything, but he’s already reading your reactions like sheet music, noting each smile and tilt of your head. When a verse lands with unexpected intensity, your chest tightens, and he smirks faintly, satisfied with the effect.
“You feel that, right?” he asks. “−That’s the point.”
His presence is quiet, almost brooding, yet there’s a pulse of energy in the room that feels contagious. Occasionally, he hums along under his breath, not melodically but rhythmically, letting you hear the faintest echo of thought.
By the final track, you’re absorbed, and he finally stretches, brushing a hand through his hair.
“Watching you get pulled in like this, it’s different from just listening with headphones,” he admits. “It’s like seeing the sound reflect back.”
PARK JIMIN ❤︎
Jimin is curled up near you cutely, knees tucked under his chin, the album softly filling the room.
He hums along with a hypnotic precision, occasionally glancing at you to see how the lyrics land. When a high note hits, his lips twitch into a small, almost secretive smile.
He leans closer, whispering, “Did you catch that? That’s my favorite bit.”
You smile shyly, feeling a flutter of warmth in the quiet intimacy of the moment. His fingers trace patterns absentmindedly over the surface beside you, syncing subtly with the rhythm, as if the beat is carrying from the music into the space between you.
He regards you moving slightly to the tempo, and a soft laugh escapes him.
“It’s different with you,” he observes, eyes narrowing slightly in playful seriousness.
By the time the last notes fade, he lets a contented sigh out. “Honestly,” he says softly, “You enjoying it is better than hearing it for the hundredth time.”
His gaze lingers on you, as if holding onto the warmth of this shared listening. “Again?”
HOBI/J-HOPE ❤︎
The moment the first track hits, Hobi bursts with barely contained energy, bouncing slightly in his seat as you flinch at the intensity.
“No, no, wait! You’ve got to feel this part!” he exclaims, grabbing your hand to make you sway in rhythm.
His eyes sparkle as he watches your movements, grinning wider when you start nodding along unconsciously.
“Exactly! That’s it!” he goes on. “−That feeling!”
He jumps up to mimic a small choreography move in the middle of a verse, glancing back to see if you’re following. Laughter spills easily between you, blending with the beats of the album.
When a softer track begins, he collapses beside you, head resting lightly against your shoulder, voice quieter but still lively, murmuring observations about harmonies and drum patterns. You notice how attuned he is, picking up your every slight facial expression, every flinch or grin, like the music is a mirror and you are the reflection.
By the last track, he sprawls out dramatically on the floor, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Honestly,” he says, turning his head to look at you, “−Seeing you experience this makes it ten times better. You’re part of the rhythm now.”
NAMJOON/RM ❤︎
You sink into the worn leather couch beside Namjoon, earbuds shared between you as the first notes of Arirang float through.
He watches you with a quiet intensity, not saying much, letting the music be the conversation. Occasionally, he points out a subtle lyric or musical nuance, his finger tracing patterns in the air, as if drawing the song in three dimensions.
You notice the way his eyes soften when he sees your reactions; surprise, laughter or a furrowed brow as the verses unravel track by track. He leans back, arms stretched across the backrest of the sofa.
“Did you catch that shift in the bridge?” he asks, his presence in the room somehow seems to amplify the music, “−It almost feels like a heartbeat.”
You nod, feeling your own chest echo the rhythm. When the final track plays, Namjoon tilts his head to watch your expression. You realize he’s almost reading you like the album itself, seeing how you process it, as if the songs themselves were meant for this quiet, shared moment.
“Fuck— take it! Take that—” his hips snapped harshly against your inner thighs, your pussy getting pounded over and over again.
You were feeling weird… something you had never felt before. And it was uncomfortable. Everything suddenly felt overwhelming.
Your moans slowly died down as sharp pain started accompanying his thrusts. Your eyes drifted down to the junction where your bodies met, and the once arousing sight now made your stomach twist.
His hands on you were too rough.
His body felt foreign.
And you couldn’t pinpoint what was going on with you.
He was oblivious. Too absorbed in chasing your orgasm. Too focused on making you cum.
Which was not going to happen at this rate.
“Jungkook—”
Your voice was swallowed by the room as he continued growling, pushing his cock deeper inside you.
A creeping sense of dread began to settle in your chest. Your body tensed without your permission, your eyes stinging as tears started to form.
“Jungkook..” you tried again softly, your voice trembling.
“fuck baby… shits so fucking—”
“Jungkook! Red!”
He stopped immediately.
The shift was instant.
His movements halted as if someone had pulled a switch. He looked down at you, taking in the way your body trembled slightly, your hands covering your face as you tried to process the unfamiliar rush of emotion.
He pulled out carefully but quickly before lying on his side, immediately wrapping his arms around you.
Anything about finishing himself disappeared from his mind. The only thing that mattered now was you.
“Its okay, my love… I’m here… I got you…” he whispered against your hair.
Your body curled toward him instinctively, seeking warmth as you tried to calm the storm inside your chest.
“Did I hurt you, love…? Was it painful…?” he asked softly, worry thick in his voice, guilt already beginning to creep in.
You didn’t respond.
You only clung tighter to him as your tears continued to fall.
He took the hint and didn’t press further, simply holding you closer in silence.
Slowly, your breathing began to steady.
When he felt your body finally loosen slightly in his arms, he gently lifted your chin so you would look at him.
His chest tightened at the sight of your tear-streaked face.
The guilt settled heavier in his stomach.
“I jus— I jus’ felt scared…” you whispered.
His expression softened instantly.
He hushed you gently, guiding your head back against his chest.
“It’s not… it’s not your fault,” he murmured quietly. “I understand, okay? I’ll be here…”
He pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head, his other hand slowly smoothing down your sides, feeling the tension leave your body bit by bit.
“Don’t you worry about anything, love…” he added gently. “Let’s get you some water and cleaned up, yeah?”
When he felt your small nod against his chest, he finally exhaled.
He carefully slipped away from you for a moment, reaching for the glass of water he always kept on the bedside table.
Returning quickly, he helped you sit up before guiding the glass to your lips, letting you take slow sips.
His hands rubbed soothing circles along your arms, though the bitter taste of guilt still lingered in his mouth.
After a moment, he stood from the bed and bent down slightly so he was eye level with you.
“Can I carry you?” he asked softly.
You nodded.
You leaned into his chest as he lifted you bridal-style, your arms naturally wrapping around his neck as he carried you toward the bathroom.
The sound of running water soon filled the quiet as he started a warm bath
A/N: lil something i wrote to help me get out of my writers block :) im unable to think about new plots unfortunately.. maybe its the exam stress? Im trying my best to finish two rqs <3 tysm for reading!
he amuses you, not for once, but every time you hang out together, he'll discuss any topic with you and his intelligence always leaves you in awe. and when you throw some compliments—half whispered from your own amusement and half words come louder—his face breaks into a smile, and adorable dimples pop out on his cheeks. but he won't show if he's flattered; instead, he will hold your hands and remind you that you matter, your existence alone brightens up his life, and he will be nothing without you by his side.
SEOKJIN
you like to shower him with praises and a daily reminder of how handsome he is. in his true style, he will clap his hands and nod along with your praises, muttering "yes, i know," along. you like that about him; find it inspiring for how much he knows himself and carries the confidence that inevitably pulls the crowd in. but there are moments when your words land straight to his heart; even in between his teasing, you'll find his ears turning a bright shade of red, and his laugh gets wet with emotions. that's when you pull him in your arms and mutter again at how much you are proud to have him.
YOONGI
he is not loud about his love with words, but his actions always show the deep affection and respect he has for you. and you are the opposite, always loud about your feelings—happy, sad, excited—there's no emotion that you don't know how to express out loud. so you verbally get more and more affectionate with him, whispering out compliments at the most unexpected moment that catches him off guard. his blush gets hidden behind his casual smile as he tries to act nonchalant, but he breaks into a grin that meets his eyes and gets louder than you as he showers even more compliments on you, making you flushed in a second.
HOSEOK
he is used to giving compliments to others more than receiving them himself. and you make sure that once in a while, you remind him that he's special and someone genuinely amazing. he pauses for a few seconds after your words, allowing them to settle in the core of his heart so he can feel the warmth of your love. his usually loud voice will slow down as he looks into your eyes with affection. "thank you, jagi. thank you for loving me." his voice gets softer and then he reaches for your hand, pulling you in a hug.
JIMIN
he has so much self-doubt and insecurity that he carries inside. when he's on the stage, his charisma and natural grace of a dancer make him look more charming, like a serenity pulling everyone in. but off the stage, he pushes himself harder than necessary, and you hate to see him drowning in that pain. so everyday, you remind him once that you're the luckiest woman to have him. and when your soft voice whispers millions of words to praise him, he gets stiff for a second and then pauses, letting the words sink in slowly. when he opens his mouth again, his voice turns low in a whisper and words may stutter. he halts after a while, trying to gather his thoughts, and then he will use his softest tone to whisper how grateful he is to you and what you really mean to him, bringing tears to your eyes immediately.
TAEHYUNG
he has more mood swings than you, slipping into a soft, childlike mode, and suddenly he's mature and caring as he cradles you in his arms and whispers every kind of pretty word to you, leaving no room for any self-doubt for you. but when you mutter something nice to him—even as small as telling him that he looks pretty in the shirt—his eyes soften as he pauses whatever he was doing or saying and will stare at you for a while before his mouth curls into a huge grin and eyes gleam with your reflection in them. he will repeat your words again, as if to ask himself and get confirmed, and then he will get flustered and look around, making little sounds and then smiling wide while whispering "i love you" to you.
JUNGKOOK
he always acts as a mature and caring partner, letting you be all childish and gentle as much as you want to, never letting you feel alone or too much. you're not loud with words either, but you always show your love through little acts of service and especially by spending time with him and indulging in his interests. there's nothing better for him than to have you by his side as he explores new interests and goes on hours for gaming, watching movies, and outdoor activities. it's very often when you get too comfortable to open up, and when you do, all your words softly launch with your affection and genuine love for the man. he doesn't react immediately but lets you speak first, letting out all your emotions at your pace. his lips pull into a gentle smile as he attentively listens to you, chuckles, and nods in between; his eyes stay on you. and when you're done, he gets all melted and shy as he repeats some of your words and uses a teasing tone. but his mood will shift in the next second as he cuddles you, meeting your eyes. he blabbers out how much he loves and respects you and how special you are. his words might be a little messy; sometimes rushed and other times, they are a low whisper. nevertheless, your eyes will tear up when you look at yourself through his eyes and realize no one else can ever love you like him.
A/N: hello, bubbles. this is my first time making a reaction post and i am not even sure what i really did here. please be gentle with your feedback and if i missed out on anything, let me know. thank you for reading. if you liked this post, i will try to make more of them.
i am really poor with remembering names, but credit for the dividers goes to the rightful owners.
Summary • 𓂃𝜗𝜚 Being Gangster BTS' girl…
Elements • 𓂃𝜗𝜚 slight yandere elements; some allusions to blood/violence; moderate threat in line with the theme
Author's Note • 𓂃𝜗𝜚 Inspired by BTS '2.0'/Old Boy reference. Please read the warnings. As ever, please excuse any errors I may have overlooked.
*Please note that this is meant as a work of fiction and does not reflect either the artist’s views/behaviour in any real way. Thanks for reading.
bts masterlist | bts reactions/imagines masterlist
JEON JUNGKOOK ♡
You slip through the shadows of the warehouse as silently as possible in your heels, your senses on fire.
Jungkook waits in the middle of the open floor, his muscular body coiled like a predator, eyes scanning every corner. He’s calm −almost too calm− but you’ve learned that’s when he’s the deadliest.
“You followed me,” he says, voice tight enough to make your stomach clench.
“Always,” you reply, stepping closer. “You know better than to try and keep me out of trouble.”
A small laugh escapes him. “Trouble?” he mutters, then stops mid-step as a group of armed men step from the shadows, weapons raised. “Get behind me,” he orders, but you stay stubbornly placed beside him, willing to protect him as much as he wants to protect you.
Jungkook doesn’t wait. He moves like a blur, swift and precise. You’re beside him, adrenaline racing and your hearts syncing. Chaos surrounds you both, yet in that storm, he’s all you see as both of you eliminate the threat, side by side.
A bullet ricochets off the wall. Jungkook spins, shoving you behind a crate, eyes alert until the last threat is down. And then he’s there, chest heaving, gathering you to him.
His fingers curl around your jaw, lifting your face to his. “Do you understand how dangerous that was?”
You shiver despite yourself. “I like it,” you say softly. “And you love it.”
The heat that burns between you rises until Jungkook leans in, lips brushing yours first lightly, teasing. Then harder, rough and possessive, a warning and a promise all at once.
“If something happened to you, I’ll never forgive you,” he grows softly. “Never forget that.”
You reach out and stroke his cheek, lips still tingling. “Nothing’s going to happen to me,” you tell him. “Not while you’re here.”
KIM TAEHYUNG/V ♡
The neon lights of the nightclub reflect off Taehyung’s leather jacket as he leans against the bar, eyes scanning the room, calm and dangerous.
You slip through the crowd, through the smoke and spilled liquor, heels clicking as you feel the heat of his gaze before you even reach him.
“You think you can walk in here without me seeing?” he asks, voice low, a growl wrapped in amusement. His hand brushes against your arm.
“I wanted to see you in your element,” you reply, eyes locked on his. “Besides, someone has to keep you in check.”
He smirks, giving you that smoldering look that makes your pulse speed. He doesn’t like being challenged, especially not by you −but he also doesn’t resist, not fully.
A burly man in the VIP corner shifts, eyes lingering on you a second too long. Taehyung notices, and in a flash, he’s at your side, arm circling your waist, pulling you against him. The heat presses into you possessively.
“Keep your eyes off her,” he warns, voice velvet and lethal.
The man flinches, and Taehyung’s gaze slices through the air like a blade.
You laugh softly, leaning into him. “You’re territorial,” you say.
“I’m protective,” he counters, turning to you, cupping your face. “And you are enough to tempt me.”
Before you can tease further, his lips capture yours in a slow kiss, charged with danger. Nothing exists except the heat of his presence, and the fire of his touch.
He pulls back, breath hot against your ear, “One more second of flirtation like that, and I won’t be responsible for what happens next.”
You smile, embedding your hands in his hair. “Then I guess I’ll have to tempt you anyway.”
He smirks darkly, leaning close again, lips pressing against yours again, biting at your lower lip. “Dare me,” he whispers.
Taehyung is an unpredictable storm, and he’s yours, in every dangerous, possessive heartbeat −but you wouldn’t want him any other way.
You look right into his eyes, a teasing smile playing at your lips. “I dare you.”
KIM SEOKJIN/JIN ♡
Seokjin sits at the table in the old safehouse, knuckles rapping against the wood.
His eyes, normally warm and teasing, are dangerous tonight as he regards you. “You came in here without telling me,” he says softly, tone heavy with tension. “Do you know how close that was?”
You shrug, leaning forward, one hand brushing the edge of the table. “I had to, you know that,” you respond. “I couldn’t leave you alone here.”
He stares at you, jaw tight, eyes flicking to the gun on the table, then back to your face. “This isn’t a game, Y/N” he tells you, voice barely above a whisper, but every word carries the weight of authority, and warning.
“I’m not playing,” you reply, your adrenaline rising. “I’m surviving −with you.”
He stands up, his hand slamming onto the table between you, sharp and forceful, startling you. “With me?” His voice drops into something darker and intense. “You can’t survive this world without me, so why are you trying to go against everything I ask you to do.”
You walk towards him, coming round the table to face him. Slowly, you reach out to touch his face gently, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.
“Then claim me,” you whisper, breath hitching. “I dare you.”
For a moment, he says nothing, the storm in his eyes gathering, before he reaches for you, pulling you to him in a kiss.
It starts slow and consuming, his lips pressing yours with weight, claiming you in a way that leaves no doubt. His teeth nip at your lip, tongue seeking yours as the kiss deepens so you can feel the full force of him. Seokjin the protector, predator, and possessive lover.
He pulls back slightly, breath heavy, eyes smoldering. “Don’t put yourself in danger like that again without me,” he commands.
You lift your head, stealing a kiss, eyes defiant and teasing. “And if I do?”
He smiles darkly, a dangerous curve of lips that promises molten heat. “Then you’ll see what I do.”
In this world, love could be poison, but like this in his arms, kissed like this, you could die a million deaths for him.
YOONGI/SUGA ♡
You lean against the brick wall of the rain-slicked alley, cigarette smoke curling around your face, eyes sharp and alert.
Yoongi emerges from the shadows, black hoodie soaked as he stomps through the filling puddles towards you, full of that subtle danger that makes the hairs on your neck rise.
“You were late,” he growls, breath carrying the faint tang of whisky.
You shrug lazily. “There was traffic, baby,” you say, dragging the cigarette along your lips as you let your gaze linger over him. “−Or maybe I was enjoying the view.”
His jaw tightens. “You know better than to keep me waiting,” he says darkly, stepping closer.
You step back, a smirk curling at your lips. “And yet, here you are,” you retort. “−You jealous?”
Something dark flickers crosses his expression before his hand slams against the wall beside your head. The concrete seems to vibrate under the force, and your heartbeat thunders in that excited gallop only he could invoke in you.
“Don’t go there,” Yoongi warns, his tone quiet but lethal.
“I like it when you’re like this,” you breathe, resting your hands on his chest.
He doesn’t push you away, the tension between you crackling like a live wire.
“Why must you always push me?” he snarls, eyes flashing.
You laugh huskily. “Maybe I’m waiting for you to teach me how to stay in line.”
His hand snakes around your neck possessively, tilting your head up. You look up at him with a teasing smile, knowing this was how it was with you and him −the danger, the excitement, the pull and push. “Or perhaps you’ll let me break your rules.”
Yoongi’s grip tightens, his calm façade cracking to reveal the storm underneath. He is the man who runs operations, executing deals with precision and control, yet loses himself entirely to you.
Gunfire cracks in the distance, and you hear someone shouting out a name. You’re both on edge, breathing the same wet, muggy air, but in this moment it’s just the two of you.
“You think this is a game?” Yoongi hisses, teeth gritted. “One mistake, and−.”
“I know,” you cut in, your voice rough and raw. “That’s why I’m here, not for you but with you.”
He stares down at you, his dark eyes unreadable before he loosens his hold. His hand lingers on your throat, thumb brushing across your collarbone in a touch that sets your body on fire.
“You don’t belong in this world,” he says gruffly.
“I belong with you,” you reply with conviction, as the unspoken promise of a love sharp enough to draw blood hangs in the air around you.
PARK JIMIN ♡
The smell of cigarettes and blood clogs up the backroom as you watch Jimin step through the haze, his every movement smooth and concise.
The two men in front of him freeze, guns half-raised, but the second they glance at you, tension snaps like a wire.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Jimin says, addressing you in a controlled tone, but when you look at him you see the fire in his eyes, a mixture of warning and desire.
“Where else would I be?” you say with a smile. “I don’t want to miss out on all the danger.”
Jimin’s lips twitch. “There are rules, Y/N,” he says. “I told you not to come here.”
You move closer, reaching out to touch the lapel of his coat. His chest stiffens at your touch, and you feel the familiar response of hunger and possessiveness radiate from him.
“Why don’t you do what you’re told?” he asks hotly, suddenly moving with lethal precision.
He disarms the first man with a swift kick, spinning the second into the wall with a sharp elbow. Blood splatters, and your pulse races from watching the way he moves, as if he were born to dominate, protect and claim with that beautiful, effortless grace he has.
He turns to you once he’s done, moving towards you like a wild cat. You look him right in the eyes. “If I did what I was told, you and I wouldn’t be anything.”
When he does, his gaze hardens. “Maybe,” he concedes. “But I need you to stay out of this.”
“I’m not staying out,” you reply stoutly. “I’m staying right here, with you.”
His hand clamps around your waist, tugging you close mid-fight, and for an instant you’re pressed against him, heat and power colliding. “Such a bad girl,” he breathes, teeth brushing your ear, his voice rough and feral.
“You love me like this,” you whisper, letting your hands trace the tension in his shoulders.
Jimin’s lips hover near yours. “You shouldn’t challenge me like this,” he hisses, eyes flashing.
“I do,” you counter, heart racing. “Because I know what you like.”
He snarls, pulling you flush against him, your heavy breaths mingling. “I don’t anyone to ever touch you,” he says.
“I know,” you reply, letting your fingers curl into his hair, holding him. “I’m yours, always. That’s why I’m here.”
When he kisses you, it’s ruthless, burning with something neither of you is ready to admit.
NAMJOON/RM ♡
The room smells like old rain, metal that’s been rusting for years unnoticed and blood-tinged sweat.
You sit on the table instead of the chair, legs crossed, the long stiletto heel of your shiny boot tapping against steel while Namjoon paces, the way he does when he’s thinking −or angry.
“Say it again,” he mutters, his voice low and controlled in a manner that sounds far more dangerous than shouting.
The man tied to the chair whimpers, but you barely glance at him, your attention focused on Namjoon. His tie is loose, sleeves rolled, veins standing out in his neck as his fingers drag through his hair exasperatedly, patience fringing on the boundary.
“He didn’t touch me,” you say, bored. “−He just talked.”
Namjoon stops his pacing and turns slowly to you. “You let him talk to you.”
And there it is finally. Not rage, but worse −that quiet, possessive disappointment that coils tight in your stomach.
You slide off the table, boots hitting the ground with a sharp echo. “Careful,” you say softly, edging closer. “You’re starting to sound jealous.”
He huffs out a humorless laugh. “Jealous?” He steps into your space, tall and towering over you even in your heels, his eyes dark. “You walked into a room alone with someone who’s been watching you for weeks.”
“And I walked out.”
His jaw tightens. You can see the calculations behind his eyes −the strategist, the leader, and the man who controls entire operations without raising his voice even an octave− but you’re the one and only thing he can never quite calculate right.
You reach up, your fingers touching the cut on his lip from earlier. “You’re bleeding.”
Namjoon catches your wrist mid-motion. “I’m not going to let you distract me,” he says. “−Not when you’ve been so reckless.”
You study him, wide-eyed. “Reckless, or confident?”
He pauses for a beat, before suddenly he pulls you closer sharply until your chest presses against his. His grip shifts from your wrist to your jaw, thumb grazing your lower lip in a warning. “Don’t test me tonight,” he growls.
You smirk. Behind you, the man in the chair stirs, forgotten but not irrelevant. Namjoon’s gaze flicks past you, cold again in an instant.
“Did he say anything useful?” he asks you.
You look up, lips grazing the base of his throat. “Enough to make him useless now.”
Namjoon exhales slowly as if he’s trying to decide whether to scold or admire you.
“See?” you whisper triumphantly. “−I can handle myself.”
His hand tightens slightly, reminding you who you’re talking to. “I know you can,” he says quietly. “But you shouldn’t have to.”
You see something soft flicker behind his eyes, buried under all the control and command, before it’s gone again.
Namjoon releases you, turning back to the man, tone dropping back into that icy calm again. “I’m done asking nicely.”
You lean back against the table, watching him work −brilliant and brutal, but so magnetic. Then his gaze snaps back to you.
“Next time,” he says without looking away from the man, “−You don’t go alone.”
You smirk. “Next time,” you reply, “Try stopping me.”
HOBI/J-HOPE ♡
Rain slicks the sidewalk, the concrete feeling like glass beneath your boots as you sprint forward. Your boots clang over the metal vents as your heart hammers, adrenaline spiking inside you.
Behind you, Hobi moves like a predator, all muscle and controlled movement. His hooded jacket flaps in the wind, the moonlight catching the deadly, calculating look in his eyes.
“You’re insane!” he shouts, voice carrying over the storm, concern twisting into tension. “You could’ve been shot!”
You glance back with a smile despite the wind tearing at your hair. “And miss the fun?” you yell back. “Never!”
He quickly accelerates and overtakes you, stopping you mid-stride, chest heaving as his hands find yours, ensuring that you are reminded that he can stop you whenever he wants.
“Fun?” he growls. “Do you have any idea what’s after us?”
“Maybe I like the danger,” you purr, letting your fingers trace the line of his jaw.
His eyes flash −hot, dark and possessive. “Danger isn’t a game,” he snaps, though the edge in his voice betrays a different thrill. One hand hooks under your chin, tilting your face toward him. “You’re my girl, do you hear me?”
“I hear you,” you breathe, leaning into the touch. “But I’m not yours to tame.”
Behind him, the distant rumble of engines and shouts tells you your pursuers are closing in. But here, under the rain, on this slick rooftop, it’s just you and him—heat and danger wrapped together.
Hobi’s holds you tighter. “You don’t understand,” he says, voice raw with emotion. “I can’t lose you, Y/N. Not like this −not ever.”
“I know,” you reply with a smirk. “That’s why you love me and hate me at the same time.”
The corner of his mouth twitches at the flash of humor, before it’s quickly buried under that feral intensity. Then he tugs you closer by the waist, the cold rain drenching you both where you stand.
“You’re crazy,” he tells you, the heat of his breath fanning your soaked skin.
“And you love it,” you whisper.
The sound of gunfire erupts from a nearby street. Hobi’s eyes snap to it, then back to you, before in one smooth motion, he pulls you into the nearby side street and holds you close, his fingers threading through your hair.
His lips hover near your ear. “Stay with me, always −or I swear−.”
The threat lingers, and you shiver from the dangerous intensity of him, and you realize that you never want to be anywhere else. Because in this world where chaos rules, with Hobi by your side, you feel untouchable.
↬ summary: in which taehyung doesn’t like the undivided attention his members give you.
↬ genre: fluffy, angsty (kinda)
↬ requested? for you my love @beardedmuffingardenflap , i hope you like it😘💕
• •
your fingers drummed against your comforter as you bopped your head to the music blasting from your speaker. jhene aiko’s voice providing a captivating background sound as you looked through all the polariods you had taken the past weekend.
it had been your first time seeing the boys for almost two months and you ending up capturing many moments to look back to when they were gone again.
you came across the pictures you and taehyung took with just you two after a food fight, his face stained with mustard and soy sauce as he tried to kiss you, the camera catching you mid-laugh. your pretty curls had been full of fries and ketchup and was a bitch to wash out but it was all worth it in the end.
smiling, you continued to sing along to the song until it was cut off by the notification that you were getting a call. a gasp escaped your lips seeing your boyfriend’s contact photo show up on your screen. accepting the call, you jumped in surprise at hearing the yelling and excited jabber of not just your boyfriend.
“jimin! why can’t you just accept the fact that you ain’t got no game!” namjoon cried, hints of laughter behind his tone. jimin smacked his teeth loudly,“whatchu’ mean? that girl was feeling me! y’all just had to come and scare her off!”
namjoon hissed,“boy don’t-“
“can y’all shut up?! y/n’s on the phone!” you laughed a bit at the murmurs and curses you heard in response to taehyung, “baby? hello?”
“hey! what’re y’all up to?” you asked rolling onto your back, the series of older polaroids of your friends and taehyung that decorated your ceiling looked back at you.
“we were just riding through, back from practice and we are actually right outside your house.” you sat up and hopped off your bed, running to your window only to see taehyung’s black, sleek range rover pulling up in front of your house.
scoffing, you leaned against the window frame,”and i’m guessing that means come outside.”
“namjoon,get yo ass in the back man!” you heard taehyung say and you rolled your eyes,”I’ll be down in a minute.”
quickly getting dressed, you hurried downstairs and almost slipped on the last step. laughing at yourself, you straightened up and headed outside. all seven of them turned their heads at the sound of your front door closing and watched as you jogged to the car, your curls bouncing as you did so.
it wasn’t a secret that they all had a thing for you at some point, even though it resulted in taehyung becoming your boyfriend. they were never shy in expressing what they felt.
getting in the car, you were greeted loudly by your best friends.
“damn y/n! you looking good boo!” hoseok yelled, leaning forward in his seat to kiss the side of your head which you accepted as normal. “this is just nothing,”you said nonchalantly, locking eyes with your boyfriend who was already staring you down. he leaned over and kissed you swiftly, making your cheeks burn when they all started moaning and groaning.
“don’t start with all that lovey dovey shit, not tonight man,” jimin complained and taehyung just smirked and waved him off,”put your seat belts on children. are you hungry?”
••
at their apartment, after eating dinner that jin made ‘in your honor’, you sat between jimin’s legs as he was trying to show you how to play nba 2k19. his arms securely around you as you pressed the buttons he suggested, shivering a bit every time you felt his breath on your neck.
“this is totally not fair! she’s got jimin telling her what to do!” a losing jin protested as he sat beside both of you on the sea of pillows scattered on the floor.
“don’t be mad cause you’re a sore loser my g, just let it happen,”yoongi mused before laughing his ass off with namjoon.
“don’t be like that to him,”you chastised as you were making yet another basket and putting more distance in points between you and jin.
“as you dunk on me again?! cheater!” jin yelled in protest only making the boys laugh harder. the only one that wasn’t enjoying the game was taehyung. he sat on the farthest couch, arms crossed as he watched you being literally surrounded by his members.
jin on one side, jungkook on the other, you basically sitting in jimin’s lap. he wasn’t having it. he had been texting you all day about escaping with just you but the whole crew was bombarding that time that they knew was limited.
he was aware they were your friends too and he wasn’t even the one you were friends with first, but that didn’t stop the odd feeling in his belly.
when you scored again, jimin squeezed you tightly, a heartfelt laugh escaping your full lips as jimin gave you sweet cheers into your ear. taehyung was never the one to feel threatened but he felt it then no doubt.
maybe he was pouting like a child and maybe he shouldn’t worry about jimin or any of them because they were aware of how deep his feelings ran for you, but that didn’t change the sadness in his heart as you laughed and smiled with all of them without even noticing him at all.
he understood why they were always all over you: you were smart and had those infectious laugh, you were always looking so good, even on your so called ‘bad days’ and you made them feel safe, like they could tell you anything and there would be no judgement. you accepted them just as they did you and it was hard not to catch feelings in that sense.
when you won the game and jin started screaming profanities, you escaped jimin’s grasp just to hug jin.
“this is not fair, I want a rematch,”he continued to complain but that didn’t stop him from melting into your embrace. “fine! I will play you again later, without any help, does that sound okay?” you questioned and jin smiled like a proud dad before he ruffled your curls.
you pulled away and was about to grab the controller again when you noticed taehyung mopping on the couch. when you made eye contact, his puppy dog brown eyes cut away from yours and he got up, leaving the living room.
“um, hey, just play this round without me, I’ll be right back.” you said handing the controller to jungkook who was happy to take over.
“ooh I think it’s time for some lovey time for the lovers,”hoseok joked and when they all started clowning you, you only playfully flipped them off as you headed to taehyung’s room. the door was only slightly open when you got there and you knocked before walking in. you were surprised to see him laying shirtless on his stomach, the only light on was his desk lamp that illuminated a weird glow on his tanned skin.
“hey…are you good?”
when he didn’t answer you, you entered his room entirely and closed the door behind you. walking over to the bed, it was almost like a reflex as he reached out and pulled you onto the bed. you yelped at the sudden action but relaxed as he pulled you to lay onto of him, his strong arms hugging you close.
instinctively, you hugged him back, your body relaxing under his touch that you hadn’t felt in so long. he kissed the top of your head and exhaled, his body melting to yours. it was a long time before either of you said a word but the rumble of his words from his chest woke you from the slight daze you were in.
“I don’t like how they cling to you like that,” lifting your head, your eyes glossed over his facial expression.
“what do you mean?”
“I don’t know…I just feel like they are too comfortable with you and always touching you and so playful with you..” he trailed off, absently tracing patterns on your arm.
“but it’s all friendly, they’ve always been like that with me.”
“yeah but the difference is I’m your boyfriend now and there’s boundaries. it’s like they got feelings for you or something.”
“I doubt that.”
taehyung snorted,“why? don’t you notice the way they look at you? how they talk to you? hold you?” taehyung snuggled you tighter to him and you laughed a bit breathlessly,”babe don’t suffocate me.”
“i‘m sorry I just…want you all to myself.”
you sat up just a bit once again so you could see his face, reaching up to cradle his face in your hands.
“you do have me all to yourself whenever you want. if you don’t like it then tell me, don’t just be all pouty with me tae.”you leaned forward to press a quick kiss to his pouty lips. when a shy smile spread across his face, you giggled and then kissed him again.
taehyung moved a hand up to hold the back of your neck to deepen the kiss when a series of knocks made him sharply pull away in aggravation.
namjoon’s voice followed suit soon after,“are y’all doing the nasty in there?”
“namjoon! I’m gonna kill you man!”
when a chorus of six laughs were heard in response, taehyung groaned burying his head in the crook of your neck. laughing yourself, you cuddled back into his embrace and kissed the side of his head.
“I’ll talk to them, just so you don’t end up committing a murder.”
↬ synopsis: long distance relationships aren’t easy, especially when other people are telling you that it’s not a good idea. but taking the chance and leap of faith may just change your life forever.
↬ genre: fluff, a lil angst, long distance, light skinned!reader
↬ requested? yee
song: officially missing you by tamia
••
“can you just stay? just hide away here with me and just never leave?”
joshua chuckled and lifted his head from your chest, “we can waste away in this bed for the rest of our lives, tangled up in these expensive sheets and talk nonsense forever. does that sound like a plan?”
“don’t play with me josh,messing with my feelings and shit,” you grumbled rolling over with him so this time you were on him, face buried in the crook of his neck. he smelled good, fresh out of the shower and wearing the cologne you bought him. his arms wrapped around you so tight and warm, you wanted to stay in that position forever.
but you both knew very well that he was going to have to leave. fly all the way across the world just to be joshua the idol instead of joshua your boyfriend, your love, your everything.
you knew when you got together that it wasn’t going to be easy, especially when your career required you to be in your home country which left your time actually being with him so rare.
joshua slid his hands underneath the old t-shirt you were wearing, the exposed light brown skin rising up in goosebumps at the contact with the cool air. he traced patterns to relax you, his eyes watching the way your eyelashes brushed against your cheeks, the curve of your plump lips that were always so kissable and sweet.
joshua was never one to admit how crazy he went every time he had to leave you, how he’d rather spend his last night just soaking in all your features than anything else. but this time in particular, he really meant what he said when he wished to lay with you forever. his world tour was starting soon, leaving him on the road for almost three months. 13 weeks, 92 days,2190 hours, all without you. his baby, his world.
feeling your lips press against his neck took him out of his thoughts. “what are you thinking about love?”
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Taehyung’s Better Half @perfect4taehyung - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
