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you-know-honey · 7 months ago

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Dance

Viktor x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 3k

Jayce has a plan: convince Viktor to attend the most important charity party in Piltover. But, as expected, Viktor refuses. What he didn't expect was that his assistant would show up at his workshop with a dazzling dress… and an invitation that Jayce secretly gave her. Could he really refuse now?

N/A: English is not my first language, feel free to correct me in the comments and I'll update it. Remember share if you liked it.

Viktor was focused, hunched over his desk as he fine-tuned one of the delicate pieces of hexcore. The dim lamplight illuminated his tired face, with dark circles under his eyes and strands of hair falling across his forehead. He didn’t notice Jayce’s entrance until the echo of the door closing resonated through the workshop.

“Viktor, old friend,” Jayce said, his tone bright and already foreshadowing trouble. “I have news.”

“If it has to do with that charity party, the answer is still no,” Viktor replied without looking at him, adjusting the tool in his hand.

Jayce sighed dramatically, dropping his weight into one of the nearby chairs.

“Mel has insisted that we go. We represent the future of Piltover, remember? Innovators, role models…” Jayce made a wide gesture with his hands, as if he were giving a speech.

“If Mel insists, you can represent us alone,” Viktor replied indifferently. He knew he wasn’t really required here, inviting him was just a formality. Then he looked up and looked at him seriously. “I don’t have time for parties, there’s a lot of work to finish here.”

Not to mention that dancing was something he had crossed off the list of things he could still do.

His friend really wanted Viktor to go, mostly because he had been very down lately, he barely left the lab and there were days where he would find him with his face on his notebooks after falling asleep at some point in the early morning, he was the first to arrive and the last to leave, if he ever did.

Jayce watched him in silence for a moment, before giving him a sly smile.

“Okay, I understand. You can’t just drop your projects. But what if I gave you a reason to go?”

Viktor frowned, distrusting his tone.

—What kind of reason?

Jayce didn't answer. Instead, his smile widened as he glanced towards the door of the workshop, as if he was waiting for something. He had recently discovered what he thought was a clue to the kind of feelings Viktor had for you, the long longing glances, the little smiles, the casual approaches of his hands, he answering any of your curiosities and letting you sing soft melodies while he worked were all very obvious clues to his eyes. Viktor followed the direction of his gaze just as the door opened.

And there you were.

Viktor felt the air leave his lungs. You weren’t wearing your usual practical attire. Instead, you were sporting an elegant iridescent white dress that flowed like water with your every move. The color perfectly complemented your skin tone, and the design highlighted your figure in a way Viktor couldn’t ignore. Your hair was delicately arranged, and a glint in your eyes suggested you was nervous, yet excited.

“Y/N?” Viktor asked, still processing what he was seeing.

You gave him a shy, yet warm smile.

“Jayce invited me as your date,” you said, your tone a mix of apology and expectation. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Viktor slowly turned to Jayce, who now wore an expression of unabashed triumph.

“What have you done?” Viktor asked, his voice low, but laced with disbelief.

“I gave you a reason to go,” Jayce replied, raising his hands in an innocent gesture. “I knew you wouldn’t accept if there wasn’t something… or someone to make the evening interesting for you.”

Viktor felt his face heat up as his thoughts struggled to organize themselves. Of course he felt a certain special affection for you. It had been a secret he had jealously kept, even from himself, and he had refrained from dwelling on it too much, after all they were coworkers. But now, seeing you there, so beautiful, waiting for his answer, completely disarmed him.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to, Viktor,” you said softly. “I just thought it would be… nice.”

Viktor’s heart skipped a beat. There was something in your tone that made him immediately doubt his usual refusal. For the first time in a long time, the idea of getting away from his work, even for a few hours, didn’t seem so far-fetched. Mostly because he didn’t seem able to wipe that beautiful smile off your face by refusing. His mind searched for excuses for himself, to justify that he had now changed his mind, and that this change had nothing to do with you.

Finally, he stood up with the help of his staff, running a hand through his messy hair, although it didn't help much.

"If you insist…" he murmured, looking at you more than at Jayce. "I suppose I can make an exception."

Jayce smiled widely.

"Perfect. Now, change. You can't go dressed like that."

Viktor let out a resigned sigh as he took the suitcase that Jayce had left with his suit, in another attempt to convince him, but he couldn't stop a small smile from appearing on his lips as he headed to the bathroom to change.

When he left he felt a little silly, he tried to arrange his hair in front of the mirror but it was totally impossible. Jayce see proudly that his plan had paid off, but the most important look for Viktor and the one he looked for as soon as he opened the door was yours. He watched your pupils dilate rapidly as you saw him come out in that elegant suit. Your hands went to your mouth trying to hide a smile. Viktor forced himself to look away to avoid them seeing the small blush that ran across his pale cheeks.

“Oh! I almost forgot.” You quickly went to open one of the tool cabinets, rummaging through the back with the curious gaze of the boys behind you. After a moment, you pulled out a small box, and as if you were a little girl skipping, you approached Viktor with it. “I hope you like it.”

Viktor looked at you in surprise as he took the delicate box in his hands. He opened it delicately to discover a maroon tie between the strands of paper. His gaze traveled from the gift to you several times before giving you a warm smile as he took the tie between his slender fingers.

“Would you have the honor?” You nodded with a smile, as your hands took the tie you got closer to him, managing to smell the coffee aroma that you loved so much, you brought the tie behind his neck inside the collar of his shirt and tied it perfectly over his chest. “Thank you.”

The evening was everything Viktor had expected: lavish, loud, and filled with Piltover’s elites. Laughter and lively conversation echoed between walls adorned with gilded chandeliers and silk curtains. Viktor had always considered these events a waste of time.

When they arrived, Viktor could barely take his eyes off you. Jayce had already gone after the councilwoman, leaving them alone, as Viktor knew he would. His discomfort was evident in the way his hands played with the handle of his cane, which he tried to hide as soon as he began to walk through the crowd. You seemed to radiate confidence with every step, politely greeting the other attendees, as if these events were common for you.

Viktor, however, felt out of place. He held his cane tighter than usual, trying not to trip, but it was difficult given the state of his leg and the huge crowd.

“Relax,” you whispered with a reassuring smile as you tangled your arm through his. “Is it that bad?”

Viktor looked at you, his eyes softening instantly.

“Easy for you to say. You seem made for this.”

She let out a soft laugh.

“Not as much as you think. I’m just trying to look like it.”

A waiter passed by with a tray of wine glasses, taking a couple, offering another to Viktor. He reluctantly grew taller, though he hesitated before taking a sip.

From a safe distance, Jayce watched the scene with a satisfied smile. Mel approached him, arching an eyebrow in curiosity.

“What did you do this time?”

“A little push in the right direction,” Jayce replied, nodding towards where you stood with Viktor.

Mel let out a light laugh, shaking her head.

“I didn’t know you were a matchmaker.”

Jayce said alarmingly, shrugging.

“I’m not. But sometimes, a man needs help to see what’s right in front of him.”

Meanwhile, you and Viktor had climbed the stairs to the second floor, so you were more isolated from the hustle and bustle, it was a big job for him, but he really wanted to get away from the crowd. Plus the second floor was an even more beautiful place than the main hall, full of huge stained glass windows and a balcony at the end.

“I never imagined I’d end up here,” you said, looking at the lights that dyed the floor thanks to the stained glass. “When I was a child, I looked at the towers of Piltover from Zaun and dreamed of seeing them up close.”

“Zaun leaves its mark on all of us,” Viktor said softly, his fingers drumming against the handle of his cane. “But it’s not always a bad thing. Sometimes, it pushes us to… be better.”

You looked at him with a shy smile, your eyes meeting his.

"Do you think we've accomplished that?"

Viktor was silent for a moment sighing before answering, then slightly tilted his head at you.

"You certainly have."

Your eyes widened in surprise, a slight blush coloring your cheeks.

"That's quite a compliment coming from you."

The sound of music filled the air, and the guests began to make their way to the main hall for the dance. Jayce didn't hesitate to take Mel's hand and head out onto the dance floor.

"It's time to dance" you said, looking over the railing at the rest of the guests dancing with their partners with some longing.

"I don't dance" Viktor answered immediately. It was one of the things he had crossed off the list of things he could still do.

You looked at Viktor, shaking your head.

"I can't…"he didn't like saying that at all, but he didn't want her to be disappointed for failing even in the attempt to do it, all his life he had known that those things weren't for him, so he didn't give himself the time to even try. "I'm sorry to disappoint you." Viktor approached the railing, to look at all those couples dancing next to you.

"Disappoint me?" you answered incredulously, carefully bringing one of your hands closer to his "I don't think you can ever do that."

Your pinky gently caressed his hand, it was okay if he didn't want to dance, you had already witnessed what the pain in his leg could cause him and you didn't want that to happen today. You were pleased to just have his presence by your side, that was enough for you.

Viktor sighed, feeling guilty for 'ruining your night' he looked at you and knew he had to take the risk. He reached out a hand to you, more shaky than he would have liked.

“This time I might try.”

You took his hand carefully, leading him away from the railing, to his own little dance floor. As the music continued, Viktor tried to focus on following your steps, but he realized his attention was completely fixed on you, the way you held his hand, the way he felt your body close to his, your warmth against the cold of your skin. He couldn't help but blush as he finally worked up the courage to look at your face, your smile, the way you looked at him as if he were more than just an inventor addicted to his work.

For the first time in a long time, Viktor allowed himself to let go of the cane that made an almost imperceptible sound as it fell to the ground, he allowed himself to be enveloped by the moment, by the sensations, by you. He forced his leg to be useful to him for the first time, slowly under the silver lights of the moon, the outside world faded away, the pressure of his work, everything that tormented him left him to live the moment with you.

"Viktor, your cane…" you rushed quickly to grab it, thinking that you had dropped it by mistake but his hand in yours stopped you.

"I want to try it like this." He said as he extended his other hand for you to take. You weren't sure if that was the best thing for him, but the confidence on his face, the way he looked as if he were begging you to let him live that moment like that ended up convincing you.

Jayce, watching the scene from a safe distance at the bottom of the stairs, smiled to himself.

"It's about time." he said before Mel appeared and he happily let himself be dragged back to the dance floor.

The dance continued, and although Viktor's movements were a little stiff, your slow, gentle movements managed to relax him little by little. Despite his lack of experience, Viktor was surprised to find a natural rhythm next to you. The murmur of the rest of the guests, the echo of laughter and conversations, faded as your eyes remained fixed on his, with your hands resting on his shoulders, and his own hands caressing your waist.

"See? It wasn't so terrible after all," you murmured with a smile as you buried your face in his neck.

Viktor looked down, his lips curving into a slight smile. But he knew he couldn't last much longer standing without his cane, he was starting to feel that stabbing pain in his leg, he tried to control it as best he could, he didn't want that moment with you to end.

"It's… bearable." He tried to keep his body as relaxed as possible, to avoid you noticing and he feeling like a dying man again.

You laughed, a sound so warm and sincere that it caused Viktor to have a strange tingle in his chest.

"Always so enthusiastic?" you joked.

"Maybe the environment has an influence" he answered, keeping his tone sarcastic but with an unusual softness that you didn't miss.

A comfortable silence settled between the two of them as they continued to sway to the music. Viktor, normally so oblivious to social interactions, couldn't help but wonder how someone like you, so kind and brilliant, was more than comfortable being in his life. And more importantly, how he had been lucky enough to have you stay in it.

As the music began to become softer, both of their movements became slower, until they stopped completely. You stayed close, your hands still joined, until he spoke in a voice barely audible to you:

"Thank you for joining me tonight."

You nodded.

"Thank you… for making it bearable."

He smiled, his gaze lowering for a moment before meeting yours again, as you picked up his cane from the floor and surrendered.

"Thank you. We should do this more often, don't you think?"

The suggestion took you by surprise, you didn't think Viktor would want to repeat something like that, but instead of responding with a negative and referring to his leg, you simply said:

"Maybe." with a sweet smile, now that you both shared more than just work. Without the bustle and inquisitive glances of the attendees, it was as if they were in a world of their own.

The party had reached its moment of recess, with laughter and soft music filling the air. The guests began to disperse throughout the place and some began to climb the stairs. The moment you shared was abruptly broken when a visibly drunk councilman stumbled towards you with a smirk on his face. His ostentatious attire and wine glass in hand made him seem out of place in the serene atmosphere you had created.

“Ah, there are the strangers!” he exclaimed, his tone heavy with mockery. His eyes assessed you both, lingering a little longer on you, an expression that made you shudder in disgust. You had received such looks before, you knew them and knew they led to nothing good.

Viktor tensed instantly, straightening up with difficulty and leaning more heavily on his cane to take a step forward.

“Can we help you with something?” Viktor asked coldly, clearly uncomfortable with the man’s presence.

The councilman let out an exaggerated laugh.

“Oh, I don’t need any help from you.” Though I must say, Heimerdinger has strange priorities, letting a couple of second-class citizens mingle among us.

Your brow furrowed and you clenched your fists, more than ready to throw him down the stairs and pretend he slipped. But before you could say anything, the man turned to Viktor with a sly grin.

“You… Viktor… How admirable that you accomplish so much in such… poor health. It’s a miracle you can stay on your feet, don’t you think? Though, of course, when all you have to offer is your brain, I guess there’s not much else you can use to impress.”

The comment hit like a whiplash, but Viktor didn’t respond immediately, it wasn’t the first time he heard someone talk about him like that, he didn’t care at all. His grip on the cane tightened just because you were there, and his jaw clenched, of all people in the world, he didn’t want you to be the one to hear that. He remained silent, his gaze fixed on the man.

The councilor, seeing that he wasn’t getting a response, turned his attention to you again. His eyes scanned you shamelessly, his smile twisting even more.

“And you, my dear… I guess it makes sense that you’re here with him. The girls of Zaun always know how to… adapt to circumstances, don’t they? A perfect match: a disembodied brain and a… well, you know.”

Indignation took hold of you. Your chest rose and fell rapidly, but before you could respond or move to fit his nose with a punch, Viktor grabbed your hand, stopping the hurricane of thoughts in your mind.

“Stop it,” Viktor said, his voice low but firm.

The councilman raised his eyebrows, feigning surprise.

“Oh, did you hit a nerve? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“No,” Viktor interrupted, taking a step forward, despite the obvious annoyance the movement caused him. “Don’t be sorry. And I don’t want your fake apologies. Just… shut your mouth and get out.”

The man snorted, but before he could say anything else, you faced him, walking steadily in front of him, your voice clear and determined.

“It must be exhausting carrying so much shit around,” you said, with an icy smile. “But I guess I couldn’t expect anything else from someone whose only virtue is his last name.”

The councilman looked at you, surprised by your bravery, and then snorted before turning to leave, muttering something unintelligible and spilling half of his glass of wine on the floor.

When you were alone again, the air was still tense, your fists still clenched at your sides. Viktor finally let out a long sigh, closing his eyes for a moment.

“You shouldn’t have… faced him,” he said softly. “I’m used to his usual nonsense.”

You looked at him with a determined expression.

“And you shouldn’t bear that in silence. No one deserves to be treated like that, especially you. They should lick your shoes, thanks to you this city really became the city of progress. You shouldn’t have to get used to it, Viktor.” You intertwined your hand with his, like an instinct you couldn’t ignore.

He looked down at their intertwined hands. He could feel the warmth of your touch breaking through the cold barrier he had built up over the years.

“I don’t believe his words, they’re irrelevant to me,” he finally admitted, his voice laced with honesty.

You gently squeezed his hand, forcing him to look at you.

“Then stand up for yourself, because you know what I believe? I believe you’re more than just a brilliant brain, Viktor. You’re not just a man with a cane or someone who comes from Zaun. You’re so much more than that, a genius, a visionary. There’s so much about you that’s amazing besides your wit.”

Viktor let out a short, dry laugh, but there was a spark of something else in his expression. Maybe gratitude, maybe something deeper that he didn’t dare name yet.

“You’re… persistent,” he said, with a slight smile that quickly faded as he looked back into your eyes. “But I don’t understand why.”

You tilted your head, confused.

“Why, what?”

Viktor looked away, unsure of how to continue, but he knew the words were already on the edge of his lips, and he couldn’t turn back.

“Why do you care so much about me? Why are you still here, by my side, despite everything. Helping me with everything, always taking care of me, looking at me as if there was nothing more interesting than me when I talk to you…even now.”

You looked at him for a long moment with a huge blush caught in your cheeks, and then, with a warmth in your voice that almost disarmed him, you answered, “Because I see you, Viktor. I see who you really are, and… I care about you. Much more than I should.”

The world seemed to stop in that instant. Viktor swallowed, feeling the air grow heavier, but also clearer at the same time.

“Y/N…” His voice was a whisper, as if he was taste out your name in a different, more intimate context that even he didn’t know about.

Their eyes met again, and this time, Viktor didn't look away, just watching your eyes sparkle and your pupils widen, it warmed his heart to know it was because you were looking at him.

"I should tell you now, but well…it's something new."

You smile softly, giving him some relief.

"You don't need to be good at it. Just tell me what you feel."

Viktor took a deep breath, as if he was preparing for a leap he had feared for a long time.

"I admire you. Not just for your intelligence or your ability to put up with my…quirks. But because you make me feel different…alive. With you, I don't feel alone. With you, I feel like…I can be something more."

His words were clumsy, but the sincerity in them was undeniable.

“And I think… I feel something really deep for you, Y/N.”

The silence that followed was overwhelming, but not because you were hesitating. But because you were taking in each word, feeling them deeply. Slowly, a smile spread across your face, and with a determined step, you closed the distance between you.

“That’s good, Viktor,” you whispered, leaning in just enough for him to hear each word clearly. “Because I’m already in love with you.”

Viktor looked at you, a flash of something soft and warm crossing his eyes.

“Thank you,” he finally said, his voice almost a whispered gasp. Despite everything he believed made him unworthy, you always saw him as something more.

The air seemed to vibrate between you, charged with an energy neither of you could explain but both of you understood. As the lights of Piltover continued to shine in the distance, the two of them towered over high society, standing together in a pure, private moment.

Jayce, who had been watching the scene with a mix of satisfaction and pride, decided not to interrupt. Mel, at his side, looked at him with an arched eyebrow.

“Happy with your masterpiece?” she asked, taking a sip of her glass.

“More than I imagined,” Jayce replied, crossing his arms as a triumphant smile lit up his face. “Viktor deserved it, although he’ll probably hate me tomorrow.”

“Oh, I don’t think he’ll hate you,” Mel said, watching the couple. “Maybe he’ll even thank you… eventually.”

As the night progressed and the lights in the hall grew dimmer, you and Viktor remained close, away from the bustle of the rest of the guests. For the first time in a long time, Viktor wasn’t thinking about the Hexcore, or his work, or his body, or the expectations he had placed on himself.

At that moment, there were only the two of them, and that, for Viktor, was a discovery as fascinating as any scientific breakthrough.

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uchispeach · 6 months ago

Text

Killer

Dark! Bully! Rafe Cameron x Fem! Reader

Warnings: NON CON, SMUT, rough sex, manhandling & degradation, choking, breeding kink, bullying, violent & abusive behavior, Mean! Rafe, Bully! Rafe…

A/N: Sorry for disappearing, I’ve just had a shit ton of family problems. I hope I can update a bit faster from now on! ALSO lmk if you want this to become a series! 💕

A laugh, dripping with mockery, echoed through the vast room, sparking a ripple of chuckles and whispered insults from the nearby group of boys.

Rafe Cameron’s body stretched lazily in the chair, making it seem almost comically small under his heavy frame. Even with his limbs sprawled out in complete relaxation, the outline of his hard muscles pressed against his shirt, as if daring to break free at any moment. You couldn't deny he looked attractive, exuding an undeniable magnetism in that confident, almost predatory pose, his new buzz cut only amplifying the arrogance that oozed from him. But that ugly, smug smirk? It made your bones ache and your throat dry up in ways you couldn’t explain.

His eyes, the color of storm clouds, lingered on yours with a deliberate intensity, delighting in your discomfort, relishing in every flinch and subtle shift of your gaze. You turned away, hoping your disinterest would bore him eventually, but you knew it wouldn’t.

No matter how hard you focused on the lecture, his presence was like an intrusive, constant drill on your brain—his burning gaze a distraction that gnawed at your senses. How naive had you been to think he'd ever leave you alone? Every time you raised your hand in class, you could count on him to whisper some stupid joke under his breath. How foolish had you been to think he would ever stop tormenting you? This sick dynamic between you two had been a game since childhood, and if anything, he seemed to thrive on it.

His once-small fingers had grown long and strong -now covered in silver rings. Those same digits that used to tangle on your hair and pull from it until your scalp burned in pain. His legs were now far longer, but they had always been longer than yours, outpacing you as they chased you through the school halls in all infant and adolescent years, always with the aim of making you stumble and fall to your knees. But his mouth had never changed. It had only sharpened, evolving into something far more dangerous.

You’d convinced yourself you were above all of it. Charleston had felt like a fresh start, and you’d thought the Pogue curse might finally be something you could outrun. But when Rafe Cameron showed up once more, everything you’d built: your confidence, your peace of mind—began to crumble, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but the raw, unresolved tension between you.

You were studying to be a teacher, the first in your family to receive a scholarship that promised a brighter future. Your days were filled with lesson plans, textbooks, and the weight of academic expectation. Every second of your time was accounted for as you worked tirelessly to carve out a new path for yourself, one that didn't involve being brought back to the past or the memories of him. You didn’t have time for distractions, certainly not for him. But here he was, always lurking just at the edges of your life, a dark cloud you couldn’t escape.

Rafe was studying for an MBA, the complete opposite of you, and yet fate had forced you into a shared class. You would’ve done anything to avoid him, but trapped in between those fours walls, mere meters away from him - it just seemed impossible.

And there he was, at your left, staring with a look of sick pleasure every time he found you trying to focus. His presence was suffocating, like the air itself became dense with his attention. His words, the snide remarks whispered under his breath, were like a weight on your chest, making every breath harder to take.

He harassed you constantly in that class—every. single. time. Without fail. No matter how much you tried to bury yourself in your notes, no matter how hard you tried to ignore his mocking chuckles, his eyes always found you, always zeroed in on your every move. He’d challenge you with pointless questions, make stupid comments about your work, his voice dripping with condescension. But it didn’t stop there. His reach extended beyond the classroom, following you into the hallways, his tall frame casting a shadow that would make your stomach turn. He would appear out of nowhere, as though drawn to you by some sick fixation, and make his presence known with a smirk or a taunt, forcing you to look up from your books, to meet those stormy eyes full of wickedness.

He would ‘accidentally’ bump into you, making your school supplies fall over. He licked his lower lip when you bent over to pick the mess up. His front would get dangerously close to your back in any queue, sometimes getting bold enough to grind slightly against you. He would move you around like a rag doll, always putting his huge palm on your ass to push you to the side. Still, there was nothing as uncomfortable as having his dirty eyes scanning you from head to toe at any given time - he licked his lower lip in amusement, making your cheeks grow hotter.

You’d always hoped, prayed, that once the class ended, he’d disappear—vanish into his own world and leave you to yours. But you were wrong. Every time the teacher dismissed you, and you gathered your things to leave, he’d be right there, waiting. It was like clockwork. His long, strong fingers would slide into the pockets of navy trousers, the scent of his manly cologne wafting over you in an intoxicating way. His gaze would follow you as you tried to make a clumsy exit, his footsteps closing the distance between you with every passing second. You hated that you could never outrun him. Hated how he always found a way to corner you.

And just as you thought you might make it out of the door, safe, free—he’d appear at the threshold, standing in your way with that damn smirk of his, a look that seemed to promise nothing but trouble.

“Leaving so soon?” His voice would slither through the air like poison.

Your heart would pound in your chest, but you’d force your eyes to look anywhere but at him, hoping and praying, that maybe, just maybe, today would be the day he’d leave you alone. But you knew better. You always knew better.

And now, you could feel it again; the familiar pressure of his presence, creeping closer, dark and inevitable.

“What’s that I’ve heard?” He scratched his head while pressing his brows together, pretending to be deep in thought. “…Oh, right” Now, enlightened; he stepped forward. Your almost wobbly legs did their best on distancing themselves -though, they weren’t allowed much movement after hitting a desk.

The back of your knees stung against the protruding piece of wood. “You tryna leave…study abroad, right?” Your eyes peeled in horror, and you hid in yourself as much as you could when his tall frame overpowered yours. “No, no. Look me right in the eye.” He clicked his tongue in disapproval. Without any hesitation, his cold rings found their place under your chin, burying in your skin when lifting up your face. “How-how do you know?” Your stuttering made him smile -predatory grin adorning his harsh features. “Everyone thinks you’re smart…” The pain on your neck amplified at the uncomfortable position.

“…But I think you’re just a dumb bitch.” He spat at you. Tone as rough as the domineering grip on your jaw. “…Bragging left and right - you really thought I wouldn’t find out?” He shook you with erratic movement. The pain you felt under his digits distracted you from a perverted knee slowly opening its way between your legs.

His unruly eyes took a break from tormenting yours as he admired your skirt’s fabric draping over your thighs. The blond snob flashed you his hungry canines while biting into his lower lip.

The horror only amplified when a sharp thrust attacked your clothed sex. His impatient knee continued to roughly rub against the cotton underwear, cruelty reflected on the fast pace. “Ha. Would you look at that? The dirty slut is getting wet!” You whined in disgust when Rafe pressed harder on the soaked circle.

The scarce dignity you thought you held was harshly stripped from you. On his arms you were nothing but a squeaky toy he got to bite and squeeze whenever he desired, and little by little you felt victim to a raw resignation.

The next thing you sensed was his palm abandoning your neck and moving onto your meaty thighs. He gave the flesh a squeeze, followed by a lusty groan leaving his pinkish lips.

Your mind tried to wander away, but the situation was just too much; too much stimulation everywhere, too much heat coming from his larger body, too much degradation directed your way in mean words and touches, too much torturous pressure applied to your virgin cunt and too much pawing at your unexplored parts.

The next thing your brain registered was a rip. The sound of something being torn apart, and if you didn’t see the light fabric pooling around your feet, you could’ve almost swear it was the noise your spirit made when breaking in half. “And I was thinking about making it nice for you…fucking you on a bed of roses or some corny shit.” He talked with nothing but mockery, while leaning onto your chest. “But I guess you prefer it when I treat you like a cheap whore.” The Cameron boy finished it off with a chuckle, his muscles flexing hard under the rumbling laugh.

You wanted to contradict him, defend your honor and pull him off of you, but all protests got stuck in your throat when he took you by it and slammed your upper body against the desk. The rigid wood wasn’t welcoming. Your head spinned uncontrollably at the beast-like hit.

The lack of oxygen didn’t stop you from hearing him unbuckling his pants. Panic grew louder as you heard his clothes falling to the Classroom’s floor. Worries clouded you in a tumultuous storm, and you did your best to cover yourself up when the only layer covering your vulnerable hole was pushed to the side. “Open your fucking legs or I’ll break your useless skull!” He demanded in a crazied tone, ripping your limbs apart and throwing them over his shoulders.

“Please, don’t.” Your eyelids squeezed together, shielding your irises from looking at the violating scene. “That’s right, beg me” Warm breath imposed itself above your slit, followed by a warmer liquid dripping down your folds. “Gotta make it wetter…I don’t want you breaking at the first use.” Even though your sight was all black, you could imagine his satisfied grin decorating that diabolically handsome face.

You tried pulling away when a foreign limb rubbed against your sex, desperate to be let in. “Rafe, no-” You were cut short by your own screams, eyes peeled open at the feeling of his cock entering all at once.

“Fuck! Tight ass pussy.” He sounded in heaven, palms manhandling your knees to your chest while pounding ruthlessly into you.

The rest of your body went numb, being rocked up and down at the bestiality of the boy’s attack. His groans and moans overpowered your miserable sobs. Your withering form contrasted his blessed expressions, pure passion exuding from his now sweaty body.

“Your whorish cunt is squeezing the shit out of me…she doesn’t want me to leave!” He continued to talk while creating some deeply loud wet noises.

Your neck and waist’s skin burned under his cutting rings and the unsolicited friction of his grip that kept you still. Your ears got lost at the multiple pet names he called you, as well as the dirty sentences of encouragement he occasionally threw your way.

After almost an hour of feeling him impale you on his dick, you grew tired of screaming and crying, now reduced to quiet whimpers and even quieter pleas. “Stop-” He did the opposite to that, toned pelvis slapping hard against you as his tip bruised your cervix in persistent thrusts.

The cries that left your esophagus were now primal and raw, long nails holding onto his huge back. “That’s right, cry for me. You fucking deserve it!” That only made the tears fall faster down your cheeks, reaching your mouth on a salty taste.

And when his movements finally went sloppy and his member felt softer, your suffering only sharpened. “Tell me you love me” He barked at your face, drops of unintentional spit hitting your distressed face.

You thought you heard wrong, that between his chocking, and suffocating weight your brain had imagined the unimaginable. “Tell me you love me!” His features tensed, making a vein pop on his front.

Was Rafe Cameron asking for words of affirmation from you? Was the same guy who just butchered your purity asking you for your heart? Or was it just another inhumane prank? Another limit of yours he wanted to cross?

Clearly you took to much time thinking and not acting because the next thing you felt was the blond burying impossibly deeper into your core and making you know a new level of uncomfortability. “Tell me you fucking love or I’ll come inside you.” The light on the room was vast, you were sure of it. Such an elite university could only have the best illumination for its elitist students; still, his burly body completely covered yours.

His sharp jaw and eyes were enhanced by the darkness found in his stare. “I-” He trembled lightly in excitement at your shaky voice. “I love you.” You finally decreed, unknowingly sealing your fate.

His smile was like nothing you saw before, too devilish and twisted you actually doubted smiling was ever a nice gesture. And when you felt a dense liquid flooding your womb in overwhelming warmth, you swore you could see the devil in his eyes.

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kindlingkeen · 10 months ago

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Chapters: 8/? Fandom: Batman - All Media Types, Batman (Comics) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Jim Gordon & Jason Todd Characters: Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne, Jim Gordon, Alfred Pennyworth, Gotham City Police Department Officers Additional Tags: Temporary Character Death, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Resurrected Jason Todd, Jason Todd is Not Red Hood, Bruce Wayne Tries to Be a Good Parent, Protective Jim Gordon, Angst, Grief/Mourning, Slow Burn Mystery, Canon-Typical Violence, Jason Todd-centric, POV Alternating, Other Additional Tags to Be Added Summary:

Jason is fifteen and dying, choking on smoke in a warehouse. Jason is sixteen and buried, clawing his way desperately to freedom. Jason is seventeen and drowning, waking up to green fire. Jason is nineteen and dying for the second time, bleeding out to the sound of laughter in an abandoned apartment building.

Jason is sixteen and six feet beneath the earth again. But this time, when he wakes up he’s in a hospital bed, and he’s not alone.

Jim Gordon, meanwhile, would really like to know what the hell is going on in his city this time.

Image Source: Batman: A Death in the Family

#chapter update #echoes of future past #chapter 8 #bruce wayne #jim gordon #jason todd #everyone here is straight up having a bad time

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buckysleftbicep · 1 month ago

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letters through time (1) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: 1940s!bucky barnes x modern!fem!reader

warnings: none, just so much fluff honestly

summary: you find a letter from 1944 hidden in the old brooklyn apartment you moved signed by one james buchanan barnes. you write back, he did too, and somehow, across decades, you both fall in love.

word count: 1.5k

author’s note: hi loves! so i’ve had this series completed, sitting in my laptop for a while now and wasn’t sure if i should post it, but here it is. if you’d like to read chapter two, let me know, your support means the world <3

i love bucky in the 40s | series masterlist

The apartment smelled like dust and old wood.

It wasn’t much—creaky floors, chipped crown molding, and a kitchen that looked like it hadn’t been updated since the seventies—but it was yours. After months of scraping together rent and tip money from your part-time museum job, you’d finally landed something livable. Cozy, even, if you squinted hard enough.

And the best part?

It had character.

The kind of character that came with water-stained wallpaper and antique furniture left behind by the previous tenant, who, according to the landlord, had “just up and vanished” one winter years ago. No warning. No forwarding address. Just left everything behind like they’d evaporated into thin air.

You didn’t mind. There was something about the place that whispered stories. The faded velvet armchair in the corner. The leaning bookshelf filled with weathered paperbacks—spines cracked and titles barely legible. A dusty turntable with a warped Billie Holiday record still on it.

And then there was the cabinet.

Tall and narrow, tucked against the far wall of your bedroom like it had been placed there decades ago and simply never moved.

Walnut wood, dulled brass handles, carved edges softened by time. You weren’t even sure it could open—it looked like something the building itself had grown around.

Curiosity got the better of you on your second day.

You ran your fingers across the surface, tracing the curves in the wood. It creaked under your touch. The drawers groaned when you tugged them open—empty, except for the bottom one, which stuck stubbornly like it hadn’t been opened in years.

You knelt.

Braced yourself.

Pulled harder.

The drawer yawned open with a reluctant creak, the smell of old paper and aged wood wafting out. You expected dust. Maybe some forgotten receipts or brittle ribbon. But instead, you found only one thing.

A single envelope.

Your brows drew together.

It was thick and off-white, the kind of paper that felt important just from its weight. The edges curled, yellowed slightly with age. You lifted it carefully, fingertips brushing over the smooth surface. A name was scrawled across the front in deep black ink, slanted and formal:

To whomever finds this, from James B. Barnes, 1944.

You blinked.

No—your heart stopped.

James B. Barnes?

You sat back on your heels, pulse suddenly loud in your ears. The name echoed in your mind like a bell.

Bucky Barnes.

It was impossible not to know it. He was carved into the walls of the Smithsonian. Immortalised in textbooks. Revered in documentaries and wartime exhibits alike. He wasn’t just a person—he was a symbol. The brave soldier. The lost hero. Captain America’s best friend.

And now that name was written in ink on a letter in your hands.

Your rational brain scrambled for footing. It’s a prank, it whispered. Some elaborate reenactment. The previous tenant could’ve been a collector, or just really into vintage ephemera.

But it didn’t feel like a joke.

You peeled open the flap gently, heart thudding, and pulled out a single sheet of stationery. The handwriting was clean and old-fashioned—neat lines, slanted script, the kind they don’t teach anymore.

You read.

Brooklyn, New York March 12th, 1944 To whoever finds this, I know it sounds odd, writing a letter to the future. I don’t even know if anyone will ever read this, but something about it… well, it feels like hope. And right now, we need hope more than ever. My name is James Buchanan Barnes. Most people call me Bucky. I’m twenty-six years old, born and raised in Brooklyn. I’m a Sergeant in the 107th and currently deployed in Europe. But I’m back in New York for a short leave. The war is— God, it’s hell. That’s the honest truth. Every time I close my eyes, I see something I wish I could forget. But then I think about the future. About you. About the kind of world we might be building, and it keeps me going. What’s it like where you are? Is Brooklyn still standing? Did we win? Do you remember us? Anyway. If you’ve read this far, thanks for indulging a soldier’s ramblings. Maybe write back. Leave a letter in this drawer, and who knows? Maybe time really can fold in on itself. Yours, Bucky

You read it again.

Then again.

Your fingers trembled as you folded it back along the original creases. Every detail felt real. The texture of the paper. The faint, lingering scent of something smoky—gunpowder and cologne, maybe? The way the words had been pressed into the page like he’d written them with purpose.

You should’ve laughed it off.

You didn’t.

Instead, you stared at the drawer—still open, still waiting—like it held something sacred.

Your hand reached for a notebook on your desk before you could stop yourself. You tore out a clean page, grabbed a pen, and wrote the first words that came to mind.

Brooklyn, New York March 12th, 2020 Dear Bucky, Okay, I know this is crazy. You probably won’t see this. But your letter was tucked in an old cabinet I found in my new apartment, and I couldn’t not write back. I’m (Y/N), by the way. I live in your old neighbourhood. Well sort of. A lot’s changed in eighty years. The buildings are taller, the streets are louder, and people walk around glued to these little rectangles that hold the entire internet. It’s like a library and a phone and a camera all in one. You asked if Brooklyn’s still standing. It is. In some ways, it’s barely recognisable. But in others, it’s still the same. The brownstones. The corner delis. The noise and the chaos and the strange charm that keeps people here. And yes… we won. You and your friends, you guys did it. The war ended. You were remembered, Bucky. I don’t think you’d believe how many people know your name. Anyway, I don’t know if this’ll reach you. But if it does… write back? Yours, (Y/N)

You folded the page with care, tucked it into a fresh envelope, and slid it back into the drawer beside his letter like placing an offering on an altar.

Then you closed it, slowly, gently. You didn’t know what to expect—didn’t truly believe anything would happen. But still, that night, you slept with one eye on the cabinet, your heart curled tight like a fist.

You woke at dawn, the sun filtering softly through the blinds, casting pale gold across the room. Dust swirled lazily in the light like confetti, and for a few long seconds, you lay still, almost afraid to breathe.

Then, heart steadying, you rose and padded quietly to the cabinet. With hesitant fingers, you opened the drawer—and there it was. A new letter, resting neatly where the other one had been. Same paper. Same slanted handwriting. As if time had folded in on itself just long enough to bring him back to you.

March 14th, 1944 Well, would you look at that? You wrote back. I almost didn’t believe it when I saw your letter. Thought I’d finally lost my mind. But here we are. I read your words three times, maybe more. The future sounds wild. Phones that do everything? You sure you’re not pulling my leg, sweetheart? It’s funny, I keep wondering if you’re real. If this is real. But I guess even if it’s just a dream, it’s a damn good one. Thank you for telling me we win. For telling me I’m remembered. That’s more than I ever hoped for. Tell me more about your Brooklyn. And about you. You said your name’s (Y/N)? That’s a beautiful name. I bet it suits you. I’ll be waiting, Bucky

You stood there for a long time, staring at the letter in your hands, heart pounding like it was trying to catch up with reality. It was real—or if it wasn’t, it was close enough that you didn’t care.

Somehow, impossibly, James Buchanan Barnes had written to you from 1944. Not just a name in a museum, not just a faded face in a history book or a footnote in a war journal. A man. A soldier. Someone lonely, hopeful, aching for a future—and against every rule of time and logic, he’d reached you.

That night, you stayed up until well past midnight.

You told him about your work—how your days were spent cataloguing artefacts from the war he was still fighting, sifting through rusted medals and yellowed letters that felt different now, heavier.

You told him how, every morning, you passed the Captain America exhibit at the museum without realising you’d one day be writing to the man who walked beside the legend himself.

You painted him a picture of your world—of your quiet apartment, the rain that whispered against your windows in the early hours, and the warmth of your favourite red scarf as you ducked into the little corner bookstore you loved.

You described the neighbourhood: the gentrified coffee shops where everything was oat milk and soft jazz, the thrift stores where history lived on hangers, the vibrant murals of old veterans painted across crumbling brick walls.

How American flags still fluttered from windows, even if most people had forgotten what they were saluting.

And before you sealed the envelope, you wrote one more line:

Write back soon. Please.

Because you already knew—

You couldn’t bear it if he didn’t.

a/n: i used to write just for myself and honestly never thought i’d post anything on tumblr… but here we are. this is one of my most loved serie, one i’ve been super hesitant to share, so i really hope it doesn’t flop 😭 thank you for stopping by, it means so much to me <3

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goldfades · 9 months ago

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PLAYING WITH FIRE──FATHER CHARLIE

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for this request

─ summary | a preacher's daughter becomes involved in a secret and passionate affair with a priest, challenging her strict upbringing and the expectations of her family and faith.

─ pairing | father charlie mayhew x preacher's daughter!reader

─ warnings | NSFW (with plot) under the cut. fingering, heavy make-out sessions, praise/degradation?

ok love u bye!!! pls send me requests!!!!!!

⇨ missing out on updates? check out my masterlist!

Your father always said the church was supposed to be your sanctuary.

From the time you were old enough to sit still on a pew, the towering stained glass windows and the echo of hymns in the vaulted ceiling had been your world. Every sermon, every candlelit service, every whispered prayer had woven itself into the fabric of your life, wrapping you in a cloak of devotion that felt as natural as breathing.

Now, standing in the shadow of the altar, that cloak felt a little too tight.

The evening light filtered through the stained glass, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the stone floors. Blues and golds stretched in long, quiet beams, like the church itself was holding its breath. Outside, the world was settling into the calm of twilight, but inside, the silence felt heavier than usual. It pressed down on your shoulders, thick and stifling.

You stood there, fingertips grazing the smooth surface of the wooden pew in front of you. The familiar scent of incense and old books filled your lungs as you breathed in deeply, trying to shake off the strange feeling that had been crawling under your skin for weeks now. Something was different, though you couldn’t quite place it. The church, once a place of comfort, now felt... constricting. Maybe it was the weight of expectation—or maybe it was something else entirely, something you didn’t dare to name yet.

Your gaze drifted to the large crucifix at the front of the room, eyes tracing the well-worn details of it, the soft glow of candlelight flickering at its base. You were supposed to feel something here. Reverence. Peace. But instead, a knot twisted in your chest, a tangle of emotions you couldn’t unravel.

Footsteps echoed behind you, soft but deliberate, the sound pulling you back to the present. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. You could feel his presence like the air had shifted, like the temperature in the room dropped just a fraction of a degree.

“Evening service is in an hour.”

Father Charlie’s voice, smooth and low, cut through the silence, brushing against the nape of your neck like a whisper. You swallowed, your pulse quickening, though you weren’t entirely sure why. He always had that effect on you, though you told yourself it was nothing. Just nerves. Just... respect. Nothing more.

You turned to face him, forcing a smile as you nodded. “I know. I just... wanted a moment before the crowd comes in.”

His eyes lingered on you for a beat longer than necessary, and something in his gaze sent a shiver down your spine. It wasn’t just the way he looked at you—it was the way you felt when he did, like you were being seen for the first time, like every carefully crafted piece of who you were might unravel if you weren’t careful.

“Of course,” he replied, his voice still soft, but there was an edge to it now, something unspoken that hung in the air between you.

You looked away quickly, your fingers curling tighter around the pew. Your father’s words echoed in your mind, reminding you of your duty, of your place. You were the preacher’s daughter, after all. Everything about your life was tied to this church, to your father’s legacy, to the faith you were supposed to uphold with unwavering loyalty.

But then why did it feel like everything was starting to crack?

You forced yourself to stand taller, clearing your throat as you spoke again, your voice quieter this time. “I should probably go help with preparations.”

“Right,” Charlie said, though he didn’t move, didn’t take his eyes off you.

The silence stretched between you once more, and you could feel the weight of it, heavy and unspoken. Something was shifting, whether you wanted to admit it or not.

───

College had opened a thousand new doors for you, each one leading you further away from the world you had known for so long. The freedom was intoxicating—more than you could have imagined. Late nights spent in libraries, impromptu road trips with friends, a city that felt alive beneath your feet, humming with possibilities you had never considered. For the first time in your life, you weren’t tethered to the expectations of your family, the expectations of the church.

But even as you explored new ideas, met people who challenged the beliefs you had grown up with, and carved out space for yourself in a world much bigger than the small town you’d left behind, something kept pulling you back. A tug, a whisper, a lingering sense of obligation that gnawed at you when the campus quieted down in the early hours of the morning.

It wasn’t just the faith you were raised in that haunted you; it was the weight of your father’s voice echoing in your head, the way he spoke about duty, commitment, and sacrifice. His sermons had always been about more than just scripture—they were about life, about how the world tested you, how sin was a slippery slope. How it could seduce you without you even realizing it.

You thought you could ignore it for a while, push the thoughts aside as you embraced everything new. But when the holidays came and you found yourself back home, the old routines settled over you like a heavy coat. The Sunday services, the church events, the constant watchful eyes of the congregation. You could feel them all waiting, wondering if the preacher’s daughter had come back changed, if the world had gotten to you.

And then, there was Father Charlie.

You hadn’t expected to see him again—not like this, not after everything had shifted inside of you. College had given you new perspectives, yes, but it hadn’t prepared you for the way your pulse raced the moment you saw him standing in the front of the church, speaking with your father as if everything was still the same.

But it wasn’t.

Charlie looked different. Or maybe you did. He was older now, though not by much, and there was a certain weight in his eyes that you hadn’t noticed before. It wasn’t just his sermons or the way he carried himself with that steady, unshakable calm; it was the way his gaze lingered on you, the way it seemed like he could see through the mask you were trying so hard to keep up.

You’d always known him as the priest who helped your father, the man who had been an almost constant presence in your home, at dinners, at family gatherings. He was someone you trusted, someone you never questioned. Until now.

There was something about him now, something that made the air feel too thick when you were in the same room. Maybe it was because you had changed, maybe it was because you had seen more of the world and realized how small the one you left behind had been. Or maybe it was because for the first time, you were looking at him not through the lens of innocence and trust, but through something darker. Something you weren’t ready to name.

It started innocently enough—helping your father prepare for services, catching up with old friends from the congregation, falling back into the role of the dutiful daughter. You had perfected that role long ago, and slipping back into it felt almost too easy, like muscle memory. But every time you caught a glimpse of Charlie, that mask cracked just a little more.

You told yourself it was nothing, that it was just the stress of being home again, of reconciling who you were now with who you had been before. But it wasn’t long before you found yourself lingering after church events, staying late to help clean up, just to see if he’d still be there. Just to see if his eyes would meet yours again, if that strange, unspoken tension between you would return.

And it always did.

It was subtle at first, the way he looked at you from across the room, the way his gaze lingered just a little too long before he turned away. You tried to convince yourself you were imagining it, that it was just your mind playing tricks on you. But then there were the conversations, those moments when the two of you were alone in the church hall, the only sound the distant hum of people outside. The way his voice softened when he spoke to you, the way he leaned in just a fraction too close, the way his hand brushed yours when you passed him something.

It was nothing. Or at least, that’s what you kept telling yourself.

But one evening, after a particularly long meeting at the church, when everyone else had left and you were gathering your things, you turned around to find him standing in the doorway, watching you.

Your breath caught in your throat, your heart skipping a beat. The look in his eyes was different this time—darker, more intense. There was something there that you hadn’t seen before, or maybe something you had been too afraid to acknowledge.

“I didn’t expect you to come back,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. His gaze didn’t leave yours, not even for a second.

You swallowed hard, your pulse quickening as you tried to gather your thoughts. “It’s home,” you replied, though even you could hear the uncertainty in your own voice.

He stepped into the room, closing the door softly behind him. The sound of it clicking shut seemed to echo in the silence, making the space between you feel even smaller. He didn’t say anything at first, just looked at you, his eyes searching yours like he was trying to find something, some answer to a question he hadn’t asked yet.

You should have felt uncomfortable. You should have made some excuse to leave, to get out of there before whatever this was could unfold. But instead, you stayed rooted to the spot, your breath shallow, your heart racing in your chest.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he admitted, his voice lower now, almost a whisper.

Your heart skipped another beat, a wave of heat washing over you at his words. You didn’t know how to respond, didn’t know what to say to the man standing in front of you—the man who had always been so steady, so composed, and now looked like he was standing on the edge of something dangerous.

“Charlie, I—”

“I know,” he interrupted, taking another step closer, his eyes still locked on yours. “I know this is... complicated.”

Complicated didn’t even begin to cover it. He was a priest. You were the preacher’s daughter. There were rules, lines that couldn’t be crossed, things that couldn’t be said.

But here you were, standing in the quiet of the church, and those lines had never felt more blurred.

It was wrong. Everything about this was wrong. You knew it deep down, felt it in the pit of your stomach. He was a man of God, your father’s closest confidant, the last person you should have these thoughts about. And yet, here he was—standing before you, watching you with an intensity that made your breath hitch, like you were the only person in the world at that moment.

He was too close now. You could smell the faint scent of incense still clinging to his clothes, could see the slight furrow in his brow as he struggled to keep his composure. For a moment, neither of you said anything. The only sound was the soft hum of the fluorescent lights overhead and the muted shuffle of footsteps outside the room.

You should leave. You needed to. But instead, you found yourself taking a slow, steady breath, trying to calm the rapid beating of your heart.

“I don’t know what’s happening here,” you finally whispered, your voice barely audible.

Charlie exhaled softly, his eyes never leaving yours. “Neither do I,” he admitted, his voice low, almost broken. “But I can’t stop thinking about you.”

The confession hung in the air between you, heavy and dangerous. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be a man above these temptations, above human desires. And you were supposed to be someone who understood that, who respected the boundaries that came with it. But somehow, those boundaries had started to blur long before either of you realized.

His hand twitched at his side, like he was fighting the urge to reach out and touch you, to close the distance between you. For a moment, you thought he might actually do it. That he might cross that final line. But he hesitated, clenching his fist as if to hold himself back.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he muttered under his breath, taking a small step backward, as if the space would help clear the growing storm between you.

You bit your lip, trying to find the right words, the right way to make sense of the tangled mess of emotions inside you. “Charlie...”

“Don’t,” he cut you off softly, shaking his head. “You don’t understand how wrong this is.”

His words hit you like a cold splash of water, but they didn’t stop the way your heart fluttered in your chest, or the way your stomach twisted with something dangerous. You knew he was right. This was wrong, on every level. And yet, the way he looked at you, the way his voice dropped when he said your name—it sent a shiver down your spine that you couldn’t ignore.

“Then why do you keep looking at me like that?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, he didn’t respond. He just stared at you, his expression a mixture of frustration and something darker—something you didn’t dare name out loud.

“Because,” he finally murmured, his voice thick with restrained emotion, “I can’t help it.”

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of those words settle over you. It wasn’t the confession you had expected, and it wasn’t one that made things any easier. If anything, it only made the situation even more complicated.

“I should go,” you whispered, your voice shaky as you tried to take a step back, to create some distance between you and the storm brewing in the space you shared.

That was all you said before turning around, and leaving the room.

───

You weren't sure how this had happened, but sure as hell did. Charlie's lips were on yours, pushing you into the door with force. You hummed into his lips, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

All you remember was his hands gripping your waist, pulling you closer, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. The world outside that door no longer existed, fading into a blur as Charlie’s lips moved against yours with a fervor that felt like it had been building for far too long.

All you remembered was the sound of your own heartbeat, pounding so loudly in your ears that it drowned out everything else—the quiet of the church hall, the soft creak of the door behind you, the whisper of your name on Charlie’s lips before everything had spiraled out of control.

You had always imagined this would be different, more hesitant, slower, maybe even sweet. But this? This was something else entirely. It was rushed, desperate, like both of you had been holding back for so long that the dam had finally broken, flooding every bit of restraint.

Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, needing him to close the gap between you entirely. His fingers dug into your hips, holding you in place as if he was afraid you’d slip away if he didn’t. His lips were warm, insistent, and you couldn’t help but melt into him, surrendering to the pull you had resisted for so long.

The weight of what you were doing hit you in flashes—between the soft gasp that escaped your throat and the way Charlie’s breath hitched when you responded with equal need. You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be doing this. But nothing had ever felt so... inevitable.

The taste of his kiss lingered on your lips, sending sparks through your body that only grew more intense the longer it went on. You could feel the tension radiating off of him, the battle he was fighting between what he knew was wrong and what he wanted more than anything at that moment.

It was a battle you were losing, too.

You broke away for a second, gasping for air as his forehead pressed against yours, both of you breathing heavily. His eyes—dark, conflicted, and filled with something so raw—locked onto yours. For a moment, the weight of what you’d just done hung between you.

But then, before either of you could think too much, his lips were back on yours, silencing any doubts. This time, softer.

This time, his kiss was slower, more deliberate, like he was trying to memorize the feel of you. The urgency had dimmed just enough to let the moment stretch out, to let the reality of what was happening sink in. His hands traced a path from your hips to your waist, pulling you even closer, while his lips moved tenderly against yours, tasting you in a way that made your knees weak.

Your mind was a blur of sensations—the warmth of his breath, the soft friction of his body pressing into yours, the quiet hum of the world outside this stolen moment. Every touch, every kiss, felt like it was lighting a fire inside you that you couldn't put out, even if you tried.

But then, as his lips left yours to trail softly down your jawline, the weight of it all crashed down on you. What had you done? What were you doing?

“Charlie,” you whispered, your voice trembling as reality clawed its way back in. His name fell from your lips like a plea, though you weren’t sure if you were asking him to stop or to keep going.

He froze, his breath hot against your neck. For a long moment, he didn’t move, his hands still gripping your waist as if he couldn’t bear to let go. Then, with a shuddering breath, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression filled with a storm of emotions—regret, desire, conflict, everything.

“I... I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and broken. His eyes searched yours, as though he was looking for some kind of answer, some justification for the lines he had just crossed. “I shouldn’t have...”

You shook your head, still catching your breath, your hands sliding down from his shoulders. “No,” you whispered, feeling the heat in your cheeks. “Don’t apologize. I wanted this, too.”

Charlie swallowed hard, his gaze flickering between your lips and your eyes, torn between the undeniable truth of your words and the overwhelming guilt gnawing at him. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but no words came out. Instead, he took a step back, running a hand through his hair as if to ground himself, to keep himself from falling further.

“We can’t do this,” he muttered, almost to himself, though the words were meant for both of you. “This... it’s wrong. It goes against everything.”

“Charlie,” you scoffed as you straightened up. “So what? So what if this is wrong, who said we can't have fun every once in a while?”

Charlie’s eyes darkened at your words, a flicker of something dangerous crossing his features. You watched as he clenched his jaw, wrestling with the temptation that you had just fanned back into life with that careless, reckless comment.

“Fun?” he repeated, his voice low and strained, almost like he couldn’t believe you had said it. “You think this is just fun?”

You tilted your head, shrugging, though you could feel your heart pounding in your chest. “Why not? Why does it have to be this heavy, guilt-ridden thing? It’s only wrong if we make it wrong.” Your voice was bold, but there was a trembling edge beneath it, one you hoped he wouldn’t notice.

Charlie’s hand ran through his hair in frustration as he stared at you, his chest rising and falling unevenly. “You don’t get it,” he muttered, taking a step closer, and for a moment, you saw the fire in his eyes again—the same fire that had pulled you both into this moment in the first place. “This isn’t just some game. You have no idea what you’re risking.”

You stepped forward, closing the distance again, the tension between you crackling like electricity. “I know exactly what I’m risking, Charlie. And I don’t care. Don’t you get that by now? I want this.”

For a split second, you saw the conflict in his eyes again, the internal war he was waging, but then his hand reached out, gripping your arm, pulling you closer. His breath was ragged as his forehead pressed against yours, his fingers tightening around you like he was holding on for dear life.

“You’re driving me insane,” he murmured, his voice thick with desperation. “This isn’t something we can just... play with. It’s wrong, and I—”

“Do you want me to stop?” you cut him off, your voice soft but firm, your lips inches from his.

Charlie’s breath hitched as his grip on you tightened even more. His eyes searched yours, the weight of the decision heavy between you both. For a moment, neither of you moved, the air thick with anticipation, with the unspoken truth neither of you could deny anymore.

“I don’t want you to stop,” he admitted, his voice a hoarse whisper, filled with all the tension and desire he had been trying so hard to suppress. “But I should. We should.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his confession, and without thinking, you leaned in, your lips brushing against his ear as you whispered, “Then don’t.”

That was all it took.

In an instant, his resolve crumbled, and Charlie’s lips crashed into yours with a force that sent a shiver down your spine. All the restraint, all the guilt, evaporated in that single moment as his hands gripped you tighter, pulling you against him like he couldn’t get enough.

That was how this little affair had began. What started as a reckless act of rebellion, something thrilling and dangerous, had spiraled into something much bigger, something neither of you could have anticipated.

For Charlie, everything began to shift. At first, it was just the stolen kisses and the hurried, whispered moments behind locked doors. But then, gradually, you noticed the change in him—subtle at first, but undeniable as time went on. He wasn’t the same devout, principled man he’d been before. The conviction that once held him together was starting to unravel, and it wasn’t just about you anymore.

His sermons, once delivered with unshakable passion, began to falter. He spoke the words, but there was a hollowness to them now, a lack of fire that hadn’t been there before. The weight of his role as a priest no longer seemed to sit so heavily on his shoulders. It was as though he was slipping further away from the man he had been, day by day, like he had loosened his grip on the faith that had once defined him.

It wasn’t just in the church either. You saw it in his eyes, the way they lit up when he saw you, no longer clouded with guilt or hesitation. The same man who had once knelt in prayer for hours, seeking forgiveness for even the smallest of sins, now seemed to be the furthest thing from repentant. There was a spark in him that had nothing to do with religion—a hunger for something more, something that you had awakened in him.

You had become his escape, his release from the rigid life he had once lived. And it was clear that, for the first time in a long while, he was having fun. Real fun. The kind that made his eyes light up with a mischievous glint, the kind that left him grinning after each secret encounter. He was no longer the solemn, restrained Father Charlie that everyone in the church knew. Around you, he laughed more, joked more, and seemed more alive than he ever had before.

There was a recklessness to him now, a side of Charlie that had been hidden beneath layers of duty and piety. When you were together, it was as though none of the rules applied. His hands roamed freely, his lips found yours without hesitation, and the weight of his priesthood—the guilt that had once threatened to crush him—seemed to melt away with each touch, each kiss, each stolen moment.

He wasn’t praying for forgiveness anymore. He wasn’t praying for anything at all.

And maybe that was the most dangerous part of all. Charlie was slipping further and further away from the man he had been, from the role he had devoted his life to. But even as you saw him change, a part of you knew—you liked this version of him better. The one who wasn’t weighed down by morality, the one who let himself live, who let himself enjoy this, enjoy you.

Because, in truth, he had never seemed happier.

Then, your family's Christmas Eve dinner came and of course, Charlie would be invited. Your mother and father were practically buzzing with excitement—this was their biggest event of the year.

It would be in your home, just as it always was, with the dining room decked out in festive decorations. The smell of cinnamon, cloves, and roasting meat filled the air, and the flicker of candlelight danced along the walls. Your mother had spent days planning every detail, from the table settings to the perfect holiday playlist softly playing in the background. This was the night your family pulled out all the stops, and the guest of honor, of course, was none other than Father Charlie.

As you descended the stairs, dressed in a modest yet elegant outfit your mother had insisted upon, your stomach churned. The thought of Charlie sitting across from you, pretending nothing was happening between the two of you, made your skin prickle with a strange mix of anticipation and dread. You could already picture him, composed and serene, his priestly demeanor fully intact. But you knew better. Beneath the calm exterior, beneath the collar, there was a man who had unraveled, one you had helped tear apart.

The dining room was a scene of festive cheer by the time you arrived, your parents bustling about, greeting guests and making sure everything was perfect. You could hear your father laughing loudly from the other room, his booming voice full of pride as he told someone about how Father Charlie had become such an important part of the church community. How proud they were to have him there.

And then you saw him.

Charlie stood near the fireplace, talking to a few of the older parishioners who had arrived early, his usual composed expression firmly in place. He looked every bit the part—his black priest’s garb impeccable, his hands clasped in front of him in that familiar posture of calm authority. But when his eyes flicked over to you, for the briefest of moments, something shifted. His gaze lingered, and you saw the hint of heat behind them, a flash of memory that you were certain only the two of you understood. His lips quirked up in a small smile, seemingly innocent and kind. But you knew better.

Your heart skipped a beat as your mother’s voice pulled you back into the moment. “Sweetheart, come say hello to Father Charlie!” she called, her voice brimming with affection.

You swallowed hard, forcing a smile onto your face as you made your way toward him. Your mother was already gushing about how wonderful it was to have him here, how much your family appreciated him spending Christmas Eve with them. You barely heard her, your mind racing as Charlie’s eyes met yours, steady but unreadable.

“Good evening,” he said softly, his voice smooth as ever, though there was an edge to it that only you could catch. The soft smile that graced his features had turned into a small smirk as he took in your shy expression.

He extended his hand, and for a split second, as your fingers brushed his, a jolt of electricity surged through you. It was barely noticeable—a moment so fleeting your mother wouldn’t have thought twice about it. But for you, it was enough to send your mind spiraling back to all the times his hands had been on you in a much different way.

“Good evening, Father,” you replied, your voice steady, though your pulse was racing beneath the surface.

“Such a lovely home, as always,” Charlie said, turning his attention to your mother with a charming smile, ever the perfect guest. But as he spoke, you caught the way his fingers flexed slightly, like he was trying to hold back something deeper.

As the evening unfolded, you found yourself painfully aware of Charlie's presence, of the way he seemed just a little too comfortable, a little too close. He wasn’t careless enough to raise suspicion, not with your family and half the parish sitting around the table, but there were moments—subtle, fleeting moments—that made your heart race.

It started with the way he looked at you. His eyes would linger a beat too long whenever you caught each other’s gaze across the table. He spoke politely to your parents, laughed at the right moments, even indulged your father’s long-winded stories about the church’s history. But every time he glanced your way, there was something beneath the surface. A smoldering awareness.

Then, there were his hands. When he passed you the breadbasket, his fingers brushed against yours. Not an accident, not something your parents would ever notice, but it was enough. The touch sent a shiver down your spine, and the heat in his gaze told you he knew exactly what he was doing. His thumb grazed your wrist in a way that made your breath hitch, and when you glanced up, he was already looking away, like it never happened. But you knew.

Charlie was being reckless, though not in an obvious way. His behavior was just subtle enough to keep from drawing attention, but to you, it was impossible to miss. His foot nudged yours beneath the table during dinner, a simple tap, but the look he gave you when your knees touched—it was almost too much. You could barely keep yourself composed, your mind spinning with the memory of him pushing you up against the door, his lips on yours.

"Father, would you like more wine?" your mother asked, completely oblivious to the tension simmering between you two.

Charlie smiled, nodding graciously as he held out his glass. "Just a little more, thank you."

As your mother poured, his eyes found yours again. This time, he didn’t look away, not immediately. The corner of his mouth quirked up, just enough to send your thoughts into overdrive. It was like a private joke, one that only the two of you understood. A secret dance of hidden touches, stolen glances, and unspoken words.

You tried to focus on your plate, on the conversation happening around you, but it was impossible. Every move he made felt like it was meant for you, no matter how small. When he reached for his napkin, his hand grazed your thigh under the table, just for a second, but it was enough to make your breath catch in your throat. You glanced at him in shock, and he gave you a sideways smile, the kind that spoke volumes without a single word.

He was playing with fire, and so were you.

Dinner stretched on, with your father telling more stories and your mother doting on everyone, but all you could think about was Charlie. The way he leaned back in his chair, his gaze sweeping the room, but always coming back to you. It was reckless, the way he was letting his guard down, letting you see the cracks in his calm facade.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” your father asked, drawing you out of your thoughts. His concerned gaze made your stomach tighten.

You forced a smile, nodding quickly. “Yes, just tired, I think. It’s been a long day.”

Your father patted your shoulder, satisfied with your answer, but when you glanced at Charlie, you saw the flicker of something dangerous in his eyes—something that told you he wasn’t tired at all. He was far from it.

As dessert was served, the tension between you two only grew. He was no longer pretending to keep his distance, not really. His foot stayed lightly pressed against yours under the table, and when your fingers brushed again as you passed him a dish, he let them linger, his thumb trailing over your knuckles for just a second too long.

The worst part? No one else noticed a thing.

Charlie was playing this game with expert precision—just enough to make your pulse quicken, but not enough to get caught.

As dessert came to an end, Charlie's eyes flickered towards you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. He had barely spoken directly to you the entire night, but now, it was like he couldn’t wait any longer. You were both playing this game, pushing the boundaries of how far you could go without crossing an invisible line—at least in front of everyone else.

"Could you show me where the coffee cups are?" Charlie asked, leaning back casually in his chair. His voice was calm, maybe even a little too casual, but you caught the subtle undercurrent of something more.

Your mother’s head turned slightly, her brow furrowing in mild confusion. "Father, you’ve been here enough times to know where they are, haven’t you?"

You held your breath, your pulse quickening at the way your mother’s question hung in the air. Charlie smiled smoothly, shaking his head.

"Ah, but every time I’m here, something’s moved around. You know how it is in a busy house," he said, chuckling lightly, the picture of a gracious guest. But his eyes were on you again, and you knew this wasn’t about coffee cups. Not even close.

"Of course," your mother laughed, brushing it off with a wave. "Go ahead, sweetheart, show Father Charlie where everything is."

Your heart was pounding as you rose from your seat, barely able to look at your parents. The room felt too small, too hot, like every eye was on you as you and Charlie stood up from the table. But when you glanced back, your father was already engrossed in another conversation, and your mother was busy with the dishes.

Charlie followed you into the hallway, his footsteps too close behind you. Your breath hitched as you led him toward the kitchen, trying to act natural, but the tension between you two was suffocating. You could feel his presence like a shadow, his gaze boring into the back of your neck as you rounded the corner.

The second you stepped out of view, his hand caught your wrist, pulling you to a stop. You spun to face him, heart racing, and before you could say a word, his body was pressing you back against the kitchen counter.

"Charlie—" you whispered, but he silenced you with a look, his breath coming fast and shallow.

"I couldn’t stand it any longer," he muttered, his voice low and thick with something dark. His hands came to rest on either side of you, trapping you against the counter, and you could feel the heat radiating from him. "I need you, baby..."

Your breath hitched as his fingers brushed the side of your face, and you felt your resolve start to crumble. You knew this was wrong—knew it with every fiber of your being—but Charlie’s lips were dangerously close to yours, his breath warm on your skin.

"You’ve been driving me insane," he whispered, his voice ragged, filled with a hunger he hadn’t bothered to hide anymore.

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the moment crushing down on you. There was still time to stop this, to step away, but you knew neither of you would. You had pushed each other too far, and now, there was no turning back.

"I know," you breathed, barely able to get the words out. "I’ve been waiting for you to crack."

A low groan escaped him, and before you knew it, his lips were on yours, hot and demanding. His hands slid down to grip your waist, pulling you flush against him, and the heat between you was overwhelming. It was reckless, dangerous, but it was also everything you had been waiting for.

The tension that had simmered all night finally broke, and you melted into him, your hands tangling in his hair as you kissed him back with the same desperation. His fingers dug into your hips, pulling you impossibly closer, and you couldn’t help but moan into his mouth.

Charlie pulled away just enough to press his forehead against yours, his breath ragged as he looked into your eyes. "Your parents are in the other room," he murmured with a small smirk, though the way he held you betrayed any thought of stopping.

You smiled up at him, your heart racing. "Then why can’t you stop?"

His jaw clenched, and without another word, he pulled you into another kiss, deeper this time, his hands exploring your body with a reckless abandon that sent a shiver down your spine. The world outside the kitchen, the family dinner, the church—it all melted away as you gave in to the dangerous pull between you.

Charlie pulled away for a second, his hand reaching up to grip your face harshly. "Dirty girl, aren't you?"

You couldn't help but laugh, your eyes never leaving his. "You started this, Charlie."

Charlie's grip tightened, and you felt the heat of his gaze searing into you, both intoxicating and possessive. He kissed you again, his mouth fierce, almost punishing, as if he couldn’t stand the space between you. Your back hit the counter, but the discomfort barely registered—he pressed his body into yours, and you gasped against his lips, a mixture of pleasure and anticipation flooding your senses.

His hands roamed, fingers tracing the curve of your waist before sliding beneath your shirt, the roughness of his palms igniting your skin. You felt him pause, as if savoring the feeling of you under his hands, and when he finally pulled back, it was only to whisper against your ear, his voice low and thick with desire. "You like this, don't you? Knowing we could get caught..."

You could barely think, your body burning with need. You bit your lip, your chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. "Isn’t that what you want?" you whispered back, your own hands sliding under his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin.

Charlie groaned, his grip on you tightening. His fingers found the hem of your jeans, teasing, as he trailed hot kisses down the side of your neck. "Always so defiant," he muttered, his breath warm against your skin. "But I’ll break you yet."

The intensity of his words sent a thrill through you, and you tilted your head back, giving him access to more of your neck as he kissed you, nipping at your skin, leaving a trail of marks behind. His hands, strong and demanding, finally dipped lower, and you gasped as his fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of your lower abdomen.

"Charlie," you whispered, your voice barely above a breath as your hands clutched at his shoulders, needing him closer, needing more.

Charlie’s breath was hot against your neck as his hands traveled lower, teasing the edge of your jeans. His fingers dipped just beneath the fabric, tracing your skin with maddening slowness. "Say my name again," he demanded, his voice husky and filled with dark need.

Your lips parted, a soft gasp escaping as his fingers toyed with you, just enough to make you squirm but not enough to satisfy the aching desire that built inside you. "Charlie," you breathed, your voice trembling, desperate.

His hand tightened around your waist, pulling you harder against him. "Louder," he growled, his lips brushing your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. He was taunting you, daring you to give in completely, and you could feel the power shift between you. You were no longer in control—he was, and the knowledge only heightened the tension.

You clenched your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, trying to keep your composure, but he wasn’t making it easy. His other hand slid to your throat, not choking but holding you in place, his grip firm as he pressed his lips against yours again, more demanding than before.

"You think you can push me, don’t you?" he muttered against your lips. "Make me lose control." His fingers slipped lower, brushing the spot that made your knees weak, and you gasped, unable to stop the flood of heat that rushed through you. He smiled, wicked and knowing, as if he could sense your surrender.

Your head fell back against the cabinet, your breathing ragged, your body burning under his touch. He tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze again, his eyes dark with lust and dominance. "But you're mine," he murmured, his voice a promise and a warning all at once. "And you’ll break before I do."

Your heart pounded in your chest as Charlie's words sank in, his hand at your throat tightening ever so slightly, just enough to remind you of his control. The intensity of his stare sent a shiver of anticipation through you, and you found yourself caught between the desire to challenge him and the undeniable pull of surrender.

"Are you sure about that?" you whispered, your voice soft but laced with defiance, the words barely slipping past your lips as you fought to maintain some control.

A dangerous smile tugged at the corner of Charlie’s mouth, his gaze flickering with something dark and unrelenting. "Oh, I’m sure," he said, his tone low and dripping with confidence. His fingers danced over the waistband of your skirt before slipping inside, his touch both teasing and commanding, and the heat pooling in your lower abdomen intensified, your breath hitching in response.

His fingers played with your panties, that were already soaked before slipping in a finger. You let out a soft hum, your head falling back on to the counter as your eyes squeezed shut. You tried to steady yourself, your grip tightening on his shoulders as you fought to stay grounded, but Charlie’s presence overwhelmed you.

His lips found the hollow of your throat, and he kissed his way down, each press of his mouth against your skin sending shockwaves through your body. When his finger moved deeper, the other brushing against your clit, your body betrayed you with a soft, needy whimper.

"That’s it," he murmured against your neck, his voice a low growl, filled with satisfaction at the sound. "Let me hear you."

The tension inside you built, every stroke of his finger pushing you closer to the edge, and you were losing the battle of resistance. Charlie’s hand tightened around your throat, not enough to hurt but enough to keep you locked in place, at his mercy. His breath was hot against your ear, his fingers moving in a rhythm that had you trembling.

"Tell me what you want," he demanded, his voice rough with desire.

Your mind was clouded, your body aching for release, but you bit your lip, fighting the words he wanted from you. The defiance only seemed to amuse him further, his grip tightening slightly. "Still holding out?" he asked, a dark chuckle escaping his lips. "You think you can win this game?"

Your heart raced, your body betraying you as you squirmed under his touch, and you knew you were close to breaking. His fingers moved with more purpose now, pushing you closer to the brink, and a gasp escaped you as your resolve began to crumble.

"I—" You could barely form the words, your body arching into him, desperate for more.

"Say it," he commanded, his voice a rough whisper. His fingers curled, hitting just the right spot, and the pleasure coursing through you was too much to bear.

"Charlie—please," you finally gasped, your voice breaking as you surrendered to him completely. "Make me cum."

A satisfied grin spread across his face, and he pressed his lips to yours in a bruising kiss, his hand finally giving you what you needed as his finger moved deeper and quicker. "Good girl," he whispered against your mouth, his voice dripping with possessive pride. "Cum for me."

That was all you needed to let out a shuddering moan, your knees falling weak as the knot in your lower stomach snapped. Charlie's hand covered your mouth quickly, the sound muffled by his large hand. After you rode out your high, Charlie's hand slipped out of your skirt as you caught your breath.

As if on cue, your mother came in with some dishes in her hand. There wasn't even a trace of suspicion in her expression, she was too busy with the dinner to even question why you two were taking so long and why you two were standing so close.

"Did you guys find the cups?" She asked with a sigh, loading the dishwasher with the dishes.

Charlie casually wiped his hand on his pants, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he hadn’t just had you unraveling under his touch moments before. His lips curved into a smirk, eyes glinting with amusement as he shot you a sideways glance. The contrast between your rapid breathing and his calm demeanor was infuriating. He knew exactly what he’d done to you—and he was reveling in it.

"Yeah," he said smoothly, his voice steady as ever. "We were just…looking for them."

You tried to compose yourself, struggling to regulate your breaths without drawing attention. Your legs still felt shaky, and the warmth of his body so close to yours lingered like a sinful reminder of what had just happened. You forced a smile, hoping your mother wouldn’t notice the flushed look on your face.

Your mother barely glanced at you two as she continued with the dishes, completely oblivious to the tension hanging thick in the air. "Great, we're just about to leave for service," she said with a tired sigh. "I’ll need your help with cleaning the table soon."

"Of course," Charlie responded, his voice filled with an edge of playful charm, though only you could hear the smug satisfaction underneath it all. He took a step closer to you, almost brushing his arm against yours as he reached up to grab the cups from the shelf. The proximity sent another wave of heat through you, and it took everything in you not to react visibly.

Your mother turned her back again, preoccupied with the dishwasher, and Charlie seized the opportunity. He leaned in ever so slightly, his breath warm against your ear as he whispered, "You’re going to have to work on that poker face, baby."

You shot him a sharp look, your body still buzzing from the intensity of earlier, and now his teasing only made it worse. The urge to wipe that smug look off his face was almost overwhelming, but you had no choice but to keep it together, your mother only a few feet away.

As he moved past you, you caught the faintest trace of amusement in his eyes. He knew how much power he held over you in that moment, and he wasn’t going to let you forget it anytime soon.

Your mother finally turned back to face you. "You okay, honey?" she asked, her brow furrowing slightly as she noticed you standing still by the counter. "You look a bit flushed."

You swallowed hard, fighting to find your voice. "Yeah, I'm fine, just a little warm in here," you lied, managing to give her a weak smile. "I'll help with the table."

Charlie glanced back at you, his smirk still firmly in place as he picked up the cups. His voice was smooth and casual, betraying nothing of the wickedness lurking beneath the surface. "I’ll take care of the rest," he said, shooting you a look that made your pulse quicken. "You just… relax."

Your mother nodded, oblivious. "Thanks, Charlie."

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rynwrites4fun · 2 months ago

Text

Eyes On Me (2) | Jack Abbot x Popstar ! Reader

Jack Abbot x f! Popstar ! Reader

Summary: It’s been almost a year since that night in Pittsburgh. You and Jack still hold tightly to the memory of it. After stepping away from the spotlight, you return with an EP titled Tethered, a raw and honest reflection of your mental health journey. Now, back in Pittsburgh, everything comes full circle when you find yourself in the ER, again.

Word Count: 5792

Warnings: Age Gap (mid 20’s/late 40’s or early 50’s,) Mentions of mental health struggles

Author's Note: Part 2!!! Thank you for all the love!!! I’m not sure how many parts this fic will have, but we’ll see. Lol I’m dead. I spent this week staying up late at night, busting this out because I’m impulsive. again sorry for any grammatical errors and/or inaccuracies. I’ll go through and fix it later. Tag list??? Let me know. Comment or message me if you wanna be on it. - ryn

East Coast / Pittsburg ER Night Shift 9:25pm

“Everyone’s favorite pop princess is back!”

It’s been almost a year since the pop star stepped away from the spotlight after collapsing backstage after performing her sold-out concert in Pittsburgh—the 22 out of 36 across North America. She was rushed to Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Hospital, where she was treated for extreme fatigue and exhaustion.

Shortly after, her team unexpectedly announced that the remainder of the tour was canceled, with plans to reschedule for future dates.

Just a few days later, the singer posted a heartfelt video on Instagram, opening up about her mental health struggles and her decision to take a step back in order to prioritize her well-being.”

Doctor Jack Abbot stood in the doorway of Exam Room 15, arms crossed. Inside, Doctor John Shen sat hunched over a patient’s foot, suturing needle suspended mid-air like he’d forgotten what he was doing. His eyes were fixed on the television mounted in the corner, where a glittering news segment about you played at full volume.

“An outpouring of support followed—and now, she’s back and ready to start again.

Just a little over a week ago, she teased her upcoming EP Tethered—her first post since announcing her break from the spotlight. Now, the highly anticipated project is set to drop in just a couple of weeks, marking not just a return to music, but a raw, intimate glimpse into the journey she’s been on since stepping away.”

Jack clicked the remote. The television turns black.

“Hey—I was watching that!” John protested, finally snapping out of it with a frown.

“Yeah, we were watching that,” the teenage patient echoed, craning her neck to stare at Jack.

“Are you planning to finish that suture today, or are we diagnosing patients with pop culture updates now?” Jack raised his eyebrows and he was slightly annoyed.

John rolled his eyes as he returned to the suture.

“Thought you’d want to know what she’s been up to lately—y’know, after everything.” He sideeyes Jack.

His tone was light, but the implication hung in the air—referencing what had happened months ago between Jack and you.

Jack had thought of you more than he cared to admit since that night. You kept slipping into his thoughts—uninvited, unexpected. He wondered if you were okay. If the weight you carried had gotten any lighter. If you’d found some kind of peace.

And now, it felt like the world wouldn’t let him forget. You weren’t just famous—you were inescapable. You’re everywhere.

He started noticing you in places he never had before.

Your music plays on the radio.

Your face flashing across the TVs.

Your eyes staring back at him from magazine covers and newspapers at the checkout line.

You are woven into the background of his daily life—like a habit he hadn’t realized he’d formed.

The patient raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.

“Wait— something happened between you and her?” she asked, glancing between the two doctors.

Her tone was casual, but her eyes lit up with the kind of interest reserved for celebrity drama.

Jack shot John a look—sharp and silent, the kind that spoke volumes. It was enough to make John glance away, the tension hanging in the air.

The moment passed quickly, and Jack returned to the patient’s chart, pretending to focus on the words in front of him. But his mind wasn’t really on the chart anymore. His grip on the chart tightened, just slightly.

“Nothing worth talking about,” he said, too quickly to sound convincing. John gave him a sideways glance but didn’t say anything as he continued to stitch.

The patient wasn’t buying it. “C’mon,” she pressed, grinning. “You totally knew her, didn’t you?”

Jack finally looked up, his expression unreadable.

“I treated her. One night. That’s all.”

He never mentioned what transpired between the two of you on the roof—not to anyone. Not even to Doctor Michael Robinavitch, his good friend, the one he told everything to.

He never told anyone how he’d told you he saw her—really saw you. How you opened up because of that, because he looked past everything the world expected you to be. And the flirting that had slipped into their conversations, soft and unexpected, blurring the lines between doctor and patient—those moments felt more intimate than they should have.

That was between him and you—his to keep. That night meant something. It stayed with him.He didn’t like talking about you. Not because it didn’t matter, but because it did. He keeps things close. What’s real, he guards. Some things aren’t meant to be shared.

Jack shoved the thought of you to the back of his mind, compartmentalizing. He had to focus on the dozen patients they were juggling, a constant reality of being short-staffed. They had to move quickly and work efficiently, no matter the strain.

“Doctor Shen, let’s stitch and go—we’ve got a waiting room that’s about to riot.”

And with that, he was gone.

—

West Coast / Los Angeles Therapy Session 6:25pm

“How have you been feeling lately?" your therapist asks during the video call.

You were in a better mindset since Pittsburgh. That night changed everything for you. You got the help you needed. You were still working through things—unpacking, unlearning, rebuilding. It was a process, but you had found moments of peace along the way.

“Okay… just nervous, I guess.” You toyed with the strings of my hoodie—Jack’s hoodie. You’d kept it since that night. You wore it whenever I needed grounding, like some sacred ritual. It hung loose on you, weighted in all the right ways.

His scent still lingered—clean soap, and something warmer, something him. It slowed your pulse, quieted the noise in your head.

It brought you back to the roof. To the way he looked at you, how our deep conversations slowly melted into flirty, playful banter. But mainly a quiet reminder that, just for a moment, you weren’t alone. You were seen.

“And what’s making you feel nervous?”

“I’m releasing an EP in a couple weeks called “Tethered”. It’s rooted in that night in Pittsburgh—what happened, what shifted—and everything that’s unfolded since. At its core, it’s about my ongoing healing journey. Honestly, it started as something just for me. I never thought it would see the light of day. But my team really encouraged me to share it.

“One of the songs off the EP, Eyes On Me.. its about…Jack”

Nobody knows about you and Jack—on the roof, beside your therapist. You never mentioned that he was a doctor. You knew the lines had blurred between the two of you in ways they shouldn’t have, but they did.

Your team sees the person you’re singing about in “Eyes On Me”—the one who witnessed your struggle, who saw you at your absolute lowest—as just a fictional creation, a character you invented for the song. They think it's all a metaphor, like it’s some kind of story you wrote to make sense of it all.

You swallow hard, the weight of your words lingering in the air.

"The thought of him hearing it... I can’t help but wonder what he’d think," you murmur, voice barely above a whisper. "If he heard the song... if he knew it was about that night, about him. Would he recognize it? Would he even remember me at all? It’s been almost a year since that night—the only time we met. I don’t even know if it meant the same to him. For me, it felt like something—something that stuck with me, something I’ll never forget. What if it didn’t matter to him the way it mattered to me? What if I’m the only one still holding on?"

A hollow laugh slips from you as you cover your face with your hands, trying to hide the vulnerability spilling out.

“I feel delusional,” you say through a cracked smile. “What am I even doing? Holding on to a moment that probably meant nothing to him…I only knew him for a couple of hours. I don’t really know anything about him, but there was just… something. A pull. I don’t know—” You shake your head, frustration rising, but the words still come out soft and unsure.

The therapist studies you for a moment, her expression calm and steady.

“That night clearly left a mark on you,” she says gently, her voice warm but not pushing. “And it’s okay to wish it meant something to him too. But the connection you felt—that was real. Your experience is valid, even if his was different.”

“I don’t know if I'll ever see him again…I'm headed back to Pittsburgh for a listening party for the EP... it feels like a full-circle moment. From that night when my mental health was at its lowest, to now, with all the growth and healing I've been through.”

“Sometimes, we don’t get closure with certain people, and that can be hard. But look at how far you’ve come. You’ve turned your pain into something beautiful—this EP is a true reflection of your resilience. That’s powerful. No matter what happens with him or that chapter, that strength and growth are yours, and no one can take that away from you.”

“I think this listening party isn’t just a celebration of your music—it’s a ceremony for your healing. Let it be both.”

—

ER Shift Change 7:00am

Doctor Michael Robinavitch approached the staff lockers, slowing when he noticed his friend seated nearby, thumbing through a magazine. Not just any magazine—that magazine. The one with the exclusive article about you.

He didn’t have to see the cover to know. He recognized the way Jack’s shoulders tensed, how his jaw clenched ever so slightly. Jack never really talked about you. Not out loud. Not often. What happened that night—what you meant—was a line he rarely crossed in conversation.

Jack was a private guy, especially when it came to certain things. You were one of them. Maybe the biggest one. Whenever your name came up, there was always a pause. A shift in his eyes.

Michael lingered for a moment, uncertain whether to speak, unsure if Jack would even welcome it. Some subjects, no matter how long it’s been, never lose their weight.

“You know didn’t peg you for a gossip mag guy,” teased, eyebrows raised as he hovered over Jack’s shoulder.

Startled, Jack shut the magazine he was reading at his locker with a sharp flick, the glossy pages snapping closed. Your face had been on the front cover—radiant, composed, and unmistakably you. Exclusive: ‘Tethered’ EP—A Raw Look Into Her Mental Health Journey

“I’m not—” he started, then stopped. He didn’t have a good excuse. Or maybe he didn’t need one.“Was just… flipping through,” he muttered, but the warmth in his ears gave him away. He rolled the magazine up in his hands.

Michael chuckled softly, not unkindly. Michael opened his locker to put his bag inside.

“Uh-huh, ‘just flipping through.’” He gave a small, knowing smile, shutting his locker closed.

Michael wasn’t stupid. He could tell there had been something between you two. The way Jack’s gaze softened when you kissed his cheek the morning you were discharged, the quiet look that lingered on his face long after you’d left—it was all too telling.

Michael realized that day somehow, Jack had a game. A pop star? Who knew?

“You know, I’m still impressed you managed to pull a pop star. Still trying to figure out how you pulled that off…” He raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself.

“That’s not what happened, Robby,” Jack’s voice held a hint of annoyance.

“Oh really? Because that goodbye you two had when she was discharged? That told me otherwise.” Michael leaned casually against the staff lockers, his eyes glinting with amusement. A teasing smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, as if he were savoring the quiet drama unfolding.

“You’re reading way too much into it.” He busied himself adjusting the strap on his backpack, eyes flicking anywhere but Michael.

“I’m calling what I see…There was something there, Jack. And if there wasn’t—if you didn’t feel anything—you wouldn’t still be following her career.” He gestured to the magazine. “Don’t try to deny it.”

Jack grabbed his backpack from his open locker, his hands a little too quick as he shoved the magazine inside, like it could somehow erase the evidence.

“That was almost a year ago.” He said it like he was trying to convince himself more than Michael. “People move on.” He shut his locker closed, jaw was tight, and he still wasn’t meeting Michael’s eyes.

“Clearly you haven’t”

“It was a moment! That's it. People have those. Doesn’t mean I’m still holding on.” He was lying to himself. He knew it. Michael knew it. But admitting it felt like giving something away—something private, fragile, still half-formed. Like handing over a piece of himself he hadn’t even figured out yet. Something he wasn’t ready to name, let alone explain.

The truth was, part of him felt stupid wishful thinking. Fantasizing about seeing you again.

If he had seen you—if by some miracle you were really here—then what? What was he supposed to do? What would he even say?

What would he want to happen?

You were a popstar, living a life worlds away from his own. Flashing cameras, tour buses, screaming fans. And he was just a doctor—steady, rooted, buried in shift schedules and hospital scrubs. You knew nothing about each other beside that.

Michael leaned against the locker beside him, arms crossed. “You know what the funny thing is, Jack? You keep saying it was just a moment—like that makes it mean less.”

Jack didn’t reply, just stared at the locker door like it had the answers he didn’t.

“But sometimes,” Michael continued, his voice softer now, “a moment is enough to change everything. Doesn’t matter if it lasted an hour or a lifetime. If it’s stuck with you this long, it wasn’t nothing. It’s okay to hold on to it.”

He glanced toward the hallway, then back at Jack.

“Hell, maybe she hasn’t let it go either.” He shrugs walking, leaving Jack standing alone.

—

Couple Weeks Later Somewhere in Pittsburg 12:00am

You were in a cozy, intimate setting for a secret listening party of your EP, Tethered. The lights were low, the air humming with anticipation, and the space—filled with warm glows from fairy lights and quiet chatter—felt more like a living room than a venue. You’d invited a small group of your day-one fans to share this moment with you, the ones who had been there through every rough demo, late-night live, and cryptic lyric drop.

“Thank you all for being here,” you said, stepping up with a soft smile, your voice carrying just enough nervous excitement to make the moment feel even more real. Kind of a full circle moment to be back here..”

“All the tracks on Tethered are really personal to me,” you began, eyes scanning the room, landing briefly on a few familiar faces. “But Eyes on Me... that one’s the heartbeat of the whole thing. It was the first song I wrote for the EP—and, honestly, it’s the reason the EP even exists.”

You paused, pulling Jack's hoodie back up your shoulder.

“It’s about what it means to be truly seen by someone,” you said softly. “Not just looked at, not just watched—but seen. All these eyes are on me, you know? But they… they’re the only ones who really see me. Past the noise. Past the stage. Past the version of me I sometimes feel I have to be.”

“This EP… it captures what happened. What shifted. Everything that’s unfolded since I took a step back. At its core, it’s about my healing journey. It’s messy, it’s raw, it’s honest. It’s a piece of myself… that I’m finally ready to share.”

You let the words linger, settling into the quiet that followed. Then you looked up, offering a small, almost shy smile—like you were still getting used to being that open, that scene.

“Anyway… I hope you hear something in it that speaks to you. That makes you feel less alone.”

And with that, the first notes began to play.

ER Nightshift 12:00am

Surprisingly, it was a calm night at the ER. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead, casting a steady glow, an unexpected peace hanging in the air. John sat at one of the computers in central, nodding along to music.

Jack knew John was probably listening to something during the rare downtime before they inevitably got slammed, but he didn’t pay it much attention. Jack was rummaging through some file cabinets when he heard it.

All these eyes on me,But you're the one who truly sees.

Jack froze. He’d heard those words before. He turned around. His eyes narrowed at the computer monitor where John sat, absorbed in the music. The EP cover glowed from the open tab: Tethered. Track four: Eyes on Me. Your anticipated new music.

He read the title. Read it again. Listening to the words, his chest tightened. His throat went dry.

All these eyes on me,But you're the one who truly sees.On this roof, in quiet space,We connect beyond time and place,With every glance, a playful tease,In your gaze, I find my ease.

It wasn’t just a song. It wasn’t subtle. Every line peeled back something buried deep—something from that night.

He knew this one all too well, even though he was only hearing it for the first time now. And it was about him. You’d written a song about him. For all to hear.

He didn’t know how to feel.

Part of him wanted to smile—to let that flicker of warmth rise in his chest, because it meant the moment mattered. It wasn’t fleeting or imagined. You’d remembered the rooftop. The quiet. Him.

But another part—the louder one—felt exposed, like a curtain had been yanked back on something he's hiding. And suddenly, it felt like the whole ER, maybe even the whole world, could see a piece of him he hadn’t meant to share.

It was beautiful. And it was too much.

“Are you good?” John side-eyes Jack and furrows his brows.

Jack didn’t answer. It felt like everything he’d kept buried was now out in the open, like someone had drawn a map to his heart and handed it to the world.

Jack swallowed hard, trying to push the knot in his throat down. It’s just a song, he reminded himself. But the weight of it—the rawness—was impossible to ignore. He had been okay when it was just a memory. Just something in his head. But hearing it, hearing it out there, made it real in a way he wasn’t ready for.

“I’m fine,” Jack said finally, the words tumbling out too quickly to be convincing. He continues rummaging through the file cabinets. His voice was tight, strained. “Just... processing.”

John raised an eyebrow, studying Jack carefully. “Processing?” he echoed, his gaze shifting from Jack’s rigid shoulders to his face, searching for something more than just a surface reply.

Jack nodded, though it felt hollow, like an answer he wasn't fully sold on himself. “Yeah. Processing.”

John let out a small, knowing sigh. "Okay, sure… 'Processing.'" He wasn’t fooled. He knew this routine well—had seen it before. Jack’s way of shutting down, of keeping things locked behind that wall

“Don’t,” Jack muttered as he grabbed the file he was looking for. He knew that John knew the song—the one John was playing—was about him and Jack could feel the unspoken words hanging in the air.

“Hey, I didn’t say anything,” John said, raising his hand in mock surrender. His eyebrows lifted in teasing challenge, and he swiveled his chair back to face the computer screen. He took a sip from his paper cup, the straw making a faint squeak as it drained the last of his drink. “But, you know… it’s not every day you get a song written about you by a pop star,” John added, his voice light, but the glint in his eyes told a different story.

Annoyed, Jack glanced over his shoulder, giving John a hard stare. He let out a heavy sigh, shaking his head in frustration. Without saying a word, he slammed the file cabinet shut, the sound sharp in the quiet ER.

He turned on his heel and walked out, his footsteps echoing in the hallway.

“Oh, come on, Jack—don’t be like that,” John called after him, a smirk tugging at his lips. “It’s just a little joke. Besides, it’s kinda cool, right? A song written about you. That’s not something most people can say.”

John leaned back in his chair, glancing over his shoulder, still trying to gauge Jack’s mood. “I mean, if it were me, I’d be riding that wave for weeks. But hey, you do you.”

—

A Few Days Later, Pittsburg 3:50pm

You were getting lunch, walking through Pittsburgh, when it all went down. A few paparazzi spotted you—nothing unusual. You even chatted with them for a minute, trying to keep things light. But it got out of hand fast. Word must’ve spread that you were in town after the secret listening party, and before long, more and more cameras swarmed you. What started as a few polite questions turned into a frenzy. You’d been laying low for several days, but it seemed like the buzz had finally caught up to you.

It had been almost a year since you’d been in the spotlight, so you understood the interest—but this? This was overwhelming. Shouting. Flashbulbs. A sudden wave of bodies. Your anxiety builds quickly.

Somehow, you slipped away from the crowd and darted down a narrow alley, desperate to get a moment to breathe. But as you rounded a corner, your foot caught on something and you tripped hard. Pain shot through your ankle as you landed, and you let out a sharp gasp. Trying to get up, you realized your ankle wouldn’t hold. You fumbled for your phone, hands shaking, and called an Uber to get you to the nearest hospital.

The ride blurred by. You leaned your head against the window, trying not to cry—not just from the pain, but from feeling cornered. The chaos. The feeling that even the sidewalk had turned on you. But you cried—that slow, quiet kind of crying that sneaks out despite your best efforts. The kind that doesn’t ask for attention but slips down your cheek anyway.

Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center loomed ahead. You shifted, biting your lip as you left the car.

Inside, the fluorescent lights felt too bright, the antiseptic smell sharp in your nose. Nurses moved briskly. Voices echoed down hallways.

Jack

The thought hit before you could stop it. You knew he only worked nights, and this was hours too early for him to be here. Still, your eyes searched the faces of passing staff, your heart betraying you with the tiniest sliver of hope.

You limped into the ER, leaning heavily on your left foot, each step sending sharp jolts of pain up your leg. At the triage desk, the nurse barely acknowledged your presence, her eyes fixed on the clipboard in front of her as she asked in a flat, uninterested tone, “Name?”

You took a breath, forcing yourself to stay calm. You give your name. “I think I sprained my ankle?” you muttered, unsure— the words feeling insignificant against the noise in your head.

She scribbled something down and pointed to a row of empty chairs. “Take a seat, please. We’ll get to you soon.”

You lowered yourself slowly into a chair, still trying to steady your breath. The pain in your ankle was sharp and constant, each throb a reminder. You glanced around the room, your mind scattered. The waiting area was quiet, filled only with the low hum of fluorescent lights.

You were a little worried someone might recognize you. But no one looked up. Everyone had their own problems—sick, injured, too wrapped up in their own pain to care.

It felt like hours, but finally, they called your name. The nurse rolled over a wheelchair and carefully helped you into it, the cold wheels rolling over the linoleum floor. You winced slightly as your foot shifted.

They rolled you into the ER, the sterile smell of antiseptic and the quiet hum of machines filling the air. The fluorescent lights above pass in a blur. As the wheel chair rolled down the hallway, your eyes drifted to a large medical room where a team of doctors clustered around someone in critical condition, working fast, urgent.

And that’s when you saw him.

Doctor Jack Abbot—the man you thought about almost every day since that night, months ago.

Even beneath the blue paper gown, gloves, and safety glasses, you knew it was him. The way he moved. The shape of him. The salt-and-pepper curls. He worked with steady, practiced urgency, surrounded by other doctors, trying to save a life.

And then, as if he felt someone watching, he looked up—through the glass doors—and his eyes met yours.

Your breath hitched. Your heart stopped. Your mouth slightly agape as you stared.

It felt exactly like the first time your laid eyes on each other—like time had slowed just for the two of you. But this time, it didn’t just slow. It stopped completely. Everything else faded away.

He looked away… but then did a double take.

Did he recognize you?

For a moment, he froze—still in the middle of it all, just staring. But then something pulled him back to the moment, to the patient, to the life in his hands.

The nurse guided the wheelchair to a small exam area and helped you settle into the exam bed.

“Just a moment, a doctor will be right in with you” she said, her tone soft but brisk, before she disappeared through the door, leaving you alone in the sterile, quiet room.

You leaned back on the propped but exam bed, trying to focus on your breathing, but it wasn’t easy. The sharp pain in your foot made it hard to keep your thoughts clear. You couldn’t tell if it was the physical discomfort or the rush of emotions that had hit you when you saw him just now—maybe it was a little bit of both. A strange mix of relief and anxiety twisted inside you, and for a moment, you just closed your eyes, trying to steady yourself.

You saw him. You thought about this moment countless of times. What’s gonna happen? What is he gonna say or do? Countless questions swirled in your mind.

“Hi, I’m Doctor Robinavitch,” he says, distracted, eyes scanning your chart.

Your eyes shoot open, snapping you out of your racing thoughts.

“—everyone just calls me Dr. Robby. What seems to be the—”

He stops mid-sentence the moment he looks up and sees your face.

“It’s you—”

You offer a small, uncertain smile, assuming he recognizes you from TV or a magazine. “Yeah…”

But then he says it—casually, like it’s obvious.

“Jack’s girl.”

Jack’s girl? Oh, you shouldn’t like the sound of that. But the way your heart reacts says otherwise.

“Um… I’m sorry?” Your eyes widen, unsure how to respond.

Michael blinks, the words hanging in the air heavier than he meant them to be. He hadn’t planned to say that out loud.

Jack’s girl.That’s what he’d called you in his head for months—the pop star with the lingering presence, the one his friend never really talked about, but never quite let go of either. She had written a song about Jack.

Even if it was just one night. Even if it happened almost a year ago. The impact of it still echoed, apparently, in both of you.

Michael clears his throat, shifting slightly. “Sorry—”

“I think you know my friend… Dr. Abbot, right?” he asks, even though he already knew the answer.

“Yeah,” you say softly.

“I remember you,” he says, studying you a little more closely now. “From the morning you were discharged. The sparkly boots, the whole vibe… hard to forget.” He chuckles. “You were also wearing—”

His gaze drops to the hoodie you’re wearing. Recognition sparks in his expression.

“That hoodie, actually,” he says, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Jack’s hoodie.”

Your face falls, heat rushing to your cheeks. A wave of embarrassment crawls up your neck. For a split second, you wish the floor would crack open beneath you and swallow you whole. It felt like being exposed—like something intimate had slipped into the open before you were ready to claim it.

“You still have the hoodie you stole…” Michael teases, crossing his arms.

“I didn’t steal it,” you say quickly, fiddling with the strings self-consciously at . “I… borrowed it.”

He chuckles, clearly enjoying this a little too much. “Right. I borrowed it. For, what—almost a year?”

That’s when Michael understood—really understood. He saw it in the way you fiddled with the hoodie strings—absentminded, protective. It wasn’t just something you threw on. It was a memory you hadn’t let go of.

He smiled, quietly, as if he knew something unspoken.

It wasn’t just a fleeting encounter between you and Jack. There was something deeper there, something unfinished. Something still waiting to be figured out. A connection neither of you had let go of, even after all this time.

Michael notices the way your expression tightens, the puffiness in your eyes, how your fingers keep fidgeting with the strings of the hoodie.

He gives a small nod, almost to himself, then clears his throat. “Anyway,” he says, pivoting smoothly, “What seems to be the problem?’

Robby glances down at your ankle, then back up at you, his expression soft but tense.

You shift uncomfortably. “I was running,” you mumble, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear.

He doesn’t say anything for a second, just looks at you, reading between the lines. He knows.

“Let me guess—press?” he asks, voice calm but edged with concern.

You nod, sniffling and wiping some tears.

You explain what happened as he examines it.

“You really shouldn’t be out there alone,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. Then, meeting your eyes, he adds, “You okay?”

You shake your head, honesty breaking through.

“It was scary,” you admit quietly. “I haven’t felt that much anxiety in a long time.”

He’s gentle when he lifts your leg, supporting it with one hand while the other presses, prods, checks. His touch is clinical, but careful—like he knows how much more than your ankle might be hurting right now.

He doesn’t rush. Don't talk just to fill the space. He gives you the silence, like it’s something he knows you need.

After a minute, he meets your eyes. “Doesn’t feel broken. Probably a sprain. We’ll get an X-ray to be sure.” He grabs your chart and starts taking notes down.

You nodded. You needed to think about something else, to calm your nerves.

Fiddling with your sleeves, you brought up Jack.

“I… I thought Doctor Abbot worked nights?” you asked, trying to sound casual, but your voice betrays you—too soft, too curious.

“I just… I didn’t think he’d be here” you murmured, more to yourself than to Michael.

“You saw him,” Michael stated.

"He and a few other doctors were working on someone when the nurse was rolling me in.”

Ah, Michael thought. The construction worker who fell. He’d gone off the scaffolding—twenty feet, more.

“He mainly works nights. but shows up when no one expects him to. Picks up day shifts sometimes when we’re short… or when he’s restless.”

Michael doesn’t say more. Jack was already unraveling, barely keeping it together. Ever since your song about him came out, Jack's been burying himself in work—double shifts, anything to stay distracted. He'd been running on fumes for days, and now this?

If Jack had seen you when you saw him, he was probably already internally freaking out as he worked on the patient in the trauma room, Michael thought. And once Jack found out you’d been chased down and hurt? That would be the thing to finally push him over the edge. His friend is going to combust.

—

“He’s stable,” a nurse called out, eyes on the monitor. “BP’s 122 over 78. Holding steady.”

Jack exhaled, blood still on his gloves, sweat at his temple. The last thirty minutes had been a race—working to stop internal bleeding on a construction worker who’d fallen from scaffolding.

“Dr. Abbot, you good?” John asked, adjusting the ventilator. “You zoned out for a second back there.”

“I just…” he swallowed hard, his voice barely a whisper. “I… I thought I saw someone—”

Jack froze mid-movement, halfway through peeling off his gown. His eyes flicked toward the glass doors across the ER. Was his mind playing tricks on him? He’d been working nonstop lately, trying to distract himself. Now, because he was so exhausted, he was starting to think he was seeing things — but not just anything. He was seeing you.

“Just— find me if something changes”

He stripped off his gown and gear, tossed them into the hazard bin, and pushed through the double swinging doors of the trauma room, heading straight for the triage board.

When he reached the triage board, his eyes immediately scanned for your name. And there it was—East Wing, Exam Room 15.

His breath hitched, and he swallowed hard, his jaw tightening.

“What?” he whispered to himself, his eyebrows furrowing.

Even as your name stared back at him, his mind refused to accept it. He blinked twice, as though trying to clear some phantom fog, but nothing changed. It couldn’t be you. There was no way. His pulse quickened, his instincts warring with the impossible thought that somehow, despite everything, it was you.

What were you doing in Pittsburgh? What the hell were you doing in his ER?

He was hoping—praying—you weren’t at rock bottom again, despite all the press about you being in a better place since then.

His mind spun through a hundred possibilities, each more reckless than the last.

With a deep breath, he made his way down the hall to the East Wing. As he approached Exam Room 15, he heard Michael’s voice, followed by the unmistakable sound of your laugh.

He paused for a split second at the door, a knot of disbelief tightening in his chest, then pushed it open with haste And there you were. It was you.

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