#robbie eagles

[impossiblekittydelusion]

Robbie Eagles in Kosei's Neshin Special, with and without colour. Pencil and watercolour pencil on paper.

[superbadswitchblade]

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Callum Newman x Sienna Cooper

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Will Ospreay x Natasha McGuiness

Swerve Strickland x Isla Morgan

Robbie Eagles x Nora Ellington

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Kevin Knight x Freya Calder

David Finlay x Zara Whitfield

ELP x Sam Taylor

Kyle Fletcher x Isabella

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[superbadswitchblade]

Wish You Were Here - Robbie Eagles (Nora Ellington)

Robbie Eagles x OC (Nora Ellington)

Warnings: Language

A/N: I only own the oc and the idea

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Robbie Eagles had a habit of sleeping diagonally, a chaotic sprawl that usually resulted in him occupying three-quarters of the mattress and leaving exactly one narrow strip of linen for anyone else. He woke up on a Tuesday morning with his left arm flung wide, his palm landing on a cold, flat expanse of cotton. For a split second, he didn't register the silence of the house, only the absence of the rhythmic, soft breathing that usually anchored his mornings. He shifted, instinctively reaching for a waist that wasn't there, his fingers meeting only the smooth, chilled fabric of an empty pillowcase.

The stillness of the bedroom felt heavy, an unnatural vacuum that amplified the ticking of the clock on the bedside table. He stayed there for a few minutes, staring up at the ceiling fan spinning lazily overhead, feeling a strange, hollow sensation in his chest. It wasn't a sharp pain, but rather a dull realization of space—the physical distance between Sydney and Kyoto translating into a palpable gap in the bed. The room felt too large, the air too still, as if the house itself was holding its breath in sympathy with his sudden sense of isolation.

He eventually rolled over and sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes while glancing at the digital clock. He did the quick, subconscious math, calculating the time difference to ensure he wasn't calling her in the middle of a high-pressure dinner service or during her few precious hours of sleep. The gap between their time zones felt like a physical wall, one that turned a simple "good morning" into a coordinated logistical operation. He reached for his phone, the screen illuminating his face in the dim morning light, and was immediately greeted by his lockscreen. A picture of him and Nora’s last holiday together in Thailand—both of them wind-swept and laughing on a beach—seemed to mock the sterile quiet of the bedroom.

The house was far too quiet. Normally, the morning soundtrack consisted of the distant hum of the espresso machine and the rhythmic clinking of Nora’s jewellery as she got ready for the day. Instead, he heard only the muffled sound of a neighbour's lawnmower and the occasional chirp of a magpie outside. It was a strange sort of sensory deprivation; he knew exactly where she was supposed to be, and the fact that the space was occupied by nothing but cold air felt like a glitch in his reality.

"If you tell me you've already had three espressos, I'm hanging up," Robbie murmured to the empty room, though the message was still just a draft on his screen. He navigated the stairs with a practiced, athletic lightness, his bare feet slapping rhythmically against the hardwood. The kitchen was a shrine to Nora’s efficiency—everything had a designated place, from the spice rack organized by frequency of use to the precise angle of the toaster. It was a space designed for a culinary mind, and in her absence, it felt like a museum of her habits.

He moved through the motions of his morning ritual with a mechanical precision that mirrored her own. He filled the kettle, the sound of rushing water filling the void of the house, and reached for the bag of beans she had insisted on buying from a boutique roaster in Surry Hills before she left. As the grinder whirred into a loud, aggressive buzz, he finally unlocked his phone and scrolled through their text chain. The thread was a chaotic mosaic of time-stamped contradictions: his "Goodnight" messages colliding with her "Just woke up" photos of neon-lit Kyoto streets and meticulously plated appetizers that looked more like modern art than food.

He leaned against the marble countertop, the steam from the brewing coffee beginning to cloud the air. He lingered on a photo she had sent twelve hours ago—a shot of a singular, perfect radish carved into a chrysanthemum, resting atop a bed of shimmering dashi. Underneath, she had written: The head chef thinks I'm a genius, but I actually almost dropped the whole tray because I was thinking about how much you'd probably try to eat the garnish in one bite. Robbie chuckled, the sound echoing softly in the tiles, and felt a sudden, sharp tug of longing that had nothing to do with the physical space of the bed.

He began to type, his thumbs hovering over the screen. The garnish is the best part, and you know it. Also, the house is too quiet. The magpies are judging me for how many times I've checked the clock today. He paused, wondering if she was currently in the middle of a frantic prep session or if she was finally allowing herself a moment of stillness in her hotel room. He knew the pressure she was under; a Michelin star wasn't just a title, it was a relentless pursuit of perfection that didn't pause for homesickness.

They should be use to it. They'd been dating for three years. They were use to the erratic schedules—his travel for matches and her late-night closures. This time it felt different. Maybe it was because he was the one home while Nora was in Japan, or maybe it was because Kyoto was a world away, not just a flight.

He hit send and set the phone face-up on the counter, leaning back to wait. It didn't take long. The phone buzzed, the screen lighting up with an incoming FaceTime call. Robbie practically dove for the device, sliding the green icon with a grin that felt like it had been waiting all morning to break.

Nora’s face filled the screen, framed by the stark white of a chef’s coat. Her hair was pulled back into a tight, severe bun that didn't allow a single strand to escape, but her eyes were soft, underlined by the faint, purple shadows of a woman who hadn't slept more than five hours a night for a week. She was sitting on a small balcony, the grey-blue light of a Kyoto evening settling behind her and the distant, muted chime of a temple bell ringing in the background.

"Good evening gorgeous". Robbie smiled. "You're a sight for sore eyes. Please tell me you've actually sat down for more than five minutes today."

Nora let out a long, shaky exhale, her shoulders finally dropping an inch away from her ears. She leaned her head back against the balcony railing, closing her eyes for a moment. "I think this is the first time I've been stationary since six a.m. I spent three hours arguing—politely, of course—about the viscosity of a soy-reduction glaze. My brain feels like it's been put through a food processor." She opened one eye, a small, tired smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Are you eating actual food, or are you just surviving on protein shakes and optimism?"

"Hey, I've only just woken up Nora. Give a guy a chance huh. Y'know I did survive on my culinary skills before we met," Robbie joked, lifting his coffee mug into the frame to show her he was barely functioning. He leaned back against the counter, his expression softening as he looked at her. Even through the pixelated lag of a long-distance call, the exhaustion in her posture was evident. She looked smaller than usual, swallowed up by the oversized white coat, her face pale against the deepening indigo of the Japanese twilight.

Nora sighed, a small, genuine sound that wasn't for the benefit of the head chef or the trainees. "I miss the noise," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "Not the kitchen noise—I can't stand the sound of a whisk hitting a stainless steel bowl right now—but the noise of the house. Your loud music, the way you leave your trainers in the middle of the hallway… I’d give anything to trip over one of your shoes right now."

Robbie let out a soft laugh, his heart twisting slightly. He knew that specific tone; it was the one she used when the professional armor began to crack. "I can send you a photo of the hallway if that helps. It's currently a disaster zone. I think there's a stray sock near the sofa that's starting to develop its own ecosystem."

Nora chuckled, the tension in her forehead finally smoothing out. "Don't you dare clean it up. Keep it exactly that messy for me." She shifted her position, leaning closer to the camera so her face filled the screen. The distant sound of a scooter buzzing through a narrow street drifted through the call, a reminder of the thousands of kilometers of ocean and earth between them. "How was training yesterday? Did you actually hit that new sequence, or did you spend half the time chatting with the refs?"

"Oi! I am a professional," Robbie retorted with a playful grin, though he didn't deny it. He began to pace the kitchen, the familiar rhythm of his movement helping to bridge the gap. He told her about the soreness in his shoulders and a particularly grueling sparring session, keeping the tone light and rhythmic. He could see her listening, her eyes fluttering shut occasionally as if she were imagining his voice filling the room instead of coming through a tiny speaker. For a few minutes, the conversation drifted into the mundane, the kind of effortless banter that served as the bedrock of their relationship.

"Wait, hold on," Nora said, her voice shifting as she sat up straighter. She shifted the phone, angling the camera toward the small wooden table beside her. On it sat a tiny, ceramic bowl containing a single, translucent piece of fish draped over a sliver of pickled ginger, garnished with a speck of something deep purple. "I can't stop thinking about it. The balance is almost there, but it needs something… grounded. Something that tastes like home, but doesn't scream 'Australian BBQ'."

Robbie stopped pacing, leaning in close to the screen to squint at the plate. To him, it looked like a very expensive piece of jewelry, but he knew the intensity currently firing through Nora's synapses. This was the "fusion" part of her mission—the delicate, high-wire act of blending her heritage with the rigid discipline of Kyoto's culinary elite. "What are you thinking? Something earthy?"

"Exactly," she murmured, her professional focus momentarily overriding her exhaustion. "I tried a hint of smoked salt, but it was too aggressive. I want it to feel like a summer afternoon in the backyard, but translated into a language the head chef will actually respect. If I can get the acidity right without overpowering the fish, it could be the centerpiece of the whole menu."

Robbie watched her, admiring the way her eyes lit up when she talked shop. The tiredness was still there, but the passion had returned, acting like a second wind. He knew that for Nora, cooking wasn't just about flavor; it was about architecture and emotion. "Maybe you're overthinking the salt. What about something slightly sweet? Like that honey-glaze stuff you used to do with the carrots? Not the honey itself, but that kind of floral undertone."

Nora paused, her gaze drifting away from the camera and toward the small, meticulously arranged pantry in the corner of her suite. She didn't answer immediately, her mind clearly racing through a mental library of flavor profiles. Robbie waited, knowing better than to interrupt the "chef trance." He could almost see the invisible blueprints of a recipe being drawn in the air around her, a complex web of chemistry and memory.

"Floral," she whispered, the word sounding more like a question than a conclusion. "Something like a wattle seed infusion? No, too nutty. But maybe a hint of lemon myrtle, just a whisper of it in the dashi…" She suddenly bolted upright, nearly knocking the phone off the table. "Robbie, you idiot, you're a genius! If I steep the myrtle in a cold-press, it keeps the brightness without the bitterness. It bridges the gap between the ginger and the fish perfectly."

Robbie beamed, leaning back against the marble counter with a smug expression of triumph. "See? This is why you keep me around. I'm not just a pretty face who can take a bump; I'm a culinary consultant."

Nora laughed, a real, bubbling sound that reached her eyes and chased away the lingering shadows of her long day. For a moment, the distance seemed to shrink; the pixelated screen vanished, and it was just the two of them, sharing a victory in the quiet of their shared language. She looked back at him, her expression softening into something deeply tender. "I don't know what I'd do without you to ground me when I'm spiraling into the weeds."

"You'd probably just keep tweaking that glaze until the restaurant closed for the season," Robbie replied, his voice dropping to a warm, teasing hum. He watched her on the screen, noting how the sudden burst of inspiration had physically lifted her. The slump in her shoulders was gone, replaced by the rigid, electric energy of a woman who had just found the missing piece of a puzzle.

Nora lingered on the moment, her gaze searching his face through the lens. The silence that followed wasn't the hollow kind he'd experienced upon waking; it was a shared breath, a quiet acknowledgment of the tether stretching across the ocean. "I really miss you, Rob," she said softly. "The food is incredible, the city is stunning, and the challenge is everything I ever wanted, but it’s all so… quiet. Even when the kitchen is screaming, it feels quiet because you're not here to make fun of me for being too intense."

"I'm practicing my material," he joked, though he stepped closer to the phone, as if trying to lean into her space. "I've got a whole new set of jokes about the gym's new squat rack that are just dying for a tough crowd. You're the only one who actually appreciates my timing."

Nora smiled, leaning her cheek against her hand. "Save them for me. I want a full report on everything—the boring stuff, the frustrating stuff, and exactly how many times you've actually put your laundry away this week. Don't lie to me, I know your patterns."

"I can't believe you miss me after two weeks of peace and quiet," Robbie replied, though he was already glancing toward the laundry basket in the hallway with a look of genuine concern. "Admit it, you're just missing the chaos. The silence of Kyoto is starting to make you twitchy."

Nora let out a soft, melodic laugh and shifted the phone, giving him a brief glimpse of the cityscape. The sky had deepened into a velvety plum, and the warm, amber glow of street lanterns began to flicker to life along the narrow alleys below. "It is beautiful, Rob. Truly. But it’s a different kind of beauty. Everything here is so curated, so intentional. Sometimes I feel like if I breathe too loudly, I’ll knock a piece of history off balance. Coming home to your voice is the only thing that reminds me I'm allowed to be a bit of a mess."

Robbie’s expression softened. He knew that pressure—the weight of expectation that came with performing at the highest level. He felt it every time he stepped through the curtain and into the roar of the crowd, the sudden transition from a normal human being to a persona that had to be flawless. "You're not a mess, Nora. You're a Michelin-star whirlwind. And for the record, the house is definitely missing its whirlwind. The plants are looking depressed, and I think the toaster is offended that you're not the one operating it."

"You're such a liar," she teased, but her voice was thick with affection. She sighed, her gaze drifting back to the small, translucent piece of fish on the ceramic bowl. The professional fire was still there, but the exhaustion was creeping back in, pulling at the corners of her eyelids. "I miss you Eagles. I miss you hogging the bed and making that face when you try to be serious about your diet."

Robbie chuckled, shifting his weight as he leaned against the counter. "Hey, the diet is a delicate science! Besides, someone has to be the disciplined one in the house while you're off becoming a legend in Japan." He watched her on the screen, noting the way she finally let her guard drop, her posture slumping just a little more as she leaned into the comfort of their conversation. "Go on, get some actual sleep. If you keep staring at that fish, you're going to start hallucinating that it's talking back to you."

Nora let out a soft hum of agreement, her eyes fluttering shut for a second. "You're probably right. I should probably try to find a way to shut my brain off for a few hours before the 5 a.m. market run." She paused, a thought crossing her face. "Do you think the lemon myrtle will actually work? Or am I just desperate to taste something that reminds me of a Saturday morning in the garden?"

"Trust the instinct, Nora," Robbie said, his voice steady and encouraging. "You've got the palate of a machine. If you think it bridges the gap, it'll bridge the gap. Just don't let the head chef catch you experimenting with the 'secret weapon' until you've nailed the reduction."

"I'll take my chances," Nora murmured, her voice trailing off as she began to actually move, the phone swaying slightly as she stood up. She gave him one last, lingering look—the kind that tried to memorize the exact crinkle at the corners of his eyes. "I love you, Rob. Keep the sock on the floor for me."

"Will do, chef. Love you too. Hey, only a month and a half to go," Robbie said, his voice softening. He watched her image flicker and then vanish as the call disconnected, leaving him staring at the black reflection of his own face on the screen. The silence of the kitchen returned, but it didn't feel quite so hollow anymore. He set the phone down and looked at the laundry basket in the hallway. With a small, mischievous grin, he deliberately kicked a stray sock further into the middle of the floor, ensuring it was perfectly positioned for her eventual return.

/*/

In Kyoto, Nora set her phone on the bedside table and stood in the center of her small, minimalist room. The silence here was a different kind of heavy—it was a respectful, curated stillness that felt like it belonged in a museum. She looked at the small ceramic bowl of fish and then at the distance to the kitchen. The exhaustion that had been weighing her down for a week had shifted; the "chef trance" had evolved into a focused, electric energy. The suggestion of the lemon myrtle had acted like a key turning in a lock, unlocking a version of the dish that felt honest.

She didn't go to bed. Instead, she stepped back into the small kitchenette of her suite, her movements now precise and purposeful. She reached for a small vacuum-sealed pouch of Australian botanicals she had brought in her suitcase—a "survival kit" of flavors from home that she had barely touched. She carefully measured a pinch of the dried myrtle, her fingers trembling slightly with anticipation. She began to prepare a cold-press infusion, watching as the water turned a pale, golden hue, the scent blooming around her—bright, citrusy, and unmistakably home.

As she tasted the infusion, her eyes closed. It wasn't just the flavor; it was the memory of the salt air and the kind of laughter that only happened when Robbie was trying to convince her that a wrestling move was "actually quite scientific." The tension in her chest, the knot of homesickness that had been tightening since she landed, loosened just a fraction. She realized that the fusion wasn't just about blending Japanese precision with Australian ingredients; it was about bringing the parts of herself that Robbie loved into a space that demanded a sterile, flawless exterior.

The next morning, the Kyoto fish market was a chaotic symphony of shouting vendors and sliding crates. Nora moved through the damp aisles with a focused intensity, her boots clicking against the wet concrete. Beside her, the head chef, Kenji, watched her with a level of scrutiny that usually made Nora feel like a specimen under a microscope. He was a man of few words and exacting standards, but today, he noticed the way she bypassed the usual premium options and headed straight for a specific, smaller variety of sea bream.

"The acidity will be higher in this batch," Nora explained, her voice steady despite the roar of the market. "It will cut through the richness of the reduction without needing more citrus."

Kenji paused, his eyes narrowing as he looked from the fish to Nora. He didn't smile—Kenji didn't really do smiling—but he gave a sharp, single nod of approval. It was the equivalent of a standing ovation. As they walked back toward the restaurant, the early morning sun began to bleed gold across the city's tiled rooftops, and Nora felt a surge of confidence that had nothing to do with her technical skill. She felt anchored.

Back in the kitchen, the atmosphere was electric. The trainees were already in position, their movements synchronized and silent, like a choreographed dance of stainless steel and white linen. Nora stepped into her station, the "secret weapon" infusion she had prepared in her hotel room tucked discreetly into a small glass vial. As she began to plate the tasting sample, she could feel the weight of the room shifting toward her. The dish was a risk; the head chef valued tradition above all else, and introducing a foreign botanical into a classic dashi-based preparation was a gamble that could either cement her status or result in a stern lecture on the sanctity of the craft.

Nora placed the finished sample on the pass—a single, translucent slice of sea bream resting on a bed of dashi that shimmered like liquid silk. She had used the lemon myrtle infusion not as a dominant note, but as a ghostly whisper that appeared only after the initial hit of ginger. It was a culinary sleight of hand, a hidden bridge that connected the disciplined structure of Kyoto to the wild, sun-drenched coastlines of her home.

Kenji approached the plate with the deliberation of a judge at a high-stakes trial. The rest of the kitchen fell into a vacuum of silence, the only sound the distant, rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of a commis chef finely dicing shallots across the room. Kenji lifted the tasting spoon, bringing the fish to his lips. He tasted it once, his expression remaining as impassive as a stone garden. Then he tasted the dashi, closing his eyes.

For several seconds, Nora felt the sudden, sharp return of the pressure she had felt during her first few days in the city. She wondered if the "home" element was too loud, too nostalgic, or if the balance had tipped into something that felt like an intrusion rather than an evolution. She caught her own reflection in the polished stainless steel of the counter; she looked poised, but her knuckles were white where she gripped the edge of the workstation.

"The brightness," Kenji said, his voice low and gravelly. "It does not fight the fish. It lifts it." He looked at Nora, and for the first time, the rigid lines of his face softened. "It is a brave choice, Ellington-san. It tastes of a place I have not been, but it feels familiar. This will be the third course."

"Third course," Nora repeated, the words feeling like a victory lap. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her posture finally relaxing from the rigid tension of the last few minutes. The "secret weapon" hadn't just worked; it had earned her a seat at the table of the restaurant's inner sanctum. For a fleeting moment, she felt an overwhelming urge to pull her phone from her pocket and scream into the FaceTime app, but the professional atmosphere of the kitchen demanded a quiet, focused dignity.

She spent the rest of the afternoon in a blur of high-intensity precision. The kitchen was a machine, and she was one of its most critical gears, refining the proportions of the dashi and ensuring the temperature of the sea bream was consistent to the degree. Every time she caught the scent of the lemon myrtle blooming under the heat of the pan, she thought of Robbie’s smug face on the screen. He had provided the spark, but the execution was hers, and that synergy—the way his intuition complemented her technicality—was a reminder that their partnership worked just as well in the kitchen as it did in the bedroom.

By the time the dinner service wound down and the last of the guests had departed the dining room, Nora was physically spent. Her feet throbbed in her clogs, and her white coat was stained with a few rogue drops of soy and oil, but her mind was humming. She retreated to her suite, the cool night air of Kyoto greeting her as she stepped onto the balcony. She didn't even bother to take off her coat before dialing Robbie.

He picked up on the second ring, his face illuminated by the harsh, bright light of a Sydney afternoon. He was wearing a gym shirt, sweat clinging to his brow, and he looked like he had just finished a set of heavy lifts. "Tell me you've got good news," he beamed, his voice booming through the speaker. "Did the boss call you a genius, or are you currently scrubbing floors with a toothbrush as punishment for your 'bold' choices?"

"Third course," Nora breathed, her voice buzzing with a level of excitement she usually reserved for finding a perfectly ripe heirloom tomato in the dead of winter. "He actually put it in the third course, Rob! He said it was a 'brave choice.' From Kenji, that’s basically the equivalent of a gold medal and a handwritten letter of commendation."

Robbie let out a loud, triumphant whoop that probably startled half the people at his gym. He pumped a fist into the air, his face splitting into a grin. "I knew it! See, this is why you listen to the consultant. I’ve got the instinct for the bold moves. Now, tell me the truth—did you use the 'floral undertone' tip exactly as suggested, or did you actually listen to my genius and then tweak it until it became your own?"

Nora laughed, leaning her back against the balcony railing and letting the cool Kyoto night air settle the adrenaline in her veins. "Both. I took your spark and then spent three hours arguing with myself about the cold-press ratio. But you were right about the direction. It grounded the whole thing. It stopped being a 'concept' and actually started tasting like something real."

Robbie’s expression softened, the high energy of the victory settling into something warmer. He shifted the camera, giving her a glimpse of the bustling Sydney gym behind him, where the afternoon sun was streaming through the high windows in dusty, golden shafts. "I’m proud of you, Nor. Seriously. I know how much you were stressing over that menu. To go from 'spiraling in the weeds' to 'brave choice' in twenty-four hours is a hell of a run."

Noora blushed. "Yeah, well I can't take all the credit. I had a very helpful, very loud, very sweaty consultant on the other end of the line."

"Hey, the sweat is part of the process. It's where the wisdom leaks out," Robbie joked, leaning his back against a weight rack. He looked at her, really looked at her, and noticed the way the tension had finally left her jaw. "You look different today. Less like you're fighting a war and more like you're winning one."

"I feel like I've finally stopped apologizing for being here," Nora admitted, her voice quiet. "The first week was just… I felt like a tourist in my own profession. Everything was so rigid, and I kept trying to fit myself into a mold that wasn't designed for me. But that dish… it was the first time I felt like I wasn't just mimicking a style, but actually contributing something."

Robbie smiled, a slow, genuine expression of pride. "That's the 'Nora effect.' You don't just enter a room, you rewrite the floor plan. Now that you've got the head chef on your side, I bet you're going to run that kitchen like a well-oiled machine by the time you leave."

"Thanks, but I still can't wait to come home. I've been thinking. Maybe when I get back, we can take the next step in our relationship". Nora paused, her voice dipping into a territory that made Robbie’s posture straighten. "I mean, the real next step. Not just 'living together' in a way that involves you occasionally doing the dishes".

Robbie’s eyes widened, a slow, surprised laugh escaping him. He looked at the gym weights surrounding him, then back to the screen, his expression shifting from shock to a tender, glowing warmth. "Wait, are you proposing to me via FaceTime? In the middle of a gym? Because if so, the lighting is terrible and there's a guy in the background trying to deadlift three hundred pounds who is currently staring at me".

Nora laughed, the sound bright and liberated. "I'm not proposing yet, you pick! I'm just saying that I’ve spent the last few weeks in a city where everything is about the long-term—the legacy, the tradition, the way things were a hundred years ago and how they'll be a hundred years from now. It makes you realize that the 'right time' is kind of a myth. There's only now."

Robbie leaned his head back against the metal rack, his voice softening. "So. What are you suggesting? Because if we're talking about the 'real' next step, I might need to start practicing my 'surprised' face for when you eventually do it for real."

Nora smiled, her gaze drifting to the quiet, indigo horizon of Kyoto. "I’m suggesting that maybe we should get a companion. A puppy or maybe adopt a rescue. Keep us company when the other one is traveling for a match or a guest residency. Something that requires a strict schedule and a lot of patience—basically a tiny, furry version of Kenji."

Robbie’s face lit up, a look of genuine delight crossing his features. "A dog? Now we're talking. Though, knowing you, you'll probably try to put it on a meal plan with organic, locally sourced kibble and a curated selection of chew toys." He paused, his voice turning thoughtful. "But seriously, Nor… I love that. I love the idea of us building something that isn't just about the next contract or the next menu. Something that just is."

The conversation drifted into a playful debate over breeds—Robbie wanting something high-energy to keep up with his training, Nora leaning toward something soulful and calm—until the battery icon on Nora's screen began to flash red. She sighed, the reality of her early wake-up call returning. "I have to go, Rob. If I don't get at least four hours of sleep, I'm going to start mistaking the sea bream for a decorative centerpiece tomorrow."

"Get some shut-eye, Chef," Robbie said, his voice a warm hum. "And hey, don't forget to dream of me and our future fur baby. I’ll start researching the most chaotic breeds available just to keep you on your toes."

[superbadswitchblade]

Welcome Home - Robbie Eagles (Nora Ellington)

Robbie Eagles x OC (Nora Ellington)

Warnings: Language

A/N: I only own the OC and the idea.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Mate, you got robbed in that semifinal." The cab driver's voice was rough with indignation as he glanced in the rearview mirror.

Robbie Eagles chuckled, rubbing his stiff neck. The flight from Osaka had left him sore, but the ache was familiar—proof he’d left everything in the ring. "Eh, it is what it is. Fujita's a beast." He watched the Sydney suburbs blur past, the late afternoon light washing the streets gold. His duffel bag sat beside him, stuffed with damp wrestling gear and a crumpled tournament program.

The cab pulled up outside his house, a modest bungalow with a sagging porch he’d been meaning to fix. Robbie hauled his suitcase out of the car's trunk before he paid the driver, adding an extra tip for the ride and the wrestling fan solidarity. The key still worked smoothly in the lock—Nora never forgot to oil it, even when he was gone for months—but the silence inside was wrong. No clatter of pans, no exasperated muttering at a stubborn sauce. Just the hum of the fridge and the faint tick of the kitchen clock.

He dropped his duffel by the door, rolling his case so the wheels wouldn’t scuff Nora’s polished hardwood. Their place smelled like lemongrass and garlic—her fingerprints were everywhere, even when she wasn’t home. The living room walls were lined with framed photos of the two of them from various places in the world, from Robbie mid-air off the top rope in Tokyo to Nora grinning beside a steaming plate in Copenhagen. She’d insisted on hanging them chronologically, which meant the newest addition—Robbie in his Best of the Super Juniors gear—was tucked near the hallway. He traced the frame’s edge with a fingertip. Missing her hit harder than any lariat.

The fridge hummed louder as he opened it. Inside, stacked neatly in Tupperware, were leftovers labeled in Nora’s sharp handwriting: Perfect for your diet plan, don’t skip the greens—complete with a doodle of a frowning kangaroo holding dumbbells. Robbie snorted. Even across oceans, she’d micromanaged his protein intake. He grabbed a container of something that smelled like ginger and lemongrass, popped the lid, and shoved it straight into the microwave without bothering with a plate. The microwave beeped indignantly—Nora had programmed it to do that if anyone hit "start" without entering a time. Another one of her quirks.

The shower hissed to life upstairs, pipes groaning. Robbie froze mid-chew. He hadn’t heard the water running—but then again, the house was old, and the plumbing had moods. Then came the sound of bare feet on hardwood, the creak of the third step. A familiar curse when the tap sputtered cold. Robbie grinned into his container. She was home. Just late.

He abandoned his food on the counter and took the stairs two at a time, pausing outside the bathroom door. Steam curled under the frame, carrying the scent of her bergamot shampoo. Robbie leaned against the wall, arms crossed, waiting. The shower cut off. The door swung open—and Nora shrieked, clutching a towel to her chest. "Jesus Christ, Robbie! You scared the shit out of me!"

Nora's shriek dissolved into laughter as she threw the damp towel at Robbie's face. "You absolute dick," she gasped, swatting his shoulder, but her hands lingered, fingers pressing into the familiar planes of his shoulders as if confirming he was real. "Why didn’t you text?"

Robbie caught her wrist, tugging her close enough that her damp hair soaked through his shirt. "Wanted to see your face," he mumbled into her temple. She smelled like bergamot and the faint sting of kitchen sweat—home.

She pulled back just far enough to squint at him, her chef’s callouses rough against his stubble as she cradled his jaw. "You look like shit."

"Wow. I endure a sixteen-hour flight and this is the welcome I get?" Robbie grinned, rubbing his freshly towel-whipped cheek. Nora's damp fingers were already tracing the purple bruise along his ribs—the one Fujita had gifted him with a particularly vicious dropkick.

Her thumb paused over the mottled skin. "I thought being your team mate and tag partner Fujita-san would go easy on you," she murmured, voice tight with that particular brand of affectionate exasperation reserved only for him. The kind that meant I missed you and you idiot in equal measure.

Robbie caught her hand before she could poke the bruise again. "What, and ruin the dynamic of the Itchiban Sweet Boys? Fujita’s got a rep to uphold."

Nora snorted, but her fingers curled into his, warm and solid. "Your ribs didn’t need to uphold anything except your lungs." She tugged him toward the bedroom, already grabbing for her phone on the dresser. "I’m calling in sick tonight. Marco can handle the dinner rush."

Robbie arched an eyebrow as she typed one-handed, her other hand still tangled with his. "You never call in sick."

"Well it's not every day my boyfriend comes home after nearly making it to the finals of the stupidly named Best of the Super Juniors," Nora said, tossing her phone onto the bed. The screen flashed with Marco's immediate response—three crying-laughing emojis followed by ABOUT TIME. She kicked a discarded sock out of the way with her toe. "Besides, I prepped extra mise en place yesterday. Marco owes me for covering his ass when his kid had strep throat."

Robbie watched her move around the room—the way she absently tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the way her bare feet knew exactly where to avoid the creaky floorboard near the dresser. A month of FaceTime calls couldn't compare to this: the real, uncurated Nora, with her chipped nail polish and the tiny scar on her shoulder from a rogue splatter of duck fat.

"Stop staring," she muttered, pulling a fresh shirt over her head. The fabric caught on her damp hair for a second before settling. "You're doing that thing where you look at me like I'm about to vanish."

Robbie leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, still grinning. "Can’t help it. You’re prettier than my jet lag."

Nora rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched. "You’re such a dork." She tossed a pair of sweatpants at him—his favourite pair, the ones with the stretched-out waistband he refused to throw away. "Change. You smell like airplane and regret."

He caught them with one hand, sniffing his own shoulder exaggeratedly. "Mmm, Eau de Economy Class."

"Rookie mistake. You should've bartered for an upgrade with those tournament photos," Nora said, nodding at Robbie's duffel bag where she knew his wrestling memorabilia was stashed—autographed headshots, tournament programs, the works. She bent to scoop up the discarded towel from the floor, her movements precise even in domesticity. "Or at least flashed those puppy eyes at the check-in staff. Works on me."

Robbie snorted, shucking off his travel-stiff jeans. "Pretty sure my puppy eyes lost all potency after Fujita kneed me in the face." He tugged on the sweatpants, sighing as the worn fabric settled comfortably around his hips. Nora's gaze flicked to the fresh bruises mottling his thighs—track marks from the ring ropes and the hard canvas. Her fingers twitched like she wanted to press them to the marks, catalog the damage.

Instead, she tossed her phone onto the nightstand and flopped backward onto the bed, arms spread wide. "So. Tell me everything the cameras didn't show." Her voice was light, but Robbie knew that tone—the one she used when she was fishing for details she thought he might downplay. Like how much his ribs ached when he breathed too deep, or how many ibuprofen he'd popped on the flight home.

Robbie stretched out beside her, the bedsprings groaning under his weight. He propped himself up on one elbow, watching Nora’s face as he spoke. “Well, Fujita did buy me a beer after the match,” he started, grinning when her eyebrow arched skeptically. “No, seriously—he apologized for the dropkick that nearly caved in my ribs. Said I owe him a receipt.’”

Nora scoffed, rolling onto her side to face him. Her fingers traced the edge of the bruise peeking out from under his shirt—gentle, but deliberate. "A receipt? For nearly breaking my boyfriend's ribs? That's rich." She exhaled sharply through her nose, the way she did when one of her line cooks burned a garnish. "You wait until he comes here. I'll give him a receipt in the form of my foot up his—"

Robbie caught her wrist, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "Easy, tiger. You know Fujita's all bark. Besides, if you maim my tag partner, who's gonna have my back?"

The corner of Nora's mouth twitched. "Fine. But I'm still making him eat my spiciest curry when he visits." She shifted closer, her knee bumping against Robbie's thigh. "Now, I'm guessing you've not eaten properly since that airport sandwich you texted me about?"

Robbie groaned dramatically, flopping onto his back. "You know me too well. Airplane food doesn't count—it's just sadness with a side of stale bread." He turned his head to watch Nora push herself up, her damp hair falling over one shoulder.

"I'll whip you up something. What do you fancy?" Nora asked, already swinging her legs off the bed with the restless energy of someone who couldn't sit still for more than five minutes. Robbie caught her wrist before she could stand, tugging her back down.

"Later," he murmured, pressing his forehead to her shoulder. The exhaustion was hitting him now—the kind that came from time zones and adrenaline crashes and the quiet relief of being home. Nora sighed but settled back against the pillows, her fingers carding through his hair in the way she knew made his eyelids heavy.

"You're gonna pass out on me, aren't you?" Her voice was fond, but there was an edge to it—the same one she used when he'd pushed himself too hard in training. Robbie hummed noncommittally, already half-gone. The last thing he registered was Nora's quiet laugh and the warm weight of her hand on his chest, rising and falling with his breath.

/*/

When Robbie stirred, the bedroom was dim—just the faint glow of Nora’s phone screen casting shadows across the ceiling. She was curled against his side, her thumb scrolling absently through what looked like Marco’s updates from the restaurant. The sheets smelled like her bergamot shampoo and the faint tang of soy sauce that always clung to her skin after a shift.

“Time’s it?” Robbie rasped, his voice rough with sleep. His ribs protested as he shifted, the bruises from Fujita’s dropkick a dull ache beneath his skin.

Nora’s fingers paused mid-scroll. “Just past seven,” she murmured, thumb brushing against his collarbone. The blue light of her phone washed over the sharp angles of her face—the smudge of exhaustion under her eyes, the faint indent from her pillowcase. “You’ve been out for three hours.”

Robbie groaned, stretching his legs under the sheets. The bed was warm where Nora had pressed against him, her body a familiar anchor. “Best nap of my life,” he mumbled, rubbing his face. His stubble scratched against his palm, rough from travel and neglect. “Did you sleep?”

Nora snorted, locking her phone and tossing it onto the nightstand. “Like a rock. Woke up when Marco sent a photo of the specials board—he spelled ‘truffle’ with two F’s again.” She rolled her eyes, but the affection was evident in the way her mouth curved. “I think he does it on purpose now, just to mess with me.”

Robbie chuckled, shifting to prop himself up on one elbow. The movement pulled at the bruises along his ribs, but the pain was distant—muted by the warmth of Nora’s body beside him and the quiet hum of their bedroom. Outside, the Sydney night stretched beyond the window, the occasional car headlight painting streaks across the ceiling. “So,” he said, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, “what’s the plan, Chef Ellington?”

Nora caught his wrist, her thumb brushing over the callouses on his knuckles—the ones from years of gripping ring ropes and catching himself on hard canvas. “Well,” she said slowly, her voice dropping into that teasing lilt that always made his stomach flip, “I was thinking we could start with dinner. Unless you’d rather go straight to dessert?”

Robbie's stomach growled loud enough to make Nora burst out laughing. "Guess that answers that," she said, rolling off the bed with effortless grace. Robbie watched as she stretched, the hem of her shirt riding up to reveal the faint tan line from her chef's pants.

The kitchen light flickered to life downstairs—another quirk of their aging house—casting long shadows up the stairwell. Robbie followed the scent of her freshly grown herbs and the faint sizzle of oil hitting a pan. By the time he shuffled into the kitchen, Nora was already wrist-deep in prep, her knife flashing through garlic with practiced ease.

"Thought you were calling in sick," Robbie said, leaning against the fridge. His ribs protested the movement, but the sight of Nora in her element—loose shirt, messy bun, and a smear of oil on her wrist—made it worth the ache.

Nora glanced up, flicking a sliver of garlic off her blade. "Technically, I am sick," she deadpanned. "Sick of watching you subsist on airplane peanuts." She nudged a bowl of peeled ginger toward him with her elbow. "Chop. Unless Fujita broke your hands too."

Robbie caught the ginger with one hand, spinning the knife she'd slid toward him with the other. "Nah, just my dignity," he said, grinning as he started chopping with the rough efficiency of someone who'd prepped countless meals. The ginger's sharp scent bloomed between them, mingling with the garlic and the faintest hint of chili oil warming in the pan. Nora bumped her hip against his, her elbow nudging his ribs—just hard enough to make him hiss through his teeth.

"Still tender?" she murmured, her voice low as she scraped the garlic into the pan. The sizzle filled the kitchen, fragrant and immediate. Robbie watched the way her fingers flicked the spatula, how she tilted the pan to coax the garlic into golden perfection without burning. It was the same precision she used when plating her Michelin-star dishes—just scaled down for their tiny kitchen.

Robbie tossed the ginger into the pan, dodging the steam. "Only when you poke me," he said, leaning in to press his mouth to the curve of her shoulder. Nora exhaled sharply—half-laugh, half-exasperation—as she nudged him back with her elbow.

"So Chef, what are you whipping up for me?" Robbie asked, watching as Nora tossed a handful of sliced scallions into the pan. The aroma of ginger and garlic bloomed in the steam, making his empty stomach clench.

"Low fat, high protein stir fry—just how you like it," Nora said, flicking her wrist to toss the ingredients in the pan. The kitchen was alive with the crackle of hot oil and the rhythmic thud of Robbie's knife on the cutting board as he prepped the last of the vegetables. She nudged a bottle of oyster sauce toward him with her elbow. "Open that for me?"

Robbie twisted the cap off one-handed, his other hand steadying the wok as Nora adjusted the flame. The sauce glugged into the pan, thick and pungent, mingling with the ginger and garlic. "Smells like heaven," he murmured, leaning in to inhale the steam. Nora's shoulder pressed against his, warm and solid.

"Don't get used to it," she teased, nudging him aside to add a handful of snap peas. "Next time you're home, you're cooking."

"Why? Babe why would I cook when I live with a Michelin-starred chef?" Robbie grinned, swiping a snap pea from the cutting board before Nora could smack his hand away. He crunched it between his teeth, savoring the crisp sweetness—infinitely better than the sad airline carrots he'd endured fourteen hours ago.

Nora rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched as she flicked a stray pea pod at him. "Because even Michelin-star chefs deserve a night off," she said, stirring the wok with quick, practiced flicks of her wrist. The snap peas gleamed under the kitchen lights, their bright green barely dulled by the heat. "And because I actually enjoy your cooking—when you're not burning toast."

Robbie gasped, pressing a hand to his chest. "One time! One time I got distracted by—"

"—me in just your In Hearts Wake shirt," Nora finished for him, and portioned out the stir-fry with the same precision she used for her tasting menus. "I know. You got lost in my legs and sacrificed the bread."

Robbie snorted, bumping her hip with his. "Worth it."

She plated their food—generous portions for him, smaller for her—but he noticed the extra shrimp piled on his plate. Nora never ate shellfish during service; said it dulled her palate. But at home, she'd always sneak extras onto his plate when she thought he wasn't looking.

Robbie balanced the plates while Nora grabbed chopsticks and two mismatched glasses—one from a ramen shop in Osaka, the other a souvenir from her first Michelin ceremony. The table was already set with their usual haphazard precision: napkins folded into lopsided triangles, a single tealight candle Nora had lit out of habit more than romance. He set her plate down first, watching as she immediately nudged a shrimp back onto his portion with her chopsticks.

"Subtle," Robbie said, stealing a bite before he'd even sat down. The snap peas crunched perfectly, the ginger sharp enough to cut through his lingering jet lag.

Nora kicked him under the table, her bare foot warm against his calf. "Eat properly," she said, but her mouth was already quirking as she watched him shovel in another mouthful. "Christ, you really were starving."

"If I could take you with me," Robbie mumbled around a mouthful of shrimp, "I'd smuggle you in my carry-on."

Nora snorted, flicking a grain of rice at him. "Pretty sure Michelin-starred chefs don't fit in overhead compartments." She watched him demolish half his plate in three bites, her own food barely touched. The candlelight caught the faded ink on his forearm, the one she'd traced with her fingertips a hundred times.

Robbie paused mid-bite, chopsticks hovering as he watched Nora push a single snap pea around her plate. Her movements were too precise—the way she aligned each grain of rice before spearing it, the mechanical chew of her jaw. She'd cooked with her usual effortless grace, but now, eating, she moved like someone counting calories in a mirror.

"You've got something on your mind," Robbie said around a mouthful of shrimp. The chopsticks in his hand hovered mid-air as he watched Nora push another uneaten snap pea to the edge of her plate. She’d always been meticulous—chefs were like that—but this was different. The way her fingers hesitated before lifting the rice, the tightness around her eyes when she swallowed. It was the same look she’d had during the pandemic when the restaurant almost went under.

Nora’s chopsticks clicked against porcelain as she set them down. "Just tired," she said, but her thumb was rubbing circles into her palm—the spot where her knife callous had blistered during her first year at culinary school. Robbie knew that tell. He reached across the table, catching her wrist before she could retreat. Her pulse fluttered under his fingertips, fast and light.

"Try again," he said softly. "What's chewing you up?"

Nora exhaled sharply through her nose—her tell when she was weighing honesty against inconvenience. Her fingers tapped once against the tablecloth before stilling. "I've been offered a consultancy," she said, voice deliberately casual. "Two months in Kyoto. Teaching at that new fusion place by the Nishiki Market."

Robbie's chopsticks froze mid-air, a snap pea dangling precariously. The steam from their food curled between them like a question mark. "Kyoto," he repeated. The word tasted unfamiliar in his mouth—too far from Sydney, too close to Osaka where he'd just left. "When?"

"Starts August first." Nora's thumbnail picked at the edge of her chopstick, the lacquer chipping under the pressure. "They want me to develop their tasting menu. Train their junior chefs." She didn't mention the money—they both knew that wasn't the draw. It was the kind of offer that came once in a career: a chance to imprint her culinary philosophy on an entire kitchen staff.

"Wow. Babe that's fucking fantastic," Robbie said, setting his chopsticks down with deliberate care. The snap pea he'd been holding rolled off his bowl, but neither of them moved to catch it. He reached across the table to take Nora's hand, calloused fingers tightening around hers. "Kyoto's perfect for you—that place is gonna be lucky to have you."

Nora's laugh was too sharp, her fingers twitching against his. "You're not even going to pretend to be upset?"

Robbie grinned, thumb brushing over the fading ink on her wrist—the tiny eagle she'd gotten after their first anniversary. "Oh I'm devastated," he deadpanned before smiling. "You think I'd be upset about you getting the recognition you deserve?"

Her shoulders relaxed slightly, but Robbie saw the tension lingering in her jaw. Nora exhaled slowly, her breath stirring the steam rising from their forgotten food. "I don't know if I should take it," she admitted, fingers twisting the hem of her shirt—another tell, one she only did when she was truly conflicted.

Robbie leaned forward, elbows on the table. The candlelight caught the faint scar above her eyebrow—a souvenir from a rogue pan handle years ago. "Why the hell not?"

"Two months is a long time," Nora said quietly. Her thumb traced the rim of her glass. "And you just got back. We've barely—" She cut herself off, shaking her head.

Robbie reached across the table, catching Nora's restless fingers. "Oi," he said, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles—the same way he did when she'd overcriticized a dish or lost a Michelin star nomination. "You think I'd let you pass this up because I'm clingy?"

Nora snorted, but her grip tightened. "You are clingy. You FaceTimed me from a wrestling ring last month."

"That was important! I needed your opinion on my new trunks." Robbie grinned when she rolled her eyes. The candle flickered between them, casting shadows under her lashes. He squeezed her hand. "Nora. Kyoto’s your dream. You’ve been bitching about Australian fusion trends for years. What's holding you back?"

Nora’s thumb traced the rim of her water glass. "Timing’s shit," she muttered. "You just got home, and now—"

"And now nothing." Robbie leaned across the table, knocking his knee against hers. "I'll still be here when you get back."

Nora's laugh hitched, her fingers tightening around his. The fridge hummed loudly in the quiet kitchen, drowning out the distant traffic outside.

"What about the restaurant?" Nora's voice was quieter now, fingers tapping against her glass. Marco's text notifications still blinked on her phone—the dinner rush in full swing without her.

Robbie shrugged, stealing a shrimp off her plate. "Marco's been begging for more responsibility. This is his chance to prove he can run the place without burning the risotto." He popped the shrimp in his mouth, grinning at Nora's exasperated eye roll. "Besides, you've been training him for years. Let the man spread his wings."

Nora exhaled sharply through her nose—her I know you're right but I hate it sound. She pushed her bowl toward him, the uneaten snap peas glistening under the candlelight. "It's not just Marco. Two months is…" Her fingers flexed against the tablecloth. "Long."

Robbie caught her wrist, turning her palm up to press a kiss to the callous below her thumb—the one from holding knives twelve hours a day. "Babe. I tour eight months a year. You really think I'd begrudge you two?" He nipped at her fingertip when she tried to pull away. "We're use to the time difference, it's just this time I'll be here and you'll be the one eating bad airplane food."

Nora's fingers curled against his lips. "You're really okay with this?"

"Would I be shoving your snap peas in my mouth if I wasn't?" He licked a stray grain of rice off her knuckle, grinning when she swatted at him. The candlelight caught the silver scar on her wrist where a sauté pan had kissed her years ago. Robbie traced it with his thumb—a habit now. "When do you need to decide?"

"In two weeks," Nora murmured, her fingers twisting the hem of her shirt again. The candlelight flickered as a draft swept through the kitchen—their ancient house sighing around them. Robbie watched the shadows dance across her face, the way they caught the tired lines at the corners of her eyes.

"Nora, you've been nothing but supportive of my wrestling—the tours, the injuries, the shitty flight schedules." Robbie leaned in, catching her chin gently between his thumb and forefinger. "You think I'd let you turn down Kyoto just because we'll miss each other? That's not how this works." He kissed her forehead, lingering just long enough to feel the tension in her brows ease. "Besides, I'll come visit. Sneak into your fancy kitchen and steal your miso."

Nora's lips twitched despite herself. "You wouldn't last five minutes in that kitchen. They'd toss you out for licking spoons."

"Challenge accepted." Robbie stole another shrimp off her plate, chewing thoughtfully. "I'll bring Fujita. He'll cause such a scene they won't even notice me raiding the fridge and kissing the sexy chef in charge. That's you by the way."

Nora flicked a grain of rice at him with startling accuracy—it stuck to his forehead like a tiny, starchy third eye. "You're ridiculous." But she was smiling now, properly, the way that crinkled the corners of her eyes and showed the slightly crooked incisor she hated. Robbie loved that tooth. He'd once told her it looked like she'd bitten into something too hard and life itself had left a mark—she'd thrown a dish towel at him and called him a poet with brain damage.

The candlelight flickered between them as Nora exhaled, long and slow, her shoulders finally dropping. "Okay," she said, decisive as when she'd plate a final dish. "I'll tell them yes tomorrow." Her fingers found his across the table, squeezing once—quick and firm—before letting go. The fridge hummed again, louder this time, protesting the late hour.

"Good. And when you come home," Robbie said, pushing his empty bowls aside, "I'll be waiting with the most obnoxious welcome home sign Sydney Airport's ever seen." He stretched, wincing as the bruises along his ribs protested the movement. The house creaked around them—the familiar symphony of loose floorboards and the ancient fridge's arrhythmic humming.

"You'd better be," she murmured, but her eyes darted to the stack of unopened mail by the fruit bowl. Robbie followed her gaze to the glossy brochure peeking out from under utility bills—Kyoto's cherry blossoms framing a sleek restaurant facade.

He stood abruptly, chair scraping against tiles. "C'mere." His hands found Nora's waist, hauling her up before she could protest. The kitchen light caught the steam still rising from their abandoned dishes as he spun her once, hissing when her elbow bumped his tender side. Nora's laughter bounced off the hanging copper pans, bright and startled.

Robbie's arms tightened around Nora as her bare feet left the floor, her surprised yelp dissolving into laughter against his collarbone. She smelled like ginger and the faintest trace of dish soap—home in a way no hotel shampoo or arena spotlight could replicate. "Put me down, you idiot," she gasped, but her fingers dug into his shoulders, holding on as he spun them again despite his protesting ribs. "You'll hurt yourself—"

"Worth it," Robbie grunted, staggering sideways until her back met the fridge door with a thud that rattled the magnets. Nora's breath hitched—not from impact, but from the way his thumbs found the dip of her hip bones through her thin shirt.

Robbie's nose bumped against Nora's as he leaned in, close enough to smell the bergamot of her shampoo and the sickly scent of her caramel body lotion. A cherry blossom magnet clattered to the floor beside them. "You," he murmured against her lips, "are going to crush Kyoto."

Nora's fingers tightened in his hair—not pulling, just anchoring. "I know," she whispered back, breath warm against his mouth. The admission surprised them both; Nora never bragged, not even in their kitchen at 2AM when she'd perfected a new dish.

The fridge hummed loudly between them, its vibrations traveling up Nora's spine where it pressed against the door. Robbie's hands slid up her sides, thumbs brushing the underside of her ribs, careful of the pressure points he knew made her gasp.

"Why don't we celebrate properly?" Robbie murmured against Nora's lips, his fingers tracing idle patterns on her waist where her shirt had ridden up. The fridge compressor kicked on with a shudder, vibrating against Nora's back as she arched into his touch.

Nora nipped at his lower lip. "You sure you can handle it with those bruised ribs?" Her fingers ghosted over the mottled skin beneath his shirt—teasing, but cautious.

Robbie caught her wrist, pressing her palm flat against the worst of the bruising. "Try me." The challenge in his voice sent heat curling down Nora's spine.

She pushed off from the fridge, using her leverage to steer them backward toward the stairs. Robbie's heel caught on the third step—the creaky one—and they nearly toppled in a tangle of limbs and laughter. Nora braced herself against the banister, her other hand fisted in Robbie's shirt. "Graceful," she deadpanned, watching him regain his footing with the exaggerated care of someone riding an adrenaline crash.

"I'll show you graceful. Come here".

Nora grinned. "You can have me, but only if you catch me." She bolted up the stairs, bare feet slapping against the wood with reckless abandon. Robbie lunged after her, ribs protesting as he took the steps two at a time—every twinge worth it for the way Nora's laughter bounced off the walls.

[superbadswitchblade]

Next fanfic

Who should I write for next?

Kyle Fletcher

Kevin Knight

Robbie Eagles

Drilla Moloney

El Phantasmo

Other (Leave comments in the comment section below 👇)

Voting ended onJun 17

Options exclude Will Ospreay and Callum Newman as they will be the next two stories uploaded (At some point this week 🤞)

[berdsie]

Some misc doodles over the course of a couple weeks. Trying to get their likeness!

[berdsie]

Some SemiFinals art of Robbie and Fujita because I wanted to support them both 🥲

[isthisimprov]

BOSJ Semi-Finals: Kosei Fujita vs Robbie Eagles (June 5th, 2026)