#and there's still quite a bit to do for it | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

stzrgirl4norris · 12 hours ago

Text

This One's For Your Girlfriend - MV01

Max Verstappen x Reader

summary: what is the best way to get revenge out of your cheating boyfriend? simple answer. date his favorite driver.

word count: 7k

(this is a smau and story at the same time)

thank you to everyone who motivated me to write this!! i hope you like it!!

tagged: @star73807-blog, @lillacisbored, @fastlikeferrari, @clearlandchild, @canyon-nina, @folkloresreputation, @kasiewrites, @camilahpg03, @luvsforme, @tsnelf7, @littlegrapejuice, @athanasia-day, @themultifanshipper, @ecleticcreatorweaselsalad, @lilasthoughtss

The bitter taste of Vodka burning on your throat couldn’t mask the erratic rhythm of the drums pounding in your ears. On a good note, the song was so loud it was impossible for you to focus on anything - you can also blame that for the alcohol running in your bloodstream.

It was Monaco. Glorious, glamorous, the country of clubs and billionaires, where, even if you were poor, you were still filthy rich.

You were sure you would be enjoying yourself, had it not been the unfortunate circumstances on your pathetic private life. It was supposed to be a couple’s trip, fancy, much like a honeymoon. You wanted to surprise your boyfriend - well, ex-boyfriend - with tickets to the Monaco race for his birthday, but before you could even wrap a cute baby blue ribbon around the Paddock Passes, you received a text - or rather a picture - from a random girl on your instagram DM’s. The image was clear, your boyfriend was locking lips with some blonde on a random Thursday night. You didn’t know the girl who sent it, maybe she was your guardian angel, maybe someone who knew you from college. It didn’t matter. What truly mattered was the pain breaking your bones, followed by the anger twisting your upper stomach.

He tried to reach out and explain himself, but there was nothing that could free him from the charges once the proof was so unquestionable.

After that, every time you looked at those stupid Paddock Passes you thought about burning them, alongside a few of his t-shirts. But your rational brain was always something you were proud of. Why burn them if you can just enjoy the perks?

Were you a big Formula 1 fan? No shot. It all started off as a way of pleasing your ex on Sundays, and then it quite became an unspoken tradition. You didn’t know all the drivers names, only the ones that won most of the time, and you still couldn’t figure out if Lewis Hamilton was a Mercedes or a Ferrari driver. And, wait, where was Daniel Ricciardo? The thing is, it was never about the sport, to you, it was only about the quality-time in the relationship.

However, with all your apathetic knowledge of races and Grand Prixs, you knew one important thing, Max Verstappen. Your ex’s favorite driver. God, you even had t-shirts with his number on it. You rooted for him, because your boyfriend did. So, now that there was no boyfriend, you wanted Max Verstappen to actually crash his car on Turn 1. Sure, maybe it was a little bit mean to project your anger on a guy who is just doing his job, but the rage inside of you was so sharp that everything your boyfriend once loved, became what you now hate. So what if Max Verstappen is one of those things? He doesn’t know you.

The arrival to Monaco was chaotic. There was no way of getting to it by plane, so you had to spent an unholy amount of euros on an Uber ride. At least you got a chance to ride on a fancy white Jaguar that only existed on a parallel reality to yours.

You packed your best clothes, fancy satin dresses, short flowy skirts, the ones you’ve been saving most of your life for that special occasion that never really arrived. Now it was the time. Young, single, enjoying the salty air of Monte Carlo. You wanted to make sure no one knew you’ve been through a break up and you thought you were doing a good job, but, God, every corner of that country screamed your ex’s name.

Maybe a night out in a club before Qualifying would do you good. From the outside perspective, you looked stunning. Goddess-like. Everyone could tell you were not from Monaco, because there was something about you that stood out from that dystopian place, something which some might like to call a personality. No designer brands sticking out, no fake anything, no trying too hard, just a simple but effective beauty.

“Would you like another shot?”

The bartender’s loud voice overlapped the electronic beat. You looked down at the empty glass shot between your fingers. The image brought back the unbearable taste of Vodka, which made you involuntarily twist your lips.

“Uh… Sure.”

You nodded, but the hesitation was dripping from your lips.

“Maybe you should make her something she actually enjoys drinking.”

You heard the masculine voice coming from your right side. The sentence was filled with confidence, mixed with a sense of humor that was dry. You didn’t dare to look at the man, you were not looking for one, in fact, you much preferred if they were far away from you.

“And how do you know what I like to drink?”

Your answer just slipped your tongue, it was supposed to stay in your thoughts. But that was the Vodka effect. Maybe the stranger was right, you should stop.

“Feisty.” You rolled your eyes. “But no one actually likes the taste of that shit.”

“Well, I’m not drinking for the taste of anything.”

You looked to your right, over your shoulder, with annoyance tattooed on your face. And then you saw him. Black t-shirt, fitted jeans, black cap backwards. Piercing blue eyes. Looking like a frat boy from a sorority or someone from high school you’d have a crush on from afar.

“You could still get drunk on Gin and Tonics and they taste pretty nice. Trust me.” He gave you a polite smile, lips closed. “I’m Max.”

You had to use your sober side to control any facial expression in that moment. Must the universe play such twisted games with you? Does God actually believe you’re one of his strongest soldiers?

It was unwitting the way you relaxed your posture once you managed to understand what was going on. Blame it on the celebrity halo effect. It was like he pushed all your negativity out of the club, even the songs sounded decent now.

He did not look this hot on tv.

“I’m YN.”

He nodded and you noticed his grin. Wild. Trouble.

“So… Gin and Tonics?” He shook the glass cup on his right hand, the ice cubes making a light sound.

“I think I will actually just stop with the drinking.”

Because you wanted to remember every single aspect of that interaction so you could journal it and send it on a letter to your ex-boyfriend. See? I’m talking with Max Verstappen and you’re just dreaming about getting a glimpse of him.

“You are not from around here.”

He wasn’t asking, it was a statement. You didn’t know if you should take it the wrong way, if you looked so pathetically poor or outcasted, but his tone didn’t seem to imply this. Max was curious. He didn’t ask to offend, he asked with admiration.

“Damn, do I look that poor?”

You joked, getting a silent laugh from him.

“No, not at all! I meant it in the best way.” Max looked at the crowd of people dancing around, instantly making you pay attention to it too. The girls were well dressed, out of this world, like the Met Gala happened everyday here. You noticed, but never really paid that much attention. But, honestly, it’s not like you were self-conscious about it. Who care? In a few days you would leave and they would never see you again. “Everyone here is wearing some designer of some sorts, or glitter, or insanely high heels and expensive watches. You’re wearing flat sandals and you hair is beach wavy.”

You blushed, feeling suddenly overwhelmed with the fact that he analyzed you with caution.

“Don’t get me wrong, I would wear Louboutin’s if I had them.” Truth is, there was a part of you that think you would have fun in this lifestyle. There’s nothing wrong with dressing fancy and wearing designer, as long as you’re doing it for the fun and not to show off. “But, following your logic, you’re wearing a plain black tee and backwards cap.”

He raised his now empty glass. Max was never one to flaunt wealth in his fashion. He wasn’t, actually, a fashion guy. He was the type of guy who enjoyed spending his money on other people, or at least on things to do, things to get him out of boredom.

“Am I supposed to be wearing something else?”

“Maybe some RedBull merch?”

That got a loud laugh out of him. That was it for Max. He was officially invested in this. You knew who he was, yet you were still treating him like he was just some random guy flirting with you in a club. Of course, a guy you were minimally interested in. There was no starry admiration in your eyes, just plain acknowledge of his presence.

“A-ha. So you do know who I am.”

“I think everyone in Monaco this weekend knows who you are.”

You didn’t know your words caused his chest to tighten a bit. But, of course, it wasn’t your fault. You weren’t aware of his issues with his public presence and persona. No one was, actually. Max never really said out loud how he hated being famous, although he thought his private manners spoke it loudly for him.

You noticed, however, his shoulders tensed up a bit and the air between you was slightly heavier.

“Are you here for the race, then?”

“It’s a funny, long, too much information type of story…”

You opened the breach. Were you planning on telling about your disaster of a dating life to Max Verstappen? Never in a million years, but he looked like the guy who needed to hear some common human issues. Max craved normality, you could read that. So you were going to give it to him.

“Hm, now you will have to tell me.” Max looked around, aware of the discomfort coming from the loud, stupid electronic track that he actually would like if the sound of your voice wasn’t ten times more interesting. “Follow me.”

Max had no problem walking through the crowd, people would just simply open the space he needed to pass, like he was the prince of Monaco himself, some authority figure that could go anywhere and get anything. That part of his fame he liked it, there was no denying.

You held his hand firmly, like you’d be dropped at the ocean if you let go. His skin was rough and firm, with a few calluses. Hands that could break you if you allowed. The pressure he was applying on your palm was like a reassurance.

You followed Max to what looked like a private room, with a few booths, away from all the noise. The light was dim and yellow, moody, a typical place for flirting. Not necessarily romantic, though. The energy emanating was too sensual to allow space for any fairytale date.

Around you, you could see a few recognizable faces. Celebrities, models with old men, drivers. Lewis Hamilton particularly caught your eye, sitting in a booth, listening to a blonde girl talking. Unlike everybody else who seemed mesmerized by Max’s presence, Lewis didn’t care, in fact, he didn’t even acknowledged your existence, like he was above you, or Max. Truth is, he probably was.

Max guided you to a place in the corner, far away from the others, isolated. It felt like a calculated move. The dutch waited like a gentleman for you to sit down first, taking his seat right in front of you. The black table separating you with a single candle lit by a lonely flame wasn’t enough distance, it felt unduly intimate.

“So… What is the too much information, funny, story?”

He took a sip of his drink, that by now consisted in mere melted ice cubes with whatever was left of a lemon.

“I bought the tickets a few months ago, as a gift, for my boyfriend.” You saw Max’s lips curling in a smirk once you said the infamous word. “Now ex-boyfriend.” The emphasis on the first half of the word was deliberate.

“Tough breakup?”

“I found out he cheated on me through pictures that were sent on my Instagram Directs.”

Max tilted his head, he was convinced that something similar probably happened to him once.

“Well, first of all, I’m sorry, he’s a douche.” You brushed it off, a shoulder movement that made explicit that you were, somehow, almost over it. “Second, you said it was funny.”

“Well, here’s the funny part. I never liked Formula 1. No offense.”

“Non taken.”

“But Peter was, like, obsessed with it. He knew everything, about everything. He had merch, lego cars, watched countless races in person, and the ones he couldn’t attend, he watched on Tv. Never missed a single one.”

Max laughed. Your description of his behavior wasn’t news to him, it sounded like just the average Formula 1 fan, but maybe that was the view from the public who had no idea how much passionate sports fan can be.

“So you bought him Monaco tickets. That’s sweet.”

“When we broke up I contemplated selling the tickets and getting my money back. But why would I do that when I could live the experience he always dreamt of?”

Your comment sparked something in Max’s chest. You were feisty, he could see you had a fire in you. He recognized, somewhere in your eyes and demeanor, that you had the rage and determination he only truly saw in himself.

“So you flew out here?”

“Hoping I could see his favorite driver crash and send a video to him.”

“And who’s that?”

“You.”

Max tilted his head, narrowed his eyes. The fact that you just admitted you were hoping he would crash didn’t even bother him, because the confidence and malice in how you said it, turned him on. It’s like you were a challenge, unlike any other person he ever met. He wasn’t offended by anything you said, he was, on the other hand, completely captivated.

“I’m sorry to break it to you, sweets, I’m not going to crash just so you could get revenge on your pathetic ex-boyfriend.”

You giggled, feeling a rush of goosebumps with the nickname that escaped his lips so naturally, like it was something easy for him to say.

“No, I know. I guess talking to you is enough revenge already.”

You said the word talking, but both of you knew that wasn’t simply it. The air was denser and filled with dirty thoughts both of you had crossing your mind.

“Yeah, except he’ll never know you are here talking to me.”

You shrugged.

“It’s okay. Sometimes revenge is not about a public act, but an act of self gratification.”

Maybe it was the Vodka hitting, maybe it was how beautiful Max’s eyes looked when they were reflecting eroticism, or maybe it was just the confidence that you packed and brought it out like a hidden gun, but your words were explicit enough for him to understand the double meaning.

“So, since plan A is not going to work, your plan B is fucking your boyfriend’s favorite driver and what? Send him a sextape?”

Max was joking, clearly, but every time he thought back about it, he realized he wasn’t opposed to the idea at all.

You raised an eyebrow, as if daring him to agree to a plan HE was the one who created. You never said anything about a sex tape, or sex, at all. Turns out Max Verstappen had the devil in his mind, especially when confronted with a beautiful girl.

“Look, I can’t give you a crash, or a sextape…” He let the phrase prolong, like he had something to add. “But I can give you something else.”

You narrowed your eyes, tempted.

“And what is that?”

“Come to the RedBull garage this weekend, with me. I’ll make sure he sees you.”

You were out of breath for a moment, nearly choking on air. Your mind racing with ideas and ‘what-ifs’. Being on the spotlight was never your thing. Normal job, normal clothes, normal apartment, you would even call yourself basic. Simple. And there was nothing wrong with that. You liked the shadows, you liked doing your own thing without strangers lurking and noticing. It gave you a sense of freedom. If you were not in the spotlight, no one could judge and you could do what your heart truly desired.

Being in the RedBull garage with Max would change everything, your whole way of living. Because once you are seen in public with a guy like him, people never forget. It would give you a new identity, people would gossip, comment on your appearance, on your manners. It was too much.

Max could see the hesitation emanating from you, which sort of made him like you even more. Any girl would jump onto that opportunity, but you seemed actually worried about the consequences.

“I don’t know, Max. He’s not the only one who’s going to see me. People will talk.”

“So?”

“People will gossip. About me.”

“Who cares about what other people think?” You didn’t answer. Of course Max Verstappen didn’t care about other people, he didn’t have to, he would still be successful and talented regardless of what people would say, and he would still be adored. Because unlike you, he had an army of a fanbase to support him. “Look, YN, you’re not going to show up as my girlfriend or anything, people bring guests to the Paddock all the time. It’s really nothing if you think about it, and it will give you exactly what you need.”

Max promised to himself he wasn’t going to push if you said no. But he legitimately wanted you there, not only for the revenge or the ploy around your love life, but so that he could spend a little bit more time with you.

“I suppose we can try tomorrow and if it goes well, I’ll be there on Sunday too.”

Max smiled, ear to ear, a rare Max Verstappen smile journalist would be fighting over a picture. But it was natural and real, like the ones he had when he held his trophies.

“I have a condition though.”

“Oh, a second ago you were begging for me to agree to this, and now you have conditions?”

“I was not begging.” He kinda was though. “And I am the one doing you a favor, so, yes, I have a condition.”

You smirked.

“Ok, let’s hear it.”

“A date on Sunday night, after the race.”

Max had a dirty smirk hidden on the corner of his lips, which made your stomach twist with a familiar sensation you couldn’t quite name it.

“To celebrate your win?” You teased.

“To celebrate both our wins.”

Licking your lips, you couldn’t help but look at him like you were no better than any man. A date with a cute guy who was actually interesting and had a spark of evilness that matched you? Yeah, no one could refuse that.

“You better not crash then.”

Max laughed, relaxing his posture.

“I’m too good for crashing.”

You gave him your left hand, waiting for a shake, like sealing a deal between two powerful businesses.

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

yourusername added to their story

"won't you guess where i am?"

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆Saturday˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

As soon as qualifying was done, you heard the whispers, from celebrities on the Paddock, from members of the RedBull team, even drivers and their girlfriends. Everyone was polite, cordially polite, but no one dared to ask your name, that day you were simply “the girl that came with Max.” Little did you know people were dying to unravel the mystery surrounding your persona. Who are you? How do you know Max? Are you and Max dating? It made you nervous.

You felt isolated. It was another reality, the people were so rich you were certain they didn’t know what working 9 to 5 felt like, or how it feels to get recognized for your ideas. At least, you had to admit that watching the whole thing in person was way more fun than on TV. Something, perhaps, you could start enjoying.

You were standing alone next to a window in RedBull’s hospitality, holding a glass of champagne that felt rude to decline. The room suddenly lit up, you heard loud claps all around, whistles buzzing. Between the fancy dresses and expensive t-shirts, you saw Max, walking with confidence, like he was royalty.

Max politely smiled and shook hands with everybody congratulating him. Pole sitter. In Monaco. A big thing, from what you learned. However, the excited strangers and members of the team were not able to stop Max from walking straight to you, like he had a duty, like getting pole position was a purpose.

“Hello there, pretty.”

He smiled and you noticed how his features softened. Max was sweaty, hair messy, racing suit falling over his hips. You cursed. God damn it that man was breathtaking. Everything got even worse when he hugged your shoulders, placing a gentle, shy kiss on your cheeks. The room fell silent as everyone paid close attention to Max Verstappen being tender.

“Congratulations!”

“Did you enjoy it?”

You smiled, big, setting off an involuntary reaction on Max, that mimicked your smile as well.

“Way better than from home.”

“Any news?”

Max asked shamelessly, excited for the answer, excited to know if your boyfriend was cursing his own life for letting you go.

“Not yet. Maybe he didn’t see it.”

“Or maybe he is at the hospital, dead by a heart attack.”

You both laughed. Who knew Max Verstappen had a sense of humor? Even better, he had a dark sense of humor. One that sounded like the things you think, but keep it in your mind, afraid others will judge. Not Max. He will never refrain from speaking his truth, maybe that’s how he got to the top, the best of the best.

Before you could say anything, Max got surrounded by people of his team. He gave you a look, a sorry one.

“It’s fine, I’ll go to the hotel, need some rest.”

“See you tomorrow?”

“Yes, sir.”

Another kiss on your cheek and he was gone. This time, when he walked out of the door, you felt overwhelmed by the looks fallen on you. They weren’t judging, just dying with curiosity. Nobody knew what the two of you had, but it was damn clear that the energy of attraction was so powerful it filled the space and left no place for anything else.

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆Sunday˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

Race day was chaotic, that was note number one. Note number two was, you were sure there was no way that many boats fit on Monte Carlos’ coast.

Unlike yesterday, you saw Max before he got into his car. You texted him when you arrived and he made his way to you, introducing you to a few people, so you wouldn’t feel isolated. It was uncomfortable having to explain that you weren’t dating, just getting to know each other. What you learned was that Max never really brought any girl over ever since his breakup with his long time ex, or even before her. He was a guy that kept his personal life so private even his family members had no clue if he was still single or not. Which is why people were so curious about you, because Max was treating you like, at the very least, a long time friend.

Your presence during Qualifying alarmed the media. The cameras weren’t shying away from filming you during certain parts of the race, especially when Max won after dominating 78 laps. But nothing prepared the journalists and the fans to when he said it out loud on the radio, proudly, letting everyone know.

If Dylan was already freaking out by one TV appearance, by this time he was for sure throwing a tantrum like a toddler who refused to eat vegetables. He wasn’t the only one. You wanted to crawl into a dark hole and hide from humanity. Or maybe scream and punch Max on his god crafted face. Everyone was speechless from that moment and Max kept going with his duties like he didn’t just create chaos amongst the Formula 1 community.

Thankfully, an angelic, miraculous girl that worked for RedBull managed to take you to Max’s driver’s room, where you could be alone. God, in that moment, if you could kiss her, you would.

You threw your phone in the depths of your purse, where you couldn’t reach to see any messages or take any calls, and especially not open Instagram. Your legs were shaking, like anxiety creeping through every pore on your skin. There was nothing you could do now, the damage was done.

Max opened the door in a brutal movement, like he was rescuing you from a dungeon. The mix of feelings when you saw him was too complicated to point. You were angry, nervous, grateful, amused, all of the above, plus a few more. Max, on the other hand, seemed like he just had another day at the office.

“Hey, told you I’d win, no crashes.”

“Are you fucking insane?”

Max was taken back by the tone of your voice and he replayed in his memories every single second of the day, trying to figure out what he did to get you so worked up.

“What?”

“That fucking radio message!”

And then he laughed. He laughed like he was brushing it off. Like it was nothing, an incident.

“Not a sextape, but it’s the best I could do.” His smile quickly vanished once he saw the seriousness in your semblant. “Are you mad? I thought this is what you wanted.”

You were out of breaths to take. Sure, this was what you wanted, in a way, but maybe it went too far, too public. It was too much. And in that moment you were overwhelmed.

“I… It’s-” You shook your head, sitting back down on the small white couch behind you. Max stood still, watching, studying your movements. “I wasn’t expecting it.”

That was part of it. You weren’t expecting any of this. It took you by surprise and reminded you that you had no control over anything. But to make matters worse, this happened in a situation where you particularly needed to control.

“Would you have preferred if I asked you before?”

“Yes, I very much would, Max.”

He kneeled before you, reaching your height.

“I’m sorry, liefje. You are right, I should’ve asked.”

You softened, not only because he seemed genuine apologetic, but the pet name and sweetness in his voice melted every bad feeling you had, just like magic, he erased every reason you had to be angry in the first place.

Max Verstappen just had that it factor that no matter what he said, people would simply surrender to his ways.

You stood up from the couch, making him turn to you, waiting anxiously for your reaction. The minimal possibility that you would just say no to the date or never see him again was driving him insane.

“So, what time are you picking me up?”

The shape of his lips curved into the most beautiful smile you have ever seen.

“At eight. No need to wear a fancy dress, anything is fine.”

“Thank God I packed my finest sweatpants then.”

Max giggled, playfully.

“Well, actually, that doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”

Of course he wouldn’t mind. You could go to the date dressed in pajamas and he would still think you’re the most beautiful girl in the world.

“See you later, champ.”

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

Later seemed to never come. Your hotel room was a mess when Max texted that he was waiting for you downstairs, much like a reflection from your insides. You were going out, on an official date, with Max Verstappen. How would you simply return to your job on Tuesday and tell your co-workers what happened?

Max was waiting outside his car, dressed casually, not like he was going on a first date, but as in you were in a established relationship and he could dress comfortably, like he always did. Somehow, that made him even more attractive. There were people around, watching, filming. You were worried, Max was annoyed, he wanted to punch anyone who dared to disturb that moment.

Once you were in the car, it was a relief, all the noise was shut, remaining only the sound of your shaky breathing.

“I promise you I will take you far away from this shit.”

He drove no longer than 10 minutes until he reached the coast. You followed him, like a lost child, watching him in his element, talking to the coast guards and some people that were there to help. And, then, it hit you, the big, white yacht, bigger than your childhood house. The type of thing you could work your entire life and still couldn’t afford.

Max got in first, extending his hand, like a gentleman, helping you. You looked around, mesmerized, like you’ve entered heaven. That place was beautiful, unlike anything you’ve seen before. The look on your face was probably pathetic, but Max found it adorable.

“Is this yours?”

You wanted to curse yourself, what a stupid question, of course it was.

“Yes, welcome.”

Max gave you a quick tour around, showing the place with the lack of interest that only a person who’s been there a thousand times could have. Like it was getting old. The Yatch was so peaceful you didn’t even notice it started to move and you were now somewhere in the ocean.

The tour ended with a table set out in the open, under the dark starry sky. White cloth, a burning candle, in the company of a lonely red rose. Max pulled your chair, sitting in front of you. You noticed he was nervous and you noticed he tried hard. Little did he know you didn’t need an expensive yacht to be impressed, he could do it only by being himself.

“This is really nice, Max.”

Your compliment eased his nerves.

“I hope this isn’t too much.”

“Well, it certainly isn’t too little.” You joked, but he seemed still a little tense. “But I think it’s romantic.”

And it was, indeed. Text book romantic. Straight out of a romcom.

“Are you hungry?”

You weren’t. The nerves were eating you alive, you couldn’t think about food, your body showed no signs of hunger at all.

“Starving.”

He grined, ear to ear. “Awesome.” And got up from the table, walking towards the inside.

You took the moment without his presence to breathe, get yourself together, recompose. You would leave tomorrow and never see him again, which was a shame, but at the same time helped you to get comfortable.

Max was back barely a minute later, holding two white plates. You were expecting some fancy seafood dish, maybe a lobster or shrimp, but instead, he held in his hands the delicacy of a homemade burger, garnished with french fries. You smiled. Maybe you were hungry after all.

Max placed the plates on the table, looking proud.

“I made them.”

“Woah! I’m impressed.” You giggled, quickly taking one of the fries, from his plate. “He can drive and cook? What can’t you do?”

“Anyone can cook a burger, it’s not that hard.”

“Don’t put yourself down. You’d be surprised to see how people’s culinary skills are precarious.”

You took a big bite of the burger. Sure, it wasn’t anything elaborated, just a patty with a slice of cheddar cheese and tomatoes, but the simplicity turned it into something special. Plus, the fact that Max took his limited time to make them himself.

He watched you carefully, aching for your opinion, like you tasting his food was somehow validating him as a person, as a man, as a lover.

“So… How is it?”

“Perfect.”

You weren’t talking about the burger at all. You were talking about him, about the weekend, about everything he did for you. It was perfect. Just what you needed. Like God saved Max Verstappen just for you, like all of this was just for you. Suddenly, you felt seen, important, cared about.

The rest of the night flowed like silk. The conversation was stimulating, electrifying. Max learned about your life, your family, your job and you learned about everything that did not involve his career or driving. That night, Max was just a regular guy, with a normal girl, having homemade burgers on a 33 million dollars Yatch.

As the night extended, you both realized how you didn’t want it to end, how you wanted to be there forever. You were laying down on a towel, the chill breeze flowing, standing side by side, stargazing, telling each other childhood stories.

“I really want to keep seeing you.”

Max’s words came out as a fragile whisper, like he was telling a secret, like he never experienced being vulnerable before.

You turned your face, staring right into his blue eyes, that were a little bit darker with the lack of sunlight.

“How are we going to do that?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make it work.”

And he kissed you. You felt his hand first, barely touching you, almost like he was insecure - as if Max was afraid that instant could break.

The kiss wasn’t rushed. It came with the calmness of someone who knows that time, sometimes, bends before what is real. You sighed slightly, between the kiss, letting the air escape your longs amongst your partial open lips.

The sky fell a bit closer, like all the stars were watching, silently, bearing witnesses to that moment. He moved slowly, shy, like discovering his own name, until he wasn’t. Max leaned in even more, you felt the deepness, not in an urgent kind of way, but in a way in which you were dancing the same song.

And over there, underneath the starry Monaco sky, with his taste invading you, everything stopped moving. Nothing before, nothing after. Just this. The whole world fitted in that kiss, as a promise that would perpetuate for a long time.

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

What followed the weekend was not what you expected. You thought that once you boarded that plane back to your hometown, Max Verstappen would fade into a distant memory, a fairytale, something to tell your kids in the future and make them doubt reality. But that wasn't what happened.

When Max wasn’t flying you to nearby races, he was visiting you in his free time. Showing up at your job, unannounced, holding some white lilies or some plush toy that he bought. You visited his home, got introduced to his family, had dinner with his dad. The infamous Jos Verstappen people talked about, like he was an urban legend. Turns out, he wasn’t as scary as people made it sound, or maybe you were just too good at dealing with that kind of man. At the same spectrum, Max also met your family, your dad nearly crashing out once he saw the Max Verstappen sitting on the dining table, like a normal guy.

Turns out that, even with the constant traveling, media, fans following you down the streets, loving Max was so easy. Much easier than you thought. You even told that to him once. Max didn’t believe you, because he has been told the contrary many times before. In fact, he quite believed that he was an unloving person, although he would never admit that to anyone. However, he felt you were genuine in your acts of tenderness. Every time you brushed his hair or kissed his temples, something in him lit up with warmness, like he was experiencing a real life miracle.

Max never officially asked you to be his girlfriend, he didn’t need to, it just happened. When he wasn’t racing or you weren’t working, you were together, glued like birds of a feather. You were familiar with the drivers now, and their girlfriends. Unlike Monaco, every race you attended now you had someone to talk to, you would even dare to call some of the girls your friends. Everyone seemed to enjoy your company, the team, the drivers, Max’s friends. It’s like you were a breathe of fresh air amongst the chaos of the racing world.

Horner wouldn’t lie, he was a bit worried seeing his driver fall in love with someone, because he had never seen Max race while being distracted, while having another priority. However, Christian quickly noticed there was nothing for him to stress about. Quite the opposite, actually. Max - if it was even possible - improved, ruining McLaren’s dominance. He couldn’t quite explain what the chemicals of love were doing to his Dutch Lion, but he prayed you never left.

On Max’s perspective, yes, he wanted to put on a show, to be his best, to impress you. Not in a pressured way, but in a “I want to make you proud” way. And you were proud regardless of his position. You celebrated Max the same exact way, it didn’t matter if he was P1 or P11. In fact, during Singapore, after a disappointing race, finishing at P8, you waited for Max at the hotel room with champagne and balloons. At first he was frustrated, angry, disappointed at himself and definitely confused at your reaction, but that was mainly because he never had someone who supported him so much, to the point which anything was enough. You taught him that he was enough, and you were proud of him as a person, as a driver, he didn’t need to be the best of the best all the time.

That sort of mentality you brought worked like reverse psychology. It took the weight out of his shoulders. And racing without any worries, made him better.

Needless to say your ex, Dylan, was losing his mind with that whole situation. Which, to Max, was only an incentive. He took the cheating personally, like it happened to him. And even though you never talked to that guy again, he wanted to make sure Dylan regretted what he did to the rest of his life. You told him to forget it, reassured that you were over it, that after Monaco Dylan was dead to you, like a nightmare that you forgot the second you woke up. But Max wasn’t the type to let it go.

So, Abu Dhabi 2025, last race on the calendar, he would give his all. The championship was tied between him and Lando. For the entire season, he raced to win, but that exact race he had entirely different motives.

You weren’t nervous unlike the other girlfriends, you put blind faith in Max. That’s why when the race started, you watched with a steady heartbeat. And Max? Reminded everyone why he was the best of the sport.

When he stepped out of the car, the whole team made a priority that you would be the first to see him, per his request. Helmet on, he rushed to you, like you were the trophy, like you were the championship prize. You kissed the helmet, feeling the coldness hitting your lips. His breath fogged the visor for a second as he leaned closer, hands still trembling with the leftover adrenaline of the race. The roar of celebration around you faded into a muffled hum — the crowd, the champagne, the cameras — all of it dimmed behind the shield of this moment.

Max lifted the visor slowly, revealing eyes that had searched for you since the checkered flag. Eyes that only softened when they found yours.

“Fuck, liefje,” he said, voice rough, edged with emotion. “I can’t believe we did it.”

You smiled, blinking against the tears threatening to fall. “You did it, Max,” you whispered, your fingers brushing the edge of his jaw, “you’re the best.”

He laughed — a breathy, shaking laugh — and pulled you into him, the hard shell of his suit pressing against your body like armor. “Thank you so much for being here,” he murmured into your hair. “For always being here. Love you.”

You closed your eyes, letting the truth of his words wrap around you like warmth. But then he leaned back just enough to meet your gaze again — this time with that glint in his eyes. The one you’d seen when he was most dangerous. Most determined.

“And maybe,” he added, with the ghost of a smirk, “just maybe... I wanted him to see this too.”

Your breath caught.

“I wanted him to watch,” he continued, quieter now. “To watch me win everything he lost the moment he let you go.”

The crowd started chanting Max’s name, and behind you, the team called for photos, for celebrations, but neither of you moved. You stayed there in the quiet bubble of his embrace, the world spinning a little slower just for the two of you.

Finally, Max pulled back, cradling your face in his gloved hands. “It’s you and I, now,” he said, not as a question, but as a promise. “Wherever I go next, we go together.”

And you nodded, heart thudding like an engine ready to race. Because this wasn’t just the end of a season. It was the beginning of forever.

The cheers swelled again as Max took your hand, raising it high like another victory. And when he looked back at you one last time before stepping onto the podium, he didn’t see the crowd, the cameras, or the flashing lights.

He saw you. Always you. His greatest win.

liked by redbullracing, f1, yourbff and 6,288,494 others

vogue Evertyhing we know about the romance between Yn Yln and Max Verstappen. From how they met to how she became RedBull's princess and fan's favorite WAG. Link in bio.

view all comments

user imagine being such an iconic couple vogue wrote a fucking article about you

user they won best paddock couple 😍😍

user she is so pretty!! 😩😩😩

user can yn teach me her tricks? 🙏

yourbff my baby is a star 🤩

danielricciardo finally some real journalism!

> user you're in a max/yn biggest fan competition but your oponent is daniel ricciardo > danielricciardo you're immediately losing

yourusername what is my life??

> user girl if you don't want it, can i have it??

user how's dylan??

❤️ liked by maxverstappen1

user bro saw his girl got cheated on and made it everyone's problem

user if they don't get married istg

yourmom my loves 😍

zendaya petition for this to be a movie immediately.

user if petty was high fashion, this man just walked Paris.

florencepugh I need her skincare routine and his PR team.

gigihadid love that for her. love that less for her ex 💅

user he said drive to survive and thrive to flex, and I support it fully.

user this is the energy you have when your love life AND tire strategy are in sync.

user it’s giving “revenge dress” but in the form of an entire Grand Prix.

f1gossip she got cheated on and responded with a WDC boyfriend. this is not a win, this is a legacy.

user he’s not just her man — he’s the man your ex warned you about.

user if Romeo drove a car and Juliet wore a paddock pass.

liked by yourusername, RedBullRacing and 9,293,555 others

maxverstappen1 This one's for your girlfriends.

view all comments

user this is actually insane

user mad!max is back 🥵🥵

user may this love find me! 🙏🙏🙏

redbullracing the dutch lion is still here! 💪🦁

user 5 times world champion, hot girlfriend, rich, talented. will he ever lose?

user i'm so invested in whatever this drama with this dylan guy is

> user i hope he is suffering wherever he is > user starting a fuck you dylan campaign

user max is in his protective!boyfriend skin

yourusername the best of the best! 💗

> user she is such a queen 😍

lando congratulations mate!! 🍾

charles_leclerc chat we tried, we can't stop him

> maxverstappen1 maybe when I retire 😎

lando blocked by at least 6 exes after this post probably

user championship + main character energy = unstoppable. respect 🫡

georgerussell63 ok but do you offer classes in pettiness? asking for a friend user imagine being the ex watching this with dry cereal and regret 😭🥄 user no because he didn’t win a championship he won her and THAT’S revenge 🔥

user idc what anyone says, this is peak motorsport content and I love it

#f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 smau #max verstappen smau #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen fic #max verstappen fanfic #f1 #f1 writing #max verstappen x reader smau

703 notes · View notes

sushirrrry · 2 days ago

Text

PATIENT | a harry styles x reader one-shot word count: 13,405 content warning: mentions of sickness, hospitals, mentions of surgery, pain, mentions of sex

summary: you’re stubborn; harry knows this, but it’s one of his favorite parts about you. his protectiveness goes into full panic mode when you start to inhibit symptoms of a serious medical emergency. as a medical professional himself, he helps you through the scary parts, the recovery, & the parts of life we fear the most: being vulnerable.

authors note: thank you to the anon who sent in the request for protective!doctorry x stubborn!reader <3 here's my take on it, hope you enjoy - sorry for the wait!

________________________________________

You’re sitting on Harry’s kitchen counter, legs swinging slightly, watching him stir something on the stove; it’s his favorite pasta sauce that he claims is made from scratch but is actually a hybrid or jarred and fresh, with a focused furrow in his brow.

There is a candle burning on the table behind you. It is something warm and woody that smells vaguely like cedar and oranges, and if you weren’t sweating through your shirt, you might actually enjoy the atmosphere.

He glances over his shoulder and offers you a small smile. “You alright?”

You nod, instantly, almost too quickly to think about it. “Fine. Just a bit hot in here,” you reassure him, “Must be the stove.”

He doesn’t push that, knowing the cooking could have been a bit much for the small apartment space. He just tilts his head in that knowing way of his and goes back to stirring.

But you can feel his eyes on you when he thinks you’re not looking

They are sharp and perceptive, like he’s filing something away in that trauma surgeon brain of his.

Truth is, you haven’t been feeling alright for days— days have turned into weeks by now.

It started as a weird heaviness in your stomach. You thought it was just something you ate. But then came the fatigue, the nausea, and the low fever that refused to budge that you tried to work through since it felt like you may just have something viral.

And now your entire lower abdomen feels like it’s trying to fold in on itself. But you hate fuss, and you hate the attention that something like this would bring. You hate being the reason anyone has to stop what they’re doing.

Especially Harry— a surgeon who has a lot more to process in his brain than your simplistic day to day life.

So, you just take a slow, deep breath, trying not to wince. Your fingers clench around the edge of the counter as another wave of sharp pain rolls through your side.

“Seriously,” Harry says again, concern is gracing his features as he tries to be a bit gentler this time, “you look a little pale.”

You roll your eyes and grin like it’s nothing. “I’m just a bit hungry.”

He huffs a soft laugh, scrunching his nose as he pushes his glasses up on his face. “Cheeky.”

There’s a pause as he turns the heat off and grabs two bowls from the cabinet. You shift your weight, but the movement sends another stab of pain through your lower abdomen, and your hand shoots out to grip the counter more tightly.

You don’t say anything, you just breathe through your nose and count backward from ten. Each number lasting longer than you anticipated.

When you open your eyes, Harry’s standing in front of you with a bowl of pasta with sauce and a raised brow.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks again, tone still casual but layered with concern. “You’ve been quiet all day and your knuckles are white from gripping that counter a bit hard.”

You shrug, accepting the bowl with a shaky hand and trying not to let the fork rattle too obviously. “Tired. Work’s been a lot and maybe just a bit anxious for the week.”

He crouches slightly so he is eye-level with you, hands on either side of your hips as he stares and your stomach twists—not from pain this time, but because that look that he gives you is so damn gentle. It’s quite infuriating, if you were honest.

“I can check you out, you know,” he says carefully. “Just in case. I’m a doctor.”

You shake your head immediately. “Harry—"

He lifts his hands in surrender, still standing in front of you. “I’m not pushing. Just offering. Doesn’t have to be now.”

You take yourself off of the counter and move towards the small breakfast nook that you use in his apartment for eating meals together; it’s cozy, and it makes you feel domestic together. You take a large bite of the pasta and force it down even though your stomach lurches in protest. Tomato and roasted red pepper—your favorite. He always remembers.

“I’m fine,” you repeat. “Don’t want to waste your time.”

His jaw ticks. That’s the only sign that your words bother him, but he leans against the counter and takes his first bite of his pasta.

“You could never waste my time,” he says quietly, chewing around his words.

You don’t reply to that, and just look down at your pasta, the steam fogging up the lower half of your vision. Your hands are trembling a little, and Harry notices. Of course he does. But he doesn’t say anything else.

Instead, he sits down at the table near you, resting his forearms on the wood as he starts to eat his own bowl.

“So,” he says casually, giving you an out, “I had a guy come in today with a screwdriver embedded in his shoulder. Said it slipped while he was ‘fixing the shed.’” Harry makes air quotes with his spoon. “Pretty sure he was trying to pry open a beer fridge.”

You chuckle softly. “Sounds like a productive afternoon.”

“Oh, he was very committed to the fridge. Stabbed himself, passed out, then woke up and walked into the ER holding it like a party favor. Bleeding all over the floor.”

You smile in spite of yourself, the image absurd enough to cut through the pain. “Did he get to the beer, though?”

“Of course,” Harry says, mock-serious, shaking his head. “It was a matter of principle by then. I think he really just needed his ego to be met at that point.”

You chuckle a little bit, and Harry watches you with something soft in his expression—like the sound eases something tight in him.

“How about you?” he asks. “What chaos did your coworkers create today?”

“Oh God,” you say, perking up a little as you tried to think about your day. “Okay, so you know Ben from accounting—the one who always brings canned tuna in and eats it at his desk?”

Harry grimaces, stabbing another penne noodle. “Unfortunately.”

“Well, he walked into our morning meeting wearing—no lie—sunglasses and a cape. Just stood in the doorway like some kind of budget Dracula and said, ‘I am here to suck the inefficiency from this budget proposal.’”

Harry snorts, shaking his head as he looked back over at you with complete uncertainty that you’re actually telling the truth. “Please tell me you’re making that up.”

“I wish I were. He had charts.”

“Jesus Christ,” he laughs and wipes his mouth with a napkin before he presses his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “You attract the weirdest people.”

“I think it’s a gift,” you say solemnly, pursing your lips.

“Or a curse,” he mutters.

“You’re here, aren’t you?” you ask, tilting your head a bit as you stare at him and notice that his eyes blink up at you with a chilling smirk of his lips. The laughter was good, but your body is rebelling again—tired, hot, shaky. You try not to let it show.

Harry watches you for a beat, noticing that your laugh is cut short. “You sure you’re okay for a movie? We don’t have to do anything else tonight if you’re exhausted.”

“No, I want to.” Your eyes open slowly. “I need something stupid and funny. Something with explosions. Maybe a car chase.”

“Explosions, huh?” He leans back in his chair, considering a few options. “So, like, Fast & Furious stupid? Or actual quality stupid like The Nice Guys?”

“The Nice Guys, please. I have standards, and Ryan Gosling meets all of them.”

He grins, taking the last bite of his meal even though he started eating after you did. “Excellent choice. I’ll set it up after we clean up.”

You slide off the counter carefully, hoping he doesn’t notice how much you’re leaning on it. The pain hits sharper every now and then, like something inside you is straining, waiting for the moment it can give out completely.

But Harry’s eyes are already on the sink, rinsing bowls and talking about how Ryan Gosling in short-sleeved shirts is unfair to everyone involved. You hum your agreement and move toward the couch.

You hate this feeling— the feeling fragile, feeling like something’s breaking apart inside of you and you’re powerless to stop it. But you hate even more the idea of letting Harry see you weak.

That’s the thing about you and Harry: you’ve only been together for about ten months now. It’s hard to find that perfect medium of wanting to be taken care of and making sure you don’t feel like a victim to every situation. Harry has enough to deal with during the day, you don’t want to be a hassle.

You tell yourself that you will make a doctor’s appointment tomorrow if your symptoms don’t cease – Harry doesn’t have to be involved.

So, instead, you smile and say, “I’ll grab the blanket. You get the snacks.”

And you pretend that nothing’s wrong, because it’s easier than admitting your faults.

But now, you’ve curled up on Harry’s couch with a blanket over your lap, the faint blue light of the TV flickering against the windows. The Nice Guys is halfway through, and you haven’t laughed once since the first scene. You want to—Harry’s chuckling quietly beside you, quoting half the lines under his breath like he does in movies that he loves, but everything feels distant, like there’s a thick layer of static between you and the rest of the world.

You shift beneath the blanket and the movement sends a jolt through your right side, and you let out a breath through your nose. The pain has sharpened, localized, like someone has driven a hot poker just below your ribs.

You suck in a breath and try to play it off as a yawn. You lean into the corner of the couch, curling tighter, biting the inside of your cheek as your vision blurs for a second as you start to feel yourself sweating through the sweatshirt you had thrown on over yourself to get more comfortable.

“You cold?” Harry asks gently, his eyes not leaving the screen except for a small movement to glance over at you.

“Mhm,” you hum, swallowing hard. Your throat’s dry, scratchy and soft. “Just cozy.”

He throws a soft arm over the back of the couch and lets his hand settle lightly on your shoulder. He definitely knows you’re lying, but he doesn’t press.

The minutes start to pass, and you lose track of the plot of the movie even though you’ve seen it a million times. Your head starts to pound, and the nausea you had before eating dinner creeps back, stronger now, twisting your stomach with every second that ticks by. Your hands start trembling under the blanket, and your breaths come shorter, faster.

You press your fingers into your side hard, almost like it can cancel the pain. You’re jolted out of your head when you hear Harry’s voice instead of Ryan Gosling’s.

“Alright,” Harry says suddenly, pausing the movie and turning toward you, voice still calm but firmer now, “that’s enough pretending.”

You blink up at him, dazed at his comment, removing your hands to stop yourself from wincing. “What?”

“You’re not okay.” He shifts on the couch, eyes narrowing. “You haven’t been okay all day– all week, really. And I’ve been trying not to push, but… your skins clammy. You’re shaking. And you haven’t touched your tea in twenty minutes, which is your biggest red flag.”

You try to laugh, but it comes out wrong like your vocal cords are tight, cracked. “I’m fine.”

“You are not fine.” He presses the back of his hand to your forehead, and the way his jaw tightens says everything. “You’re burning up.”

“I probably just have a flu or something,” you mutter, shrinking under his touch.

“You’ve had abdominal pain for days,” he says, sharper now. “And a fever. And you keep pressing your side like it is the only thing keeping you from falling apart.”

You look away. He’s right, of course. But you hate this—the exposure, the vulnerability, the way he’s seeing through every wall you’ve built.

“I don’t want to go to the hospital,” you whisper to him, eyes beginning. “I promise I’ll just—”

Harry breathes in slowly, fighting to keep calm. “Let me check you out. Properly—just here, it will be quick and professional.”

You shake your head.

“Why?” he asks softly, voice laced with concern like he feels a bit unsure of your level of trust towards him. “Why won’t you let me help?”

At this point, you really just don’t have a good answer. It stems from the fear of being a burden, of needing too much from someone else. Of being someone whose pain rearranges other people’s lives because you had seen it so many times before, so you decide it’s better to leave him out of it.

“I’ll feel better tomorrow,” you lie— you know it's a lie the second it leaves your mouth.

Harry studies you for a long moment, then sighs, sitting back and running a hand through his hair as he stretches back out on the couch. “Alright. I’m not going to force you. But I need you to promise me—if it gets worse, even a little, you’ll tell me first.”

You nod way too fast and automatically that you feel like you don’t need to say anything else, so you just take a piece of popcorn and place it on your tongue. The salt causes a wave of nausea, but you smile back at him for reassurance.

He doesn’t believe you. But he lets it go, because you can tell that he really, really cares.

But then you only last another thirty minutes of the movie.

The pain turns cruel, truly cruel. It sinks deep, radiating outward, until you can’t focus on anything else. You’re sweating through your clothes and then shivering at the feeling of dampness on your skin under your sweatshirt.

Taking off the blanket, you throw it on the couch next to you, not making eye contact with Harry before you make your way into the kitchen. It may make you feel better to try to make it to the kitchen to splash water on your face, but the moment you stand, the floor tilts under you like a ship.

The wave is intentionally harmful to you as you try to level yourself against the wall in his apartment by the fridge, hanging onto it to keep your balance.

“Harry?” you croak, feeling your tongue slur before everything goes sideways.

You collapse to your knees, gasping, the pain in your abdomen stabbing so violently it knocks the air out of you. You barely register Harry flying upwards from the sofa, shouting your name before you hit the floor.

The last thing you see before the black creeps in is Harry’s face hovering over yours with a look that screams terrified and helpless. There may be some anger in there, but he doesn’t let it show yet.

When you come back to the world, your head is in his lap and you feel the sweat dripping down the side of your face. His fingers are on your neck, checking your pulse. His other hand is brushing hair away from your clammy face, but his voice is anything but soft.

“Jesus, I knew something was wrong,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “What the hell is going on with you?”

You groan, trying to sit up, but the motion tears through your core like glass. “Harry—”

“No.” He shakes his head, eyes flashing. “No more of this. You’re done hiding.”

“I didn’t want—”

“I don’t care what you want right now,” he lifts you with terrifying gentleness, cradling you against his chest like you weigh nothing. “We’re going to the ER. Right now.”

“I just need a minute— I got dizzy.”

“You collapsed, you didn’t just ‘get dizzy’.” His voice cracks at the end, and that’s when you stop arguing.

Because you’ve never heard Harry Styles sound scared before. You decide it’s not worth it to fight anymore, and that maybe it would be best to just allow this to happen – to allow him to have the pleasure of figuring out if something is wrong.

You decide to let your guard down for the moment, and take a deep breath before you concede to his request.

He moves like a man possessed—no fumbling, no hesitation this time. He sets you down, you lean against the kitchen cabinets just long enough to grab his keys, his phone, his ID badge for the ER. You try to speak again, but the pain cuts you off, so you just focus on your breathing instead.

Harry scoops you back into his arms without missing a beat and carries you down to the car, muttering under his breath the entire time—things you can’t make out, except for the way your name keeps slipping through like a prayer and a curse all at once.

In the car, you’re curled against him in the passenger seat, your body lurching with every bump in the road. He keeps one hand on the wheel, the other on your thigh, grounding you.

You’re half-conscious by the time the car pulls up to the hospital entrance, the world a blur of lights and color through half-lidded eyes, you feel yourself groan out. Harry doesn’t waste time; he pulls you from the passenger seat with practiced urgency and strides through the ER doors like he owns the place. Because, in some ways, he does.

“Patient presenting with acute abdominal pain, fever, and collapse,” Harry calls to the intake nurse. His voice is sharp, commanding, not loud, but nothing like the soft way he talks to you at home.

The nurse’s eyes widen as she recognizes him. “Dr. Styles—”

“Let’s do vitals first. Please page Dr. Carson for consult. I’ll stay with her until someone gets here.” He doesn’t wait for a response before steering you into the nearest exam bay, gently easing you onto the bed. You hiss in pain as your body curls inward, instinctively guarding your side.

Harry’s jaw tightens. “You’re okay,” he murmurs, brushing damp hair off your forehead. “I’ve got you.”

You try to speak, but your throat is dry, your lips cracked.

“Kinda hot how you act like you own the place,” you rasp, trying to make a joke before he rolls his eyes.

He lets out a humorless laugh, kneeling beside the bed to stay eye level with you. “Just try and take it easy, will you?”

“I didn’t want to—”

“I know.” His voice softens, nodding as he understood what you meant. “But I don’t care how tough you think you are. You scared the hell out of me.”

You blink up at him, and in the bright hospital lights, his worry is plain: the crease in his brow, the tight grip on your wrist where he’s still checking your pulse, the way his eyes won’t leave yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he looks away.

A nurse appears with a blood pressure cuff and thermometer, giving you a quiet smile as she looks between you and Harry. Harry steps back just enough to let her work, but stays close—hovering, watching every reading with clinical precision. You can see by the way that his fingers pinch his lower lip that he would do anything to be the one checking this – just to make sure you’re okay.

“Your fever’s over 102,” The nurse states, writing down your vitals on the chart before she watches your blood pressure, “Heart rate’s through the roof. Blood pressure is low.”

You look back at Harry to get his reaction before you take a deep breath. Your body lays on the small bed, feeling the weight of your body now.

“Any chance of pregnancy?” the nurse asks casually, more out of habit than suspicion.

“No,” you both say in unison. Harry’s voice is firm, yours is barely audible before you catch his glimpse.

The nurse jots it down, unbothered by the speed. “Pain on palpation?”

Harry’s eyes meet yours. “I’m going to press on your abdomen, okay?”

You nod weakly, as you look back at the nurse who watches for a moment. His fingers are careful but methodical as he moves across your stomach. When he reaches your right lower side, you jolt violently, a strangled sound escaping your throat.

“Rebound tenderness,” he mutters; the nurse writes down his notes as you take in a breath. Then louder: “We need an ultrasound. Maybe a CT, but let’s start there.”

“Harry—” you manage, a whisper, barely audible as he starts to move away to allow the nurses to take more charge on the case.

“I’m here,” he says immediately, stepping closer, one hand steady on your arm as he moves to squat next to you. “You’re okay, in good hands. I’ve got you.”

The nurse has found a vein and starts drawing blood. You hate needles, always have which may be a subconscious reason you didn’t make your way here on your own earlier, but you don’t flinch. You’re too far gone to care, and you just keep your eyes on Harry.

Someone is speaking to you, asking for your name, your birth date, the onset of symptoms. Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

“She’s had intermittent lower abdominal pain for days,” Harry says, voice even but clipped, like he’s trying to stay calm and professional. “Fever, nausea, and then collapsed at home tonight. RLQ tenderness on palpation. I would suspect probable appendicitis with high risk of rupture.”

“Has she eaten anything in the last few hours?” a nurse asks while sliding an IV catheter into the crook of your arm.

“Yes, we made dinner tonight, but I don’t think she’s eaten or had an appetite for a few days.”

You feel the IV thread into your skin, a deep ache blooming up your arm, and instinctively try to pull away. Harry presses his hand over yours, firm but reassuring.

“Sorry, sweetie,” The nurse tells your gently; her hands are light, and you can tell that she doesn’t like making your uncomfortable.

“Easy, love,” he says gently, his thumb brushing over your wrist. “It’s just fluids. They’re trying to help.”

He doesn’t let go, either. One nurse places a cool hand on your forehead while another adjusts the monitors. The pulse oximeter beeps on your finger before the curtain rustles again, and a technician wheels in the portable ultrasound machine.

Harry steps aside just enough to give them access to your abdomen, but his hand lingers at the edge of the gurney, eyes locked on the screen as gel is applied to your stomach and the wand begins to sweep over your skin. You feel like everything is happening so quickly, but you let yourself breathe.

Your hand starts to tremble, and he takes note of it quickly before taking it in his.

You don’t remember what they say, or how they say it. You just remember the sound of your name spoken in Harry’s voice—soft, steady, anchoring you through the white noise.

“Why didn’t you bring her in sooner?” someone asks, not unkindly.

Harry doesn’t answer right away, but just glances at you.

“Because she’s stubborn,” he finally says. “And I didn’t want to push her.”

You want to apologize, but your body won’t let you. You’re too tired, too sick.

The next hour passes in flashes: the cold gel of the ultrasound wand against your skin, the dim blue light of the imaging room, the sharp sting of the IV drip as fluids rush in. You think you hear someone say “rupture risk” again, but your brain is floating too far away to make sense of it.

As time passes, you let your eyes close for a moment as you try and calm yourself down. Everything feels very overwhelming, but Harry is by your side, arms crossed, talking in low tones with another doctor. You recognize Dr. Carson—she’s senior, good, calm under pressure. She had always talked so highly of Harry and his skill, and you trust that you’re in excellent hands.

“She has acute appendicitis,” Dr. Carson says gently, confirming what Harry already knew. “Looks like it’s close to rupturing which is causing all of the severe pain and fever symptoms. We’ll need to take her in immediately.”

Harry nods once, sure of his choice. “I’ll assist.”

“Are you sure?” Dr. Carson asks, lowering her voice. “You’re close to her.”

“I won’t cut into her,” he replies, steel in his voice. “You can lead. I’ll assist. But I want to go in.”

You watch as Dr. Carson nods and steps away, her arm resting on Harry’s shoulder as he moves to turn back to you. You’re more alert now, the fluids helping, but your stomach still feels like a war zone and every breath sends new pain radiating through your side.

“I have to go scrub in,” he says softly, brushing your cheek. “Dr. Carson’s the best. You’re in good hands. But I’ll be there and get all of the information I need, alright?”

You nod, tears threatening at the corners of your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, feeling yourself sink into the gurney. Everything seems to be slipping away from you as you shake your head and feel like a complete fool for not allowing Harry to help sooner.

His brows furrow, thumb brushing against your cheek. “What for?”

“For hiding it. For making you—”

“Don’t,” He leans down and presses a kiss to your temple, lingering there for a second longer than he should. “You’re the most infuriating person I’ve ever loved.”

You freeze; he doesn’t take it back, but you watch as the smile creeps on his face and lingers. You swallow back the words before you watch as he moves out of the room, leaving you with the nurses and the words floating around you.

+++

It had been a while since Harry had left you – not super long, but long enough. You tried to take a small nap, maybe allowing your body to catch up with how exhausted you really felt besides all the pain.

They wheeled you through the wide corridors of the hospital with purposeful ease, the fluorescent lights above blinking in rhythm as your bed glides beneath them. You try to keep your breathing steady, to focus on the clatter of wheels or the gentle murmur of nurses beside you, but every nerve in your body feels exposed, raw.

Your mouth is dry; your fingers twitch restlessly on the starched sheet draped over you and your new hospital gown that they had helped you change into.

Then, through the hum of motion and soft beeps and antiseptic air, you see him.

Harry.

He’s just outside the surgical suite, standing tall beside Dr. Carson, already dressed in surgical scrubs. The navy-blue fabric clings to his frame in all the right places—familiar, but different now, clinical and commanding. His hair is tucked beneath a surgical cap, a few curls escaping at the nape. A mask hangs loose around his neck, not yet covering his face, and his eyes—those bright, sharp, impossibly expressive eyes are now locked onto yours the moment he sees you through his wire framed glasses.

His spine straightens against the wall; his face softens. And then he’s moving toward you.

You try to sit up but don’t make it far—pain curls hot and fast through your side and steals the breath from your lungs. You flinch, and instantly, Harry is there, crouched beside the gurney, reaching for your hand.

“Hey,” he says quietly, but his voice trembles at the edges. “Looks like you’re still here on Earth with us, huh?”

“You look… unfairly hot right now when I have to look like this,” you murmur, feeling the drugs working through your system.

He lets out a laugh—sharp and short, surprised, but it cracks something in the tight line of his shoulders.

You scan him again, head to toe, trying to take it all in. The sleeves stretched over his forearms. The pale green ID badge clipped to his chest. The way his scrubs hang slightly loose on his hips, the stethoscope still slung around his neck even though someone else will be listening to your heart soon.

Harry raises an eyebrow, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You’re drugged.”

“No,” you breathe, letting out a smaller laugh, “Well – yes, but I’m also scared. And you look like you could fight death itself and win.”

He shakes his head softly, eyes glinting in the light as he blinks back at you. “That’s not the part that scares me.”

“What is?”

“That I can’t protect you from this the way I want to – I’m not in charge of this, so that’s difficult for me.”

You lift a hand slowly to brush the backs of your fingers over his jaw. He leans into the touch, just a little.

“You’re here and you made sure I was here,” you tell him. “That’s enough.”

Dr. Carson approaches then, calm and capable in her own scrubs to match his. “I think we’re ready to bring you back, we have a plan of action and we’re going to make sure that everything goes smoothly.”

Harry’s hand lingers on yours before he stands up and moves closer to Dr. Carson.

“I’ll be with you the whole time,” he promises, nodding back at you for assurance. “You won’t be alone for a second.”

You blink up at him, throat tight as you try your best to keep it together. “And you won’t be distracted thinking about how good I think you look in those scrubs?”

He huffs out a broken laugh. “Not a chance.”

The gurney starts to move again, and Harry squeezes your hand once more before letting go—slowly, like he’s reluctant to release you.

The last thing you see before the operating room doors swing open is him, and you think, just before the anesthetic clouds your thoughts: if he’s in the room, you’ll make it out.

+++

The first inkling that you’re awake is the sound of the soft beeping and the distinct chill of a hospital room.

Your mouth is drier than it was before, your throat aches. There’s an oxygen cannula nestled beneath your nose and an IV in your arm, but none of that bothers you half as much as the tight throb in your side, wrapped in bandages and freshly stitched.

You blink slowly. The lights are dim. Outside the window, the sky is a deep indigo, early morning maybe. Everything’s quiet, except the small sounds of the hospital that feel at peace. It almost feels hard to breathe with the tightness at your side.

“You’re awake.”

Harry’s voice is a whisper, hoarse and laced with relief. He’s seated beside your bed, still in his scrubs, hair a mess, exhaustion etched deep into his face. His hand is already on yours, thumb stroking your knuckles.

“You scared me,” he says. Not accusatory. Just honest.

You try to speak, but your voice barely comes out. “Didn’t mean to.”

“I know.” He squeezes your hand, grabbing the ginger ale that sits by the bedside and hands it to you. “Surgery went perfectly well. It was a textbook appendectomy. No rupture, but it was close—maybe another hour and we’d be having a very different conversation.”

Your heart stutters as you look at him, really look at him, and the façade he always wears in his scrubs is gone—no cool detachment, no clinical efficiency. It’s just Harry – the guy you met on Hinge on a random Thursday night, went to dinner with after his long 12-hour shift, and he’s looking at you tired and worried and still so soft.

You take a sip of the ginger ale, gently, through the straw and blink a few times before your throat starts to ease.

“You said you loved me.”

The words hang in the room, and he goes still. You feel the way that his fingers brush over your hand, softly allowing there to be a moment between you.

“I did,” he says, voice barely audible. “And I meant it.”

You stare at him, searching his face. The room feels incredibly intimate, and you wonder if you want to stop talking about this until you’re in a better state of mind, but you continue to joke, “You’re not just saying that because I almost died?”

A weak smile tugs at his lips. “No. I promise I’ve loved you through much less dramatic situations.”

You want to laugh, but it hurts too much; you can feel how tight your stomach feels. So instead, you let the silence settle between you again. You don’t say it back, not yet, but the way your fingers curl tighter into his says enough.

A nurse enters with fresh fluids and checks your vitals, taking notes about your coming out of anesthesia. Harry steps back just enough to let her work, but stays in your peripheral, arms folded, eyes locked on every number on the screen.

“She’ll be in overnight,” the nurse says. “Barring any complications, you should be able to go home tomorrow.”

Harry nods at the direction. “Thank you.”

Once the nurse leaves, you glance at him again starting to get comfortable against the leather sofa in the room, the one direction next to your bed. “You’re really not going home?”

He shakes his head, kicking off his shoes. “Not a chance.”

“You need to sleep.”

“I’ll sleep when you’re back in your own bed.” Harry curls into the chair, letting his head rest against the side of the chair before he throws his legs over the side of the armrest. It’s like he’s done this before, multiple times, so you don’t feel as bad.

You sigh, your heart full and aching all at once. “You’re impossible.”

“Takes one to know one.”

+++

Later, when you drift back awake in the early morning, Harry’s still there. He’s kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the chair beside your bed, legs slung over the armrest, head tilted back. His neck looks like it’s going to regret that nap.

You shift slightly, and it’s enough to wake him. He jolts upright, instantly alert.

“You okay?” he asks, voice very raspy from the momentary nap he's taken.

You nod, because that doesn't hurt as bad as the rest of your body. “Just sore.”

He moves to your side, throwing his legs back over the chair and wiping at his eyes to wake himself up. “You need anything? Ice chips? Pain meds? I can call the nurse.”

“I’m fine.”

He raises an eyebrow, licking his lips as he shakes his head at you. “That phrase is banned until further notice.”

You roll your eyes, but a smile cracks your lips. “Okay. Maybe a little water would be good.”

“See? Progress," Harry smirks, grabbing a cup of water with a straw.

He helps you sip slowly from a cup with a straw, holding it for you like you’re made of glass. You hate how helpless you feel—but you also love that it’s him willing to help.

“How long till I can leave?” you ask after you swallow, wiping at your lips.

“Tomorrow morning, maybe,” he says. “They want to monitor you overnight tonight. Make sure there’s no fever, no signs of infection.”

“And then?”

“Then I’m taking you home.” His tone is final, nodding at you as he sat next to you. “You’re not lifting a finger for at least a week. I already put in leave. My schedule’s clear.”

You shake your head, sighing at his sudden need to protect you, “Harry, you don’t have to—”

“I want to, and I will."

You swallow thickly. “But—”

“You took care of me after that car accident last year. Remember? You didn’t sleep for two nights. You made that weird soup that had the broccoli puree.”

You groan, remembering it well. “That soup was delicious.”

“It was awful,” he says with a grin, which only makes you grin back in response. “But I drank every bowl of it. Because I love you.”

Your eyes sting when you blink; taking in a breath when you hear him say it again. You still haven't said it— but you feel it. You know what it feels like, and you just don’t know when you're going to feel it.

“Let me return the favor,” he says gently, taking your hand in his. “Please.”

You nod, finally. And he kisses your hand again, this time without hesitation. This time, with solidity that he won't hurt you.

+++

You had spent the night in the hospital again— much to your dismay, as you really didn't get too much sleep when you were there. You didn’t show any negative symptoms and seemed to be doing fine walking on your own to the bathroom and back to your bed.

So, it meant that Harry could bring you home to care for you. Harry was happy that all of you seemed to check out, leaving him with a proud look on his face as he kept you company and took care of you when the nurses weren’t available.

You barely make it to the couch back in his apartment before you’re ready to collapse.

Harry has one arm around your back holding you up as you took many little steps, ignoring every protest you’ve muttered since you left the hospital. He practically carries you across the threshold like it’s a wedding night instead of post-op day one and gently helps you settle down on the plush cushions, adjusting the pillows behind you with absurd precision.

“I could’ve walked on my own,” you grumble when you're finally settled.

He raises a brow, settling your items down on the counter. “You nearly passed out getting into the car.”

“I stood up too fast,” you tell him, defensively, “Blood pressure dropped.”

He points at you with the same finger he uses when lecturing interns. “You had surgery less than thirty-six hours ago. You’re not standing at all unless I say so," He furrows, biting on his lip, "Or you need to use the bathroom, then we can figure it out."

You open your mouth to argue again, but he’s already moving to start to figure out your recovery plan. He folds a blanket over your legs, checks your temperature with a forehead scanner, fluffs your pillow one last time, and disappears into the kitchen to start getting food together for you.

From the couch, you hear cabinets opening and the soft sound of a kettle clicking on.

“What are you doing now?” You call back, licking your lips as you pull the blanket over you a little bit. Harry’s kept the cooling temperature of the apartment to ensure that you don’t get too hot.

“Making tea and heating up your broth,” he calls back. “You’re not getting solids for another day, and you need some useful fluids.”

You roll your eyes, but a small smile tugs at your lips. He’s in full-on doctor mode—bossy, precise, focused on the end goal of making you feel better. But there’s something else underneath it; it’s something that’s been only meant for you.

When he returns to the living room, it’s with a tray: a warm mug of peppermint tea, a bowl of steaming broth, a water bottle with a straw, and a little notepad where he’s apparently tracking your medication times and vitals. He’s written your most recent temperature and a log of medication times.

“You’re actually keeping a chart?” you ask, incredulous as you take the cup of tea in her hands.

“I trust myself more than your memory right now,” he says smoothly, sitting at the end of the sofa where your feet lie. “Now, some small sips. Ten minutes between liquids and meds. And if you so much as try to get up alone, I will have to personally tie you to the couch.”

You snort, holding the warm tea between your hands as you bring it to your lips. “Kinky.”

He grins, but the look in his eyes is anything but playful.

“I mean it,” he says, more softly now. “You were really sick. You need rest. Let me take care of you, yeah?"

The gentle edge in his voice pulls the air from your lungs. You nod, pressing your lips together. Something about this feel so safe; it’s such a different situation than you’ve ever been in, and you feel so lucky that he has taken charge.

He gives you a quiet smile, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you in the quiet room. There’s no more sounds of the hospital, no more beeping or interruptions, or squeamish sounds and feelings. You, half-draped in blankets, are just recovering. Him, sitting on the edge of the sofa like he can’t afford to lean back until he’s sure you’re 100 percent out of the woods.

You glance at the notepad again. Temperature log. Pain rating. Medications. Everything lined up in neat rows with Harry’s sharp, slightly slanted handwriting like he did a million times in med school, you’re sure.

It’s the kind of personality that made you fall from him; it’s so different, but it’s so him.

“You’re kind of amazing, you know that?” you murmur, nodding a few times. You want to express your attention to his detail, and want him to know that he’s made it beyond all expectations.

He shrugs, eyes flicking down at his lap like he’s almost embarrassed. “I’m just… really relieved you’re okay.”

There’s something about the way he says it—quiet, tightly reined in—that makes your chest pull.

“You were scared.” Your words are barely a whisper.

He doesn’t deny it, shaking his head. “Terrified.”

You reach out, hand trembling a little, and rest your fingers lightly over his wrist. “I’m sorry I let it get that bad.”

His eyes lift to yours again, hidden behind the glasses. “Just promise me you’ll never do that again. I don’t care how stubborn you are or how much you hate hospitals—if something feels wrong, you tell me. No toughing it out, no hiding it. Not from me, at least.”

You nod, slowly, taking in every word. “I promise.”

“Good,” he says, but there’s something thick in his voice, like he doesn’t quite trust his emotions to behave if he says anything else.

You let the silence settle, because it feels natural. It never felt natural before; only replacing the feeling of awkwardness.

Eventually, when the mug of broth is nearly empty and your eyelids are getting heavy again, he sets the tray aside and helps you shift further into the cushions.

“You okay to sleep for a bit?” he asks, already reaching to smooth your hair away from your face.

You nod, throat tight with a kind of gratitude you don’t have words for, so you just nod.

“I’ll be right here,” he says, settling beside you, hand resting gently on your leg through the blanket. “Just rest. You’re safe.”

+++

Over the next few days, your body slows to the rhythm of recovery—and Harry is always two steps ahead of it.

He sets alarms for every pain med dose, checks your incision daily with the careful precision of someone who’s done this a hundred times but never with this much worry in his chest. He monitors for signs of infection like he’s preparing for rounds. But it’s the little things that get you that you can’t imagine without him there.

The way he practically carried you to the bathroom the first night because your legs were too shaky, so he stayed and was so patient. The way he set up a mirror in the living room so you can brush your hair from the couch, even taking the brush a few times himself to help you with the back. The way he sits beside you during every meal, making sure if you need help, he's right there.

At one point you say, “You know, I can do somethings myself.”

He lifts an eyebrow, almost like you had said something so absurd. “You want to re-open your incision over pride?”

You glare back him, biting the inside of your cheek. He kisses your forehead, and you feel the way that he wants to linger. "Thought so.”

That night, he sleeps in the recliner beside you, one hand always within reach almost like you would disappear if he didn’t reach out. The third evening, you wake from a nap to find him checking your temperature, thinking you’re asleep.

“You’re still running a little warm,” he murmurs in the darkness. “But you’re okay. You’re okay.”

You pretend to stay asleep, just so you can hear him say it again; just so you can hear him in your dreams.

+++

By the fourth day, you feel marginally more like a human being. So much so, that you actually convince Harry to let you walk to the kitchen – of course, with him hovering behind like a bodyguard, and you even manage to sit upright for breakfast.

“I will need a shower,” you announce at the table, “Desperately.”

He puts down his spoon from his yogurt bowl that he’s constructed. “You’re not cleared for that yet.”

“Harry—” you argue, glaring up at him with a huff.

“Nope. Not arguing. Sponge bath or nothing.”

You blink at him, taking a bite of apple slice that he’s cut – in extremely small pieces so you don’t choke. “Are you offering?”

He smirks, shrugging like he knew exactly what you were asking, but didn’t want to say. “Are you asking?”

You throw an apple slice at him. He catches it with a cackle, and you feel the blood in your veins starting to heat with anticipation for the way that he looks at you.

It had only been ten months together, but this past week had felt like a year alone.

He sets the apple slice on the table and leans forward just enough to narrow the distance between you, elbows braced on the wood. His grin is lazy, knowing, but there's a softness behind it—something warmer than teasing, something quieter than lust.

“You know,” he says, voice low and slow, “if you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to forget you’ve got stitches and make a very poor medical decision.”

You lean your back on the chair, the ghost of a smile tugging at your lips. “I’m not doing anything.”

His eyes flick down to your mouth, then slowly trace their way back up. “You don’t have to.”

Your pulse jumps at his words, soft and subtle and full of extraordinary remarks that blow you away each time. He sees it in the way your breath stutters, in the way your fingers curl a little tighter around your spoon.

He leans back a bit, giving you room to breathe but not taking his eyes off you. “You’re healing,” he says gently, knowing, “I know that. But don’t think for a second I haven’t been thinking about you every night I slept in that recliner next to you.”

You smile—soft, surprised at his statement. “Every night?”

He nods, acknowledging with certainty. “You’d shift in your sleep, make these little noises when your incision tugged. And I’d want nothing more than to crawl over with you and make it all better.”

Your throat goes dry, shaking your head with a serious flush on your cheeks that is definitely not a fever. “Harry…”

“But I couldn’t,” he continues. “Because the only thing I wanted more than to hold you was to make sure you didn’t break open again.”

That shuts you up. The moment hangs—sweet and aching. Then he clears his throat and smiles again, something lighter this time.

“So unless you’re asking for a very awkward sponge bath with medical-grade wipes and an extremely flustered nurse—”

You laugh a little at that, owning the surrender. “Okay, okay! Message received, thank you.”

“Good.” He pops the last apple slice in his mouth, smirking. “Because when you’re better, I won’t be this restrained.”

You swallow hard, thinking of the last time he spoke to you this way and knowing that it may have only been this one time. “And if I said I’m already feeling better?”

He grins, licking juice from his thumb, the flush now on his face. “Then I’d just tell you to prove it. But only after a full abdominal check, clear vitals, and a signed-off discharge from your primary care provider. Which is me, by the way.”

You groan, rolling your eyes as you take another bite of oatmeal. “You’re impossible.”

However, much to your dismay and utter begging, he doesn’t let you shower.

In fact, he actually pushes for the sponge bath more than you wanted, but in a clinical way that allows him to check on the incision and make sure that infection won’t happen. When he does help you clean up with warm cloths and gentle hands, it’s quieter. More tender than he originally stated, which makes your muscles loosen.

His fingers move carefully over your skin, like he’s afraid you’ll break again or make you think otherwise of him. You don’t speak much, just look at him while he works, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“Stop huffing,” you murmur eventually.

“I’m not huffing,” he states defensively, shaking his head as he wipes away a bit of water on your skin, “I’m being thorough.”

You smile, biting on your lip. “You’re a good doctor.”

His hand stills on your arm. “I wasn’t scared like this with patients before,” he says. “Not like this.”

You look at him, heart thudding slow and deep. “Because it was me?”

He meets your gaze for a moment before pulling away. “Yes, because it was you.”

After your sponge bath, he dresses you back into another set of pajamas that aren’t tight and that feel comfortable. You feel clean and like you can breathe again, and it makes you feel better that he’s satisfied with how the recovery is going.

It was finally time that you were allowed to sleep in a bed rather than on a sofa with him next to you. He helps, but you finally make it back into your bed and under the covers, and for the first time in nearly a week, he lies beside you.

“You can sleep in your bed again,” you murmur as he slides under the covers. “I’m not a fragile porcelain doll anymore.”

“No, you’re always a fragile porcelain doll, but now I know how easy it is to break you,” he says, pulling you in close without jostling your sore side. “But I’ll keep you from breaking again, don’t worry.”

You lean your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. It feels nice to be close to him again, knowing that the pain is getting further away and you’re feeling stronger each day.

“Still love me even though I’m gross and stitched together?”

He laughs, the sound vibrating through you as he held you close, not hard. “I loved you when you were hiding a fever and yelling at me for fluffing pillows wrong. I’ll love you until you’re ninety and yelling at me for taking your walker away.”

You grin, the smell of cologne lingering on the t-shirt he wore to bed so now it’s just a remedy of essential scents by him. “Sounds romantic.”

“It is,” he whispers, brushing a kiss to your temple. “You just don’t see it yet.”

+++

You wake up without pain.

It’s the first time in over a week that your body doesn’t feel like it’s on fire or stitched together with barbed wire. You’re still tender, still moving carefully, but you can breathe without flinching, stretch your legs without feeling like you’ll crack open.

Harry’s already up; he’s not next to you anymore, which is shocking. The past few days, he hadn’t let you leave his sight. But now you lay there in the bed, alone, and let your mind wander for a moment – thinking about how he’s in the kitchen, just a few feet away.

You hear him puttering around with pots and pans—eggs, probably, or toast, and that god-awful green smoothie he insists is “medicinal.”

You find that you can finally get up from the bed on your own. So, you shuffle out, dressed in the sweatpants and a t-shirt that you realize is his. He’s standing at the stove in his joggers and a hoodie, hair damp from a shower that morning, flipping something in a pan, listening to it as it sizzles. The Eagles play softly next to him, he whistles along to the soothing sounds of Life in the Fast Lane play out of his Spotify.

He turns and sees you leaning on the counter; your breath halts when he looks at you because it’s almost atrocious how beautiful he is in the mornings. “Morning, love.”

“I think I’ve overcome – I’m alive again,” you cross your arms, “Though I do feel like a troll.”

The smile on his face is a big and proud one, and he crosses to you in three steps, his hand ghosting over your waist like he’s still afraid to touch too hard. Instead, he just kisses your forehead and lifts your jaw to look up at him.

“You do look good,” his voice is soft as he pushes some of your bedhead out of the way, “Color’s back in your face.”

You rest your forehead against his chest. “I feel less like a Victorian orphan.”

“You smell better, too.”

You slap his chest weakly. He kisses the top of your head as he walks back to the breakfast on the stove.

He feeds you eggs and toast and you sit at the table like a real human, even though he still insists on giving you your pills with a full glass of water and checking the incision before you’re allowed to stand back up. But you catch him watching you differently now—less like a patient, more like a person he wants to wrap in his arms and keep forever.

“You’re gonna go back to work soon,” you ask softly, “Aren’t you?”

He nods, reluctantly. “Tomorrow, supposedly. Just a night shift. But I’ll be close, if you need me.”

You try to act nonchalant, like you wouldn’t be calling him right if you admitted you were quite scared to be on your own for a moment. “I’m sure the hospital has struggled without your dramatic hand-flourishes and bossy clipboard routine.”

He smirks, laughing a bit at your joke. “I’m sure they have.”

The next day, Harry had his first shift back at the hospital – you had your first night at home without any issues. It felt like you were on top of the world when he got back in the morning; you felt like a human being.

So, you don’t want to say anything at first, at the onset of the symptoms.

You’ve come so far—out of the woods, out of the hospital, out of Harry’s eagle-eyed surveillance every time you so much as sigh too heavily. You’ve had three full days now of sitting on the balcony of his flat with tea, of laughing without wincing, of Harry letting you walk to the kitchen unsupervised.

Everything had started to go back to normal – you were preparing to go back to work.

But tonight, you’re cold. Freezing, even under two blankets.

And there’s a low throb in your belly again—familiar and nauseating, not painful like the incision but just a low roar that you wished would go away. You brush it off as too much movement, maybe something you ate. You don’t want to alarm him. But, of course, Harry notices.

You’re curled on the couch with your knees tucked up, a movie flickering on the screen in front of you that afternoon, when he turns from the kitchen mid-sentence and freezes. “Hey,” his voice is a bit low; his scrubs sat on his body as he prepared to get himself back to work that night, “You doing okay?”

You try to nod, watching the TV without another thought. “Just tired.”

He’s already moving toward you, crouching by your side, palm to your forehead before you can stop him from touching you altogether.

“You’re clammy,” he murmurs, his voice already tight as you watch the expression on his face start to get a bit frustrated. “You’re shaking. When did this start?”

“I don’t know,” you say quietly, almost ashamed of your quietness to the matter that obviously is important – your health is important, but you promised him you would speak up. “An hour ago? I thought it would pass.”

“God damnit,” He scoffs, breathing out with his hands on his hips. “You should’ve said something.”

You bite your lip and didn’t know what else to say, “I didn’t want to worry you.”

He’s already halfway across the room, grabbing the thermometer, checking your pulse. His fingers move fast, methodical—but there’s a tremble in his jaw that he can’t hide, and you aren’t sure if it’s anger or terror.

“Your temp’s up to 101.6,” he shakes his head, setting the thermometer down, almost like he can’t believe you would just let this go. And you can’t either, but you stay quiet. “How’s the pain? Tell me exactly.”

“It’s dull,” you tell him honestly, “Just kind of… tight? I don’t know – not as painful as before.”

“Any nausea?”

You nod, reluctantly this time.

That’s all it takes. Harry’s voice goes clipped, firm, the way he gets during trauma intake.

“Okay. No more moving until I know what we’re dealing with.”

He stands back up, and you watch him pace the room, phone in hand, dialing the on-call nurse he trusts most. He rattles off the symptoms you’ve given with a clear urgency, asks to schedule back-up labs, then glances back at you.

He disappears into the hallway with the phone pressed against his ear. You start to hear cabinets opening, something dropping onto the floor, a sharp curse under his breath.

When he returns, he’s already in motion—wrapping the blood pressure cuff around your arm with quick, practiced hands, stethoscope slung around his neck. His movements are efficient and quiet, and you don’t question him because you feel like you’ve disappointed him. But you can feel the tension rolling off him in waves.

“Harry, I—” you state quietly, but are cut off firmly.

“Don’t,” he says, not harshly, but with finality. “Just let me check you.”

You do. Because even your stubbornness can’t compete with the shift in his voice. He listens to your heart. Counts your breaths. Watches the clock. Then checks your temperature again and exhales through his nose like it takes effort to stay composed.

“Blood pressure’s low,” he mutters. “Pulse is elevated, mostly due to the fever, but fever would indicate an infection or illness.”

You start to sit up, pushing yourself against the sides of the sofa. “Let me just—”

“No.” He looks at you then, level and serious, and you back down for a moment. “You’re not getting up. We’re not waiting this out. You need to be seen.”

You hesitate, chewing on your lip as you shake your head and start to feel like you made a huge mistake by just letting it go. “I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

He straightens up, hands on his hips, staring at a spot on the floor like he’s trying to keep his temper in check. “You passed out in my apartment less than a week ago. Do you really think I give a shit about you ‘making a big deal’? Your appendix almost ruptured on my kitchen floor, I sew people up for a living and you think you’re making a big deal?”

You flinch slightly, but not because he’s raised his voice—because he hasn’t. That flat tone is worse, you think.

“I’m sorry,” you say, quietly, the apology hanging in the air as you dare to look up at him.

He looks over at you, jaw tight. Then softer since he knows that you are just as scared and annoyed at the way that your body is reacting, “You promised you’d say something.”

“I know.” You nod, licking your lips.

“Then why didn’t you?”

You don’t answer, because there’s nothing good to say – you really don’t have a good answer to give him. He doesn’t push, either. Just crouches in front of you, pulling the blanket tighter around your legs as you start to shiver again.

The way that his voice sounds like velvet even when he’s angry is something that you can’t understand, but you appreciate. “I’ll grab your shoes. Don’t move. I’ll drive you in.”

You nod, finally.

He doesn’t say anything more. He just moves with purpose—grabs your bag, your coat, his keys. He helps you into your shoes, lifting your leg when you struggle to bend. He’s calm, efficient, but you see it now—he’s pissed. And maybe rightfully so.

When he comes back over, he places a hand at the back of your neck and steadies you, lowering you into the passenger seat before strapping you in himself. You don’t argue, because you just want to appease him, want to make him feel like he’s doing the right things.

The car ride to the hospital is quiet – no music plays, you don’t talk. Just the sound of the road, the heater blasting warm air against your cheeks, and his hand flexing once in a while on the gearshift like he’s holding something back.

He doesn’t say I told you so. He doesn’t ask why again. He just drives faster than usual, eyes flicking to you at every red light, jaw set the whole way. And somehow, that quiet says more than anything.

At the hospital, everything moves fast. You’re ushered into a room immediately, which you think is due to Harry’s reputation at the hospital. Harry hands off the chart after completing it to the best of his knowledge to a nurse but stays in the room with you. Always at your side.

Your fever’s climbing; 102.3 now. Your head starts to feel murky as you lay against the gurney and feel your eyes start to shut at just how bad you feel, emotionally and physically.

He sits at your bedside, holding your wrist in both hands, silently counting your pulse again like he doesn’t trust the monitor.

“You’re scaring me,” you whisper.

He looks up, eyes glassy but locked on yours. “I’m just being thorough.”

“Harry.”

You can see the look on his face shift from pissed to annoyed to an unrecognizable one; your tongue glides over your lips as you study him.

“You scared me the first time,” he tells you honestly, quiet murmurs from his accent. “But this? This is worse. I let myself breathe – I was going to go to work, I thought you were okay. And now –”

“I’ll be okay again.”

And you say that to yourself because it makes you feel better, but you can see that he’s just shaking his head. He can’t tell himself you’ll be okay, because if you’re not, then everything he’s ever known has fallen to pieces.

Harry’s stepped out to talk to one of the attending physicians; you don’t know if it’s about you, or just a friendly face to keep him occupied while you wait. You didn’t ask him to—you didn’t have to. He knows this routine better than you do. And while part of you is grateful, the other part is… embarrassed.

You told him you’d speak up next time. You meant it – you really did, at the time. And yet here you are, laying back in a gurney and listening to the sounds of the heart rate monitors.

You pick at a thread on the blanket and try to figure out what exactly is broken in you that makes it so hard to ask for help. It’s not pride, not really. It’s more like… you’ve spent so long pretending everything’s manageable that the idea of saying “I need you” still feels like a kind of failure. Like admitting weakness will confirm every fear you’ve worked so hard to outrun.

And in some ways, you feel guilty for needing Harry. He’s needed constantly – every move he makes at work is because he’s needed, and in some subconscious way, you feel like that makes you the burden. You’re the one that’s supposed to be his go-to when he gets home from work.

You don’t want to be the reason someone worries, you don’t want to be the weight someone else has to carry. Especially not him. But the truth is, Harry isn’t just carrying it. He’s choosing to. Over and over.

It’s Harry’s love language.

And maybe the real weakness is pretending you can do this alone when you don’t actually have to anymore.

The labs come back quickly, which is a relief to all of you. Dr. Carson informs you and Harry that it’s a post-op infection. Thankfully, it’s mild, but enough to flare your fever and irritate the healing site. Nothing that IV fluids, antibiotics, and a couple more days of close monitoring won’t fix, she tells you.

Still, Harry insists on doing every damn thing himself. He helps place the IV, reviews the bloodwork three times, checks in with the infectious disease team to confirm the antibiotic regimen for the next few days.

He never leaves the room, not even once.

+++

Three days later, your fever finally breaks without the need of medications. Of course, you’re still on antibiotics and will continue the dosages that Harry maintains for you.

You wake up bathed in sweat but feeling lighter, alive again. And Harry’s beaming so wide it’s like someone let the sun back into the room.

“You’re okay,” he whispers, kissing your forehead, your temple, your hair. “You’re really okay.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” you say groggily.

“Yeah,” he says, voice breaking a little. “But it’s nice to know.”

+++

A few days later, back at home, he’s gentle in a different way. Less clinical, more personal. Less doctor, more man who is just caring for his sick girlfriend.

He still checks your chart, yes. Still times your pills to the second. But there are longer hugs now, more forehead kisses, more moments where he just looks at you like he can’t believe you’re real.

You recover slower this time, but you never feel alone. You’re on the couch, you must’ve fallen asleep there in the middle of the night when Harry had made his way to work, when the door clicks open.

It’s early—barely past dawn—but you’ve been awake for a while. The house is still, quiet except for the soft hum of the kettle warming in the kitchen. The air smells like lemon balm tea and the faint remnants of lavender from your blanket.

You hear footsteps. Heavy. Slow.

Then, “Hey, sweetheart,” comes Harry’s voice, low and rough with exhaustion.

You turn—and your breath catches.

He’s still in his scrubs. The navy ones. A bit wrinkled from hours of wear. The top clings to his chest in the best way, the drawstring of his pants tied in a loose knot that dips low on his hips. His hair is mussed from the surgical cap, and his eyes—though heavy with fatigue—light up the second he sees you blinking at him with flushed cheeks and your own clear eyes.

“Well, don’t you look snug,” he murmurs, dropping his bag by the door, toeing his sneakers off.

“I made it to the couch on my own last night and stood up to make myself a can of soup for dinner,” you say proudly, stretching your arms above your head.

He grins and walks over to you then, “That deserves a medal.”

You open your arms, and he doesn’t hesitate. He sinks to the couch beside you and pulls you into him like gravity’s in charge, one arm curling protectively around your waist, the other smoothing over your thigh. His lips find yours instantly, letting himself fall into your touch almost like you’re there to revive him.

“You okay?” he murmurs into your hair once you pull apart. “No more fever?”

“Not since yesterday morning. And I kept my breakfast down.”

He pulls back just enough to press his palm to your forehead. Not because he doubts you—because he needs the confirmation on his own.

“Have I ever told you my thoughts of you in scrubs?” you say softly, looking at him to break him away from his fixation on your fever.

He raises a brow, quick-witted. “No, tell me again.”

“It’s an absolute fantasy,” you shake her head, “Truly an eight wonder.”

His lips twitch into a smile. “You saying I look good right now?”

You shrug—noncommittal, teasing. But your eyes drop again, flicking over his chest, down to where his sleeves stretch a little over his biceps, then back up to the cut of his jawline still dusted with stubble.

Harry notices. Of course he does – he never misses anything, the eyes of an eagle.

You shift slightly in his lap, just a little, just enough that his eyes darken.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “You’re still healing.”

“Are you going to medically restrain me to the couch?” You ask, nose nuzzling into his jaw before he lets his head lean back.

“Don’t tempt me,” he bites his lip as he lets you tease him, “I’m trained in medical sedation and restraint.”

Your fingers trail over the fabric at his collar, the small v-neck below your fingertips. You look up through your lashes, tucking your hair behind your ear. “I’m just saying. M.D. or not, you look really hot right now.”

He groans softly, tilts his head back before he looks at you again. “You’re killing me.”

You grin, feeling bold, feeling like yourself again. “You’ve seen me puking, unconscious, stitched up – you’ve literally seen my organs, and sweating through a fever, and now you’re the one blushing?”

Harry draws in a breath and lets his hand slide slowly around your waist—not pulling, not rushing, just grounding you there. It’s like he’s testing the waters, but he doesn’t test very well – not when he knows what’s on the line and how he can hurt you.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks quietly, nose nuzzling into your temple as you kiss along his jaw. “You don’t have to prove anything. Not tonight.”

“I’m not trying to,” you tell him, biting the inside of your cheek. “I just… when I look at you now, I don’t see just my hot doctor boyfriend. I see the Harry who drove me to the ER, who didn’t sleep, who tracked my meds like he was prepping for boards.”

You pause, your voice going softer.

“The Harry who spoon-fed me broth, and held my hair when I was sick, and made sure my shows were queued up on Netflix so when I woke up, they’d already be there,” you smile at that small tidbit and brush some hair off of his forehead, “The Harry who still looked at me like I was whole when I didn’t feel like it.”

His eyes are glassy when they meet yours again. You rest your forehead against his, and his hands slide up your back, holding you close, steady.

“I’m in love with that Harry,” you whisper, letting your words dance across his skin like you only want him to hear it, not the whole universe. “All of him.”

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for days, most likely because he has. “You always manage to say things when I’ve got no good response lined up, and my brain is complete mush from setting a kid’s broken collarbone from a ski accident.”

You smile, shaking your head with a laugh. “I know. It’s one of my more dangerous talents.”

“You’ve got terrible timing,” he mutters, brushing his nose against yours. “You know that?”

You smirk, letting your lips pucker to meet his in a quick peck. “You’re the one kissing your patient.”

He huffs a soft laugh and kisses you anyway—slow, deliberate, and entirely unhurried because it makes more sense to let things sit in this world for a moment. It’s the kind of kiss that says finally, and carefully, and I meant it. You press your fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck and lean into him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And it is because you haven’t felt this good in a long time, it feels like.

When you break apart, his lips hover near yours.

“Let’s just stay like this a while,” he says. “Until you’re steady.”

You smile, tracing your finger along his jaw as you catch yourself staring at his lips. “And when I am?”

His grin curves against your cheek into one like the cheshire cat. “Then I’ll show you why surgeons are very, very good with their hands. Steady, some may say.”

Your laugh bubbles out of you before you can help it, and he just kisses your smile like he wants to memorize it – and good news for you, he’s got a photographic memory.

Somewhere, between the tea he puts in the kettle after you snuggle on your couch, and the medicine and the kiss and the way your heartbeat skips every time he walks into a room, you realize something: you almost broke trying to keep things to yourself.

But Harry? He put you back together—with feverish nights, sponge bathes, and stitches, sure. But also with care, presence, and love so patient it hurts.

And you think… you just might let him do it forever.

+++

The scar is barely visible now. It sits low, a thin pink line just above your hipbone—quiet proof of everything you’ve survived.

You’re standing at the bathroom mirror when you hear Harry call from the kitchen, “Do you want almond milk or oat milk in your coffee?”

You smile, pulling your oversized sweatshirt back down over your bare legs. Your body feels a sense of liberation from the morning that the two of you had. “Surprise me.”

He hums something tuneless from the other room, and you hear the soft clink of mugs and the whir of the coffee grinder. The scent drifts down the hallway like something holy.

When you pad into the kitchen, he’s already got everything waiting on the little breakfast table: coffee, toast, fruit. The sunlight catches the edge of his glasses—he’s been wearing them in the mornings now, before he has to squint at patient charts all day.

That smirk you know too well curls across his face. “Struggling to walk?”

You shrug, as you watch him start to watch as you make your way to the table, all faux-casual. “Someone decided this morning was the perfect time to test the limits of post-op clearance.”

He shuts the water off and turns toward you, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “I was being gentle, was I not?”

“You said, and I quote, ‘You better hold on to the headboard.’”

He steps closer, standing just in front of you now. “Which you did,” he licks his lips, kissing your forehead, “You’re very good at following directions.”

“Barely,” you laugh, and he smiles, but there’s something else behind his gaze—something warm and proud and a little possessive.

“I wasn’t allowed to touch you for weeks,” he murmurs, biting on his lip as he shrugged, buttering some bread. “I was trying to make up for lost time.”

“You did,” you say, looping your arms loosely around his waist as he stood by the counter. “My thighs are still shaking.”

He groans under his breath, ducking his head. “You can’t say stuff like that and expect me not to lose my mind.”

“You said you’d be good.” He turns in your hug, facing you now as he leans against the countertops.

“I said I’d be careful,” he corrects, brushing his lips just beneath your jaw. “Never said anything about being good.”

You tilt your head back slightly, letting him graze his nose along the edge of your collarbone, your skin still carrying the faint scent of his body wash from earlier. It would be so easy to pull him closer again, to let it start all over, but the laundry buzzes, and a pot simmers on the stove, and somehow you both feel… full. Satisfied.

Still, the way his hands rest on your hips, thumbs moving in soft circles, tells you he hasn’t stopped thinking about it. Neither have you.

You press your mouth to his ear. “Tonight, if I can still move…”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his own darker now as he likes where your promises are going. “Yeah?”

You nod. “I want you again. Slow this time. Less headboard, more…” You trail off, letting your smile finish the sentence.

His mouth curves with intent, and he leans in to kiss you, soft and slow. Just a taste. Just a promise.

“Done,” he whispers.

The memory from earlier is still humming low in your limbs—lazy and molten. His mouth trailing down your stomach just after sunrise, fingers splayed warm and reverent across your hips like he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to touch you again. There had been no rush, no teasing—just need. Messy, sleepy, real, and quite nasty if you weren’t kidding yourself. Your legs wrapped around his waist, laughter muffled into the curve of his neck when the bed creaked too loud and neither of you cared.

He’d kissed your shoulder as he moved, breath hot against your skin, mumbling something about how he’d waited weeks to make you feel good again. And God, he had. The ways that his hands moved were no joke, and you couldn’t believe the weight of them on your lower abdomen as he pushed himself into you.

You could feel every inch of him.

You’d gone boneless beneath him by the end; sweaty, grinning, and completely undone.

“You’re spoiling me, you know,” you say, sitting down.

Harry glances over, grinning. “You got your stitches out. I figured that deserves strawberries.”

You sip your coffee. He got it right: oat milk, two sugars, just how you like it.

“Thanks,” you say softly, your tongue too quick, “But it also deserved the absolute nasty morning bone session, so I appreciate both.”

He leans over and kisses your temple. “I’d do it every day for the rest of my life.”

You blink. He freezes a little, realizing what he said. Then you both smile, slow and certain.

A month ago, you couldn’t stand up without help.

Now, you’re dancing in the kitchen to a song from the radio while Harry flips pancakes and sings off-key beside you. You’re sleeping tangled together. You’re holding hands at the grocery store. He has a photo of you on his desk at work. You’re kissing in public sometimes just because you can, because you need to know that he’s there.

Later, after breakfast, you water the plants while Harry reads the paper with his glasses slipping down his nose. There’s a new ease between you—a comfort that didn’t exist before the chaos. You’ve been through something sharp and ugly together and come out on the other side softer for it.

The scar on your skin has faded. But the love you hold for him, and he holds for you? It sat in the room with you, like a third character, just the beginning of it’s wonderous story.

534 notes · View notes

theundercoversquid · 3 days ago

Text

Cat Sitting

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Reader

Summary: Your Buckys catsitter, and well, maybe Alpine isn't the only one you need to look after

Warnings: Bob

Masterlist

Walking up to the old Stark tower, come Avengers tower, come whatever the hell this was, was not how you were expecting to spend your Friday evening. Yet here you were. Alpine, Buckys cat, cuddled to your chest. Her harness was on and her lead in hand. But the cat was happy pressed against you. Purring contentedly as you narrated your thoughts to her.

"The things I do for your dad." You murmur to the cat, looking up at the towering skyscraper.

You had always been Buckys' go-to person when someone had to look after Alpine, I mean, what were friends for? But when he asked you to drop Alpine off here instead of his flat, you had been confused. But went through with his request anyway. You knew that Bucky wouldn't let anything bad happen to Alpine, and that meant, by extension, you. It was a close-run thing about who Alpine loved more, you or Bucky.

Heasitenly, you recheck the message that Bucky had sent you before stepping into the building and walking up to the lifts. Pressing the call button, you wait for one to arrive, anxiously stroking Alpines fur as you wait.

When a lift dings to tell you it has arrived, you step in. Pressing the floor Bucky had told you to, and feeling as if it takes you up.

When the lift comes to a stop, you step out into the seemingly deserted building.

"Hello." You call out hesitantly. "Bucky!" You call a bit louder this time as Alpine jumps out of your arms, landing on the ground. But still, you make sure to keep hold of her lead. Not quite trusting this strange environment.

But only silence greets you, and then the sound of shuffling feet has you turn to see a man heading in your direction, well, more like shuffling hesitantly in your direction.

"Hello?" You greet the strange person. But their eyes are firmly set on Alpine as they shuffle towards her before bending down to give the cat some fuss.

You wait for a few moments as they give Alpine some fuss before finally butting in.

"Excuse me," You call softly. Casing their head to suddenly turn to you, looking sheepish. "You wouldn't know where Bucky is by any chance." For a moment, you feel like you are going to get lost in his eyes. But you shake yourself out of it.

"Oh, sorry," the stranger murmurs, a hand coming up to fiddle with the cuffs of his sweater. "Bucky got called out last minute, but he warned me you would be coming around. he told me to tell you that he will be back soon. You can wait if you want, or you can leave Alpine with me." The stranger murmurs.

"I take it that means that you are Bob, then," you murmur. Leaning down to unclip Alpine's lead, giving her the space to roam if she wants to. Not that it looks as if she wants to go anywhere with Bob giving her fuss, so you also croach down storing the spoiled cat.

"Oh," Bob murmurs, not looking at you as he instead looks at Alpine. "You know who I am?"

"Bucky mentioned you." You admit with a shrug, also looking at Alpine instead of the man opposite you.

"What did he say?" Bob asks. Somehow, his voice seems almost even quieter, with a hesitant edge to it, as if he doesn't truly want to know what Bucky has to say about him.

"Not much." You admit truthfully. "After the attack on New York, I called him to make sure he was alright. I had seen him on the news, but I wanted to make sure he was really alright, you know. He told me some of what went down. Told me bits and pieces, I know he wants to tell me the whole story, but it's not the sort of thing you say over the phone. Then, when it came to dropping Alpine off, he mentioned that you may be around."

"That's all?" Bob murmurs, half glancing towards you, as if he wants to look at you but can't bring himself to.

"Pretty much," you shrug. "Why? Is there something else he should have told me?" You question before pausing. "You aren't allergic to cats, are you?"

"No." Bob blurts out suddenly, and you don't know which of your questions he is answering. "I mean no," Bob murmurs. "No to all of them."

"That's good." You nod. "It would be a bit awkward if you were allergic to cats, given Alpine is going to be loving with you.

"What about you?" Bob murmurs. "Do you live with Bucky and Alpine?"

"Oh no." You laugh. "Just an old friend. Well, not that old, given how old Bucky is. But I have been a friend of his for quite a while. Steve introduced us to each other. Brings back memories being back at this place."

At that Bob finally looks up at you, he hesitates, looking as if he is going to say something, but before he can pluck up the corage you can here the sound of the lift going of, filled by the sound of the doors opening and overlaping voices greet you as the others emerge from the lift. All talking over each other about something or another.

But at the sight of you and Bob crouched down to the ground giving fuss to a snow white cat, all conversation halts.

"Alpine!" Bucky call, grinning as he spots his cat. Alpine has also spotted Bucky stands up, running at him, before she throws herself at him. The man catches her effortlessly as he cradles her to his chest, giving her fuss.

"Who are you?" A woman with bleached blond hair standing next to Bucky asks, her accent thick.

Standing up, you hesitantly wave at the group, telling them your name. "I'm an old friend of Buckys and sometimes cat sit for him." You pause for a moment, hesitant before you carry on. "I also have Nat's cat." You murmur. "Liho. She used to leave her with me." At the mention of Nat, both the woman you're assuming to be Yelena and an older man's heads snap to look at you, their eyes intent. "I was going to bring her as well, but she was determined she didn't want to come." With their eyes intent on you, you can't help but carry on rambling. "I can bring her around if you want to meet her." You finally offer a trial.

"Yes," the older man nods. "That would be good." His accent also thick.

"I'm going to go now." You announce feeling awkward. "Call me if you need any more cat sitting," you tell Bucky. Edging around the imposing crowd as you make a bid for the lifts.

"Wait. A voice called, forcing you to stop and turn around. All eyes have now turned to Bob as he seems to shrink under their gaze. "Do you maybe want to stay?" Bob murmurs. "You could stay for supper."

"Oh," you murmured, a little surprised at the sudden request. Turning to look at Bucky, not sure what to do. But you can see him already nodding. Agreeing with Bob's suggestion. "I would love to." You start before trialling of, "It's just that I have some things I need to do, and then I will need to get back to Liho." You murmur.

"Oh," Bob deflates a little, taking what you have said as a not ever, when in fact it is a not now.

"That doesn't mean I would want to come for dinner some night." You amend quickly. "Just not tonight."

Bob seems to perk up a little at that, as everyone else just seems to carry on, staring at you. Well, everyone but Bucky, who had gone back to giving Alpine fuss.

"I'm going to go now," you murmur, making a bid for freedom. You end up practically running out of the Avengers Tower. Rushing out into the street, you know you have safely blended into the crowd.

You truly did mean your offer, you would love to stay for the supper. But tonight was not the night for it. Not least because you hadn't had the time to mentally prepare for it.

When Bucky had asked if you could pet sit Alpine, you had thought absolutely nothing of it. It was rather a common that you had to look after the snow white cat.

When he had asked if you could come to the Avengers tower to look after Alpine, you hadn't thought that much of it. Poor Alpine had just moved to a new home with new people. It would make sense that Bucky would want her to get used to that new environment.

What had made you suspicious, however, was Buckys' insistence that he had left instructions on the counter that you had to read. You had pet-sat Alpine enough times that you knew her as well as you knew your own cat. For heaven's sake, Alpine was practically your second cat.

But no, Bucky had some new instructions you just had to read, and being the trusting person that you were, you just chalked it up to being instructions about the new location. When to take the bins out. That sort of thing.

So you packed up the clothes you would need for the week he was going to be away. Also, packing up all of Liho's things.

Then, when everything was finally ready, you headed across to the Avnerger towers. From what Bukcy had told you, he had given Alpine breakfast before leaving that morning. So you were arriving an hour or two later.

When you get into the complex, the doors to the lift open. Silence greets you as you step out into the main room, but you can't see anyone or anything around.

"Alpine!" You call gently as you make your way into the kitchen. At your words, you can hear a soft thump followed by hurried paws as Alpine rushes to make her way to you.

Liho is still half asleep, swaddled in a pappus, so you open your other arm up to Alpine, who happily leaps into it. Purring as you cradle her.

Then, with two cats, one in each arm, you turn to read the instructions that Bucky had left you.

The instructions start normally enough. How the hob works, when to take the bins out, how the heating works and all those sorts of things. There are then a few comments on where Alpine likes to sleep, in case you can't find her. Then, when you turn that page, you can see that the title is simply: Bob.

Which confuses you? As far as you were aware, Bucky had gotten another cat, and if he had, why would he give it the same name as his teammate and the person that he lived with? But still you read his instructions, and as you read them, you feel more and more sorry for this poor cat.

When you get to the end, you fold the piece of paper up. Tuck it in your pocket before you head off around the facility. Two cats are still cradled to you as you go.

"Bob!" You call softly so as not to startle the cat.

What you were not expecting was for Bob the human to suddenly sit up on the sofa he had obviously been lying down on. His sudden appearance startles you. But somehow you remain upright and with both cats still in your arms.

Bob seems equally startled to see you as you both stare at each other with wide eyes for a moment.

"What are you doing here?" Bob suddenly asks before his eyes widen again. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that." He rushed to amend, but you assured him it was all right.

"I'm cat sitting." You explain to him. Gently lifting Alpine up in your arms. "Though I have yet to meet Buckys' new cat."

"New cat?" Bob questions, looking confused.

"Yeah," you nod. "He left me a note about him." You explain as you pull the note from your pocket. Holding it out to Bob.

Tentatively, Bob takes the paper from your outstretched hand

You watch him as he reads it. His face changes as he gets further down the paper.

"Uh," Bob murmurs. "I think that's me."

"Oh," you murmur, not suddenly making sense. "I'm going to kill Bucky." You murmur, your head dropping down to land on Lihos head as the cat meows at you.

Bob seems to take your reaction the wrong way.

"You don't need to stay if you don't want to." He rushes to assure you. "I can look after Alpine for you."

"Nope," You shake your head. "It looks like I have two cats and a human to look after."

With that, you deposit both cats onto Bob's lap. "Now, when did you last eat a proper meal?"

Bob pauses. Taken aback by your words, he strokes the cats. But then you can see as he starts to think about your questions.

"Well, that's answer enough, you tell him. Turning your head towards the kitchen, any allergies or dietary restrictions?" You call over your shoulder.

"Uh, no?" Bob calls back.

"Perfect." You call over your shoulder before you step into the kitchen.

Now, maybe when you had first entered the Avengers, you hadn't been expecting to have to look after two cats and a human. But you weren't going to leave Bob alone in the tower by himself. Who knows, maybe the company may do him a little bit of good.

But that wasn't to say you were going to kill Bucky when he got home.

#thunderbolts #thunderbolts*#thunderbolts x reader #thunderbolts imagine #bob imagine #bob reynolds #robert reynolds #robert reynolds x reader #sentry #sentry x reader #bob x reader #robert reynolds imagine #robert reynolds fanfiction #sentry imagine #sentry fanfiction #thunderbolts fanfiction #bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds imagine

524 notes · View notes

em1i2a3 · 5 hours ago

Text

Only He Can Heal Me

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Enhanced!Fem!Reader!

Summary: After a mission gone wrong, you and Bob take refuge in one of Valentina’s safehouses to wait for an extraction.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, and a bit of Angst. We got the one bed trope in here, and we love it very much lol. Mentions of Blood and Injuries, Light Exploration of Readers Traumatic Past, Mentions of Violence, Descriptions of Wound Care. Reader has taken a Super Soldier Serum (a messed up one that didn’t truly work but gave her some benefits like healing a little faster than others and some enhanced strength).

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (….y’all know what I’m going to say…I don’t have to tell you lol), Fingering, Oral Sex (Female Receiving) Handjob, Messy/Sensual Sex, Spitting (but like…in a sensual way guys lol), Grinding

Authors Note: We love a good one bed trope, but I gotta say I’ve written close to like 30,000 words in the past 24 hours and my brain is like ‘HOW MUCH MORE SMUT CAN WE WRITE’ lol. Loved doing it though, it was like a marathon! Can’t wait to release the next one tomorrow :) Enjoy this one, this was a request from an anon, and I cannot find it! But ENJOY!

Word Count: 16,184

The prep bay was cold and mostly empty, except for the soft hum of wall vents and the faint rattling of gear being zipped, buckled, and secured behind locker doors.

The overhead lights buzzed faintly, too bright in places and dim in others, flickering where the panels hadn’t been replaced in months. The room smelled faintly of machine oil and static–charged with the familiar tang of adrenaline, sweat, and sterile fabric fresh from vacuum-sealed bags.

You’d just finished adjusting the last strap of your chest harness–tightening it down over the protective plating that pressed solid and reassuring against your sternum–when a flicker of gold caught your peripheral vision.

You paused, with one hand still on the cinch strap at your hip, and turned your head slightly at the colour.

Bob was standing by the far mirror, partially tucked between two lockers, half-lit by a faulty overhead beam that stuttered and blinked every few seconds like it couldn’t quite keep up with the job it was supposed to be doing. He hadn’t noticed you staring–or if he had, he was pretending not to.

He was already suited up and ready for the mission, and you couldn’t help but let your eyes roam over the sight in front of you.

The new Sentry suit clung to him like it had been built cell by cell onto his skin.

Not just worn–forged. It wrapped around every inch of him like it had been grown from starlight and gravity and expectation, molded to fit the weight of a man who could level New York with the snap of his fingers.

And for the first time, with the old bulk of his baggy sweaters and oversized sweatpants gone, you were able to see everything.

The long, sculpted lines of his legs, wrapped in dark navy plating that traced the shape of powerful quads and calves. The sweep of his hips, trim and bracketed in reinforced seamwork that flexed faintly with every shift in his stance. The gold across his chest was smooth, seamless, pressed tight to thick pectorals and sharply defined shoulders that rose and fell with each breath like rolling thunder. Even his arms–cords of lean muscle, taut and strong–were framed by the suit in a way that almost felt indecent in how much presence it gave him.

He was broad. Massive. Godly.

Everything about him in that moment was dangerous in the way the sun is dangerous: too bright, too big, and too hot…Temperature wise of course.

But instead of standing proud in the new suit, he looked uncertain. Hunched slightly, like he was trying to take up less space than he did. One hand moved across his chest in slow, flattening passes–fingers dragging across the golden seam like he was checking for cracks in a shell that didn’t quite feel like his.

His expression in the mirror was unreadable. Something between awe and fear, because the suit made him look like a god.

But the man wearing it?

He still looked like Bob.

Like someone who had spent too long convincing himself he wasn’t worthy of saving–let alone saving anyone else.

You watched him for another couple of seconds. Long enough to catch the subtle furrow of his brow, the way his breath visibly slowed like he was talking himself through the act of just existing inside all that power.

And then–your voice, calm and familiar, cut through the quiet of the room like a knife:

”You’re missing the cape.” He flinched, startled–his shoulders jolting slightly as he twisted toward the sound of your voice. His eyes found yours with the soft, wide-open look of someone who’d just been pulled out of water without realizing how long they’d been drowning. His mouth parted. The apples of his cheeks flushed pink almost instantly, Color blooming up toward the tips of his ears–embarrassed, maybe, or just vulnerable in a way he didn’t know how to guard around you.

You could see the question flicker behind his eyes: How one have you been watching me?

”…Oh.” He said, voice rough at the edges. It caught in his throat, and he cleared it with a soft, awkward cough. His gaze dropped for a second, darting to the chair behind him where the cape sat–folded with care, the weight of its symbolism too heavy for him to shoulder just yet.

”Y-Yeah. I wasn’t s-sure if I should wear it this t-time around.” He replied quietly, as he spoke, a loose strand of light brown hair slipped forward, tumbling across his brow–soft against the sharpness of the suit. He reached up with a flicker of self-consciousness, fingers pushing it back behind his ear, but the motion only emphasized the contrast: the boyish awkwardness of Bob Reynolds trying to live inside the myth of Sentry. When he looked back up at you, the light caught his eyes just right.

And you saw it.

Gold.

Faint, flickering through the deep ocean blue–the colour his irises sported when he was in a certain light–like lightning scattering across abandando seas. Not glowing outright–but present. Watching. Sentry was not lurking, not threatening; he was just awake. Quiet. Curious almost.

You started walking toward him, slow and casual. Measured in a way that wouldn’t spook him and that wouldn’t make him feel like a specimen under glass.

”You should wear it,” You said gently, “It’ll complete the look.” His lips twitched, but didn’t quite make it to a smile.

”T-The look?” You nodded.

”Y’know…The whole divine golden protector from the skies thing they have going for you.” His lashes fluttered as you approached, long and soft against the sharp angles of his face, still a little pink at the cheekbones. He blinked once–then again–as if grounding himself with your steps.

You stopped just shy of him, giving him a respectful bit of space but close enough to see the precise stitching of his suit now–not just armor, but something compared to scripture in a way. Intricate lines flowed from shoulder to elbow like veins of lightning trapped in cloth, cross-patterned over his ribs with a celestial geometry you recognized as Sentry’s sigil, though this one was subdued–etched into him instead of displayed.

The golden plating was seamless, light-warped and fluid over his chest, hugging the swell of his pectoral muscles, tapering down his waist and into the darker paneling that wrapped around his hips like a brace. There were slight grooves in the gold that shimmered as he moved, like solar flares caught in motion. Even standing still, he looked ready to fly. Seeing all the details up close almost took your breath away.

And still–he was fidgeting.

Not noticeably. Not like before.

But enough that you saw it: the flex of his fingers against his thigh. The tiniest rise of his chest like he was trying to steady his breathing.

And only you would notice.

You let the moment stretch just long enough for the tension to ease between you. Your voice stayed quiet, grounded.

“Can I help you put it on?” He didn’t answer right away, but then his eyes flicked up–searching your face, just for a moment–and he gave a single, quick nod. You turned, walking the last few steps to the chair where the cape rested. It was folded perfectly, like a sacred object waiting to be used. Your fingers brushed the fabric as you lifted it.

It was heavier than it looked–dense and thick, with layered gold threading woven through an inner lining of dark slate gray. The outer side was luminous, that same rich gold as his suit, but slightly deeper–burnished at the edges, like sunlight just before dusk. The hem shimmered subtly with kinetic microfilaments meant to stabilize it mid-flight. Even in your hands, it felt powerful.

When you turned back around with the cape in your hands, he was still standing, fingers still twitching at his sides like he was mulling over something in his head. The air between you seemed to tighten just a little–charged, but not dangerous. Not with him. Not anymore.

Then, with a soft exhale, Bob moved.

Slowly, deliberately–he began to kneel.

It wasn’t a grand gesture. Just one knee lowering to the floor with careful control, his head bowed slightly–not in deference, but out of thoughtfulness.

So the height difference wouldn’t strain you, so you wouldn’t have to reach and hurt yourself.

Your breath hitched slightly at the sight.

Because he hadn’t asked. He hadn’t said a word. He had simply given you what he knew you’d never really ask for–ease, access, and trust.

You stepped into his space without hesitation, the cape feeling heavier now in your hands–not just from the weight, but with the meaning of what you were about to do. You stood in front of him quietly, with his head still lowered, shoulders broad and solid but stilled beneath your touch, as if he didn’t want to do anything that would interrupt your rhythm. He breathed in the scent of your tactical gear–the strong smell of gun oil, burnt fabric, and a sweetness that only he could describe as hot strawberries.

You leaned over him and began fastening the clips just beneath his collar–magnetized seal points engineered to respond to manual input only, no voice command, no suit automation. It had always struck you as oddly poetic, like some designer was trying to make some sort of underhanded statement about the vulnerability of a superhero that the rest of the world missed.

Now, it made perfect sense.

Someone had to help him with this.

He couldn’t do it alone.

Maybe it was meant to encourage connection. Maybe it was just another line item under “team protocol.” But right now–with your fingers brushing the reinforced seamwork of his armor, with Bob Reynolds kneeling before you in absolute stillness–it felt sacred, like a kind of ceremony that tethered the both of you into each other.

You clicked the last clasp into place slowly, the faint metallic snap sounding louder than it should’ve in the quiet. Then, with both hands, you smoothed the cape gently across his shoulders–your palms gliding over thick, immovable muscle as you checked the weight and fall of the fabric.

It settled down his back like a mantle. Not just gear. It was the final piece that made everything feel real. He was going into the field for the first time since he Voided the majority of New York City, and he was going with you.

This wasn’t just about trying to prove himself, this was about trying to belong on a team that was continuously doubting him and trying to shield him from missions they knew he wanted to help with.

You didn’t step away from him, instead, your hands stayed on his shoulders, resting lightly–warmth against armor, skin to suit, breath to breath. His body was solid beneath your touch, unmoving. Like he didn’t dare shift and break the moment. Like he was bracing against emotion he didn’t know how to show.

For a few seconds, neither of you spoke. The room buzzed faintly around you. Somewhere a locker clicked shut. A bootstep echoed far off down the hallway. But none of it touched the space you two occupied.

Just you. Just him. Just the weight of what it meant. He looked up from the ground, bringing his shimmering eyes to yours, the cold blue being engulfed with the warmth of gold that pulsed softly beneath the surface.

His voice, when it came, was soft. Like it had to climb up his throat to get out.

“I d-didn’t get to say thank y-you,” He said, “…For what y-you did during the meeting.” You paused. The words hung there–raw and unfinished. You could feel him holding something back, unsure if he’d said too much already.

You shook your head gently.

“You don’t have to,” You murmured, “Someone had to do it.” He didn’t look away, nor did he drop his eyes or fidget. He just stayed there, kneeling, with the cape settling against him, and gold flickering under his skin like sunrise behind cloud cover.

“I still want to say i-it regardless…Because you’re the r-reason why I’m here right now.” The words landed heavy. True. Vulnerable in a way few people ever let themselves be anymore–not with the Thunderbolts. Not with everything they’d seen.

Your throat tightened–but before you could respond, you saw it in his eyes. The flicker. The shift.

He was remembering.

The meeting.

The room had been too full for comfort–one of the main ops debrief suites, repurposed last-minute because Walker had cracked the glass wall in the old briefing room again. Everyone was seated around the table, the tension so thick you could feel it in your molars.

Val stood at the head with a tablet in her hands, and a look that suggested she’d already decided the outcome before anyone spoke.

“The mission is recon only,” She said crisply. “Two agents. Remote location off the edge of Bucharest. No public visibility. Minimal risk.”

Then, like she was dropping a live grenade:

“Bob’s file is under consideration.”

You saw it immediately–the way Bucky stiffened in his seat. The way Walker leaned forward, jaw tightening. Yelena didn’t even try to hide her scoff, and Ava shot you a look across the table like she was trying to gauge how serious you were about this.

Only Alexei sat still, arms crossed, unreadable as usual–but you didn’t miss the way his eyes flicked toward Bob, who sat near the back. Silent. Hands folded in his lap. Shoulders drawn tight beneath a threadbare hoodie.

He hadn’t spoken. Not once. He didn’t need to. The silence around him was speaking volumes.

Val continued, breezing through the risk assessments. She spoke like Bob wasn’t even in the room.

“While his recovery has shown significant improvement–meditative regulation, Void suppression therapy, strength conditioning–field placement is still an unresolved variable.”

“‘Unresolved variable?’”You repeated, voice colder than you intended. “He’s been stable for eight months.”

”And we remember the last time he wasn’t stable.” Walker cut in, tone clipped, “Need I remind you of the Void turning the population into a trauma loop.” Yelena leaned back in her chair, arms folded.

”This isn’t about doubting his progress. It’s just about not wanting to see him go there again.” You rubbed your forehead.

”He won’t,” You snapped, more forcefully than you meant to–but you didn’t walk it back. Your eyes scanned the table, looking at the rest of the team, almost hoping that you would be able to convince them otherwise.

Ava sighed. “It’s not that we don’t believe he’s trying. We know he is. But try doesn’t count for much when the Void’s in play.”

That’s when you pushed your chair back and stood.

You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t need to.

“Then what’s the point of any of it?” You asked. “The training, the meditations, the suppression chamber nights, the full neuro-synchronization sessions we’ve sat through–all of it. What is the point of putting him through hell to be better if the second he is, we decide it’s still not enough?”

The room quieted.

Bob hadn’t looked up.

He’d kept his hands together, looking down at the floor, with his shoulders hunched.

You stepped out from behind your chair, speaking not to the table anymore–but to him.

“I’ve watched him every day. I’ve seen him rebuild himself molecule by molecule while half of you still talk about him like he’s a bomb with a faulty timer. I trust him. And if no one else wants to give him that chance–fine. I will.” There was a pause as everyone exchanged glances at one another, while you looked over to where Val was standing, the tablet still perched in her hands,“Assign me the mission. Put him on it. Just us. Let’s see if all that damn therapy worked.” Val looked at you for a long moment. Then at Bob. Then back again, almost like she was questioning your sanity.

“…It’s your call…But you’re the one who’s taking the blame if anything happens.” You nodded once, steady and sure.

”I’m willing to take the chances.” The room remained quiet, the kind of quiet that wasn’t peaceful—just heavy. Charged. One wrong word and it would tip into something worse. But you didn’t waver. You didn’t even glance back at the others.

You turned.

And your eyes found him.

Bob was still seated, shoulders hunched, posture compact like he was trying to take up as little space in the world as possible. But–

He was looking at you.

For the first time that meeting, he’d lifted his head, just enough, and it wrecked you.

The stunned flicker in his expression was sharp, almost disbelieving. Like he hadn’t been expecting you to fight for him. Not like that. Not out loud. Not in a room where it would cost you something–like being sat out of missions for an unknown amount of time.

His lips parted slightly, but no words came out. His gaze dropped again almost as fast–but not before you caught it.

The look in his eyes was hope, cracking at the edges.

That’s what had brought you to this moment, with him kneeling in front of you, and your hands resting on his shoulders.

”Trust me…It’s not that big of a deal.” But you felt it in the way his muscles shifted under your touch, the slight tremble of disbelief still running through him like an aftershock. The cape settled perfectly down his spine now, catching the flickering light in soft ripples as he knelt there, grounded not by weight, but by something far more vulnerable.

You didn’t mean to reach up.

But your hand moved on instinct.

Fingers brushing along the edge of his jaw before cupping the curve of his cheek–warm beneath your palm, with the faintest prickle of stubble just starting to grow back after this morning’s shave. His skin was soft. Too soft for someone who’d been built to withstand the weight of stars.

His breath hitched.

And though he didn’t lean into the touch, he didn’t move away either. He just looked at you–really looked at you. Gold threading through ocean blue. A light that wasn’t there just a few months ago.

The intimacy of it hung between you like a string pulled too tight. It was more than friendship. More than duty. It was something you hadn’t had the space to name yet–but it was there, crackling quietly in the places words couldn’t reach.

You dropped your hand slowly, gently. Letting it linger for just a heartbeat longer than you should have.

Then you smiled–small but sure–and stepped back.

“We’ll kick ass out there.” The shift in your tone pulled something like a grin from him. Shy. Crooked. Almost boyish.

You tilted your head toward the bay doors. “Now comm up. We’ve gotta catch the quinjet before Alexei starts yelling and Walker decides to fly it himself.”

That got a soft chuckle from him–quiet and warm, like sunlight after stormclouds.

He rose slowly, with the kind of strength that didn’t show off–but couldn’t be ignored either. The cape flowed down behind him as he stood to his full height, golden and striking and real. No longer a symbol he didn’t think he deserved–but one he’d earned, inch by inch.

And now?

He was finally wearing it.

Side by side, you made your way to the hangar doors, boots echoing softly on the floor.

Two agents.

One mission.

And for the first time in a long time–

Bob Reynolds looked ready.

———————

The facility sat like a carcass at the edge of the forest, its structure sunken and half-swallowed by the wild. Tall pines clustered around the perimeter like sentries of their own, and the building’s outer shell was cracked in places, choked with ivy and moss. The quinjet’s descent had barely stirred the quiet–no birdsong, no wind, just that unnatural stillness you only ever found around dead places.

Bob landed first.

Boots hitting the ground with a muffled thud, cape fluttering faintly behind him, and you followed seconds later, crouching low in the brush before rising to your full height beside him. You exchanged a look–then a nod–and started toward the front of the facility, with your weapons lowered, and sensors scanning.

Once inside, the air changed.

It was stale. Clinical. Stripped of time. Like the place had been left in a hurry, but not by accident. You moved through the corridors slowly, your shoulder brushing his every few steps–part proximity, part habit.

The walls were lined with steel and polymer composite, scorched in some places, and still faintly etched with whiteboard residue in others. You swept through the lab chamber by chamber–clearing one door after the next in practiced silence. It was only when you reached what had once been a medbay or containment ward that Bob slowed.

A cluster of terminals flickered dimly under emergency power. Loose papers were scattered across the desk, some yellowed with age, others oddly fresh. You tilted your head and picked one up, squinting in the low light.

“…Looks like they were testing a serum variant,” You murmured, eyes scanning the page. “Modified CRSP-3. With…Anti-degeneration binding agents?”

Bob leaned in, frowning faintly as he read over your shoulder. “S-Super soldier derivative…” He said quietly, recognizing the words he had heard when he was back at the lab in Malaysia, just a the name was a bit off, “It’s close to the version t-they gave me. Just…Not I guess.”

You looked up at the comment, quirking a brow. “Wrong how?”

He shook his head slowly. “L-Like someone took the recipe and forgot the sunlight.”

Your lips quirked slightly at the phrasing, but it faded quickly as your gaze dropped to another folder. You flipped it open and scanned the contents before muttering, “It’s not that different from mine.” His eyes lifted to yours.

“Y-You got a variant?” You raised a brow at him, like you had revealed a secret that everyone knew but never spoke of.

”It was completely diluted,” You replied, sliding a page free from the file, “Got a perk or two though, I can lift heavy stuff like cars and big slabs of concrete…I don’t heal as fast as I’d like though, not as quick as Bucky or John or Alexei. Not that I mind though, it still gives me some flexibility with my skills and stuff…” Bob’s eyes stayed locked on yours for a second longer, like he wanted to say something else about your serum but couldn’t find the words. Maybe it was respect. Maybe it was concern. But it lingered in the air between you.

You stepped lightly toward another desk, fingers trailing over cracked glass and dust-laced folders as you moved. The place felt stripped of life but not memory. You could still feel the hum in the walls, like the experiments had left a stain that hadn’t faded. Bob followed you, his movements quieter now, more controlled–a kind of hyper awareness rolling off him in waves.

”…Do you really not remember anything from that lab in Malaysia?” You asked softly–trying to change the subject, but to also pick his brain–as you thumbed through a clipboard lined with scrawled formulas and dates. His footsteps slowed behind you.

”I r-remember how I got there…But once I was in there it’s just f-fragments. Voices I c-can’t place…A hallway that smelled like o-ozone. Apart from t-that , I really can’t remember much. I do remember waking u-up to you, Ava, John, and Yelena fighting in The Vault.” You smirked at him.

”You remember that part, huh?” Bob’s eyes flicked up toward yours–soft, sheepish. “H-Hard to forget…It’s where I-I met you guys…” You huffed out a quiet laugh through your nose, about to say something else, but the comms in your ear crackled alive before you could get a word out.

Bucky’s voice came through, clipped and alert: “We’ve got movement on the perimeter. West tree line. At least six–no uniforms, no IDs. Could be nothing. Could be a problem.”

You straightened up from the desk, your hand drifting back to the rifle slung over your shoulder, thumb flicking off the safety. “Copy that,” You said calmly, eyes scanning the windows nearest the treeline. “If they come inside, we’ll handle it.”

A pause.

Bucky’s voice came again, firmer. “It’s an unknown number coming for you. Keep sharp. If this is a setup, they waited ‘til you were deep enough to spring it.”

You glanced over your shoulder at Bob, who was already stepping closer, posture coiled, gold flickering faint behind his eyes like a warning. The air felt heavier now–more electric.

You clicked your comms again and replied, dry as ever, “I’m sure a half-assed super soldier and a sun god with an alter ego can handle it.” There was silence on the line for a beat–then a low grunt from Bucky, unmistakably unimpressed.

“You call me when you’re bleeding,” He said, “I’m not flying out to pick up pieces.”

“I won’t let it get that far,” You promised, stepping into the center of the room as your eyes swept the walls and exits. You turned slightly, voice low now–just for Bob.

”We fall back to the south corridor if anything feels off. There’s an escape path to the ravine.” Bob nodded, fingers twitching faintly at his sides, his voice a whisper of steel and concern.

“Y-You sure you’re ready for this?”

You looked at him–and didn’t hesitate. “I brought you here for a reason.”

That earned you a flicker of something in his expression. Not quite a smile. Not quite fear. Just that electric wire of belief stretching taut between you both.

The sound of distant branches cracking wasn’t the kind of snap that came from animals or wind. It was sharp. Intentional.

Followed by another. Closer.

You turned toward the sound, raising your rifle. Bob turned as well the gold now brighter in his eyes, his whole body shifting subtly, muscles tightening like a wire being pulled taut inside that suit. A pulse of heat rolled off him in the moment before everything went wrong.

A sharp ping echoed from above–the unmistakable sound of a suppressed sniper round ricocheting off a corner beam. You ducked instinctively just as the window to your left exploded inward in a shower of reinforced glass and smoke.

“Y/N!” Bob shouted, arm flying out to shield you–just as a long device was thrown into the room, and it burst in a white-hot pulse of light and heat. The impact blew you sideways. You hit the floor hard, your shoulder slamming into the edge of a metal cabinet. Your ears were ringing, disoriented. The smoke was thick, burning your eyes and nose, and something wet was crawling down your back.

You tried to push yourself up–and screamed.

Pain shot through your entire torso like fire licking your spine. You blinked hard through the smoke, fingers going to your back, and when they came away they were slick with blood.

Shrapnel.

Glass. Steel. Maybe a burn too–you couldn’t tell yet. You gasped, coughing violently, but managed to drag yourself into a half-crouch. Your limbs trembled, but your fingers were still on the trigger of your rifle.

You heard movement to your left–shadows in the smoke–and a low, furious sound that didn’t sound quite human. It was Bob.

You turned just in time to see him tear through a wall.

Not a door. A wall.

There were two men in tactical gear on the other side, and he moved like a solar flare made flesh. One got thrown back with enough force to crumple the corridor’s far end. The other screamed when Bob grabbed him and slammed him into the floor so hard the tiles shattered.

“Bob–” You croaked–but it wasn’t Bob who turned to you.

It was Sentry.

His eyes glowed molten gold through the smoke, his expression a mask of fury and panic. He surged toward you, kneeling beside you so fast it stirred the haze around you like wind. He was panting hard, trying to pull himself back under control. But when his hands reached for you, they shook.

”Y/N…You’re bleeding.” His touch was warm and careful despite the trembling fingers, and that’s when you felt it. The slow trickle of something wet sliding down your temple.

You blinked hard and reached up, fingertips smearing through blood at your hairline. You must’ve caught some shrapnel near the scalp too, and you hadn’t even noticed, but the pain in your back was louder now that you were seeing blood.

“I’m fine,” You rasped, even though your ribs ached like splintered glass was being pushed through your skin, “You need to focus. We have to get out of here, now.”

He looked like he might argue. You saw it flicker in the golden fire of his gaze. His jaw clenched, nostrils flaring with emotion he couldn’t shape into words, but then he nodded–once. Just enough. You clicked your comms with a blood-slick thumb, the static crackling as you gritted through the pain.

“Thunderbolt One, we’re compromised. Injuries sustained. South corridor breached. We’re falling back.”

Bucky’s voice came in fast, tight. “Copy that. Can you walk?”

You hesitated, then hissed through your teeth, “Not far. Took shrapnel to the back, possible burns–minimal mobility. Sentry’s with me.”

There was a beat of silence on the line.

Then Bucky again, quieter this time. “Safehouse is two klicks southeast. Hidden hydro-station in the gorge. We stocked it last month–first aid, comms, heat. We’ll extract when the sky’s clear. Maybe a couple hours. You gotta lay low.” Your head fell back slightly, breathing labored, the air still thick with smoke and the sting of ozone. You nodded more to yourself than anyone else.

“Understood.” Bob was already moving before the words left your lips. He gathered you in his arms with infinite care, like touching you wrong might undo you completely. You bit your lip hard enough to draw more blood, trying not to cry out as he shifted you against his chest.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, almost more to himself than to you.

Outside the shattered clinical grounds, you could hear the chaos still echoing–gunfire farther off, and someone screaming in the distance. Probably one of the men Bob had already thrown halfway through the wall. But here, in his arms, the world felt steadier. He held you like you weighed nothing. Like you mattered more than everything.

“C-Can you hold on?” He asked, voice flickering somewhere between Bob and something far, far older. “I’ll go slow. Just for a bit.”

“Yeah,” You whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He moved fast enough to blur the edges of the hallway but not so fast it hurt. You clutched weakly at the front of his suit, your fingers curling against the heat radiating off his chest. You tried not to close your eyes. Not yet. But the bleeding hadn’t stopped. The world kept dipping sideways and dragging you down with it.

The last thing you remembered was the forest flashing past in pieces–tree trunks like streaks of shadow, gold light blazing just beneath your lashes–and the sound of him whispering something over and over against your hair, too soft for your failing ears to catch.

——————

The first thing you felt was the cold.

Not biting–but quiet. A gentle chill that hugged the concrete floor beneath your spine, softened only by the blanket cocooned around you. It carried the scent of dust and pine sap, of old stone and something faintly metallic–like blood. Your head throbbed. Not sharp, but thick and heavy, like your skull had been packed with wet cotton. Pain bloomed somewhere low in your back, radiating through your ribs every time you tried to draw a fuller breath. Something was strapped tight across your midsection–gauze, maybe, or field wrap–and your tactical suit clung to you in places it shouldn’t have.

You blinked slowly.

The ceiling came into focus first–low, reinforced concrete with flaking paint at the corners and a single exposed beam running above you. The light was dim and dappled, filtering in through a narrow, barred window high on the wall. Golden hour–near sunset, maybe. You turned your head a fraction and winced. Something pulled at your temple. A bandage, hastily applied.

Then your eyes found Bob.

He was in the far corner, standing beside the boarded-up window, back to the wall, shoulders taut like he was trying to hold himself in place through sheer force of will. His hands were flexing at his sides, over and over again—like he couldn’t decide whether to reach for something or just keep clenching them into fists.

He was no longer in the Sentry suit.

Instead, he’d changed into something from the emergency gear cache–a faded charcoal thermal shirt that fit loosely across his shoulders and sleeves that bunched slightly at his wrists, and a pair of black utility pants that were a little worn at the knees. His light brown hair was damp at the ends, curling slightly from sweat or water–possibly from a quick rinse in the shower. He looked like he’d aged a year in an hour.

You watched him in silence, letting your eyes trail over the tension carved into his posture, the way his jaw ticked every few seconds as he stared out the narrow slats toward the tree line. He was breathing through his nose–slow, measured. Controlled. But there was nothing calm about it.

He thought someone was still coming.

And maybe they were.

“…Bob?” You rasped, barely more than a whisper.

His head jerked around instantly.

His blue eyes landed on you like they hadn’t dared hope you’d wake. For a moment, he just stared–like his brain was trying to catch up to what his heart had already registered. Then he moved. Fast. But not chaotic.

He dropped to a knee beside you, one hand planted against the floor to steady himself as the other reached for you–hovered–then settled gently at your arm when he saw the wince in your expression.

“You’re awake,” He breathed. His voice was hoarse, cracked at the edges. “Oh God–how do you feel? A-Are you okay? Are you in pain? D-Do you know where we are–”You coughed once, your ribs spasming with it, and nodded slightly.

“Safehouse. Hydro-station…Two klicks out.” You took a shaky breath. “I remember.” Relief surged across his face like a tide, washing out the panic. His shoulders slumped slightly, like the weight he’d been carrying might finally loosen its grip.

“I stopped the bleeding,” He said, quieter now. “The stuff in the med bin wasn’t great, but—I-I cleaned what I could reach. The gauze might need to be changed in a few hours, b-but you’re stable. I kept pressure on the worst part until it stopped…” You shifted slightly, groaning as your spine lit up with pain, and that was when you felt it–a heat lingering at your side, tucked between your arm and ribs. A hot pack. Probably scavenged from the safehouse supplies.

Your gaze drifted down. Bob had even folded a towel to keep it from burning your skin.

“You did good,” You whispered. “I’m still alive, aren’t I?” Bob huffed softly. Not quite a laugh, but not a sob either.

”T-That’s not enough,” He muttered, “You s-shouldn’t have gotten hurt in the first p-place.” You shook your head slowly, like every movement was wading through wet cement.

“It happens,” You rasped, voice soft but firm. “You can’t control everything.”

Bob didn’t reply back. His gaze flickered down, jaw tight again–like the words sat heavy on his tongue but wouldn’t come out right. The silence between you stretched just long enough to border on weighty before you tilted your head, a dry hint of a smile tugging at your mouth.

“But is there any reason why I’m on the floor?”

That got his attention. He blinked, startled–then rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, the gesture boyish and sheepish in a way that made you forget, just for a second, the power inside him.

“There’s only one bed,” He admitted. “I… I thought i-it would be best to put you here until you were awake. That way you could–y’know–get cleaned up before you got in. F-Figured you wouldn’t want blood in the sheets, or on your face while sleeping.” You stared at him for a second, then through cracked lips murmured,

”So that’s why you’re looking all damp.” The question took him off guard–completely. His brows rose slightly, and he actually glanced down at himself, like realizing for the first time that yes, he was still faintly glistening from the quick scrub he took in the washroom.

“Yeah,” He said after a beat, voice almost embarrassed. “It was just a quick rinse to get the grime and dirt off. Sentry was a bit…Angry so I had to settle that. But I was able to calm him down in peace at least.” You watched him carefully, noting the way he downplayed the struggle. You knew it wasn’t easy–how hard he fought to keep Sentry and Void balanced, especially after emotional spikes like the one in the lab. And he hadn’t just come down from it–he’d carried you out in the middle of it, held it all back for you. Your lips quirked, even though it hurt. A dull, dragging ache moved through your ribs, but it didn’t stop the words from coming.

“I owe both of you one,” You murmured, voice still ragged but steady enough. “You got me to safety. I’m grateful, Bob. Truly.” His gaze flicked down like he couldn’t hold it—not under the weight of your sincerity. His ears were already tinged red, but the color spread across his cheeks then, blooming with quiet embarrassment.

“I… I just did what had to be done to k-keep you safe,” He stammered. “That was my m-main goal…Just–g-getting you out. You were hurt, and I–I couldn’t let anything happen to you.”

You tilted your head slightly, biting back a soft smile as you studied him. He looked so unsure, kneeling there in that too-big thermal, his hair curling damp over his forehead, hands still trembling faintly from adrenaline and aftershock. And yet–he’d ripped through a wall for you. Carried you two kilometers and calmed a golden god that lived in his bones just to hold you still and careful.

“Have you always been this heroic on the inside?” You asked, voice low and a little teasing, your smile blooming now in earnest. “Or am I just the lucky one who gets the rescue mission treatment?” He looked up at that, wide-eyed and flustered, like you’d just hit him with a truck made of compliments. He opened his mouth, tried to speak, failed–then let out a breathy laugh that broke the tension like a warm breeze.

“I think you’re… P–Pretty special,” He said, honest and unguarded, his blue shimmering eyes meeting yours with a kind of hesitant awe, “I mean–I’d…Probably still tear a building in half for Walker if I had to. But I-I didn’t mean it like that with you. I mean–oh God–n-not that I don’t care about you–I mean, I do, but not like Walker–like, not like Walker, I–” You reached out with your good hand and caught the fabric at his wrist, giving it a soft tug, looking down at it..

“Hey,” You said gently, cutting through his verbal tailspin, “I know what you’re saying…” The moment stretched between you like something pulled too tight–fragile, golden, and trembling with meaning. Your fingers lingered on the fabric of his sleeve a second longer than they needed to, and when you looked up at him again, he was already looking at you.

Not just glancing. Not just checking, just staring.

Like there was something unspoken caught in his chest, rising toward the surface–caught somewhere between breath and belief. His eyes weren’t just blue now; they shimmered faintly, gold flickering at the edges, the way they always did when his emotions got ahead of his control. You knew that look. It was the Sentry watching through Bob’s eyes, but not interfering. Just…Witnessing. Letting him feel it.

You didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

But it sat there between you, humming like electricity on the skin.

Then, slowly, you let your hand fall back to your side, and you pulled in a breath that made your ribs ache.

“Okay,” You murmured, softer now, trying to anchor yourself. “Right now…I need to get this blood off me before I start sticking to the damn floor.”

Bob blinked like you’d broken a spell–but not in a bad way. He nodded quickly, awkwardly, as he shifted backward to give you space. “Y-Yeah, of course. The water’s warm enough, just don’t stay in too long. The heat might aggravate the swelling on your lower back, s-so keep it quick if you can.”

You gave him a sideways look, smirking faintly despite yourself. “Are you giving me medical advice now?”

He flushed. “I read the first aid kit manual twice while you were out just in case something went wrong.”

That made something flutter in your chest. Not quite laughter. Not quite tears. Just a deep, slow warmth.

You began to shift, slowly bracing against the wall to push yourself up, and he reached out instinctively. One arm looped gently around your back, the other steadied you at the elbow. He didn’t lift you completely–just made it easier, like always. Like he’d keep doing it forever, if you let him.

When you were upright and still breathing through the worst of the pain, you glanced over at him again.

“Once I’m done,” You said, voice a little steadier now, “I’ll need your help redressing everything. The wrap’s probably slipped by now, and I want you to learn how to apply it properly. You did good for field triage, but if we’re stuck here overnight–which judging by the radio silence on the comms it seems like it’s going to be the case–it needs to be clean.”

His face sobered instantly. “I-I’ll do whatever you need.”

You smiled at him again–just faintly. “I know you will.” Then, before he could overthink it, you turned and started toward the tiny half-shower tucked behind a chipped concrete partition, biting back a hiss as every step woke another pocket of pain. You didn’t look back. But you didn’t need to.

You felt him watch you the whole way, like sunlight warming your spine as you disappeared behind the partition covering. The shower was more of a pipe rigged into the wall than an actual stall—one of those industrial utility setups meant for clearing mud and sweat from boots and bodies, not exactly for comfort. The water hissed out in a narrow stream, tepid but consistent. You turned the knob carefully, bracing your weight with one hand against the damp wall, then peeled off your suit in slow, stiff movements–gritting your teeth when the fabric tugged at dried blood, as you ripped off the bandages Bob had placed.

The chill of the air gave way to the warmth of the water. It hit your shoulders first, tracking down your spine in ribbons, streaking through the grime, the smoke, the blood crusted to your skin. You let it run for a moment, eyes closed, arms braced against the wall, head bowed. The sound was steady. Soothing. White noise against the hum of aching muscles and the low throb at the base of your skull.

You let your forehead rest against the wall.

For a second, just a second, it was easy to forget where you were.

Then your ribs shifted, pain bloomed, and you remembered everything.

The fight. The explosion. The lab. Bob’s arms around you.

Bob’s voice, cracking with panic, whispering stay with me again and again like a mantra.

You ran your hands slowly down your torso, fingertips ghosting over the angry welt of bruising across your side and the tender edge of where gauze had been peeled away. The water sluiced down, carrying filth and blood with it, and you let yourself breathe into the ache of it—slow, steady, controlled.

Eventually, you turned off the stream.

The towel was scratchy, military-issued, but it was warm from where it had hung near the heat vent. You wrapped it around yourself tightly, twisting your damp hair, wringing it out, before letting it settle on your skin, and limping out from behind the partition.

The room was still dim, the air faintly humid now from the steam you’d left behind. But something had changed.

Bob had moved.

He was seated now on the edge of the narrow safehouse cot–the only bed in the room, barely wide enough for one, with a thin, patchy blanket folded neatly at the foot. The mattress dipped under his weight, creaking slightly. He’d propped the first aid kit open beside him, latex gloves already tugged onto his long fingers, and fresh gauze, antiseptic, tape, and wraps all laid out in perfect, careful order across a folded towel on his lap.

His knee was bouncing.

When he looked up and saw you, he froze.

You felt his gaze catch–not just on your face, but on the curve of your shoulders, the long stretch of leg below the hem of the towel. His eyes widened a fraction, then dropped politely to the kit again, ears flushed pink.

“I–I’ve got everything ready,” He said quickly, almost too fast. “If–uh, if you want, I can get it started.” You nodded softly, still damp and achy, the towel clinging to your skin. Each step back toward the bed was deliberate, slow. The soreness in your side hadn’t dulled, not even with the hot water, but it was manageable now. Or at least, easy enough to ignore with Bob sitting there–so tense and trying so hard to be helpful that it made something warm flutter in your chest.

You reached the edge of the bed and turned your back to him, standing for a beat before gingerly easing down beside him. The cot creaked beneath your weight, the mattress barely more than a few inches of aging foam over a thin metal frame. You could feel the heat radiating off him already.

Then, with a steady breath, you tugged the towel down just enough to bare the strip of your lower back and side where the makeshift field wrap sat crooked and half-unraveled from your shower.

“Okay,” You murmured, voice quiet in the still room. “You’re up, Doctor Reynolds.”

Bob gave a soft huff at that–something between a laugh and a nervous exhale–but his hands moved quickly. He leaned in behind you, close enough that his breath ghosted against your shoulder as he examined the wound. The old gauze peeled back with a faint pull, and he winced even more than you did.

“Sorry,” He said softly, glancing up as if expecting a flinch. “T-The edge was stuck. You okay?” You nodded.

“Keep going. It needs to be clean.” He moved with as much gentleness as he could manage. His hands weren’t shaking now, but they were tense–measured. You could feel the concentration in his touch, like he was afraid of hurting you again, even as he dabbed antiseptic over the reddened skin and pressed clean gauze into place. As he worked, your gaze drifted toward the comm unit resting useless on the bedside table, a tangled mess of wires and cables.

“Did you try contacting the team again?” You asked, voice lower now.

He paused for a moment–just long enough to tell you everything before he spoke. “Yeah,” He said, fingers brushing lightly at the curve of your side, trying his best not to linger in any of the inappropriate spots, even though with all this skin exposed to him it was making his entire body burn up. “No response. Still dead across all channels.”

You gave a soft hum. “Then I guess we really are staying overnight.”Bob didn’t respond at first. His hands moved to the wrap, carefully anchoring the new gauze with smooth precision. You felt the press of his palm through the cloth–steady, reverent, like he was reminding himself you were real and alive with every movement.

“…I can take the floor,” He said suddenly, voice quiet but certain. “After this. It’s not a big deal.” You turned slightly, wincing at the shift, and gave him a half-smile over your shoulder.

“We don’t have to fight over who gets the uncomfortable cot, Bob. We can both sleep in it.”

He hesitated. “It’s really not that big–” You arched a brow.

”You brought me here while trying to hold yourself back from exploding. I think you can survive sharing a mattress with me.” He swallowed audibly.

Then, just as he tightened the last bit of wrap at your ribs, he pressed a little too hard into a bruise that hadn’t fully surfaced yet.

You gasped—sharp, breathless.

Bob jerked back instantly, horrified. “Oh God–I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–shit–are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

You shook your head quickly, even though your breath was still catching in your throat. “No, it’s okay–it just surprised me. You’re good, Bob.”

His hands hovered near your waist, trembling now, not touching you again until you nodded for him to finish.

He wrapped the last edge slowly, much lighter this time, barely more than a whisper against your skin.

Then silence.

Warm, golden, stretched between the two of you like a blanket.

You didn’t move right away. Neither did he.

You could feel the heat of him behind you, his breath steady and shallow as he stared down at the dressing he’d just finished. His hands lingered near your waist for a second longer than necessary–close, not quite touching–before his eyes drifted downward, following the dip of your spine. The gauze was clean now, neatly taped and secure. But above and around it…More marks had surfaced.

Old ones.

Bob’s breath hitched.

He hadn’t noticed them before–not with the blood and the suit and the urgency of getting you stable. But now, in the quiet aftermath, under the warm yellow flicker of the backup light and with the towel still slouched low across your hips, he could see them clearly.

A long, narrow scar just above your left hip bone. A puckered crescent near your ribs, like a burn. Two parallel lines across the back of your shoulder, faded but unmistakable.

Not field wounds. Not Thunderbolt wounds.

Older.

Hard-earned.

“…These,” He murmured, the pads of his fingers ghosting near—but never quite on—the marks. His voice was gentle. Tentative. “T-These aren’t from today.”

You didn’t turn your head at first. You just breathed–steady, quiet–your shoulders rising and falling.

“No,” You said after a moment, the word flat, then a touch wry. “I had a pretty rowdy life before the Thunderbolts.” Bob’s hand hovered at the curve of your spine, close enough that you could feel the heat of it. “You’d be surprised what a tact suit hides.” You said with a smirk on your lips. His expression was unreadable. Not pitying–he never looked at you like that–but something close to awe. Like he was seeing something sacred. The sum of your survival.

You gave a small, almost shy shift beneath his gaze, suddenly very aware of how much skin was exposed between you–how the towel had begun to loosen slightly at your chest, how his knees were still brushing the side of your thigh on the cot from how he had positioned himself…

You cleared your throat gently. “Hey… Bob?”

His eyes snapped up to the back of your head, as if you’d pulled him from deep underwater. “Y-Yeah?”

“Can you grab me a top and some shorts?” You asked, voice casual but warm. “From wherever you got your stuff? I figure you raided a cache somewhere in the utility lockers.”

“I–Yeah, yeah, of course,” He said, already moving, already grateful to have something practical to do. He rose quickly, the cot creaking under the sudden shift in weight, and crossed to the metal cabinet tucked against the wall. The key was still jammed in the lock from earlier, and he pulled it open with practiced ease.

You watched him move–awkward, careful, trying not to glance back too much. It made your smile curve softly as you tucked the towel tighter around yourself, a slow stretch of fabric across your skin.

He rifled through the stack for a second, then held up a soft, oversized long-sleeve shirt–navy, faded at the collar–and a pair of black compression shorts that looked like they hadn’t been touched in years. Not stylish. But warm. Clean.

He turned, holding them out, and then–realizing you were still wrapped in nothing but a towel–he jerked his gaze back to the floor like it had burned him.

“I’ll just, uh–I’ll give you some privacy,” He stammered, shoving the clothes into your outstretched hand without looking. “I’ll just be–right over there, by the door.” You bit back a grin as he spun on his heel and practically speed-walked to the opposite corner of the room, facing the reinforced door like he was on watch duty.

“Thanks, Bob,” You said softly.

You didn’t miss the way his ears turned pink again. “Y-You’re welcome.”

You stood slowly, wincing just slightly, and let the towel fall in silence. The fabric was still damp, cool against your toes as you stepped free of it and tugged on the shorts first, then eased the shirt over your head, careful not to strain your ribs. The hem hung past your hips like a dress, soft and lived-in, and you imagined for a second it might have belonged to him once. The sleeves still smelled faintly like cedar and clean soap. When you were dressed and back on the cot, you shifted your legs up slowly and cleared your throat again.

“All set,” You said, and Bob turned around only once he was sure you meant it. His gaze flickered briefly over you–just long enough to make your skin warm again–but he didn’t say anything. He just crossed the room in a few careful steps, and sat down slowly, careful not to jostle the cot too much as it gave another faint creak beneath their combined weight. The mattress dipped in the center, naturally drawing them closer than either probably expected, but he kept his hands firmly in his lap, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

His voice broke the silence, tentative but laced with quiet humor. “So… how are we going to do this?” He tilted his head slightly, blue eyes flicking toward you and then away again. “I’ll probably take up the majority of the mattress. Didn’t really think that part through when I carried you in.”

You glanced at the sliver of space between you, then slowly stretched your legs out, grimacing slightly as you adjusted for your ribs. “You’ll just cushion me,” you said simply, voice soft but sure. “You’ll probably have to hold me… but that’s not too much of an issue.”

Bob choked slightly on his own breath—just a soft, startled sound that made the tips of his ears turn red again. “O-Okay,” he said, a little too fast, clearing his throat. “Okay. That’s—uh. That’s fine.”

You smiled to yourself and let your head tip back briefly against the thin pillow behind you. “What side do you sleep on?”

He glanced over at you, genuinely considering the question. “My right,” he said after a pause. “It’s easier on my shoulder. You?”

“My left.”

There was a beat. Then the realization landed, quiet but heavy.

You were going to be facing each other.

You opened your eyes again and caught the expression on his face. He looked like someone who had just realized he’d been invited to sit front row at a symphony he never thought he deserved to hear. Stunned. Honored. Slightly terrified.

“I can lie on my back if it’s weird,” you offered lightly, though you didn’t really want to.

“No,” Bob said quickly, shaking his head. “N-No, not weird. I–uh–I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“You won’t,” You murmured, your gaze softening. “You haven’t yet.”

His breath caught in his throat again, and for a moment he looked like he might say something else. Something honest. Something about the way you’d looked, bleeding and unconscious in his arms. Something about the way he’d spoken to you while carrying you through the woods, even though you couldn’t hear him–murmuring please don’t go, just hold on, I’m here.

But instead, he shifted carefully down beside you, mirroring your posture, folding himself into the thin mattress with as much grace as a man of his size could manage. His back barely brushed the wall. His knee brushed yours. His arm hovered for a second between you–then, slowly, gently, he settled it across your waist, just light enough for you to move if it hurt.

You didn’t.

Instead, you shifted closer, until your forehead nearly touched his collarbone, and your hand settled over his bicep

“Okay?” He whispered, breath warm against your temple.

You nodded.

“Okay.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was thick with the scent of cedar and soap and antiseptic. The hum of old pipes and the faint static from the comms unit. The warmth of him, chest rising slow against yours. The weight of his hand, careful but real. And underneath it all…The quiet certainty of something inevitable taking root.

Your breath was slow now. Shallow, but not from pain anymore–just the kind of awareness that crept in like tidewater. Warm and inevitable.

Bob’s hand stayed where it was, curved lightly across your waist, unmoving except for the slight twitch of his fingers now and then, like he wasn’t quite sure if he was allowed to do more. He was being so careful with you. So still. As if any shift would snap the fragile thread holding the moment together.

But you weren’t glass.

And you were done pretending that you didn’t want more than silence and stillness from the man lying inches away from you.

Your fingers, resting gently over his bicep, began to move–slow, almost absent. Just the lightest drag of your touch over muscle, tracing the soft curve of strength hidden beneath the worn fabric of his sleeve. His breath caught. You felt it, right against your temple, like he’d forgotten how to exhale. But he didn’t stop you. Not even when your thumb made another pass, this time curling just slightly, letting the friction build.

“You’re tense,” you whispered. Voice low. Sleepy on the surface, but heavy beneath.

“I-I’m fine,” Bob murmured. It was automatic. Instinctive. But it was a lie, and he knew it the second it left his mouth.

Your other hand shifted. The one resting near his chest. You moved it slowly, palm dragging over the center of his sternum until it settled over the steady thrum of his heart. He was warm there. Unreasonably warm. The beat beneath your hand was solid and fast. Too fast.

“Doesn’t feel like it,” You murmured. Your eyes stayed half-lidded. Your body didn’t move much. But the weight of your touch… It was deliberate. Bob swallowed, hard. His head tipped a little closer to yours. You could feel the heat of his breath fan against your hairline, could feel his fingers twitch again at your waist. Your thumb swept once more across the center of his chest, slow and featherlight, resting in the space where his heartbeat thudded just beneath skin and cotton. It wasn’t racing–but it wasn’t calm either. Like a bird pacing inside its cage, fluttering at the bars.

You let your fingers still.

Then, softly–so softly it almost wasn’t a question–you whispered, “Is it always that fast…Or just when I’m touching you?”

Bob let out a quiet breath. Almost a laugh, but too fragile to be called that. His chest rose and fell once, shallow, before he replied.

“…It’s a bit h-hard to not be nervous,” He said. His voice was rough, threaded with honesty. “You’re… Y-You’re right here. A-And I’m holding you. And you’re touching me like I’m not going to break. L-Like you actually want to.”

You blinked slowly, something tight tugging behind your ribs that had nothing to do with injury.

“I do want to.” You said, clear and unshaken. The quiet cracked like an eggshell.

You felt his arm tighten around your waist just a little–not pulling, not claiming, just grounding. Confirming. Like he needed to make sure this was real. That you weren’t going to slip away.

“I’ve wanted to for a long time,” You added, almost inaudible now. Your hand was still resting over his heart, and his hand had shifted too–thumb brushing just under the curve of your ribs, the heat of him seeping into your skin. The silence between your words and his breath felt long enough to live a lifetime in. You could feel him blinking slowly, could sense the tremor just under the surface of him–the way his whole body had gone still, like he was afraid that one wrong movement would shatter the moment into something unrecognizable.

Then, so quiet it felt like it bloomed straight out of your chest, he whispered–

“M-Me too… I…I just didn’t know that you…T-Thought of me that way.”

His voice was hoarse, not from strain, but from disbelief. The kind of voice someone used when they didn’t want to ruin something beautiful by speaking too loud. His arm curled a little more firmly around your waist, just barely. Still cautious. Still asking without words if it was okay.

You didn’t answer with words this time. You didn’t need to.

Instead, you tilted your head just enough to look up at him.

He was already looking at you.

His face was open, unguarded in a way you hadn’t seen before. His eyes shimmered in the low light–blue and gold all at once, like a sky split in two. He looked at you like he was memorizing every inch of your face, and also like he was still afraid he might wake up.

And still–neither of you moved.

Not until your thumb stroked once more over his chest, and you inched a little closer. Your foreheads nearly touched now. Your breaths mingled in that thin space. The cot creaked quietly beneath you, but it felt like the world had hushed. His voice cracked like a dropped glass in the dark.

“Y-Y/N… A-Are you…” He paused, breath catching in his throat. His lips parted slightly, and when you looked up, really looked at him, you could see the fear blooming under the hope in his eyes. The kind of fear that only lives in hearts that have known too much disappointment.

He blinked once, swallowed hard.

“Are you…G-Going to kiss me?”

The question trembled out of him like it had never been spoken aloud before. Like he’d rehearsed it in a dozen imagined lifetimes but never thought he’d live the one where he actually got to ask it.

You didn’t speak. Not right away.

You just looked at him–soft, slow, and sure. There was a quiet steadiness in your eyes that seemed to strip the air from the room, and yet fill it with something heavier, sweeter. You smiled–small at first, then a little wider. It was the kind of smile that said yes without needing syllables. That said I’ve been waiting for this too.

And then you nodded.

His breath hitched, but he didn’t move.

He stayed still, wide-eyed and stunned, as you leaned in.

You didn’t rush. You didn’t dive.

You let the moment bloom.

Your forehead brushed his first. Then your nose nudged along his gently, just enough to tilt your face and let the edges of your lips graze his. You heard the smallest noise from him—a stuttered sound, half a gasp, half a plea–and then…

Then your mouth touched his.

It was barely a kiss at first.

Just breath and heat and the press of your lips against his, tender and tentative. You didn’t push forward. You didn’t open your mouth. You simply stayed there, still and close, long enough for him to register the softness of it. The reality.

Bob melted into it like he’d been holding his breath for years.

His lips moved cautiously–an echo of yours, mirroring your shape, your rhythm. The tip of his nose brushed your cheek. One of his hands, the one resting just under your ribs, tightened slightly, curling his palm around your side like he didn’t even realize he’d done it. He didn’t rush. He didn’t deepen the kiss. He just kissed you back, slow and trembling and reverent.

Like this was a prayer.

You pulled back slightly–just a breath, just enough to look at him. His eyes fluttered open, glassy with emotion, lips parted. He looked dazed. Glorious. Like he was trying to understand the feel of your mouth against his, and couldn’t quite believe it had really happened.

You cupped his face in one hand, your thumb brushing the edge of his jaw.

Then you kissed him again.

Slower this time. Deeper. Your lips moved against his with a kind of aching tenderness, like you were pouring everything into it that words couldn’t reach. Gratitude. Relief. Want. The softest kind of longing.

He made a quiet sound–barely more than a sigh–and leaned into you fully, his forehead pressing to yours again when the kiss broke. His hand moved to cradle the back of your waist, warm and strong and trembling just a little.

“Y/N…” He breathed, voice wrecked and sweet all at once. Your leg eased over his gently, thigh sliding between his as your hips pressed flush to his side. You felt him stiffen for half a second–like his brain short-circuited just trying to process the contact–then melt again beneath the heat of your body. Your chest pressed lightly to his, and his breath came out in one long, low exhale that ghosted over your cheek.

Then you kissed him again.

This time, it wasn’t slow.

It was hungry.

Your lips moved against his with quiet desperation, like the moment had snapped open and neither of you could keep holding back. You opened your mouth slightly, and when his lips parted in response, your tongue brushed his–tentative at first, then firmer. Bob made a sound in the back of his throat, deep and breathless, and his hand slid higher up your back, splaying between your shoulder blades. You moaned softly into his mouth.

It was small. Barely a sound. But the second it escaped you, he stilled.

Bob pulled back just enough to breathe, eyes wide, lips kiss-swollen, brows drawn in concern.

“W-Was that… Are you okay?” He whispered. His hand was still on your back. His other still cupped your waist, but his entire body was stiff again–like he was ready to stop everything the second you asked.

You nodded, breath catching. “Yeah,” You whispered, eyes fluttering open. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

He didn’t look convinced.

“Maybe we should stop,” He said, voice rough, hesitant. “There’s…There’s no need to rush into things.” Your heart pulled a little. Not in disappointment—but in the aching tenderness of it. You shook your head slowly, brushing your nose against his again.

“I really don’t want to wait…” You murmured. “But if you want to, we can.”

His lips parted, eyes flicking down to your mouth again. He was quiet for a long second, and you could see the war playing out in his head–desire crashing against caution.

“I-I just don’t want to m-make your injuries worse,” He admitted softly. His thumb brushed along your spine, featherlight. “I’ve been trying so hard not to touch you too much t-tonight, I–I was scared if I did I’d…Forget how careful I need to be.”

“You won’t,” You whispered. Your fingers traced the side of his ribs slowly, curling beneath the edge of his bare back. “You’ve been nothing but careful.”

He closed his eyes, jaw tightening slightly like he was bracing himself.

“I’m sure I’ll be healed in a few days if you do hurt me,” you added with a small, teasing smile, your hand dragging lightly down to his waist. “But I don’t think you will.” His breath stuttered again.

Then, slowly–like gravity had shifted beneath the cot–he shifted. Just enough to lean into you a little more, to press his forehead against yours. And in doing so, his thigh slid between your legs.

You both froze.

Not because it hurt–not because it was wrong–but because the contact burned. The heat of him, solid and broad between your thighs, pressed right against the thin stretch of your shorts. His pants were soft against your bare skin, but it didn’t mute the sensation. If anything, it made it worse–warmer. Closer. You exhaled, soft and shaky, and your hips reacted before your mind could stop them–just the smallest roll forward, seeking more of that pressure.

Bob gasped.

It punched right out of his chest like he’d been struck, and his hand–once trembling, once cautious–gripped your waist with a firmer hold. His breath was fast now, shallow. You could feel it between your bodies, ghosting over your lips as he leaned in, nose brushing yours again.

“I-I can feel you,” He whispered, wrecked. “You’re–J-Jesus, you’re warm.”

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. You just nodded once, slow and deliberate, your eyes never leaving his.

Then you kissed him again.

This time, there was no room for hesitation.

Your mouth met his with urgency, hunger curling in your belly like a lit match. Your tongue swept against his, and he moaned into the kiss deep and low, like he couldn’t help it. His hand traveled up your side, over the curve of your waist and into the back of your shirt, until his palm was resting against your bare spine, burning into your skin.

You rocked against his thigh again, your body seeking out friction instinctively–and this time he moved with you. The muscle pressing firmer between yours, grounding you as his hand on your back pulled you closer, guiding your hips into a slow, desperate grind.

“You feel so good,” You whispered against his mouth, breathless. “God, Bob…”

His name broke something open in him.

He pulled back just enough to see your face, his pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed. Then he kissed you again–harder this time. Still tender, still worshipful–but laced with a growing edge of need. His hand moved down again, slipping over the curve of your ass, and he guided you against his thigh with a slow, upward drag that made your breath stutter in your throat.

“Y-You’re shaking,” He murmured, lips brushing your jaw, your cheekbone, your ear.

“I know,” You gasped, forehead pressed to his temple now, your hips still moving in slow, aching circles. “I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop.”

His hand slipped under the hem of your borrowed shirt, fingers splaying across the bare skin of your lower back. You could feel him everywhere now–his leg between yours, the heat of his breath, the burn in your core growing sharper with every rock of your hips. The cot creaked beneath you with the rhythm you were building, and he let out a low, wrecked sound as your lips found his again, sloppier this time, open-mouthed and breathless.

“I’ve d-dreamed about this,” He confessed into your mouth, voice breaking. “God—I’ve thought about this. So many nights. N-Not like this–not when you were hurt, I swear, I’d never–but just…”

“I know,” you said, your voice thick, your thighs trembling. “Me too. For so long.”

He groaned again, and you felt him–hard now, pressing against your hip through the soft cotton of his sweatpants. Your body responded instinctively, heat pooling low in your stomach as you whispered,

“Do you want to stop?” His head snapped up, eyes wide.

“No,” He said, so quickly it made you bite your lip. Then, quieter–almost reverently–he added, “I want…Everything. But only if you want it too.”

“I do,” You said, and the truth of it vibrated between you like the aftershock of something cosmic. “I want you, Bob.” Bob’s mouth crashed back into yours like he couldn’t bear the distance anymore–like the ache had finally outpaced his restraint.

There was nothing tentative left in the way he kissed you now.

It was hungry. Wet and deep and breathless, like he needed the taste of you to survive. His hand slid up beneath your shirt, palm pressing flat against the small of your back like he was trying to fuse you together. You could feel the heat of his skin, the tension in his muscles, the unmistakable hardness of him against your hip–and the sheer desperation he was fighting not to lose control.

Your moan poured straight into his mouth, and he swallowed it like he’d never wanted anything more.

Then he pulled back just slightly–just enough to press his forehead against yours again, panting, his lips red and kiss-bitten, his voice wrecked.

“C-Can I—” He swallowed hard, eyes flicking over your face, “I want you to…Could you lie on your back?”

You blinked, already breathless, and gave the smallest nod. “Yeah… Yeah, of course.”

Carefully, you shifted, rolling onto your back with a quiet gasp at the slight pull in your ribs–but it didn’t matter. Not when he was looking at you like that. Like you were holy. Like he couldn’t believe he got to see you like this–flushed, sprawled out in the borrowed shirt and compression shorts, thighs still trembling from grinding against his.

Bob sat up slightly, not climbing over you, not rushing. Just moving with care—like reverence had overtaken urgency. He leaned down slowly, bracing one forearm beside your ribs so he wouldn’t hurt you, and then kissed the side of your neck.

Not once.

But again. And again. And again.

Each kiss dragged longer than the last–wet, open-mouthed, the heat of his breath ghosting over your pulse point. His other hand slid up beneath your shirt again, fingertips grazing your bare waist, your ribs, your hip, his thumb dragging a line just above the band of your shorts like it was driving him out of his mind.

And then–

He groaned into your neck, barely holding himself back, and whispered raggedly, “G-God, I want to taste you.”

The sound of his voice like that–low and wrecked and reverent–made your entire body tighten.

“I’ve–I’ve wanted to for so long,” He continued, kissing just below your ear now, his breath uneven. “I’m not–I’m not trying to rush this, I swear. I just…I’m a giver. I want to make you feel good. I want–” His voice broke. “God, I-I want to devour you.” You can hear the way he was starving for it, the desperation lacing his words. Your legs shifted without thinking, thighs parting instinctively beneath the weight of those words. Your fingers curled into the thin sheet beneath you, heart pounding in your throat like it was trying to answer for you.

“Please…” You whispered, barely more than a breath.

That one word unraveled him.

Bob moved instantly.

He kissed your neck one more time, slower this time, like sealing something sacred. Then he dragged his lips down your throat, your collarbone, the soft space above your sternum. He pushed your shirt up inch by inch, pausing to mouth at the newly exposed skin as he went–tongue tracing, lips brushing, every breath of his turning molten against your skin.

“You’re so soft,” He murmured against your ribs, his voice thick with awe. “So warm…God, you smell like heaven…”

You lifted your hips slightly to help him as his hands slid to the waistband of your shorts. His fingers curled there for just a moment–trembling slightly, like the gravity of what he was about to do had fully landed.

Then, slowly, reverently, he tugged them down.

You felt the fabric peel away from your thighs, your hips, your core–and then you were bare before him, flushed and trembling and open. Bob dropped the shorts to the floor with shaking hands. His eyes flicked up your body, and for a second, he looked like he couldn’t breathe.

Then he looked up, meeting your eyes as he settled between your semi-closed thighs. He reached for your hands first, threading his fingers through yours, grounding you together. His palms were big and warm, his grip careful but sure.

“S-Spread your legs for me,” He whispered. “Please.”

You did. Without hesitation, without fear.

You opened yourself to him, thighs falling apart slowly beneath his hands, baring the most vulnerable parts of yourself under the warmth of his gaze. You felt the air shift around you, the intimacy of the moment wrapping the two of you in a breathless cocoon.

”Oh, g-god…” Bob whispered, eyes falling to your glistening core like he was witnessing a miracle. “You’re perfect.”

Then he kissed your inner thigh.

And again. And again.

Soft, slow, open-mouthed kisses up the inside of one leg, then the other–teeth just grazing, tongue leaving hot trails in his wake. He held your hands the whole time, squeezing gently as his mouth moved higher, closer, his breath fanning over slick heat now, and it made your hips twitch helplessly.

“You’re s-so open…So ready f-for me.”

“Bob–” You breathed, already dizzy.

“I want you to fall apart for me,” He whispered, like it was a promise. “I’m gonna worship you…E-Every inch of you.”

And then his mouth was on you.

Hot, wet, and perfect.

His tongue parted you gently, slow and deliberate, tasting you like he’d been starving for it–like your pleasure was the only thing that mattered. His nose pressed against your pelvis as he licked a slow stripe from your entrance up to your clit, moaning softly into you like the taste alone was intoxicating. Then his lips wrapped around your clit, suckling gently, his tongue flicking in delicate, deliberate patterns that sent sparks up your spine.

You arched with a cry, your legs twitching around his head.

He didn’t stop.

He just groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating through you as he dragged you deeper into the rhythm–long, slow strokes of his tongue, then tight flicks, then that perfect pressure as he sucked again, never breaking pace.

His hands squeezed yours tighter, anchoring you.

You looked down and nearly lost it.

His eyes were open, locked on you, dark and glassy with desire. His light brown lashes were damp, cheeks flushed, the lower half of his face slick with your arousal–and he looked blissful. Like he’d found his heaven right there between your thighs.

“Y-You’re shaking,” He murmured against your clit, his breath rolling hot over your slick skin. His tongue slowed for a beat, lips brushing so gently it made you ache.

Then, with his eyes locked on yours, he whispered:

“D-Don’t hold back from me… I want to feel it all.”

You whimpered, the sound breaking unbidden from your throat as he released one of your hands and dragged his palm slowly down your thigh–his touch searing. He pressed it to your inner thigh first, thumb dragging through the mess he’d made of you. The sound it made–wet and obscene–had you clenching around nothing.

“Mmm, you’re soaked,” He breathed, voice cracking like he couldn’t quite comprehend it. His fingers dipped lower, teasing your entrance but not pressing in yet. “And it’s all for me…” He whispered.

“Bob—” Your voice broke on his name.

That was all it took.

His fingers slid into you–just one at first, slow and careful. You gasped, your hips twitching as your walls fluttered around him, already pulsing from how close he had you.

“Oh, my god…” He groaned, eyes fluttering. “You’re so tight–so warm–gripping me like you don’t wanna let go.” He eased in a second finger, curling both upward until he found that spot that made your entire body jolt.

Your back arched with a choked cry.

He groaned into your thigh, and then–still pumping his fingers slowly, perfectly–he leaned back in.

You reached for him instinctively, hand finding the golden-brown mess of his hair and curling into it hard as his mouth latched back onto your clit with a heat that bordered on holy.

He moaned at the contact like it fed him, like the combination of your body trembling around his fingers and the way you were dragging his face closer made him feral.

His tongue moved in tandem with his fingers now–lavishing your clit in slow circles while his fingers fucked up into you, curling with every drag, finding that rhythm that made stars explode behind your eyes.

“Bob–oh fuck, please–” you gasped, your voice wrecked, ragged, desperate.

He growled low and hot into your cunt, the vibration making your vision blur.

“That’s it,” He murmured, breathless. “That’s it, sweetheart. Let me hear it.”

Your hand fisted tighter in his hair, your other gripping the sheet like you were going to rip it from the mattress, and your thighs began to shake again–wider now, open for him, letting him take everything.

His pace quickened.

His fingers thrust deeper, faster, curling ruthlessly against that spot that made your mouth fall open in a silent scream, and his mouth never stopped–tongue relentless, lips swollen around your clit, his entire face buried between your legs like it was the only place he ever wanted to be.

“Y-You’re gonna come for me, aren’t you?” He said, his voice hoarse and soaked in awe. “Right on my tongue–gonna let me taste it all…”

Your body answered before your voice could.

Pleasure coiled tight, seizing hot and fast in your belly before it burst all at once, crashing through you like a wave as your orgasm hit, ripping through your body with a sob of his name. Your thighs clamped around his head and your back arched completely off the mattress as you came–so hard you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but feel him.

He didn’t stop.

He kept his mouth on you, drinking you down like it was divine, his fingers fucking you through every last second of the high. You trembled, sobbed out a soft curse, and he moaned as you finally collapsed back to the bed, completely undone.

He pressed one last kiss to your inner thigh, then gently slid his fingers from you and looked up–his mouth slick, his eyes dark and molten.

And he smiled.

Like he’d been reborn.

“You taste like fucking paradise,” His smile faltered, lips still glistening as your chest rose and fell–slow, shallow, trembling with the aftershocks of what he’d just done to you.

Then your voice cut through the haze, low and wrecked.

“You should give me a sample then.”

Bob blinked.

His pupils dilated instantly–his breath catching so visibly in his throat it looked like he might choke on it. But his body obeyed before his mind caught up. Slowly, he rose to his knees, moving back over you with a dazed sort of focus, licking his lips like he wasn’t ready to give you any of it back. Like the taste of you was still burning on his tongue and he didn’t want to let it go.

You reached for him–fingers sliding around the back of his neck as you pulled him in, your lips parting just as his hovered over yours. He hesitated for the barest moment, like he was about to warn you that his mouth was still slick from you–but the look in your eyes told him you already knew. That you wanted it.

So he kissed you.

Slow at first–just the soft press of his mouth against yours, lips parting slightly. Then your tongue swept into him, tasting yourself on him, sweet and slick and warm. You moaned quietly and he shuddered against you. The kiss grew hotter, messier, your mouths opening more fully as he licked into you, groaning low when you sucked on his bottom lip just to feel the way it trembled.

A thin line of spit connected your mouths when you broke apart, trailing slowly from his lips to yours–and when you let your tongue flick out to catch it, Bob visibly swayed, like his knees nearly buckled.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed, voice wrecked and raspy.

You didn’t let him catch his breath.

Instead, you slid your hand between your bodies and found his wrist–the one that had been inside you moments ago. Still slick. Still warm. His fingers were trembling slightly in the aftermath of holding you down through your orgasm.

You raised it to your mouth.

Bob’s breath hitched audibly as you guided his hand closer—and then licked.

Your tongue dragged slowly over his fingers, savoring the taste of yourself there. You moaned softly as your lips wrapped around two of them, sucking them clean with deliberate pressure, your eyes never leaving his.

He made a sound. A raw, broken groan that sounded like it had been ripped from the base of his spine.

“O-Oh my god Y/N…Y-You can’t do that–“

“You need to take your pants off, Bob…”You said it softly. Commanding. Like it wasn’t a question.

Bob stared at you for half a second, lips parted, cheeks flushed, sweat still glistening at his temples.

Then he moved.

His hands went to his waistband so fast he almost fumbled. You sat up slightly, wincing a little as your ribs protested the sudden movement–but you ignored it, too consumed by the heat pulsing between your legs and the weight of him in front of you. He pushed his sweatpants down his hips and off in one desperate motion, leaving him naked before you.

And God.

He was beautiful.

Hard and flushed, tip wet and glistening, his cock curved slightly toward his stomach with a heavy, pulsing need that made your mouth water. You let your eyes rake over him slowly, hungrily, and when they finally landed on his face again–he was watching you. Breathless. Waiting. Completely wrecked.

Then you peeled your shirt off.

Bob made another sound the second the fabric left your skin–a strangled, reverent sort of whimper, like he was witnessing a miracle and couldn’t decide if he was worthy of it.

You tossed it to the side, bare and open before him now–your chest rising in shallow, aroused breaths, nipples tight in the cool air of the safehouse, thighs still parted.

And Bob snapped.

Not roughly. Not without control.

But like he couldn’t not touch you anymore.

He surged forward, capturing your mouth in another searing kiss as one hand slid to your breast, cupping it gently, thumbing over your nipple in a slow, teasing drag that made you whimper into his mouth. His cock was pressing hot and heavy against your thigh now, and you rocked your hips up instinctively, catching the underside of him and dragging a moan from deep in his chest.

“I-I don’t know how I’m gonna last,” He whispered, panting against your mouth. “Y-You’re so perfect–I don’t wanna mess this up–”

“You won’t,” You whispered. “You won’t.”

“Tell me w-what you want,” He begged, voice cracking.

You reached between your bodies and wrapped your hand around him–hot and thick and pulsing in your palm–and whispered against his lips:

“I want to feel every inch of you…I want you to fuck me like I’m yours…Because I’ve always been yours.” His breath stuttered hard against your mouth when you wrapped your hand around him–fingers curling delicately at first, just enough to feel the weight, the heat, the way he pulsed against your palm. You stroked once. Then again. Slow. Languid. Your grip just shy of tight, your thumb circling the head as a slick bead of precum smeared across your skin.

Bob groaned.

It was deep and low, almost like it scared him–like pleasure this sharp wasn’t something he knew how to hold. His hand curled into the mattress beside your ribs, his other squeezing your hip as you leaned in and kissed him again, your lips softer now, teasing between strokes.

“You’re so warm,” you murmured against his mouth. “So hard for me…”

“F-Fuck–Y/N–“ He gasped your name like it was a prayer and a warning all at once. His hips jolted slightly into your grip, instinct overtaking restraint. “I–I can’t–if you keep doing that, I’m gonna–”

You smiled.

Slow. Sweet. Wicked.

“Just wanted to be a bit of a tease…” You whispered, brushing your lips down along his jaw, to the shell of his ear, where your voice dropped even lower. “I’ve been dreaming of this too, you know. Thinking about how you’d sound when I touched you like this… “ He whimpered at your words, his erection twitching in your hand. Then, slowly—purposefully–you guided him down, dragging the tip of him through your soaked folds. The moment his head brushed your clit, your whole body jolted. Your back arched slightly, breath catching in your throat as the contact sent a white-hot pulse up your spine. Bob gasped, shuddering, and you felt his hands tighten around your hips like he was barely keeping himself grounded.

“Oh my god–” He whispered, his voice wrecked, trembling with restraint. “I c-can’t believe how wet you are…I-I can feel it everywhere–”

“Then don’t just feel it,” you murmured, guiding him lower, “Be inside it…” You shifted your hips–just enough to angle him right where you needed him. The blunt head of his cock pressed against your entrance, slick and swollen, and your whole body went still with anticipation.

Bob’s gaze locked on yours, dark and full of wonder. He leaned in, kissed you one more time–messy and soft and hungry–and then, with a trembling breath, he began to push forward.

You both moaned.

It was slow. Unbearably slow.

He eased inside an inch at a time, every stretch making your breath stutter, your thighs tremble. He was thick–perfectly so–and your body gave way for him inch by aching inch, clenching around the intrusion with desperate heat.

“God, y-you’re so tight,” Bob gasped, burying his face against your neck, breath hitching with every inch he sank deeper. “Y-You feel like—God, I don’t even have words…” He let out a broken sound against your throat and pushed in the rest of the way, bottoming out with a low, desperate groan. You gasped, arching again, your body seizing around the full stretch of him—full, full, so fucking full.

He didn’t move. Not at first.

He just stayed there, buried to the hilt inside you, his arms shaking as he held himself over you, forehead pressed to yours. His voice was hoarse when he spoke.

“I-I’m not gonna last long if I move—I’m sorry—I just—God, you feel so good—”

Your legs curled around his waist, drawing him in tighter.

“Then make it messy,” you whispered. “Make it yours.”

He moaned again—this time louder, hungrier—and then he began to move.

Slow thrusts, deep and aching, the kind that made your whole body roll with him. Each drag of his cock inside you made your eyes flutter, made your mouth fall open, made the air between you heavy with slick, wet sounds and broken breaths. The safehouse filled with them—your whispered gasps, his groaned praise, the sharp slap of skin against skin as he found a rhythm.

Your hands roamed his back, his shoulders, up into his damp hair again as you whispered his name over and over like it was the only thing you could remember.

“Y/N… Y/N… f-fuck, I love the way you say my name like that—”

His thrusts grew deeper. Hotter.

He kissed you again, messier this time, tongue sliding into your mouth as he fucked you in long, rolling motions. Every time his hips met yours, you felt his body tremble—like he was on the edge of unraveling. Your walls pulsed around him, already fluttering with the build of another orgasm, and you could feel him twitching inside you with every pass.

“You’re gripping me so fucking tight,” he gasped. “I-I can feel you clenching—are you gonna come again?”

“Yes—yes, I’m so close—Bob, please—” Your voice cracked, your nails dragging down his back. “Don’t stop—don’t stop—”

And he didn’t.

He fucked you harder—still careful, still reverent—but with a heat now, a desperate edge that left you both trembling. His cock drove into you deep, each thrust stroking perfectly against your inner walls, and when his hand snuck between your bodies to rub your clit in tight, aching circles, you came again with a cry.

You clenched down hard, pulsing around him, and he groaned so loud it echoed against the cement walls.

“Shit–I’m–I’m gonna come–”

“Inside,” You gasped. “Come inside me, Bob–please–” You begged.

His body seized.

He slammed into you one last time, hips grinding deep, and he came with a broken moan of your name–hot and thick and endless, filling you completely. His hips stuttered with it, his whole body trembling above you as he buried himself to the hilt and spilled everything he had inside you.

For a long moment, you just stayed like that.

Panting. Holding. Shaking.

His forehead pressed to yours again, both your bodies slick with sweat and tangled in a heat that went beyond physical. You could feel the pulse of him still throbbing inside you, the warmth of his release held deep, the silence now full only with the sound of your heartbeats trying to remember their rhythm.

Then he pulled back just enough to see you.

His eyes, still glassy and dark from everything he’d just felt, softened. And before you could say a word, he leaned in and kissed you.

Soft.

So gentle it made your throat ache.

His lips moved over yours with reverence, like he needed to prove he could still be tender after what you’d just shared–like he needed to show you the sweetness, the weight of what this was to him. The kiss lingered, not heated, not rushed. Just the kind of kiss people gave when they wanted to say thank you and I’m yours and I’ve been waiting all in one breath.

You smiled against his mouth.

He pulled back slightly, cheeks flushed, eyes flicking between yours as he gave a soft, breathless laugh.

“I-I should’ve tried to get on a mission sooner,” he whispered, still so close. “E-Evidently you’ve been waiting for this to be your key opportunity to c-confess your feelings.”

You let out a snort–delicate at first, then fuller, warmer, and suddenly you were both laughing. Quiet and exhausted and elated. The kind of laughter that bubbled up not from something funny, but from relief, from joy, from the giddy realization that you were finally here.

“I mean, come on,” You said between giggles, tilting your head back slightly against the pillow. “One cot, remote location, no backup, post-injury caretaking–it was practically begging for some sort of confession to be made…”

Bob groaned, laughing into the crook of your neck. “G-God, you’re evil.”

You ran your fingers through his sweat-damp hair, still smiling. “I’m efficient.”

He huffed a quiet laugh again, then pressed a kiss to your jaw, then one to your cheek, then finally one to the center of your chest, right above your heart. His hands were still on you—one warm and wide on your thigh, the other trailing light circles at your waist.

You could feel the smile on his lips when he spoke again, lower now, a little more serious, a little more honest.

“I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time,” He whispered. “That you…You mean more to me than anyone. I just—I didn’t think I–I was ready. Not after everything.”

You turned your head, brushing your nose against his, your voice soft.

“I knew you wanted to,” You said. “I’ve known for a while.”

He looked at you then, like you’d just told him the sun had always risen for him and he’d never noticed. His eyes were wide, lips parted. And for a moment, neither of you moved.

Then he smiled again. And you did too.

Because whatever waited for you tomorrow–whatever fallout or chaos or impossible mission the world had in store–right now, in this small, sweat-slicked space, wrapped in sheets and each other…

336 notes · View notes

greentrickster · 1 hour ago

Text

The old show Woody's from gets a reboot, Bonnie gets gifted a toy of 'Woodie' from that show, and Buzz and the rest of Andy's old toys have to learn how to adapt to this stranger who looks and sounds similar to, but not quite like, their old friend and leader.

It reminds the toys a bit of the part in Toy Story 2 where they ran off with the wrong Buzz for awhile. However it's also drastically different due to the fact that Buzz's franchise was ongoing at the time, and it made sense that there were other versions of him still being made. Woody, in contrast, is an antique, so ever running into another Woody likely never even crossed their minds. It's also very strange for Woodie, since he's still going through that initial 'I am the character from my show' phase we've seen other new toys - including Buzz - go through, and it's deeply unsettling to realize that, not only is he actually a toy, he's not even the original version of his character, or even the first Woodie/Woody any of these other toys have ever known. Not only is he adjusting to a world that isn't 'his,' he's doing so surrounded by people who already sort of know him, but at the same time see him as something of an interloper/replacement.

The entire thing is as nuanced discussion on legacy, identity, and the place of retellings and reboots within media as a whole as you can get within an hour and twenty minutes.

(This post was actually my first time hearing about Toy Story 5, but I can only assume that I'm entirely accurate in this prediction, because The Voices say I am.)

(Also, if someone actually wants to take a whirl at this plot, go for it, would love to get a little boop to let me know if you post so I can like, comment, and reblog. <3)

Frozen: After years of longing I am finally reunited with my sister whom I love.

Frozen II: Bye.

Wreck-It Ralph: After years of abuse and neglect I've made a friend who admires and respects me.

Ralph Breaks The Internet: Bye.

Lilo and Stitch: After years of struggle and trauma I've made friends who admire and respect me and I can stay united with my sister whom I love.

Lilo and Stitch (2025): Bye.

Disney, do you have something you need to talk about? Any issues? Anything at all?

#toy story #toy story 5 #woody toy story #buzz lightyear of star command

10K notes · View notes

chaoticwriting · 2 days ago

Text

Old Friend

It's been a few years since Danny became Phantom and now that he is 20, Vlad finally lets him take over the position of CEO of Vlad co. Of course that is after extensive therapy from multiple therapists including Jazz. Apparently, his mental state is the worst by medical standards, almost at the level of the Joker.

But anyway, now that he is healed and sane, he decides to do one last thing before he goes into retirement, preferably somewhere in the Infinite realm. And that is to visit his old friends.

First and foremost is to visit Jack and Maddie. Here, they reconcile and Vlad exposes himself as Plasmius. Jack and Maddie are shocked but after Jazz vouches for him, they accept and apologize to him for not realizing his problem before.

Danny also takes the opportunity to reveal himself. This time though, it is a bit tougher for his parents. Not only did they almost always attack their child, the realization that Danny has died because of their lab negligence falls heavy on their shoulders. After some discussion, they finally settle down now that no more secrets are to be kept.

Later on, Vlad goes around the world meeting his old friends from college and high school when suddenly, Danny receives a call from Vlad. Apparently, he wants him to join him at a gala hosted by one of his old friends. He can bring a plus one but considering that Jazz has work and Ellie is somewhere in the Middle East, Danny is really the only available person left.

Since Vlad asks nicely, Danny accepts the offer and prepares to fly to Gotham. Vlad has already prepared everything he needs and is just waiting for him to arrive. That night, they go to the gala as a pair of black and white. Vlad wears a clean white suit with a red necktie while Danny wears a sleek black suit with a green necktie.

As they enter, Vlad explains to Danny the people attending the gala just in case he ever needs the connection. He also tells him about their scandal and some blackmail materials he has on them. Hearing that some of them are straight up criminals, Danny can't help but be shocked.

Vlad: It's fine. Most of the people I'm going to introduce to you are at most worth a year or 2 in jail. The ones with more severe crimes I either already sent them to prison when I take over their business or in a ditch somewhere in a ravine.

Danny: That's surprisingly ethical of you.

Vlad: Eeehh, at that time I wasn't as insane as I get later on. It actually got pretty bad after I met you.

Danny: Are you saying I make you go crazy?

Vlad: Oh no, what I mean is that you just speed up the process. Each defeat I take causes me to go more insane.

Just as they are chatting, a big happy voice sounded behind them.

????: Vladdy! It's good to see you after so long. How are you doing?

Vlad turning around gives out the most genuine smile he has seen since the reconciliation with his parents.

Vlad: Bruce! I'm doing great. Sorry I haven't contacted you for so long. I'm quite busy with certain things. Anyway, let me introduce my godson. This is Daniel Fenton. I'm thinking of giving him my position as the CEO after I retire.

Bruce: You're retiring already? You are so young. Anyway, good to see you Danny. Let me introduce you, this is my daughter, Cassandra Cain-Wayne. And this is my youngest son, Damian Wayne.

What both Bruce and Vlad don't expect however is the sudden hostility between two of the kids.

Danny: Cain.

Cass: Fenton.

Danny: I see that you are living a good life.

Cass: I am. What about you though? Still struggling to climb a ladder?

Danny: A ladder? I could easily climb mountains now. What about you? Still using ASL when talking to people you don't know?

Cass: Unlike you, I'm quite a fast learner. I don't need any technology to help me in my daily life.

Danny: Oh my god! That is one time. You can't seriously be thinking I use it every time I need to fight.

Cass: Well that one time is the only time I have seen you do it. As far as I am concerned, you might not even know how to throw a punch.

Danny: You know what, Cain? Fuck you and your height. How does it feel to need to look up when you want to talk with me?

Suddenly, Danny's knees buckle down as Cass kicks his knees making him kneel.

Cass: Awww, there is no need for you to kneel to me. I know you feel guilty about the chocolate thing.

With a red face Danny stands up again and flicks her forehead.

Danny: Not as guilty as leaving me hanging alone without notice.

Suddenly, both of them quieten down.

Bruce: So, I'm not really going to interrupt but do you both know each other?

Vlad: Yeah, I was about to ask the same thing. I don't know you know the daughter of my friend, Danny.

Danny: We go way back.

Cass doesn't speak but there is the reminiscent look in her eyes. There is also guilt in her eyes but that is for Bruce to ask later.

Vlad looks at Bruce and Bruce looks at Vlad. After communicating like that for a while, they decide to separate first and meet up later because clearly the kids are not in the mood to hang around with.

Just as Vlad and Danny walk away, Damian eyes Danny. For some reason, he looks really familiar to him.

Part 2

#danny phantom #dp x dc crossover #dpxdc #dc x dp #batfam #danny x cass #dead silent #cassandra cain #cass x danny #If you can't tell English is not my first language so some words I just put it because I think it sounds right

400 notes · View notes

shotosjupiter · 1 day ago

Text

LOOKING FOR AFFECTION — M. LUFFY

pairing — monkey d. luffy x gn!reader

summary — when you need a date to accompany you on a double date, your best friend, luffy, is the one who offers to step in. however, can you still contain your feelings for him after going on a date with him that tests your control every step of the way?

𖤐 word count — 5.01k

𖤐 genre/tags— university! au + best friends to lovers. fake dating, maybe a little ooc! luffy, FLIRTY LUFFY FLIRTY LUFFY, tension, namvivi mentions, slightly suggestive, both the reader and luffy are absolute idiots in a horrible state of yearning.

𖤐 author's note — vaguely inspired by the song affection by between friends + mood board here

꒰masterlist꒱

THE lab’s cold air burned your nostrils as you released a sigh and carefully closed the door to the cold room. It was a long, grueling, class with the lab managing to take up the full three hours slotted for the class. The hallway lights flicker slightly and in the distance you see a slumped figure curled up in a red hoodie and clutching their backpack for dear life.

Stepping forward, you let out an incredulous, “Luffy?”

It was indeed Luffy who was loudly snoring outside the room to your laboratory class with his (practically empty) backpack being cuddled in his arms and a Hello Kitty bento box tucked by his side. You nudge his thigh with the corner of your shoe, trying to gently wake him up.

After some gentle nudges and a (less than gentle) flick to the forehead, Luffy wakes up falling forward and with a snort. He looks around blearily like he isn’t quite sure how he got there - there being the math and science building - before he squints up to look at you towering over him, standing and exhausted.

He brightens immediately at the sight of you and hauls himself upwards with his backpack strapped on to his chest rather than his back and engulfs you into a hug. You let out a slight oof at the sudden contact before you’re also wrapping your arms around him despite the front side of his bag digging into your ribs.

“That class is so long, I think I spent half of my life just sitting here!”

You feel your heart skip a beat at the feel of him wrapped around you. His skin is warm somehow despite the cold environment and you feel your skin warming at the contact of his skin on yours. You take a deep breath to compose yourself and with a roll of your eyes you release him before giving him a nudge with a smile. “What are you even doing here? You know my labs are always long.”

He grins before flourishing the pink bento box towards you, waving it at you for you to take. “I missed you! Plus, Sanji is trying out some new recipe for his international cuisine class and he wanted you to try some.”

He leans in a bit closer in a conspiratorial way before saying in a stage whisper, “It was really hard to not eat it, I think I deserve a thanks, personally.”

You let out a snort before shoving his face away. “Right, thank you so much for not eating the food that was intended for me.” You press a hand to your chest and mock a princess-like swoon. “My hero, really.”

Luffy grins before shuffling closer to you as the two of you slowly walk out of the freezing building and out into campus, the sky shadowed by the dark colors of dusk and the peek of starlight.

It’s a subtle thing really, the way Luffy’s fingers brush yours, slowly but almost intentionally, waiting for the right time to strike. He continues talking to you about his day, ranting about his professors and their sheer audacity to assign a paper to be done over the upcoming fall break and how he has yet to start his Global History project. He continues to talk and talk, not because he doesn’t want to hear you but because he knows you’re tired. He knows in the slump of your shoulders, the tiredness lining the creases of your eyes, the yawns that filter through your mouth every few minutes. He knows you.

It feels like he’s known you for almost an eternity - when you were children, screaming and running as you tagged each other as ‘it’, when you were in that middle space between child and teenager and you had told him about having your first ever crush, the way it felt like your heart was being twisted and turned in every direction, when you were teenagers and were each other’s rock, motivating the other to push through school because then in the end it’d mean the two of you would land in the same school, always together.

It was always you and him. He knows you like the back of your hand and you know him down to the freckles littered on his back (all sixty six of them). So when you feel the tips of his fingertips graze yours, you feel your heart catch in your chest. Somewhere along the way of pinky promises and midnight adventures, you had caught feelings for him. Not the fleeting kind you once had for crushes in your childhood, but the full throttle of feelings that threw your heart in a blender and wanted more, more, more from every touch, every glance.

You glance over at him as he continues to talk animatedly as if he isn’t aware of his hand inching closer and closer to yours, continuously meeting for the briefest of seconds before separating again. Until you feel the skin of his pinky finger curl around yours, tight and snug, ensuring it won’t go anywhere. You let out the smallest gasp at the contact before smoothing over your expression and looking back at him again. Luffy? He’s the picture of nonchalance right now - like he’s not even aware of your racing heartbeat or that he’s practically two steps away from holding your hand. No, he just continues to rattle on about how he had to search up what an MLA header is again like that should be the main concern right now.

The two of you continue to walk all the way across campus till you reach your dorm building. Standing by the heavy metal door, you stand there as Luffy lets go of your pinky finger (are you supposed to already be missing the touch?) and leans in close to you to tap on the bento box in your hands. He’s so close and his smile borders on a smirk as he says, “Let me know how it tastes, yeah? I’m gonna make Sanji cook some more of it, if it is.”

Rolling your eyes, you laugh as you say, “Like you care if it’s good, you’d eat fried plastic if it was free food.”

Luffy leans back and shrugs, grinning as he says, “Hey, free food is free food, if Sanji made fried plastic I’m sure it’d be gourmet plastic at the very least.” He pinches his fingers, mimicking a chef.

You let out a laugh, before you feel him reach out to tuck a few stray strands of hair behind your ear. There’s mirth in his eyes but also so much care as he says softly, “Go inside. You’re tired and you should eat and get rest for your classes tomorrow.”

Feeling warmth rise in your face, you nod lightly before opening the door to your building. You give him a light wave and he smiles a bright smile, waving back, and watches you go inside before he turns back to start his walk back to his dorm.

Inside, you clamber up the stairs and burst into your shared dorm and immediately flop onto your bed, groaning loudly. Behind you, you hear shuffling and Nami’s exasperated voice ring out from across the room. “Luffy again?”

You get up from the bed to face her and run a hand down your face slowly before nodding. You can still feel the warmth lingering on your face as you recall to her the way he had held your finger and close proximity as he smiled at you. Nami had been the subject of multiple hour long talks about Luffy and your feelings for him since freshman year. The two of you had been assigned roommates and since that year, you’ve been rooming with each other every year proceeding that. If Luffy was your best friend then she was right after him on that list.

She has been a witness to many of you and Luffy’s interactions and she has been adamant on her verdict on the issue ever since she first saw the two of you. Not that you agree to it, only hope.

You can hear Nami’s frustration more than see it as she drones out, “You know he likes you, right? Surely, you can’t deny it now.”

The warmth resurges on your face at her declaration but still you shake your head at her. “No, I doubt it. It’s just…Luffy being Luffy y’know? He’s always friendly.”

She lets out an incredulous laugh at your words, “Right, that’s why he also walks me home to my dorm and waits for three hours for my class to finish and looks at me with those disgusting puppy eyes.”

You’re about to retort a comment back to her, denying her accusation before Nami flaps her hands around in a shooing gesture. “This is exactly why I’m dragging you along on that double date. You need to either jump his bones or find someone else. Clearly you won’t do the first option so double date it is.”

Curling around the blanket of your bed, you let out yet another groan before tossing a pillow over to her side of the room. “I still have to go to that? I don’t even know the guy you set me up with.”

There’s a small pause in the room and you look up from your blanket and squint at Nami who’s awkwardly shuffling in her slippers and avoiding eye contact with you. “What?” you ask.

She twirls a strand of hair around her finger, still avoiding eye contact with you. “Well… actually the guy that was supposed to be your date cancelled.”

Your eyes are still narrowed at her, waiting for her to continue. “Which means?”

She lets out a sigh. “Which means, we’re still going on that date but now you have to find someone who’s going to be your date for the double date.”

“Why can’t I just not go?”

She gasps dramatically at this, the mischief back in her voice. “You can’t leave me alone! I need my best friend to join me, you have to come.”

Flopping back against your mattress you wave a hand at her. This would be a problem for later. “Fine, fine, whatever, I’ll figure it out, I’ll come with.” You say half-begrudgingly.

You hear a squeal and she jumps on top of your bed to give you a tight squeeze as she declares her thanks. Smiling, you return her embrace, feeling at peace in your own bed and next to your friend, romantic feelings be damned. It’ll be a problem for later.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚

‘Later’ comes way too soon and suddenly you’re hit with the dilemma of having to find someone to drag along with you to this dreaded double date.

The library is cold and leaves its cold air on the rich wood desk that you and Luffy were currently sitting side to side by. There’s a laptop covered in pirate flag stickers and two open notebooks strewn across the table and covered in tic-tac-toe matches (he was losing). You groan before sinking lower in your seat and resting your head against the cool table.

“I don’t know what to do, I mean who am I even supposed to ask.”

Luffy takes off the earbud that’s connected to his ear. You’re both sharing a pair of wire earbuds, an indie song’s bass blaring from the tinny speakers. He tilts his head in question before asking, “Ask who? For what?”

You lift your head, feeling the imprint of the desk left on your forehead. Rubbing it gently, you grimace and tell him, “The double date Nami signed me up for. Apparently my date cancelled - not that I’m all bummed out about it - but now I have to find someone else to come with me.”

Luffy takes you in, down to the light imprinted line on your forehead. He hums in response, nodding lightly and taking in the words. He taps his fingers almost impatiently against the lacquered table as you continue to explain the situation.

“It’s just awkward to ask anyone and I wish I could just bail but I’d feel bad if I just left Nami alone and-”

“I could be your date.”

“It’s just annoying- what? You?”

He eases back into his seat and grins his bright grin at you. He shrugs, “Why not? We could pass off as a couple, we know each other well enough.”

Your heart feels like it’s about to burst as you stare at him incredulously, at a loss for words. He stares sincerely back at you, the curl of his smile the whole situation just that more heart-throbbing. Was he insane? Did he want you to suffer through heart palpitations? Did he enjoy this? Was he some kind of sadist who was reveling in your nervousness?

A silence passes between the two of you before you release a tentative “Okay.”

Luffy grins and pushes his shoulder against yours. You feel him gently place your fallen earbud back on, the wire re-connecting the two of you to the soft tune. His hand lingers near your face, his thumb brushing against your cheekbone gently. There’s a look in his eyes, a look so soft and so gentle that it nearly makes you question all of this. A look so soft, almost akin to yearning. Or maybe it is a look of yearning.

“It’ll be the best date you’ll ever go on.” He murmurs softly.

Your faces are so close to one another that you can feel the soft puffs of his exhale fan over your face as the two of you are stood frozen in motion. One hand is twiddling with the hem of your shirt, always touching you while his other hand is still gliding gently across your cheek. He traces down your face lightly, cupping it, and you’re staring at him with a mixture of love and curiosity, melting into his touch.

Then, as it does, the moment is broken when someone on the desk near you lets out a horrendously loud sneeze and the two of you blink at each other. You slap a palm to his forehead and shove his face away from yours, laughing nervously. “Well- you better finish your history paper first then! Don’t want to be worrying about the assignment while we’re on our date.” The word sounds awkward coming out of your mouth now.

Luffy moves his hand away from your face, blinking rapidly as if trying to wake himself up. He nods almost robotically before you feel his pinky finger curl around yours. He drags your hand closer to him before using his one hand to pull his laptop back open and start typing up his assignment. You try to tug your hand back from him to let him do his work with more ease but he only tightened his grasp on you, refusing to let you go.

He really was going to be the death of you.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚

Smoothing down the front of your jeans, you inspect yourself in the mirror taking in every aspect of yourself to see if there was anything else that needed adjusting. The plan was to meet at a nice ramen restaurant before switching over to watch one of the newest movies that came out at the theater. Luffy was coming to walk both you and Nami to the restaurant, ever the gentleman, despite Nami nagging in your ear about how he just wants to spend more time with you and how she was now being forced to third-wheel.

When the doorbell rang, you rushed to the door to open it while yelling at Nami to hurry up and her responding back with throwing some random cosmetic in your general direction. Once you do get the door open, Luffy stands behind it dressed in a loose black short-sleeved button up and clutching a bouquet of red petunias in his hand.

For a moment you gape at him, momentarily taken aback by not only the flowers but him. He looked beautiful with his perpetually messy hair and the sliver of a necklace peeking out from his shirt where the top button was unbuttoned. He looked like the epitome of boyfriend material and you were trying your hardest not to make it apparent that you were flustered by it. To his credit, he looked equally as in awe at the sight of you. His cheeks were slightly flushed and he nervously ran a hand through this already ruffled hair, looking at you up and down.

He clears his throat before flourishing the flowers at you, the brown paper crinkling slightly. “For you,” He pauses, taking his time to let his eyes roam your figure once more. “You look pretty.” Another pause. “Very pretty.”

You feel a flush warming your face, the heat taking over your ears. You gesture to him frantically, trying to play off the compliment, “You look nice too, perfect, actually, for a fake date.” You had said it to lighten the mood but Luffy imperceptibly frowns at this, as if realizing the circumstances of the situation and disliking them.

“Right. A fake date.” He repeats hollowly.

Just then Nami bursts from the front door, a cloud of vanilla perfume following her trail as she shoves Luffy past the door. “We’re gonna be late, what’re you guys standing out here for?”

You and Luffy make eye contact with each other and burst into laughter while Nami grumbles and saunters off ahead of you two.

Quickly, you tuck the flowers into a pretty glass jar before hurriedly locking up and following behind Nami with Luffy right by your side. The rushed walk to the restaurant included being led by the click-clack of Nami’s heels and the feel of Luffy’s arm brushing yours, each touch sending shivers down your spine. When you had glanced over at him, wondering if his touches were purposeful, wondering if he knew just the effect he had on you. He smiled back at you and you felt your heart clench at the radiance of it.

When the three of you had arrived at the restaurant, Nami’s date was already sitting there waiting. She’s pretty, you thought, with elegant long blue hair cascading down her back and glimmering gold jewelry adorning her ears and wrists. She had introduced herself as Vivi and you could see the instant chemistry between her and Nami, as the two hit it off instantly, damn near leaving you and Luffy in the dust.

Not that you needed it, because Luffy was playing his part of your date and he was playing it well. He fiddled with your fingers as the four of you debated what to order from the menu (Luffy insisted on getting the family meal for himself), when you took your turn to narrate a funny story for the group, he trailed a finger down your arm, leaving goosebumps behind as a trail. When the food had arrived, he insisted on feeding you a bite of his food and he insisted you give him a bite (or three) of yours in exchange, only accepting the food if it was you personally offering it to him.

When the bill was paid (Vivi had paid for Nami, claiming something about a rich father - nepo babies, right?) and the four of you were wrapping up when you heard Vivi mutter something to Nami, something you assumed they thought was beyond your earshot.

“Are they in love?”

A strangled laugh from Nami comes out, “Worse. They’re stupid.”

Then, when it was finally time to head to the movie theater it seemed the world was trying to trip you - for better or for worse. Somehow, your seats had been upgraded from single seats to loveseats. Brown cool leather that reclined and cooled and heated at the touch of a button and all with close proximity to your lover. What a deal! Nami was excited by this upgrade undoubtedly, seizing her chance to further chat up her date and bond with her, but you? Being in close proximity with Luffy was the best and worst thing for you.

He would sit so close, thighs side by side, elbows knocking against each other, and hair brushing against the other’s shoulder. While your heart would race at this, it would also fall, knowing none of his touches were intentional and were just a byproduct of his personality. Nonetheless, you basked in the moment, taking in his affections like they were the only time you’d receive them and maybe they were.

The movie passed with him just like that - slowly edging closer to you till his head was laid down on your shoulder, tucked perfectly in the crevice between your neck and shoulder like it was meant to be there. He had managed to intricately intertwine your fingers together, like they were weaved together instead of the regular way to hold hands and you could feel strands of his ever-messy hair brushing your cheek. And when it was over, the two of you slowly, reluctantly, peeled away from each other and glanced to the other loveseat pair where Nami and Vivi were laid only to find the two of them holding each other’s faces softly, not a single speck of attention towards the movie, kissing each other.

You and Luffy exchange a quick glance at each other, unsure of what to do. He kicks a foot in their general direction, letting out a stage whisper in your direction. “Do we… separate them?”

Nami’s head pops out from a mess of limbs and gestures at the two of you in a shooing motion. “Go already, I’ll meet you at home, I’ll walk her home first.”

You let out a giggle before waving back at her, “Alright, alright, we’ll leave you to your… business.”

The two of you burst into peals of laughter as you exit the movie theater, giggling about the whole interaction and placing bets if your friend would get laid tonight.

“She was basically sucking that poor girl’s face off, she has to do it as an act of service now!”

You cackle, “Nami’s a gentleman, I think she’d wait until the next few dates though.” You pause as the two of you keep walking. Like always, he insisted on walking you back home like it was his personal knight duty. Your shadows meld together in the dark of the night, the moon and streetlights leaving a trail of lights on your backs. “I think she had a good time though, they seem like a good match.” You murmur, letting the words float in the wind.

This time, his hand doesn’t creep slowly against yours but grasps it solidly and firmly like it’s meant to be there. “Yeah? You think it was a good date?”

You warm at his words, feeling like there was a double meaning to his words. You hold his hand tighter, squeezing it. “Yeah. It was a good date, Luffy.”

The walk ends too soon, with the two of you awkwardly standing by the door to your dorm building once again. Somehow, even though it wasn’t a real date, it very much felt like the end of one. The one where you wait, you hover, for the first kiss. The kiss that ensures that the date went well, that you want more. But that’d never happen, this wasn’t a real first date, and Luffy didn’t have those feelings for you. He was just here to help his best friend out.

He stares at you with an indistinguishable look in his eyes and steps closer to you. There was barely a foot of space between the two of you now, and he reaches out to cup your face and your heart lurches at the touch. Surely he’s not- his head leans down towards your and his breath is fluttering over yours. His nose brushes your and he looks at you, unsure, maybe he’s trying to figure out if this is what you want.

He doesn’t kiss you. Not on your lips at least - but he leaves a chaste kiss on your cheek before he pulls away from you. There’s a rosy dusting across his cheeks that’s seen from the moonlight as he grins at you. “Gotta end the date with a kiss, right? I’ll see you tomorrow." He waves, walking backwards until he sees you enter your dorm building.

Once the door closes behind you, you clutch your cheek like it’s your lifeline. Luffy just kissed you. Or well- he kissed your cheek and that definitely means something, right? Luffy wasn’t going around kissing everyone’s cheeks so surely this meant something, held some kind of meaning.

Were you supposed to say something to him? Reciprocate it back? What if he didn’t want you to do that though? You sighed, collapsing onto your bed, and replayed the moment in your head. Once, twice, and then you lost count of how many times you had rewinded the moment. You’d wait for Nami. She’d know what to do, how to go about this situation. Yes, you’d wait on her to help dissect this.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚

You found yourself back in the library a few days later. It felt like a mimicry of the day when Luffy had offered to be your date, except this time you had a plan residing in your back pocket as courtesy of Nami. The cool air of the library blew out and left the brown wooden table cold to the touch. Earbud wires were connecting you and Luffy once again, some love song blaring in your ears. It was the first time you had seen him since the (fake) date and you were determined to make a move.

Slumping downwards in your chair, you let out a groan and set down your phone. “Nami wants to set me up for another date since hers went so well.”

You felt Luffy still next to you and stare right at you. He set his pencil down gently and then said softly in confusion, “What?”

Got him. You nod vehemently, as you imitate frustration, tugging at the earphone wire as you continue, “Mhm, she said she wants me to have as good a date as she had with Vivi.”

A loud exhale and Luffy runs his hands through his hair. “I thought-” He pauses. “I thought I had made it clear, I thought I was obvious.”

You cock your head, tilting it in confusion. “Made what clear?”

Now he tugs at the black strands, like he was going insane. “I thought I made it clear that I like you. I thought it was clear that I want you. I want to be the one who takes you out on dates, who holds your hands. I want to be the one that kisses you and the one who’s taking you back home late at night. I thought I made it clear I want to be yours, that I am yours.”

There’s a silence where you’re just gaping at him in awe. You had expected something from your little ploy but not this. You hadn’t expected him to bare his whole heart to you, to feel all that he did about you.

“Luffy-”

He plows on, “But either I’m the idiot or you are, because I thought I was being obvious and I thought you liked me too but-”

There’s a muffled sound and your lips are on his. Clearly, he wouldn't have let you get a word in so you had to silence him somehow. You cup his cheek as you kiss him, letting your thumb trace the scar on his cheek. His hands trail down your spine, his fingers following the path of your spinal cord before they find home at your waist. He squeezes your waist lightly, as if trying to confirm that this was real.

Reluctantly you pull away from him, breath panting from the intensity of the kiss. “I like you too, idiot.” You pause for a minute, fiddling with the front strands of his hair. Taking a deep breath, you soldier on, “I want to be the only one you go on dates with, the only one you do that weird finger weaving thing, the one you steal food from, the one you kiss, the one you want. So yes, I want you just as much as you want me Luffy.”

You glance back at him and your heart stutters at the look of pure love in his eyes. The affection in his eyes was so clearly abundant that you wondered how you hadn’t noticed it before. His pupils were blown wide and his thumbs were tracing circles on your hips as he pulled you closer into the stuffy library chair he was sat in.

He kisses you again, more softly this time, but just as emotion-filled. His lips are soft and he opens his mouth slightly, gasping for air in between kisses but refusing to let go of you for too long before he’s on you again. His tongue licks the bottoms on your lip once before you pull away all too fast, suddenly conscious that you’re still in the library. He chases your lips all the same and you push away his face, giggling, “We’re in the library, Luffy.”

He lets out a laugh but still brings his face close to yours. “Can’t blame me when my dream just came true.”

“Ugh, since when were you such a smooth-talker?”

“Always, you just were too oblivious to notice. Plus, I can feel your face being warm right now so I know you like it.” He leaves a kiss on your cheek gently before burrowing his head in the junction between your neck and shoulder, lightly biting the skin there.

Later, you send a picture to Nami – it has Luffy cuddled up in the warmth of your arms, letting out a snore, both of your lips slightly swollen from kissing, and earphone wires still tangled somewhere in between the two of you, all you get in response is a ‘Finally.’

262 notes · View notes

moonymarvel · 1 day ago

Text

Sweetheart (Bob Reynolds x reader)

🂱︎ pairing: Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolts/New Avengers female reader

🂱︎ synopsis: You find Bob stirring in his sleep because of a nightmare, and the only thing that calms him is your presence.

🂱︎ genres: fluffy fluff fluff :) because Bob is a sweetheart and deserves nothing but love <3

🂱 warnings: mentions of poor mental health, anxiety, and minor violence warning for one teensy bit at the start

🂱 notes: my first Bob fic! I've been so inspired by @em1i2a3 in writing this so please check out their blog and Bob fics because they're so insanely talented at writing <33 Also I would love to write more Bob fics, but I'm in need of some inspo so please send them my way!

The lights flicker, the hum of the bulbs getting louder disrupting your concentration and peeling your attention away from your book. This had happened before, and you knew it all too well now.

The compound was quiet, but the short distance between your room and his meant you typically felt the onsets of his nightmares before anyone else did.

You tiptoed across the hall, your knuckles softly making contact with the door across yours. You knocked softly, as to not startle him too much. But the lights flickered more often now, and you could feel the chill coming from his room. You knocked a little harder, when you tried the handle and realised the door was open.

You opened it timidly, scared of invading his privacy.

"Bob?" you said, a little louder than a whisper, hoping it would wake him without it startling him.

He was drenched in sweat, tears leaking from his eyes as he stirred in his sleep. You could see darkness slowly begin to fill the room, and you knew you had to wake him before it was too late.

"Bob!" you said louder, sat on the edge of his bed now, your hand hovering over his shoulder contemplating touching him.

He was sobbing, and the light bulb in his room shattered completely, leaving you and his sleeping figure in the dark.

He stirred, and you finally shook him saying his name a few more times louder with every repetition.

He jolted awake, and your reflexes were quick, but not quite quick enough as he flipped you over your body now firmly planted on the bed, his hand wrapped around your neck.

You gasped for air, and saw his eyes glowing yellow.

"B--bob!" You said one more time.

"You-- you're not who they say you are-- you're bob- reynolds-- the void-- or the sentry-- don't get to control-- you--" you choked out.

His eyes softened at the sound of his full name, and the glow disappeared.

"y/n?" he said quietly. Realising the position you were both in, he took his hand off your throat immediately and retreated to the opposite side of the bed.

You gasped for air, sitting up and holding your neck, already feeling the bruising beginning to form.

"I-- I didn't mean to-- I'm so sorry please forgive me-- shit. I didn't mean to hurt you y/n."

This was true, he never meant to hurt you, never meant to hurt anyone really, but you especially. Your quiet nature meant you listened when no one else could hear him, and your dark past meant you could understand the void within him.

"I'm sorry..." he was crying, shaking frantically.

You took in a few more deep breaths before meeting his sad eyes with your own empathetic ones.

"It's okay Bob. I'm okay." You reassure.

He shakes his head, and you know he doesn't believe you.

"No I hurt you, I always hurt the people around me I do nothing but make things worse—" he's rambling, and the glass of water on his bedside starts shaking frantically, bubbles rising to the surface.

"BOB STOP." You say sternly, with enough force that you hope he hears you over his senseless rambling.

He's shaking his head, now whispering to himself spewing all kinds of negative self talk.

You take his face in your hands, gentle and reassuring. His eyes are shut and he's still shaking, but he seems to soften at your light touch.

"I'm here. I'm here Bob. You're not alone. I'm not leaving you alone." You whisper. You rest your forehead on his, your hands still cupping his cheeks.

"Breathe with me Bob. In... and out..." You try to steady him, which works for a moment till he chokes on his own sobs and begins to panic.

"Hey I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere." Your eyes are locked on his, his blue eyes filled with anxiety, screaming for your help.

You take his hand gently, and place it on your chest, holding it there.

"I'm okay. I'm right here, breathe with me sweetheart." The pet name just slipped out, but it seemed to tug on his heartstrings, grounding him back in the moment.

After a few more deep breaths, he seems to finally be back to Bob again.

There's a long silence, and for a while his hand just remains rested on your chest, your hand still on top of his.

Your eyes are locked on each other, Bob's sad eyes slowly become softer, like your company calmed the storm inside him.

"T--thank you." He whispered. You gave him a small nod, and a reassuring smile. His eyes drifted downward to where his hand still rested on your chest, and he cleared his throat awkwardly and peeled his hand of you.

"S--sorry." He said behind his messy curls suddenly retreating to the opposite side of the bed again.

"You don't have to be." You say softly. He gave you a small smile in return, and you noticed how his fingers began to fiddle with the sleeve of his dark blue sweater.

"C-can you... tell me what happened?" He asked softly, almost as if he was embarrassed.

"I don't always r--remember right, and I get all in my head over what I might've done."

"Of course." You move up on his bed, making yourself a little more comfortable. Bob watches you, as you lay on your side, body facing him, propping your head up with your hand, elbow pressed into the pillow. You explain it to him carefully, making sure to reassure him as you go on. He just listens to you, with flashes of regret and embarrassment showing in his puppy dog eyes and expressive eyebrows.

"Did-- did I hurt you b-badly?" He asks finally, shy to meet your eyes as your relaxed frame lay in bed with him, a scenario he'd dreamt of but under drastically different circumstances.

Your hand instinctively went to touch your throat, the skin tender to your touch. It's nothing major, your sped-up healing abilities already working its magic.

"No. Not badly at all. Don't worry about it sweetheart." The pet name slipped of your tongue so smoothly, so full of care, that Bob couldn't help the blush that appeared from his ears to his cheeks..

You shifted, looking as if you'd sit up and leave that side of his bed empty again.

"were--were you still awake?" He blurted out, desperate for you to stay.

"I hope I didn't wake you." He added, his fingers now furiously tangling in the hems of his sweater.

You recognized this nervous tick of his, and settled back to the position you were in.

"I was awake." You replied. Bob nodded, looking to you shyly. He cleared his throat, and hesitantly moved over to mirror your position in bed.

He faced you with those soft puppy dog eyes and gave you a small nod, as if urging you to continue on talking.

"I was just up reading." You added.

"What book?" He was making himself comfortable, laid on his side facing you.

"The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue... It's one of my favorites, I typically read it in bed when I can't sleep." He kept his eyes glued on you, listening intently, as if he was memorising every word that came from your beautiful lips. You looked especially soft in the moonlight, your hair messy but somehow falling perfectly around your face, your loose t-shirt stained but radiating your scent, your voice like a lullaby in the night.

"yeah... you should read it, I think you'd quite enjoy it." You'd snapped him out of his daydream when you'd finished talking, the lack of sound in the room making his ears ring.

You weren't sure what to do, he hadn't said a word in a while. You hoped you hadn't blabbered on too much, you tend to do that when you're nervous... and Bob, sweet Bob, looked so memsmerised every time you spoke that you couldn't help but feel a little self-conscious.

"y/n?" Bob whispered, breaking the silence.

"would you-- would you maybe-- stay-? with me... just for a little while..." He asked quietly, like it took everything in him to ask for help or your company.

"If you need me, I'm here Bob." You reached over, your hand making contact with his rested on the bed, not just because you were taking any excuse you had to hold him, but because you knew a gentle, reassuring touch grounded him.

His breath hitched at the contact, and the simple gesture made his chest tighten.

"Are you okay?" You asked, eyes gazing deeply into his, your thumb drawing small circles on the back of his hand.

"y-yes." Though his shoulders tensed at your touch, he oddly felt the most at ease he's felt in a while.

Maybe it was your company, maybe it was your calming presence, or the way your hand on his hushed the voices that constantly occupied his head. Instead he could only think of you, how your hand was a little cold but he quite liked it, how you kept calling him sweetheart, how you saw him for him. Not the Sentry, not the Void, but Bob. He shut his eyes, relaxing into your touch, surrendering himself to your soft scent.

Your hand moved, leaving his now cold. He refused to open his eyes, almost scared if he did he'd realise this was all a dream. He expected you to move, to leave him, just like everyone else did. But instead, your hand gently tucked a stray strand of his hair behind his ear, your thumb brushing his high cheekbones.

"y/n..." He said your name like you were holy, as if he were praying to you. Pleading. Aching for you.

You shuffled closer, hoping he wouldn't move away. He felt the bed shift, but kept his eyes closed shut. Your hand moved from his cheek to the back of his neck, lightly playing with the hair on the back of his head.

He let out a soft moan, like he couldn't help but unravel at your touch.

His hand moved slowly, snaking up your body and resting on your waist. Your loose t-shirt had ridden up slightly, revealing a sliver of your skin. His hand was warm, sending shivers across your body. It was your turn now to shut your eyes, and you let out a deep exhale, relaxing into his touch.

Your eyes fluttered open, and you caught him eyes now open, staring longingly at your lips.

"Is--is this okay?" Bob asked softly. You just nodded, his gaze not leaving your lips.

"Bob..." You said gently, and he's never enjoyed the sound of his name more than when it left your lips.

"Kiss me." You added. He almost swore he hallucinated it, till he felt you tug gently at the back of his neck, pulling him closer. He hovered close to you, noses almost touching.

"please..." You whispered, begging. Bob could've imploded on the spot.

He closed the gap slowly, hesitantly, his lips ghosting over yours as if he was prepared for you to change your mind. You didn't, and you nudged his nose with yours.

Bob's soft lips met yours. Gently, carefully, as if you were the most precious thing he's ever had the priviledge to touch.

He pulled you in by your waist, your body now flush against his, setting your nerves on fire. Your hands found his mess of curls, tugging slightly, memorising the feeling of his soft locks in your hand.

You pulled away, breathless, and he chased after your lips briefly when you stopped as if you were oxygen, and he was suffocating.

His beautiful eyes fluttered open to meet yours, and a small smile formed on your lips. He mirrored this, and let out a small chuckle.

The rest of the night was filled with kisses and stories, talking about the ins and outs of your past lives, what kept you both awake at night, and what Bob's nightmares consisted of.

Each tender detail of either of your stories was accompanied by a reassuring touch, or a soft kiss, as you spilled your souls out to one another.

Before you knew it the sun began to peak through the curtains of Bob's bedroom window, and you looked down to see Bob, cheek pressed into your chest, breath heavy and mouth slightly parted. He had fallen asleep to the sound of your heartbeat, and the feeling of your fingers in his curls.

You gave him a light kiss on the head, careful not to wake him.

"Goodnight sweetheart." You whispered, before finally drifting off to sleep yourself.

#bob reynolds #bob reynolds x reader #thunderbolts bob #thunderbolts #lewis pullman #the sentry #the void

245 notes · View notes

docrobinavitch · 12 hours ago

Text

sacraments of healing

dr. robby x f!attending!reader masterlist content: 18+ mdni, ANGST, swearing, no real medical stuff in this one besides a single cut and some sutures, family trauma, complicated mother/daughter dynamic, sibling death, grief, childhood trauma, mentions of physical/emotional childhood abuse, age gap (reader is about 34 i had to do the math to get the timeline right as you'll see, robby is probably like 53-54 here) words: 8.7K synopsis: loosely inspired by episode 2x06 of the bear (fishes) so if we have any bear stans here hi how are ya! reader is an attending at the pitt, did her residency under adamson, a fellowship in boston, and now has been back at the pitt for roughly two years. her and robby have been dating for the entirety of those two years, but have been working together since she was a resident (with the exception of her fellowship). robby insists on meeting her family when her mother reaches out to him via facebook and a nightmare ensues!! a/n: hi! thank you for all the love you've given but i stayed anyway, truly means the world to me. i hope you enjoy this one, tho i feel it is a bit niche so no worries if not!! please please note the content warnings and don't read if you think it'll bother you. ok talk soon.

“So,” Robby parked himself next to you at the hub while you looked up at the board, “Christmas Eve, are you picking me up or should I come get you?”

You frowned and turned to him, “What are you talking about?”

“The Feast of the Seven Fishes. At your parents’ place.”

You choked out a laugh and started walking towards a patient room, iPad in hand, “Right. You will not be attending that.”

“Ah, but I will. I already told your mother I’d be there.”

You stopped cold, forcing Robby to walk into you, and then turned to face him, “Since when are you in contact with my mother?”

He shrugged, that mischievous grin on his face, “She friended me on Facebook a few weeks ago.”

Oh, this could not be happening. This was your worst nightmare come to life. “Okay, well. Please block her and I will inform her that you won’t be coming.”

He gently reached out to grab your arm and pulled you to the side before you could walk away again, “Not happening. I want to meet your family. I will be coming. It’s not up for discussion.”

You could feel the panic rising in your chest, “Robby—“

“Baby, we’ve been dating for two years. You’ve met my family, dozens of times now.”

“Yes, well, your family is lovely. And normal.”

He smiled down at you, “And your family raised you. So they can’t be that bad.”

You closed your eyes and shook your head, “You have no idea what you’ve agreed to.”

“I’ve agreed to meet the people who made the woman I’m in love with,” He said tenderly. You were angry and scared out of your mind, but when he said that, you found yourself wanting to give in.

But you knew what would happen the second he met your family. You’d been through it before. Many times. Steeling your face, you walked around him.

“Look,” He said, walking in front of you again, “If you really don’t want me to come, I won’t, but then consider us done.”

Your eyes locked on his. There was no smile, no flush to indicate he was lying or teasing.

“You don’t mean that.”

He nodded, “I do.” He sighed, “I’m sorry, I can’t keep watching you build these walls up around yourself to keep me out and then pretend like everything’s fine.”

You laughed flatly, “Oh, that’s rich coming from you.”

“I did the work,” He said quietly, “For you. It’s your turn now.”

And then he left you like that, alone in the middle of the ER.

***

It was about a year ago when you had gone to Robby to request a day off from work. It was late February, still in the dead of winter. The city couldn’t quite shake off the snow.

“Hey, I wanted to see if I could take next Thursday off?” You asked as casually as you could manage, “I can find another attending to cover if you need—“

“No, it’s fine. I can manage by myself,” Robby looked up from his workstation, perching his glasses on his head, “What’s going on next Thursday?”

You opened and closed your mouth a few times, and then sighed, looking down at your hands, “It’s just, it’s the anniversary of my brother’s death so I just have a hard time being in the ER that day.”

“Oh,” Robby said, clearly caught off guard, “Sweetheart, I’m… so sorry I had no idea.”

“It’s fine,” You said quickly, uncomfortable with the attention and the sympathy, as you always were, “It was a long time ago.” You cleared your throat, “I have to go check on a patient.” You said and were gone before he could follow.

But you had felt his eyes on you for the rest of the shift. Sure enough, as soon as the two of you were out in the cold winter air, he brought it up.

“You never mentioned your brother died.”

You slowly inhale through your nose, “I don’t like to talk about it. It was over a decade ago.” You shrugged, as if the time had made it hurt less. It hadn’t, not exactly. The hurt was just different now. You had learned to live with it, bargain with it, figure out ways to work around it. But it was always there.

He nodded slowly, “And he died in an ER?”

You weren’t sure how much longer you could indulge this line of questioning before you were likely to snap at him. It was absolutely fair of him to be asking, you had talked him through Adamson and Jake’s girlfriend, Leah, more times than you could count.

But it was true what they said about doctors being terrible patients.

“Congenital heart failure, undiagnosed. He went into cardiac arrest during a half marathon. They got him back for a little bit in the ambulance, but he had been down a while, so.” You shrugged, concentrating on your foot prints through the snow so you wouldn’t see the way he collapsed, still a half mile away from you. You wouldn’t remember the way you had hopped the fence and sprinted to him, knees buckling when you got there. “We were nineteen.”

“Your twin?” He asked, voice soft.

You only nodded, “And before you ask, I’ve been tested. I don’t have it.”

“I bet that felt very unfair.”

No one had ever said that to you before and it nearly stopped you in your tracks. But it was true. You had spent many years, not being sad that your brother had died, but being absolutely furious with him for leaving you here, perfectly healthy, to carry on.

And when every test came back proving that you were healthy, everyone told you how lucky you were. Only it didn’t feel that way. It felt as though he had abandoned you.

The tears burned the back of your eyes, but you had grown very adept at keeping them at bay. You breathed through it until you thought it safe to speak again.

“He wasn’t supposed to go anywhere I couldn’t follow.” Despite your best efforts, your voice wavered and Robby heard it.

He reached for you, you felt his hand on your arm. It was likely he was pulling you in for a hug, but you shrugged him off.

You didn’t look at him, so you weren’t positive, but you could guess he had looked hurt by your dismissal. You kept walking, listening to his boots crunch in the snow next to yours. Reassurance that no matter how you pushed him away, he’d still be there.

After a few minutes of walking in silence, you cleared your throat, “There’s this ramen place a few blocks from your house I’ve been meaning to try. Do you want to order for dinner?”

“Sure.” He said after a few moments of silence.

It was a ceasefire agreement, disguised in take out ramen and letting you pick the movie to watch on his couch that night. He wouldn’t ask again about your brother. Not for a while. But it was only a temporary and tenuous peace, never meant to last.

And the clock was ticking.

***

“I suggest we Uber to my parents’ place.” You said the next day as you looked over a chart, “You’ll want to be drinking, I assure you. And I certainly will not be designated driver as I need to be absolutely smashed to get through the Feast.”

Robby bumped his shoulder into yours, “Ah, so we’re going then?”

“You didn’t give me much of a choice.”

He slipped a finger beneath your chin and tilted gently upwards until you were looking at him, “You always have a choice.”

You forced a smile and looked away. He didn’t understand that it was a false choice. No matter what you chose, you would lose him. You would lose him if you didn’t let him come, you would still lose him if he came.

Robby was smart. Every fault, every break in you, you had carefully glued together, disguised as something else so that he could love you. But there would be no hiding all the ways you were jagged and damaged once he saw your family. Once he understood.

You had seen it so many times before. Partners insisting they wanted to meet your family, despite your warnings. And you would watch as the night went on. They’d get quieter. Their fake laughter less convincing. The way their eyes deadened by the end of the night. They’d kiss you goodnight and roughly a week later, you’d get some bullshit excuse about why it wasn’t working. None of them ever admitted it was because of your family, about the future they saw for you written on the walls, but they didn’t have to.

And now, despite all the careful planning you had done, Robby would follow in their footsteps.

***

You looked up at your childhood home with Robby by your side just as the Uber dropped you off.

“Do you mind if I smoke a cigarette before we go in?” You asked.

Robby looked at you, eyebrows raised, “You don’t smoke.”

“I do when I’m here.” You took out a fresh pack and a lighter and started opening them, “Do you want one?”

He scratched his head, “No. I don’t think you should, either.”

You lit up the cigarette between your lips and took a drag, “Look, you wanted to come here. This is who I am when I’m here.”

“There she is! Our big shot emergency doctor!” Your older brother, Luka, threw his arms around your shoulders from behind, “Hey, what the fuck?” He took the cigarette out of your hands and threw it on the ground, “I thought you quit?”

“Jesus, Luka,” You pulled out another cigarette, “Can’t you mind your own fucking business for once?”

He smirked, “It’s good to see you too, Ace.” He kissed your hair and then looked at Robby, “Oh, and this must be the boyfriend, Robby, is it?” He reached a hand out to Robby, which Robby took, “It’s nice to meet you, finally.”

“Same here,” Robby smiled.

“What’s Robby short for, Robert?”

“Uh, no, my last name is Robinavitch. I go by Dr. Robby or Robby in the ER. My first name is Michael.”

Luka nodded and then turned his attention back to you, “Just so you know, she’s in rare form today. She’s been drinking wine since noon.”

You bit your lip and nodded, “Oh, you mean like last year, and the year before that, and the year before that—“

“Come on, don’t be a brat about it, okay? Tommy’s got it under control, he’s handling it.”

This time you really did laugh, “Oh, Tommy’s handling it, is he? You mean he’s enabling her?”

“Look, Tommy’s had a tough year with the… broken engagement as you know. Just go easy on him, okay?”

You stared at your second cigarette as if it would transport you to another dimension if you thought hard enough, “Yo, Ace, did you hear me?”

“Yes, I will be super fucking kind to Tommy.” You said, annoyed at the use of your childhood nickname, “Where’s your wife, by the way?”

“Oh, she wasn’t feeling well, she’s at home with the kids.”

You laughed and shook your head at Luka, “Good for her.”

“What? She really is sick.”

“Mhm,” You put out your cigarette, “I bet she is. No, really, I’m happy for her Luka. From the bottom of my heart.”

Luka looked up at the house, “You coming in or what?”

“Yeah,” You sighed, “In a minute.”

Luka walked off toward the house and you sighed heavily before looking at Robby, “Last chance to turn back.”

He smiled at you, “I’m not afraid of your family, baby.”

You cracked your neck to one side and then the other, “Well, that makes one of us.”

And then you led him inside.

***

Immediately, as you enter the house, everyone is shouting rather than talking at normal volume. You can hear the range hood going in the kitchen and your mother shouting over it. The unmistakable sound of the men in the living room, yelling about sports.

You were already regretting not preemptively taking ibuprofen before coming here.

“Look who has decided to grace us with her presence. It’s nice of you to come home and visit us humble folk, huh Ace?” Your mother shouts as soon as you walk through the entryway and you sigh heavily.

“Ma, this is Michael, Michael, this is my mother.”

“Call me Deb, sweetheart it’s so good to meet you.” She engulfed him in her arms, kissing his cheeks, “Oh, you’re so handsome, too.”

Robby reddened under the attention of your mother, “Please, it’s my pleasure. Your daughter is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You felt the flush in your cheeks at Robby’s words and looked around the room with feigned interest, avoiding eye contact with either of them.

Your mother dramatically put her hands to her heart and looked at you, “Did you hear that, Ace? He thinks we did a good job with you.”

You frowned, “Interesting. That’s not what I heard.”

Robby put his hand on your waist and squeezed lightly in warning. You badly wanted to push his hand off you, but held back, knowing it would upset him. And though you thought it a lost cause, you were still going to try to keep him tonight.

Your mother ignores your comment, “How old are you, Michael?”

“Mom.” You admonished immediately.

“What?” She asked, feigning casual, “I think it’s a natural question it’s is no secret he’s older than you.”

Robby smiled and laughed, hanging his head self deprecatingly, “Yes, I am… much older than Y/N.”

You looked at him, apology in your eyes, but he only shook his head slightly.

“Well how much older?” Her smile was strained.

“Ma, please.” You hissed, but she ignored you, continuing to stare at Michael.

“Uh,” Robby also gave a tight smile, clearly uncomfortable, “About twenty years.”

Your mother’s eyebrows flew up, “Well,” She looked back to you, “I guess that’s a no on having kids, then.”

“Oh my God,” You sighed and squeezed your eyes shut.

“What? It’s true, I mean he probably already has kids, right?”

Robby shook his head, “No. I have someone I consider to be like a step son, but no children of my own.”

Your mother stared at him silently for a few moments and then shifted her attention back to you, “Well your father loves you very much, so I’m not sure where this choice came from.”

This couldn’t be happening. They had been in the house all of five minutes and already, you were sure Michael was going to break up with you as soon as you left. Maybe sooner, if it kept going like this.

“Did you just invite him here to insult him?” You asked, voice raising.

“Baby, it’s okay.” Robby whispered in your ear.

“No, it’s not okay.” You said, “If you can’t be nice for one night, then we’ll leave.”

Your mother laughed airily, “Oh relax, Ace, you’re so sensitive! I’m only teasing!” She looked to Michael, “I’m only teasing, sweetheart, you gotta have thick skin if you want to be in this family.”

Robby managed a smile and put a hand over his heart, “No offense taken.”

God, he was so kind and perfect. They were going to fucking ruin him. “I really think we should go,” You whispered so only he could hear.

“Oh, come on. You think I wasn’t prepared for your family to take a jab at my age?” He lowered his head slightly so he could look in your eyes, “I want to be here. With you.”

Your mother turned back to Michael, beckoning you both to the kitchen, “What do you drink, honey, help yourself, there’s beer in the fridge, wine— HEY, WHO TURNED THE HEAT UP ON THE GRAVY? Oh for CHRIST’S SAKE it’s bubbling over everywhere— ACE WOULD YOU GET OVER HERE AND HELP YOUR MOTHER?”

You sighed heavily, “Jesus Christ,” You mumbled and then headed for the fridge, taking out two beers, you used the fridge magnet that doubled as a bottle opener to open them both, letting the caps clatter to the floor and leaving them there. You handed one to Robby, “You should stay away from the kitchen, it’s a war zone in there.”

“And what’ll you do?”

“What I always do,” You took a long swig from the beer, “Fix everyone else’s mess.”

“ACE DID YOU HEAR ME?”

“I’m coming Ma, one sec!”

“What’s with the ‘Ace’ thing?”

You sighed, “It’s a stupid nickname. Our family plays a lot of cards, they’re really superstitious. My grandma once got a full hand of aces while I was helping her play when I was, like, five. So they started calling me Ace. It got so out of hand, they wouldn’t let me sit at the table anymore. Claimed it was cheating to have me within a five foot radius of a game”

He laughed, “That’s cute.”

Just then, the sound of shattering glass came from the kitchen along with the hysterical shrieks of your mother. “Okay,” You said slowly, “I’m gonna go handle that. You’ll be okay out here?”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry about me, go.” He kissed you then, and even in your hopelessness you felt loved and safe, for just a second, “I love you.” He said, and you nodded, looking down at your beer bottle, “Hey,” He said and you looked up to meet his eyes, “I love you.” He said again slowly.

“Yeah,” You nodded, his words bringing you back down, “Yeah, I love you.”

“ACE, COULD YOU GET YOUR ASS IN THE FUCKING KITCHEN, PLEASE? CHRIST!” That was Tommy’s voice now and you sighed heavily.

“You’re sure you’re not regretting this yet?” You asked softly.

“Not even a little.” Robby said.

You nodded and stepped away from him. The night was still young.

***

Robby made his way to the living room, beer in hand, and was inundated with people he didn’t know and who barely spared him a glance as he entered the room. Not much in the mood yet to begin introducing himself to everyone, he found himself drawn to the mantel and the pictures perched above it.

He smiled a bit to himself as he noted pictures of little you with whom he assumed was Benji. He could tell, even from the pictures, just how close the two of you were. And his heart broke all over again imagining you having to watch him die.

“Are you Ace’s doctor boyfriend?” An older man came to his side, admiring the pictures as well.

Robby smiled, “What gave me away?”

The man shrugged, “You have the same nervous energy as she does. Always looking for a problem to solve. I’m Frank, her father.”

Robby shook the man’s hand, “Michael. It’s great to meet you, sir.”

“So how is she?”

Robby frowned, “She’s just in the kitchen, you could ask her yourself.”

He shook his head, “No, no, she won’t want to talk to me.”

Robby looked back at the photos, “She’s good,” He said, “She’s a fantastic doctor. We’re lucky to have her.”

“I already knew that part,” He smirked, “But outside her work?”

Robby inhaled deeply, “To be honest with you, sir, I’m still trying to figure that out myself.”

Her father nodded, “Yeah, me too. I’ve been trying to figure her out ever since Benji died. Just to know if she’s okay. I’m pretty shit at it, though.” He laughed.

Robby looked back at the photos, “I am very sorry for your loss.” He paused, “Could you… tell me more about Benji? She doesn’t talk about him much, but I can tell it still weighs on her.”

The man, Frank, was silent for a moment as he looked at the photos. “Her and Benji were inseparable. They did everything together. They had the same friends, everything. Applied to all the same schools and went to the same one. You never had to worry about them because even if they never came to us, they always had each other.

We were always very busy with four kids. Never a break. And there’s this home video I think about a lot, even now. It’s Christmas morning, they’re about five or six, opening their presents. Their mother and I are helping one or both of the other boys with something. And there’s a good thirty seconds or so where she's holding a gift that she needs help opening, a doll or something, and she repeatedly calls for her mom. Over and over. She never gets upset, she’s very calm, no crying. And nobody turns. I watch it now and I can’t understand how neither of us heard her. But of course, Benji hears her, and he goes over and grabs a pair of scissors and helps her open the package. That’s how it always was with them. They didn’t need us.”

He sighed, “And then when Benji died it was… Well, it was like she went adrift and we had no idea how to even begin to try to anchor her. Benji would have. I remember her crying that day in the hospital, hysterically sobbing by the time we got there. And then never again. I never saw her cry after that. She was the one who made all the funeral arrangements, picked out his casket, picked out a plot at the cemetery. She fundraised so we didn’t have to worry about the medical bills or funeral costs. She put together slide shows and picked out music. She picked the restaurant we went to after the burial. And I don’t think any of it was because she wanted to do that. We didn’t give her much choice. Her mom and I fell apart. Neither of us could get out of bed. And I think she heard Benji calling for us, like he heard her that Christmas morning.”

He shook his head and sniffled, “Her mother doesn’t like to see it that way, but I think out of all our kids, I think we failed her. And I don’t blame her for not coming home.”

Finally, he looks at Robby, “I’m not sure why I told you all that. I guess maybe I’m hoping that you’ll figure out how to anchor her. That she won’t be lost at sea the rest of her life.”

Robby looks down at his beer bottle and sighs before looking back up at the man, “I’m sure as hell trying.”

***

“So, the new boyfriend is also a doctor?” Tommy was perched on the counter, sipping a beer. Their mother was stirring various things on the stove and shoving things in and out of the oven while shouting at people to get out of the kitchen. You were mopping up some sort of sauce from the floor and throwing out shattered pieces of glass.

“Yes.” You said, “He’s not new though, we’ve been dating for two years now.”

“Well he’s new to us because you never come home.” Your mother interjected.

You looked back down at the floor, “God, grant me the serenity,” You murmured as you threw larger pieces of glass into the trash.

“Mom’s right, you know,” Tommy said, “Ever since Benji died you basically abandoned us.”

Your hands stilled for only a moment and then you were moving again, “I was in college, and then medical school, and then residency, Tommy. What the fuck did you want me to do, drop out and wallow in my misery like the rest of you did? Let it fucking eat me alive?”

There was sweet, blissful silence, for just a moment and then— “Maybe you should have instead of acting like a goddamn robot after he died. Might’ve done you some good. Might have bonded you with the rest of your family.” Your mother said.

Oh, you were so tired of all of this. Of the criticism of every little thing you had done since Benji died, down to the way you had grieved. “Sorry, I didn’t realize I had been competing in the grief olympics.”

“Come on, Ace, she didn’t mean it like that—“ Tommy started.

“Yes she did.” You said, “Didn’t you, mom? You don’t think I grieved correctly, isn’t that right? What was it you said to me just fucking weeks after he died? ‘Do you even miss him?’”

She continued stirring, “I don’t remember it that way.”

You scoffed and returned to picked up glass, “Un-fucking-believable.”

“Ace…” Tommy said in warning.

“It’s fine, Tommy. I’m fine.” You said.

“Yes, your sister is always fine.” Your mother said, “The picture of composure, unlike her nuthouse of a family that she can’t stand to be around.”

You threw the last piece of glass into the trash harder than was necessary, “I need some air.” You murmured and then left before anyone else could say anything.

You ran into aunts and uncles and cousins on your way outside, forcing smiles and quick hugs until you hit the cold December air. You breathed in shakily as you pulled out your pack of cigarettes, lighting another.

As if he had been summoned, Robby appeared next to you, “You doing okay, Ace?”

You made a face at him, “Please don’t call me that.”

He smiled and put an arm around your shoulders, pulling you to him, “I saw some pictures of you and Benji when you were little. You were adorable, as expected.”

You hummed, cracking a small smile, “The only reason those are still up are because Benji’s in them. You’ll notice there’s no pictures up of me by myself. There’s barely any of Tommy or Luka either. It’s hard to compete for the favorite child when one of them is dead.”

Robby was quiet for a few moments and you thought you could actually hear the gears in his head turning. He took the cigarette from your hand and took a drag before handing it back to you, “I was talking to your dad, he’s very proud of you.”

“He said that?”

Robby nodded, "More or less."

You scoffed, “Well, nice of him to say it to you.”

“He’s never told you?”

You shook your head, “We’ve barely spoken since Benji. He looks at me and all he sees is the son he lost.”

“I’m sorry.” He said quietly.

You took a step away from him, “Why are you sorry? This is what you wanted, right? Why you wanted to come? So you could see up close and personal why I’m so fucked up?”

He shook his head, “Come on, don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Lash out at me after you were just vulnerable. You do this all the time. It’s fucking exhausting.”

You scoffed, “What’s exhausting is you bringing us here when I fucking told you it would be a disaster. And now, on top of everything else,” You gestured wildly to the house, “I have to walk on glass around you too in a surely doomed attempt at making you want to stay.”

He shook his head sadly, “Baby, I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

You want to argue, but you feel the burning in your eyes and you can’t cry right now. So you turn away from him, breathing slowly, and finish your cigarette.

The front door opens, and with it, the sound of the stereo playing Christmas music and the competing of a dozen voices to be heard over it. The sound quickly vanishes when the door closes.

“Hey, Ace, mom’s looking for you, said she needs your help with the lasagna.” It’s Luka’s voice.

You sigh, “Why the fuck is she making lasagna for a feast of fishes?”

“You know no one eats the other shit,” He puts a hand on your shoulder and squeezes, “You okay?”

You sigh heavily, frustrated that this check in from your older brother had increased the wetness in your eyes that you were actively fighting. You shrugged off his hand, “I’m fine.”

He nodded, but you knew he wasn’t convinced, “It is really good to have you home, Ace.”

You barked a laugh that sounded almost like a sob, “Don’t know why, all I do is piss off mom more than she already is.”

“She loves you,” He said quietly, “You know that.”

“Oh, fuck off, Luka.”

“What? I love you. We all love you. Hey, fuckin’ look at me, would you?” He grabbed you by the shoulders forcefully turned you, but his eyes darted to your hand and he frowned, “Are you bleeding?”

You looked at your hand that was holding the cigarette and found that you were, in fact, bleeding from a cut in your palm. You must have cut it on the glass in the kitchen when you were cleaning up.

“Ah, shit.” You sighed and put out your cigarette.

“Let me see?” Robby said instantly and reached for your hand.

You allowed it, him taking care of you even though you were capable of evaluating the wound yourself. It calmed you almost immediately, his touch as he focused on your injury.

“Do you guys have a first aid kit inside?” He asked.

Luka sighed, “Probably some bandages and rubbing alcohol, but I don’t know that you’ll find much else.”

“Robby, it’s fine, it can’t be that deep I didn’t even feel it.”

“I can’t tell with all the blood and it’s too dark out here,” He started leading you back to the house, “Come on, we’ll rinse it off and take a look.”

You rolled your eyes in Luka’s direction, who smirked and followed you both back inside.

With all the cooking going on, reentering the house felt akin to walking into a sauna. Combined with the noise level from all the shouting and music, you were instantly overwhelmed again. You allowed yourself to be led, Robby’s hand gently tugging on the wrist of your injured hand.

“I’ll go find those bandages,” Luka called out before disappearing upstairs.

Robby tugged you into the kitchen, which was the last place you wanted to be.

“Oh, finally, we’ve been looking for you—“ Your mother stopped when she saw your hand, “Well how the hell did you manage that?”

“Excuse me, Deb,” Robby said politely, “Could we use your sink?”

“Oh, of course,” She stepped out of the way and let Robby by. He turned the water on and started temperature checking it with his free hand, waiting for it to warm, “Must be nice having an emergency doctor as a boyfriend, especially for Ace, she’s such a clutz.”

You closed your eyes, “I’m an emergency medicine doctor, too, Ma.”

“Oh, but you’re just a student! You’re in your, what do they call that, when you’re practicing after med school, but not really—“

“A resident?” Robby offered.

“Yes!” Your mother snapped her fingers, “That’s it, you’re in your residency, dear.”

It was taking everything you had not to sigh. Robby pulled your hand under the water and you winced at the sting to your cut, “I finished my residency four years ago. I’m an attending now. Just like Robby.”

She was quiet for a moment, “No, that… That can’t be right. You were doing your residency at PTMC—“

“Yes, and then I did a fellowship in Boston and then I came back to PTMC. As an attending.”

She frowned, “You were in Boston? You never told me that.”

Robby pulled your hand out of the water and you felt his fingers near the wound again.

“Yes, I did. You just don’t listen to me unless it’s something that pertains to you.”

The room got quiet. Robby turned off the water.

Your mother laughed, breaking the silence, and poured herself another glass of wine, “Well, anywho, it must be nice to have someone to look after you. You were so clumsy as a kid!”

“Was she?” Robby asked, still laser focused on your wound, he was applying pressure with some paper towels. Luka had returned with supplies.

“Oh, yes! One time, I remember, she was helping set the table. She picked up this beautiful eggplant parmesan I had made, fresh out of the oven with her bare hands! And immediately dropped it, of course. Burned her hands. Whole dish shattered and cut her up. She has the cutest little scar on her leg.”

You almost laughed and you found the silence of your brothers very telling. Robby was wrapping gauze around your palm now, having cleaned out the wound, “You’ll need stitches, but I can do them later tonight. I have a suture kit at home.” He said quietly.

But you barely heard him over the roaring in your ears.

“That’s not how I remember it.” You said, deathly quiet and calm.

“What?” Your mother said, smile still on her face.

“The cut on my leg, that’s not how it happened.”

“Ace…” You heard Luka behind you, the warning clear in his voice.

“Oh, fuck you, Luka. I know you know it too you were there.”

Your mother laughed, “Well, what happened then, hm? Enlighten us.”

Tommy was shaking his head at you from behind your mother. Please, don’t. It said.

But you were so fucking tired of it all. The disappointment, the subtle jabs disguised as teasing, the rewriting of history.

You picked up Robby’s beer from the counter behind him and took a long drink, “What I remember is that you and dad were fighting and I said something that pissed you off, similar to most things I’ve said tonight, and as I was walking away, you flung the eggplant parmesan in my direction. When it shattered, the glass ricocheted off the floor and cut me, which is why the scar is on the back of my leg. Not the front.”

Tommy hung his head behind your mom. Nobody else moved, but you thought you could feel the tension radiating off Luka just behind you.

But after a few moments, your mother laughed, loudly. The sound was grating and you nearly winced. “You always did have such a wild imagination, you and Benji both.”

“I didn’t imagine it, that’s how it happened.”

“What was it that Benji used to say? Oh, that kid was so clever. He used to joke that if you weren’t so good at science you’d be a New York Times Bestseller with all the crazy stories you came up with!”

Your mother laughed more loudly this time, but everyone else in the room was quiet.

“Well, it’s too bad Benji’s not here.” You said coolly.

Your mother’s laugh died out. The only sound was of the range hood and the Christmas carols that were still blasting from the living room.

“And whose fault is that?” She said viciously.

In a way, it felt like a relief to hear her say it. All these years, you knew she blamed you. Probably resented that it was you who was with him when he went. She almost definitely wished it was you who was dead and not him. Well, she could get in line.

But mostly, you felt as though you couldn’t breathe. Your brothers were yelling around you, but you had no idea what they were saying. Robby had carefully placed himself in front of you. You thought maybe he was trying to break up the yelling. In another lifetime, perhaps, you would have found it funny that he was trying to break up a fight in your childhood home the same way he would break one up in the ER.

Quietly, you slipped away, passing your father in the hallway who called after you. Likely to ask you what the fuck was going on in the kitchen.

But you passed without a word and headed up the stairs.

Second door on the left, you could have found it with your eyes closed. The door creaked when you opened it, as it always had.

Closing it behind you, you reveled in the quiet first. The rest of the house was muffled from up here.

You trailed your fingers over the dusty sports trophies on their shelves, the CDs in a pile by the stereo.

You laid down on the navy blue bed that still, impossibly, smelt like him and stared at the popcorn ceiling. Glow in the dark stars stuck there. He had tried to pry many of them off when they became teenagers, but he could never get them all. Remnants of glue still stuck to the ceiling.

“I don’t understand why you have to fight with her so much.” Benji’s voice echoed in your head, “It’s easier to just placate her. We’ll be out of here soon anyway.”

“You don’t understand,” You had said through tears, “I’m the only girl. She has astronomically higher standards for me than she does for you. Or Luka or Tommy.”

“What does it matter?” He said, “Look, you’re way smarter than any of the rest of us. You’re going to get everything you’ve ever wanted, not because of her, but despite her.”

You shook your head, “And what if all I’ve ever wanted is for her to be proud of me? To be enough, just once?”

Benji had sighed and rested his head on yours, “Then I’ll be so stupid proud of you that you won’t even notice she’s not.”

Silent tears rolled down your face into your ears as you recalled the memory. You took his pillow and pressed it over your face.

***

Robby was beginning to understand it, now. Why you had been so afraid of bringing him here, of letting him in. He had thought all of it had been wrapped up in the grief of losing your brother, your twin, but this was clearly heaps and bounds more complicated than that.

He had expected maybe some tension and small tiffs, he had not expected learning that you were likely emotionally neglected as a child at best and physically abused at worst. He hadn’t expected to hear your mother outright blame you for your brother’s death. And he hadn’t expected to have to physically insert himself between you and your family for fear of a fight breaking out.

“Hey, that’s enough!” Robby shouted over the yelling, and they all turned to look at him in shock. But they were quiet, “What the fuck?” He said breathlessly, and looked straight at your mother.

“She’s fucking impossible, sometimes.” Your mother said bitterly, “I’m sure you know.”

He looked behind him and noticed that you were gone. Likely you had slipped outside for some air. He turned back to your mother, “Your son had congenital heart disease, as I understand it. There was nothing anyone could have done to save him. Especially not a nineteen year old girl.”

Deb was shaking her head, “She didn’t call us until he was already gone. We didn’t get the chance to say goodbye to him because of her.”

Robby sighed and shook his head. This was a resentment that was more than a decade old. There was nothing he could say to make this better or make her see that you weren’t culpable for what happened to Benji. And it broke his heart that you had carried this for years, silently and alone. Never talking about Benji, likely because you didn’t feel you deserved to. If your own mother blamed you for the death of your twin, it was unlikely you didn’t blame yourself too.

While he was talking to your mother, Luka had swiftly left the room. He heard the sound of the front door opening and shutting, and then Luka was back.

“She’s not outside.” Luka said to Robby.

“Where else would she go?”

Tommy and Luka shared a look, Robby looked to and from both of them, “What?” He asked, impatiently.

“Benji’s room.” Luka said, quietly, “She’s probably with Benji. Upstairs, second door on the left.”

Robby nodded, “Thank you.” And headed up the stairs.

***

There was a knock at the door and you removed the pillow from your face. You weren’t sure you wanted anyone else to know you were in here, but judging by the quiet knock and the absence of someone yelling at you, you suspected it was Robby. Still, you hesitated.

“It’s me,” He said finally, “Can I come in, please?”

You sat up and put Benji’s pillow in your lap, “It’s open.”

You watched Robby enter the room, looking around first, before looking to you. You looked a bit like a vulnerable child in here, sitting on the tiny twin bed and legs crossed in front of you. Your eyes were bloodshot and your cheeks glistened wet with tears.

And when your eyes locked onto his, your face crumpled.

He pulled you into his arms immediately and was shocked when you didn’t push him away, but pulled him closer. He didn’t say anything, but rocked you gently and kissed your hair until you quieted.

“I would hope this would go without saying, but your mother was way fucking out of line.” He tightened his arms around you slightly, “But I know you and your tendency to blame yourself. I’ve watched you do it since you were just an intern. And so I wonder if all these years you had thought it was your fault and your mother repeating it back to you almost felt affirming.”

You didn’t say anything for a few moments, focusing on getting your breathing under control. You knew you had to have this conversation with Robby, there was no way to get out of it without losing him. He had seen everything you were so afraid of him seeing, and still he had come up here and held you. He hadn’t shied away from any of it.

“I know that rationally, there was nothing I could have done. But it doesn’t really make a difference. What if I had run a little faster? What if I had been CPR certified when he collapsed? What if—?”

“You’ll kill yourself thinking like that. You were nineteen. You were just a kid.”

“So was he. And every fucking birthday I’m reminded of how much he was shorted.”

Robby’s quiet for a moment, running a hand through your hair and gently wiping the tears from your cheeks, “How do you think Benji would feel if he knew you’d been carrying this around for fifteen years? That you never celebrate your shared birthday because you’re too busy playing the what if game?”

You looked around his room and sniffled, “He’d probably tell me I sound like our mom making everything about me and to get a fucking grip.”

Robby chuckled, “I think I would’ve liked your brother.”

You hiccuped and looked up at Robby, a sad smile on your face, “He would’ve liked you, too.”

He cupped your face in his hands and gently kissed you. The taste and smell of him was so familiar and comforting to you, you were sure your heart rate must have slowed back to normal rhythm while he kissed you.

When he pulled away, he pressed a kiss to your forehead, “I think we can get out of here now, what do you say?”

You balked, “Seriously?”

He nodded, “Yeah, is Chili’s open on Christmas Eve? I think you’ve earned a five dollar margarita.”

“Well, I don’t think it’s Happy Hour anymore, but it’s the thought that counts.” You laughed, “You’re sure? You were really adamant about coming here.”

“Yes,” He nodded, “and it resulted in you smoking, slicing your hand open, shotgunning at least four beers, and hysterically crying all in under two hours. Not to mention, I’m not going to force you to be polite to your mother after she blamed you for Benji in front of everyone.” He sighed, “I wanted you to let me in and you have. I’m sorry that I pushed so hard, I didn’t think—“

“No, it’s okay. You were right. I would’ve just kept pushing you away and then I would’ve lost you. So thank you, for pushing.” You took a deep shaky breath, “I’ve never spoken to anyone about Benji dying, what it felt like. Not even my brothers. I was always afraid it would be… too much.”

Robby shook his head and pressed more kisses to the side of your face, “Not too much. Never too much. I’m honored to know you, every piece.”

You inhaled shakily, “Well, you ready to go tell them we’re leaving?”

He allowed you to climb out of his arms and rise to standing, “I have no issue telling them exactly why we’re leaving. I don’t think it’ll come as much of a surprise.”

You huffed a laugh, “Yeah, well, you underestimate my mother’s ability to gaslight and manipulate, then.”

Sure enough, as they went downstairs to gather their coats and things, your mother waxed poetic about all the food she had made that would go to waste and how she never got to see you and how could you leave so early?

You had warned him, but Robby was still shocked at the way your mother pretended to have no idea why you could be leaving. To position herself as the victim in this scenario. She hadn’t even tried to apologize since you had padded back down the stairs.

“Thank you for inviting us, Deb, but it’s pretty clear that there’s a lot of open hostility between the two of you that is not conducive to the holiday spirit.” He grabbed your coat and helped you into it, rubbing down your arms soothingly once it was on, “I’d rather not see a physical fight break out between my girlfriend and her mother on Christmas Eve.”

Your mother looked at him incredulously, “Are you talking about earlier?” She laughed and playfully patted your arm, “Oh, that was nothing. We have little tiffs like that all the time. Or we used to, when she made time for us. Isn’t that right, Ace?”

You were staring silently at a spot on the wall and Robby noted that it seemed like you were dissociating. The more minutes that passed, the worse he felt for forcing you to come here, “If that was ‘nothing’ to you, then that just affirms my decision to remove us from the circus,” Robby said, forcing a smile and reaching behind the two of you to open the front door, “I would say it was lovely meeting you, but I’m not a very good liar.”

Once outside in the frigid night air, you immediately fished out your pack of cigarettes. Robby decided once you were home, he would toss them in the trash. Maybe buy the both of you a pack of nicotine gum for the foreseeable future. Just that one drag earlier coupled with the hectic nature of your childhood home had him craving a smoke.

“Hey, Robby!” It was one of your brothers who ran out of the house after the two of you. The older one, Luka, if his memory served him correctly.

He looked over Robby’s shoulder at you, lighting a cigarette, before focusing his attention back on Robby, “I just, um, wanted to say thank you for having Ace’s back in there.” He said softly, “I wish it was me who had the backbone to stand up for her.” Luka’s eyes shone with unshed tears in the moonlight, “Benji always took care of her and I think all the time how disappointed he would be that I don’t. It’s hard, with how our mother is to… to stand up to her sometimes. It’s stupid, I’m an adult now, but. She’s still my mom.”

He sighed heavily, “Anyway, sorry, I’m rambling, I just… Ace has brought a lot of men home over the years. Never more than once. They tend to disappear after seeing what a mess we all are. None of them ever had her back like that so I hope you stick around.” Luka smiled then and clapped Robby on the back, “Take care of my baby sister, please?”

Robby nodded and gave Luka a small smile, “Of course.”

Luka nodded back and then walked towards you, still smoking a cigarette a healthy distance away, “Hey.” He said softly.

“Hi,” You said as you exhaled cloud of smoke.

“I’m sorry about what mom said. She didn’t mean it, she’s drunk—“

“Don’t defend her.”

“I’m not.” Luka sighed and scratched his head, “Fuck, I don’t know, maybe I am. Whatever. The point is, it’s not fuckin’ true. Any of it. You did your best when Benji died, we all did. You were just a fuckin’ kid who took on way more than you should have. And I’m sorry that I never helped lessen the burden. I should have. As your older brother, I should have protected you.”

At this, you looked up at him and gave him a watery smile, “Thanks, Luka. But just so you know, I never blamed you or Tommy. For any of it.”

“I know.” He said, and pulled you into a one armed hug, kissing the top of your head, “Let him take care of you. Robby. You deserve to be taken care of for once.”

A tear slid onto your cheek, “Okay.”

He released you and started backing away from both you and Robby, “See you next year?”

At that, you laughed, “Only if you’re paying for my therapy bills.”

He laughed and then waved before turning back towards the house, hands in his pockets.

***

Back at Robby’s house, full of too many Southwestern Eggrolls and margaritas, you sat at his kitchen counter with your wounded hand unwrapped and cradled in both of Robby’s hands. You watched as he carefully sutured you, filled with so much tenderness for him after the night you’d had, you thought you might burst with it.

“Luka mentioned that the boyfriends you've brought home tended to leave after meeting your family.” Robby said as he worked, “Was that why you were so afraid to bring me?”

“Yeah, that was a big part of it. I also just didn’t think I was ready for you to see all of me, like that.”

He finished up the last suture and cut the excess. Then began wrapping your hand again. “You know, when you first started your residency, I used to talk with Adamson about how you were the only resident I ever met who never, ever seemed phased by anything that happened in the ER. You never had that adjustment period everyone else has, of figuring out how to adapt to the chaos. You operated like the chaos was all you’d ever known. I wish I could tell him that I finally figured out why.”

You chuckled at that, “I think he knew, actually.”

Robby looked up at you, “Really?”

You nodded slowly, “Well, I had to tell him about Benji when the anniversary came up so that I wouldn’t be scheduled that day. But, early in my residency, there was one day I kept getting repeated calls from my mother. He overheard when I picked it up. I don’t even remember what she was upset about, just that I had to spend a few minutes talking her down from the ledge. The way a parent would to a child. And when I hung up, he said he didn’t know I had kids.” You laughed now, recalling the memory, “Anyway, when I explained, humiliated, that it was actually my mom calling, he didn’t really say anything. But he had that look on his face, you know the one, when he’s finally solved a puzzle he’s been working on for weeks.”

Robby smiled fondly. It was lovely to see him reminisce about Adamson in a joyful way. He had had to work really hard for that, you knew. You hoped you’d get there one day yourself.

He gently patted your hand after a moment, “Well, wound is taken care of. You ready for bed?”

You yawned, “Yes, please.”

You crawled into sheets that smelt like Robby and curled up into his side. You felt a bit silly now that you had ever been afraid of him meeting your family. You had watched him manage an emergency room for years, near flawlessly. To him, your mother was just another irritable patient. And he was really, really good at managing irritable patients.

“Thank you,” You said softly into the dark, “For taking care of me.”

He hummed and lightly scratched at your scalp, “Of course. I’ve got you,” He murmured, “Always.”

#mine #the pitt #dr robby #the pitt fic #dr robby x reader #michael robinavitch x reader #dr robby imagine #dr robby fic #michael robinavitch #michael robinavitch fic

314 notes · View notes

prodbymaui · 3 days ago

Text

Death Sentence — 이민형.

Your breath picks up a tad bit faster as you bite your lip in hesitation. Upon planning how this day will go, it never crossed your mind. But as you loomed over your panting boyfriend with a promise to give him anything he wants, you suppose it’s inevitable.

“Baby, please..” Mark reaches out for your hips, pawing at them. Desperation undoubtedly laces off his words, just as his face.

You allow him to coax you further up on his body until your dripping core is above where his mouth awaits.

“Promise to tap my legs when you can’t breathe anymore or want out of this?”

“Worry not— we both know I could easily carry you off of me, love.” A cheeky remark from him to which you roll your eyes at. Mark thumbs your inner thigh, unable to take his gaze off your pussy. “Now, can I please please have you sit on my face?”

His glassy eyes look up at you. And you sigh, knowing pleasuring you had always been Mark’s joy.

“Promise me, first.” You say firmly.

This time, it’s your boyfriend’s turn to sigh. “It’s hardly necessary.”

“It is, actually. I’m quite sending you here to your death sentence.”

“What—“

“Mark!”

“Alright, fine! Fine, I promise!” Mark kisses your clit softly before running his tongue all over the expanse of your fold. “I promise, babe. Now, can I have the time of my life suffocating between your delicious thighs?”

You let out an exasperated sound as you finally give in. Brushing your finger through Mark’s hair for the last time, you find leverage in the bed post and lower your body to meet Mark’s eager tongue.

“Yes,” His muffled words vibrate.

Mark’s tongue, skillful as it had always been, flickers over your clit. He encloses his lips around it, sucking and nibbling the button to its soreness. Your legs shake and your moans quiver, the movement of your hips unconsciously starts.

“Oh gods— Mark!”

He crane his neck in an attempt to bury his face deeper in you, humming when he succeeds. Though still, Mark finds himself unfulfilled. Your juices may be dripping along his jaw right now but it’s only halfway to what he truly wants.

Mark wants you to sit on his face. Like he’s just some chair made for you specifically to rest on.

And even if he understands your concern for him, Mark can get stubborn when he likes to.

He stretches a hand from your stomach to your breast, coming in contact with your perked nipple. Trapping it between his forefinger and thumb, Mark pinches and pulls just the way you like it, eliciting a wanton wail from you as you buck up your hips over his mouth faster.

“Mark, Mark! fuck, it’s so good. You’re so— keep going, oh shit!”

Your knee slips from all the squirming, causing you to rest the entirety of your bodyweight solely on Mark’s mouth and nose.

And your boyfriend moans loudly. With his eyes crossed.

Before you can scramble off of him, afraid to cut off his air, Mark’s arms already lock your thighs tightly to his cheeks as he indulges himself in his most delicious feast.

“Just like that, babe. Ride my face.”

His fingers dig into your skin as he coaxes you to move your hips in a way that his tongue goes in and out of your hole while you clit bumps against his nose. Your hands fly aimlessly, not knowing whether to pull his hair, grip the sheets below you, or hold on to the bedpost for dear life.

You opt for the first option, grabbing a handful of his hair as your free hand reprises what he was doing earlier to your breast. Your head hung between your shoulders, eyes shut tightly as moans endlessly escape you.

“Maark, Mark, please. Oh gods— oh shit!— Mark, I’m gonna, haaah, cum! I’m gonna cum! Mark, Mark, Mark!”

Mark relentlessly laps you up, ignoring his lungs’ call for air because fuck is it worth it to have coming all over his tongue rather than come up for a break. It’s no joke when he says he’d die eating your pussy.

“Come on, babe. Fuck my tongue.”

His hand lands a slap across your ass cheek and you come on him hard. The shaking of your legs paired with sensitivity causes you to clamp them on Mark tightly, an action he welcomed gratefully as his tongue didn’t falter even a second. Mark cleans you up, maybe even planned to bring you to another orgasm when you pulled away from him.

“I-I’m sorry, babe. I didn’t realize I was sitting—“

“Sorry?” Mark chuckles and sits up, placing on his lap. “What on earth are you sorry for? That was fucking hot the only thing that prevented me from busting a nut is because I wanted to do it inside you.”

Blood rushes up to your cheeks as you swat his arm. Smiling menacingly, Mark buries his head on your neck and kisses along your skin until you’re a giggling mess.

“Babe,” He breathes out on your skin.

“Hmm?”

“If I don’t get to fuck your lovely cunt sooner, my death sentence might be cut short.”

You double down laughing on the bed as Mark’s eyes darken.

355 notes · View notes

player-tag · 14 hours ago

Text

Telemachus is sure he is dead. He’s certain. He’d stepped foot in the palace, and he’d been ambushed. Antinous and Eurymachus had been the ones dealing most of the damage, sitting on his chest to leave him breathless, then punching the shit out of him, until blood oozed from practically every hole on his face.

Telemachus had accepted, pretty quickly, that he was going to die. Seemed long overdue, anyways (the men had been bothering him for years, he’s surprised it took them this long to come up with this plan—though, to be fair, they aren’t the brightest minds in Ithaca…or the palace, to be fair), so he just hoped that his father had made it back in time to save his mother before those men got their hands on her.

So Telemachus is left wondering on why he is not only alive, but drinking wine with Poseidon in a cave beneath the island of Ithaca, with Amphitrite gently rubbing mashed ambrosia on his wounds, and wiping away the blood from his nose and teeth. The ambrosia smells like a weird mix of pomegranates and yogurt. The wine goblet is still held in both of his hands, and he has not taken a sip, instead just staring, blank faced, at the God who is very pointedly ignoring his gaze.

Are those puncture wounds on Poseidon’s chest? Telemachus wonders distantly, as Amphitrite ruffles his hair.

“What did Asclepius say about the nectar?” Amphitrite asks, holding up another goblet. “Yes, no…a little?”

Poseidon looks above Telemachus, seemingly thinking very deeply about his wife’s question. “Err… Let’s play it safe. No straight nectar, but maybe a dollop in the wine.” Poseidon looks everywhere but Telemachus’s eyes.

The Prince feels his body’s ache dull, now that the ambrosia has coated all the places he’s been punched, and he turns and smiles appreciatively at the nymph. “Thank you, my Lady. I will remember this for all my life.”

Amphitrite laughs, grabbing his shoulders and rubbing them slightly. “Don’t thank me, my dear,” she grabs a bit of nectar with her two forefingers, scooping it and dropping it into Telemachus’s drink, falling clean off her fingers. “Poseidon went out of his way to visit Apollo and Asclepius, really it should all be him.” She kisses the top of his head, and then waves goodbye. “I’ll be back soon, Poseidon.”

They are left in silence. Telemachus finally sips his wine. It tastes heavenly. Quite literally, and metaphorically.

“So…” Teleamchus says, trying to sound casual. Because what in the Hades was he meant to do. “Why did…er. That is, why was I chosen to be saved?” And also, why am I completely dry? I was drawing for at least two minutes before you saved me.

Poseidon finally stares at him. Oh gods, his eyes were scarily blue. Maybe that's why he didn’t look at him initially. “I… hate… unlawful men.” Poseidon himself seems unconvinced by what he’s saying. “They ambushed you, knew you didn’t have a chance…and that’s completely…not fair?” The last part sounds like a question itself, and Telemachus really wished he'd just stayed silent.

“Ah… okay. Thank you, Lord Poseidon.” They return to their silence, each sipping their drinks, and avoiding each other’s eyes.

“Uhm,” Telemachus starts again, because he hates the silence and he hates his thoughts. “What’s your favourite wine?” Good Gods, just kill him already. Holy shit.

Poseidon licks his teeth. “I like… Ithaca’s wine. Very nice. Well made.”

“Oh, when did you get to try it?”

Poseidon very pointedly ignores the question. “Are you excited to see your father?”

Telemachus blinks. “He’s here? He’s alive? What?”

Poseidon stares back at him. “Ah. I guess he still hasn’t made his grand entrance. Uhm. I think he’ll be looking for you soon… So I will hand you over when he asks.”

Then the awkward silence, again.

Then, Poseidon’s ears perk up. “Did you hear that?”

“What?” Telemachus can hear little other than the swish of water, and a barbiton that is seemingly playing from nowhere and everywhere at the same time. “I did not, no…?”

Poseidon snaps his fingers, and suddenly Telemachus can hear a nostalgically familiar voice, saying, “You dare think the ocean can kill my son? You dare think you can harm my family? You will regret ever trying to harm them—”

Suddenly, Poseidon grabs him, and they are swimming up and towards the shore. When they are about to hit the sunlight, break the water tension together, Poseidon aims Telemachus, and throws him out of the water. A stream catches him before he falls, and very neatly places him beside a hooded, bearded man, who does not seem at all surprised that the water just carried him to safety. Or the fact that he’s still completely dry. What the fuck.

The suitors are staring at him with genuine horror, like they’re seeing a ghost for the first time ever. “Why the fuck are you completely unharmed?” Antinous asks, jaw almost on the floor. Gods, Telemachus is grinning, wanting to cackle, at their expressions. He’s never going to stop praying to Poseidon.

The hooded man turns to him, and Telemachus sees the way his nose curves, the jut of his chin, the colour and shape of his eyes. That man is definitely Odysseus.

Odysseus confirms his suspicions when he grabs him, pulling him into a bone crushing hug, almost singing, “My son! Sweetest joy I’ve known, I—” He feels his chiton, then pushes him back and stares at him, holding him still by the shoulders.

“Did you not have a chlamys?” Odysseus asks, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Uh… yeah?”

Odysseus turns to the ocean, and shouts, “HEY, ASSHOLE, YOU FORGOT HIS CHLAMYS—”

The water spits out the cape, landing it perfectly on Telemachus’s shoulders, clipped perfectly at his shoulders and everything. The ocean spits something else out, and Telemachus turns, and he feels the suitors stare at the sand with him.

Sorry, very clearly spelt with shells.

“Thank you,” Odysseus says, smugly.

“Thank you, Lord Poseidon,” Telemachus repeats, mildly confused.

He hears confused muttering from the suitors behind him. When he turns, Melanthius is shrugging very confused at a question either Antinous or Amphinomus had asked him. Eurymachus looks like he’s about to jump into the water himself.

“Anyways,” Odysseus says, handing Telemachus a bow and a full quiver. “Let’s get to business.”

Telemachus has many questions for both his father and mother. For now, he nocks an arrow and draws his bow.

after browsing some comments, I think a funnier turn the ithaca saga could've taken is the suitors beat the living shit out of telemachus and then drown him in the ocean, and when they're taunting odysseus about it he just looks at the ocean, raises his eyebrow and posiden spits up a very much alive and in tact but also incredibly confused telemachus.

the waves sound suspiciously like someone saying "nope" over and over again.

#odysseus #telemachus #epic the musical #epic!odysseus #epic!telemachus #epic fandom #cross posted on ao3

1K notes · View notes

cvnt4him · 2 days ago

Note

Hiii I love you writing, I was thinking Izuku catching you touching yourself…hehe

smut warning !!

Izuku had been held up with work alot more than usual, it was testing season as school was finally coming to an end. Kids drowning in complicated problems as the teachers; izuku, struggled to keep their eyes open during these long boring days. They were all lucky if it happened to be a half day.

He tried his hardest to ensure that his students learnt as much as they could from him. Sometimes he'd stay awake at night keeping you up as well muttering softly in your ear with wide tired eyes full of worry and restlessness, words flowing quickly into your ear about all of his worries and woes of the kids. He was responsible, he felt responsible. He wanted nothing more than the best for them.

With testing lasting quite some time, or at least it felt like it; it was often izuku would come home and burt himself in whatever work he could or go straight to sleep. He needed a break but you couldn't offer that right now, he couldn't get distracted. He needed to be out together for his kids. So even when you tried anything it's not as if he indulged you even a little bit.

You grew tired of his distance, of course you understood however your needs were far too unbearable to go without. It's not like it was illegal for you to take matters into your own hands anyways.

You figured you'd be home alone for the next couple of hours, about 3-4 to be exact. It was still quite early and you had a lot of time on your hands after finishing up around the house.

You scrolled on your phone momentarily before edits of your husband showed up on your timeline, it wasn't abnormal for these things to show up. He's a teacher along with being a hero by night, he still gets asked questions and is even often seen hanging out with other pro heroes.

The way he looked in his suit, his hair billowing in the wind, the stupid velocity in the edit. It all had you giggling to yourself and rubbing your thighs together like some teenaged girl seeing Harry styles.

Your mind wandered the longer you allowed the video to replay, he was all yours. This sexy bulky man full of scars and experience, his mind as sharp as....well a teacher. It was all enticing. Your fingers slowly trailed down to your shorts finding themselves slipping through your waistband with haste you rubbed ran two fingers up your dampening panties that covered your aching heat wincing at the touch.

You removed your shorts as a whole and pulled your panties to the side, allowing your mind to do the rest of the work that you needed.

Soft moans left you as you rolled your head back, your fingers deep in your pussy emitting squelching sounds along with your arousal and slick coating your fingers and the inside of your thighs. You'd been like this for some time, chasing high after highschool thinking about your sexy man, he was perfect and you couldn't deny your ache for him.

You legs tensed and your body shook as another orgasm treated to wash over you, your fingers in reacher deeper inside of you while they squirmed with expertise, your other hand rubbing your clit fastly as you tried to suppress your moans that easily escaped. Your mouth agape and head thrown back as you fell into a wave of pure ecstasy.

As you felt your orgasm washing over you, your body growing tired but you couldn't dare to stop; your room door opens a long sigh leaving as a soft and kind of deep voice rings out through your ears.

A gasp quickly leaving you as your husband stills in the doorframe. His eyes wide open as he watched your half naked body cover up, he searched your face for some kind of explanation that honestly wasn't even needed. His cheeks dusted red with all of the blood rushing to his face...and cock.

You stuttered on your words and choked on your breath, trying to come up with an excuse or even an explanation for your actions. You felt guilty even, why for? No idea. Being caught seemed humiliating but also packed such a rush.

You whined in embarrassment, izukus shocked face only softening to one with love. He dropped his back near the door shutting it as he walked towards you shedding most of his clothing, u doing his tie along with unbuckling his belt and undoing his buttons to his shirt. He quickly pulled your flustered face into a quick yet deep kiss, he snatched all of your breath away within an instant.

Holding your face close in his warm scarred large palms. A small moan leaves the both of you as he finally breaks the kiss, leaving you undeniably breathless. It seemed like he still followed your lips despite being the one to end the kiss, a small chuckle leaving him as his fingers stroked your cheek

“ poor thing..I've been so busy I haven't had time for you. that was selfish of me, huh baby.”

Izuku looked down at you with his hair framing his face perfectly, his eyes lidded as he searched your face your eyes still full of lust and desperate for his touch. His hand slowly slid down your shoulder his fingers grazing your own before moving to your thigh and rubbing them, his hand inching deeper into the inner part of your thigh which was still coated in your very own arousal.

The touch to the sensitive skin of your thighs having you melt in his touch, his gaze only applying more pressure and affection to your growing problem.

A small mewl leaves you making him scoff softly in amusement. He places another kiss to your forehead before sighing once more. He was gentle with you as his fingers gently touched the outer lips if you cunt having your pussy twitch from the sudden stimulation.

“ let me take care of you. you deserve it. ”

And with that, you were taken away and ravished by your loving husband.

I think I should start putting warnings when writing smut .... maybe.

313 notes · View notes

backtothefanfiction · 2 days ago

Text

Oh Baby | PART 1: OH BABY

Manny Alvarez x Reader Insert Fic

Summary: You thought you and Manny were people careful. It was only supposed to be a friends with benefits situation. Now it's something more.

Warnings: 18+ Only, smut, pregnancy, fluff, angst, canon violence, sparse use of Y/N, we are playing fast and loose with the actual canon and character depiction so if that's gonna bother you don't read, but if not, you'll like this.

Word Count: 7.5k+

A/N: WAIT! WAIT! BEFORE YOU CHOSE TO SCROLL! I know you've read those warnings. I know you're thinking 'uggghhhh nooooo, not a pregnancy fic' trust me, I get it, it's not usually my bag either, which is why you can trust me when I say, this isn't that kind of pregnancy fic. This isn't sunshine and rainbows. This isn't a honeytrap. It's angsty and dramatic and messy as well as human and fluffy and at times sweet. It's raunchy and real and I really can't believe I've written this kind of a story. So before you write it off and choose to scroll, please give it a go and if it's still isn't for you that's fine. But for those who continue to follow me on the journey of this story, I really hope you enjoy. As I said in the warning I am playing a bit fast and loose with the canon events. I haven't gone back and double checked who said what in the scenes in the lodge so don't come for me (after all its such a small part of the story I'm telling) but read, like, reblog and most of all enjoy!

“Oh would you just hurry up already,” you said to him, exasperated as you waited for him to pull his pants down. You had already pulled your own down and your ass was getting cold. Not to mention if you were both gone for too long the others would get suspicious.

“Shut up, I’m working on it,” he huffed, as he finally managed to get his cock out of his pants.

There was a beat as you heard him work his hand up and down himself a few times, trying to make sure he was ready, his fingers dipping into your slick to help lubricate himself and make sure you were good to go. But you’d been good to go since you caught him taking a cold shower this morning. It was the thought of his bronzed skin and toned abs that had gotten you into such a state that you knew you would need to sneak away for a quickie the moment camp was set up.

“Oh my god, Manny, come on!” You pressed him.

“I know, I know, just -fuck,” he cursed. “Wait, there we go, there we go,” he said eagerly as he finally lined himself up with your entrance and slid inside.

Just a few months ago you couldn’t have even imagined yourself even kissing Manny, let alone doing this, but now you were addicted. After weeks of him trying to aggressively flirt and wind you up at the same time, you had finally caved. Anything to get him to quit whining about his fucking “manly needs”- but he was good- you couldn’t fault him that.

He always made you cum first before he even thought about shooting his load. Always caring and attentive- if all be it in his own slightly gruff way. You wondered what he’d be like if you could dedicate the space and time to just yourselves for longer than a few minutes. But alas, whilst you were on the road traveling with Abby and the others, there was zero chance of that happening.

You were pretty sure Nora knew you and Manny were fucking each other. Nothing ever got past her. But you were beginning to think it wouldn’t be too bad if people knew anyway. I mean, it was just sex after all. A way to blow off some steam. It was never gonna lead to anything else was it? Or was it?

“Oh fuck,” you panted as he rutted you up against the cold metal wall of the shed you were hiding behind.

“Does that feel good baby?” He grunted into your ear. You turned your head back to him and nodded. “Use your words,” he said breathily into your lips as his forehead rested against your temple.

“Feels so fucking good, Manny,” you whined. He loved it when you said his name like that. He’d had many girls whimper his name just like that over the years, but he had to admit, when you did it, it really made his cock twitch.

“Yeah?” he asked as he moved his hand round to circle your clit and you shivered at his touch. “You gonna come for me princess?” he asked.

“Uh, huh,” you whimpered, your voice shaking as he rocked into you at force.

“Uh God,” he cried out, burying his head into the gap between your neck and your coat. “Come on, baby, I need you to come for me,” he gritted, his fingers over your clit picking up pace. You could tell he was close from the way his body tensed and his breaths became caught in his chest, as he fought with all of his might to hold off until you had cum first.

You closed your eyes and tried to focus on that feeling building inside you, the way his fingers circled, his cock sliding in and out of you at a wicked pace and rubbing at just that right spot that would send you over the edge with enough stimulation. You were so close.

“Come on baby,” he cooed again and you whimpered, your legs shaking and cunt convulsing around him as your climax crashed into you.

“Oh Fuck!” he cried out as he finally let himself go and quickly followed after you.

You felt his hips stutter and his cock pulsate inside you once, twice before he quickly pulled out. You tried not to think about it too much- how he had stayed in longer than normal. He was normally so quick to pull out to minimise any risk, but you’d both been sloppy today.

It’d be fine, you told yourself as you began to pull your pants back up, but it continued to niggle at the back of your mind.

-------------------------------------

For the next couple days it was all you could think about. You grew quiet, often falling behind at the back of the group as you made your way towards Jackson, where you’d learnt this Joel guy Abby had been hunting down- for what felt like forever now- was living.

“You okay?” Nora asked as she fell back into step with you.

“I’m fine,” you quickly replied, not wanting to worry her.

“You two have a little spat?” she asked, motioning towards Manny in the middle of the pack.

“What? No!” you quickly said defensively.

“Okay, then why do you keep staring daggers at the back of his head?”

“I’m not staring daggers-“ you began, but caught yourself. “I was just thinking is all.”

“Just thinking… right,” she replied.

“It’s fine, it’s nothing,” you quickly said, trying to keep your tone light.

“Okay, if you say so. But I’m not picking up the pieces if things go to shit between you two,” she said before she began to pick up the pace again, leaving you once more all alone with your troubling thoughts.

-------------------------------------

A week later you were fucking again like nothing had happened. You figured after a few days you’d notice if anything was amiss and seeing as there wasn’t anything to cause you alarm, you put it to the back of your mind. It was even easier to do when you were more focused on just being happy to be alive.

You’d had a close call earlier on in the day, a small group of infected getting the drop on you all as you explored a small long abandoned little rural town. If it hadn’t been for Nora’s constant vigilance you all would have been fucked.

“Fuck, this afternoon was far too close,” he panted as he fucked you up against a tree.

“I know,” you breathed back, your hands wrapping tightly around his neck, fingers tangling in his grown out curls sticking out the bottom of his hat.

“Thought I was gonna die,” he said.

“Yeah, then who would I get to fuck me in the middle of the woods,” you joked, trying to make light of things and take his mind off the subject.

“Uh, love burying myself in this pussy,” he said, his teeth nipping at your jaw.

“Oh fuck,” you sighed as the feeling of his facial hair prickled at your skin and sent a shiver down your spine.

You pulled at his hair and he growled as he rutted up into you harder. You could feel he was close. “Don’t forget to pull out,” you reminded him.

“I know, I always do,” he said, before he shifted so he could give you a kiss, his tongue coming out to tangle with yours, the steam from your breathes mingling in the hot air.

“Tell me you’re close,” he sighed into you, his forehead pressing into yours as once again he tried to hold himself back.

You bit your lip and tilted your head back, closing your eyes as you once again tried to focus on your release. You squeezed the walls of your cunt around him, hoping the tension would help, but it just made him cry out.

“Shit! Shit! Shit! Don’t do that. I can’t-“ You felt him twitch before he quickly pulled out.

“Shit!” he gritted again as he slowly lowered you back onto the ground and stepped back. “Fuck! You can’t do that!” he said to you again frustrated. “I almost came inside you. Fuck!”

He quickly moved to place himself back in his pants before he started pacing back and forth to dispel the adrenaline.

“But you didn't, right?” You had to check.

“No,” he quickly said. “No,” he said much calmer, spotting the look of panic in your eyes. “But maybe we should just not do this for a while,” he said and although it hurt you to do so, you quietly nodded and agreed.

“Okay,” you said, but for some reason, it tore at something in your chest. Were you getting feelings for him?

No, no. That would be stupid.

-------------------------------------

Another week and a half passed and you finally made it up the mountain that overlooked Jackson, just before a big snowstorm hit.

“We can camp out in there for the night,” Owen said, as he spotted the old abandoned ski lodge sticking out of the snow.

When you all got inside to the main room, the sky was now too dark to see your target until the morning, but you were glad of somewhere safe to rest. You hadn’t been sleeping well the last few nights. You put it down to no longer getting a regular orgasm from Manny, but there was something else that had come back to nag at the forefront of your mind.

You were late. You tracked your cycle regularly. And although your body had been under a lot of stress lately with the hike here, you knew it wasn’t because of that.

That voice had only grown worse again when you had found yourself throwing up at random times throughout the day. Not that much came up. You were all on strict rations to last you until you got back, which meant what did come back up was mostly bile mixed with a few dried crackers.

How had you let yourself be this stupid? And with Manny Alvarez of all people. He’d probably sooner abandon you up here to deal with this on your own than-what? Co parent with you? He was all in on playing the soldier, not the caring father. Fuck! How were you gonna do this?

You lay awake most of the night thinking about it. When you got up at 4am to puke you knew there was no way in hell you were making this up either.

“You okay?” Nora asked you as she came and found you in the bathroom, your back against the cold tiled floor as you just stared up at the ceiling.

“I’m late,” you told her, ripping the bandage off.

She faltered for all of a second before she schooled her features and simply said, “Well shit.”

“Yep,” you agreed as you slowly sat yourself up and shuffled back to lean against the wall instead.

“Is it Manny’s?” she asked as she came to take a seat next to you.

“Yup,” you said with a frustrated eye roll.

“You gonna tell him?”

“Do I have a choice?” you asked, rolling your head to the side to look at her earnestly.

“I mean, it’s up to you,” she said. “But sooner or later I think he’s gonna notice. Unless you’re planning on running away and taking your chances in the woods that is.”

“I mean, who’s to say he won’t march me out into the woods and shoot me to get rid of the problem anyway. Just claim there was an accident or that I got bit or something,” your biggest fear tumbling from your mouth as tears began to well in your eyes.

“He wouldn’t do that,” she reassured you. “I mean, he can be a trigger happy asshole at times,” she said, “but he’s always wanted to do right by you.”

“How do you know?” you asked.

Because I’ve seen the way he looks at you,” she said nonchalantly. “You know, he always falls asleep facing towards you so he can keep an eye on you in the middle of the night.”

“No,” you said, realising you hadn’t noticed that.

“Or how he sneaks some of his own rations into your bag when you’re not looking,” she smiled.

You frowned. You had wondered where the extra protein strips had come from.

“Look, tell him, or don’t tell him, but- I think if you do, you might be surprised about how he reacts.”

-------------------------------------

You were able to get a couple of hours sleep before Manny was intently shaking you awake. “Hey Y/N, get up,” he said, his voice more serious than you’d heard it in weeks.

“Huh, what?” You groaned, but he was already moving to kick awake the others next to you.

“Get up. GET UP!” he barked and you suddenly grew worried.

“What is it?” Mel asked as she sat up.

“Oh shit!” Owen exclaimed as he took a closer look out the window.

“Fuck!” Abby sighed.

“What is-“ your voice faltered as you stepped up to the window yourself.

“It’s like a fucking fortress,” you heard Nora mutter beside you.

“They’ll never just fucking give him up,” Owen said rationally to Abby as you began to back away from the window again and move back towards your sleeping bag, that turning nautious feeling in your stomach becoming all consuming.

You should never have agreed to come on this venture, you thought to yourself. There was no way this was gonna end well. It’d be a miracle if everyone made it out alive.

You thought to the living thing now growing in your belly. What if it had come at the right time? As some sort of miracle from above to try and turn you on another path. To get you away from this. Your stomach turned and a shiver ran through you as you were sure all the blood drained from your face.

“Hey, you okay?” Manny asked as he moved away from the group.

“Yeah, I just-“ but you paused. No you were definitely gonna hurl. “Excuse me,” you said before you rushed out the room.

Once again you retched the very little contents of your stomach into the toilet bowl. When your muscles stopped heaving and you could finally take a second to breathe, you flushed the toilet and any evidence of your little discrepancy down the pipes.

“Hey, you okay?” Manny asked again when you returned.

“No, we need to talk,” you said to him as Abby readied herself to go out into the cold.

“Yeah, sure what’s up?” he asked seriously, and although his voice was hushed, you still feared the rest of your group overhearing.

“Not here,” you said, your eyes scanning the room suspiciously before you began to pull him back towards the run down kitchen in the back.

“What’s wrong?” He asked again as you folded your arms defensively and leant back against one of the stainless steel counters.

You took a deep breath, mustering what little courage you had left before you said, “I’m pregnant.”

His face fell. “What?” he frowned, quickly stepping closer to you and dropping his voice.

“I’m pregnant,” you said to him again.

“You sure?” he asked.

“Yep. Pretty sure,” you said to him with a shrug.

“How do you know?” he asked skeptically.

“Well, I’m late for starters,” you sighed frustratedly. “I’m throwing up at all hours of the day. My boobs hurt, I’m tired like- all the time!” you stressed to him quietly.

He was quiet. Deadly silent. And you think it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him truly speechless.

“Okay,” he finally sighed. “So what do we do?” he asked, looking to you for the answers.

“I don’t know. I mean, given the life we live, who knows if it’ll even stick,” you said to him.

“What does that mean?”

“It means, we live a stressful life, shit happens. I might miscarry or… something else might happen to us before I even get close enough to 9 months,” you said with a shrug, trying to weigh up all likely scenarios.

“But what if it does?” he said. “Get to 9 months, I mean.”

“I don’t know,” you said to him worried and he could see the fear and terror in your eyes. You had never wanted to bring kids into this world. Who would ever in their right mind willingly subject new life to this? But unfortunately this was where you were at.

“Does anyone else know?” he asked, looking over his shoulder at the closed door as if he could see through it.

“Nora found me throwing up last night,” you told him.

“And she-“

“Knows you’re the father? Yes,” you said, finishing his sentence for him.

He breathed deeply, letting out a sigh as he rubbed at his face, his fingers pulling at his curls that draped forward over his forehead. “Fuck!” he exclaimed as he pushed them back with both hands, running them down the back of his head until they rested at the back of his neck.

You remained quiet as you let him take a moment to process the bombshell you had just dropped in his lap.

“Okay,” he finally said.

“Okay?” you said, asking him to elaborate.

“Okay,” he said again. “We can deal with this. We’ll just take it day by day, moment by moment until we’re done with tracking down this Joel guy and then-“

“Then?” you asked, fear still in your eyes as you watched him slowly formulate some sort of a plan.

“Then we’ll deal with it. We’ll assess our options. Come up with a plan,” he said.

“Okay,” you said timidly, but you were still just so scared. “You’re not mad?” you asked him as you continued to watch him go back to silently process all this.

“Why would I be mad?” he asked, turning towards you and reaching his hands out to rest on the tops of your arms. It felt comforting. “If I should be mad at anyone it should be myself for not being more careful,” he said.

“Look, just don’t stress. Don’t worry,” he said, trying to find some confidence despite the fact he was absolutely shitting himself on the inside. “We’ll deal with this. Together.”

“Together,” you repeated.

“Whatever you do, just-“ he hesitated, “don’t tell anyone else okay? Let’s keep this a secret for now until this is done.”

“Okay,” you agreed, but you had no idea how well you were gonna do that when you were throwing up every few hours and you felt so tired you could sleep for a whole week.

“Manny,” you said to him shakily, “I don’t know if I can do this,” you confided.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” he said, folding you into his arms and pulling you into his chest as tears began to roll down your cheeks. “I promise,” he said into the top of your head. “No matter what happens. I’ve got you… both of you,” he clarified and his words made you sob.

-------------------------------------

The next few hours felt like hell. You were still so tired, you couldn’t bring yourself to eat anything and to top it all off, Abby had fully disappeared into the snow putting everyone on high alert. That alert only increased as you all watched a hoard of infected begin to attack the town down the hill.

“Mel, stay here with Y/N,” Manny began to instruct, “everybody else, outside with me to look for Abby and reinforce the perimeter.”

You felt like your stomach was in knots as you waited for them to return. Every now and again you’d just about make out one of their figures against the backdrop of snow, but the longer it took for them to come back, the worse you felt.

You tried to sip some water at the very least as you sat in front of the large windows with a pair of binoculars keeping an eye on things.

“Are you okay?” Mel asked you as yet another wave of nausea hit and you swayed slightly on the spot.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you lied between slightly gritted teeth, holding the binoculars back up to your face to hide your features.

“Really, because you don’t look fine,” Mel pressed. “You’re as white as a sheet- and don’t think I haven’t noticed you sneaking off to the toilet every 5 minutes.”

“It’s just a stomach bug or something,” you lied. “Probably one of those dodgy out of date protein bars,” you said and she reluctantly seemed to accept that, but she didn’t have time to press you further as you spotted a set of horses racing up the hill. “Shit, we’ve got company,” you said, handing off the binoculars for her to have a look as the others outside began to move into action.

“Looks like Abby,” Mel shouted as you moved further back from the window, trying to control your breathing and will that feeling of nausea to pass.

Within minutes everyone was back inside and racing up to the main room. “Hey, you okay?” Manny asked rushing over to you and pulling you to one side, it was clear from the look on his face he had been thinking about you and worrying the whole time he was outside.

You simply nodded before turning your attention to everyone else in the room, eager to find out where Abby had run off to and who she had brought back with her. Mel was already huddled to one side with the young girl, trying to attend to her already frost bitten fingers.

It didn’t take long for things to turn south as Abby announced that the man who had ridden back up the mountain with her was in fact Joel. You didn’t know if it was meant to be or just sheer dumb luck on Abby’s part, but she made it very clear, very quickly, she definitely wouldn’t be passing up on this particular opportunity.

Although you had heard her going on for years now about getting her revenge and ripping this guy apart limb from limb, it was very different watching it play out. No one else had anticipated an extra witness, but Abby seemed to have thought that out. You couldn’t help but feel sorry for the girl now lying unconscious on the floor, but you also figured it was for the best so she wouldn’t have the memory of all that Abby was currently doing to this Joel guy.

She had fully lost it, shooting his knee cap out with a shotgun before taking a club from some long forgotten golfing bag and going to town, beating the shit out of him with it again and again and again.

You’d seen a lot of shit over the years, the infected themselves being some of the worst of it, but this- for some reason, this affected you way more than any of that ever had. You’d watched children murdered by a firing squad. Men literally hanged in the streets for stealing food. You’d seen broken limbs that stuck out of skin. People's insides, literally on their outsides. And yet still this made your stomach turn worse than any of that.

Eventually you had to turn away, your eyes instead fixating on the father of the child that was now forming inside of you. You silently pleaded with him to do anything. But he just shook his head. He knew better than to mess with Abby in the state she was right now.

“I need some air,” you said to the room as you moved to grab your coat and leave the room, but you didn’t get far as another young girl came charging in.

You were suddenly knocked backwards, your back colliding with a beam as she lunged at you. Before she could do anymore damage though Manny was there, ripping her off of you and holding her firmly in his arms at gunpoint.

“You okay?” he barked in your direction, but you could see the panic hiding in his eyes.

You rubbed at your ribs wheezing slightly where she had winded you, but you were okay and you gave him a silent nod to tell him such. “Yeah,” you groaned as your voice slowly came back to you.

As the young girl noticed the state of the man lying beaten on the floor, she began to fight against Manny, a knife now in her hand clocking him in the head. It took all of Manny and Owen’s effort to wrestle her to the ground as she shrieked in distress. When you caught eyes with Manny again and silently pleaded for him to do something, he finally conceded, encouraging Abby to finish it.

You watched as the young girl continued to scream, willing Joel to get up off the floor as Abby slowly moved with the now broken golf club to stand over his crumpled body. It was too much, the next wave of nausea hitting you so fast all you could do was turn around and retch into the corner.

As you braced your hands against your knees and basically threw up the water you had drunk, your eyes watering from having the contents of your stomach come back out of your mouth again, you slowly began to feel Manny’s steady hands rubbing at your back through your thick coat.

No one said anything, the rest of the room distracted watching the young girl- who was struggling to breath from the kick Manny had given her to her ribs- tried to crawl across the floor towards the man she cared for.

“We need to go. Now!” Owen insisted; him, Mel and Nora already beginning to frantically repack things into bags ready to leave.

“You okay?” Manny asked as he continued to rub at your back as you finally stood back up and looked over your shoulder at everyone else to see if they were looking, but thankfully they weren’t. You slowly nodded and as he saw the colour begin to come back to your face, he allowed himself to part from you to help finish packing stuff up ready to go.

A few minutes later he was helping you put your bag back on. It was noticeably much lighter than the last time you carried it, but you didn’t press the matter.

“Come on, let’s go,” Manny said, reaching for your hand to pull you out the door with him first, the others following behind at staggered intervals, Owen practically having to drag Abby from the scene.

As he encouraged you to start climbing further up the mountain again, back in the direction you had all originally come from, he finally let go of your hand and allowed himself to drop a couple paces back to make sure everybody was on the move; as well as scout the tree line for any stray infected that might have broken off from the hoard Joel, Abby and that other girl had been running from earlier.

-------------------------------------

You didn’t stop moving for the next two hours. Every time fatigue hit you and you began to fall behind, Manny always fell back with you, checking in and encouraging you on, consistently giving you false hope of you all getting to have a break soon, but you knew you needed to have Jackson and what happened in that ski lodge well behind you for that to happen.

The only lucky thing was the rest of Jackson were too busy dealing with that hoard of infected to come after you all straight away, meaning you could get as big a head start as possible. But you’d seen the way that girl had looked at Manny. Looked at Abby. The way she didn’t give up. You knew she’d want revenge the same way Abby had and she’d catch up to all of you some day and make that happen.

The thought made you rub absentmindedly at your belly as you contemplated on that future. The inevitability of her tracking you both down and leaving your child an orphan. But one look at Manny told you he’d do everything in his power before he ever let that happen.

It was almost nightfall before you got that rest. Your fingers and nose were freezing cold and you were sure you had tiny icicles forming on your eyelashes.

“You need to eat something,” Manny said as he sat you down in front of the fire he, Owen and Nora had made up.

You were sitting in the living room of an abandoned farmhouse. You could hear Mel and Abby already raiding the pantry looking for anything non perishable that you could add to the group's reserves, but you knew your stomach wouldn’t keep anything down.

You shook your head at him, “No, can’t,” you said, closing your eyes as you focused on willing away that feeling rising in your esophagus again, even though you knew there was nothing there at all for you to bring up.

“You have to,” he insisted. “Even if it’s just a little,” he said and you groaned at him in protest.

“What’s wrong with her?” Owen asked as he stood at Manny’s back where he crouched in front of you, his hands resting on your knees.

“Nothing, just a stomach bug or something,” Manny said quickly, trying to wave him off.

“It’s not contagious is it?!” he suddenly asked worried, his feet quickly shuffling himself backwards like he might catch it.

“No, I just had a dodgy protein bar,” you lied, using the same excuse you’d used on Mel earlier.

The man crouched at your feet gave you a subtle appraising look as if he was impressed at your quick thinking, but you both knew you’d have to come up with some other excuse pretty fucking fast for when your symptoms continued to persist in a few days time.

You stared at the dried blood that ran down from his head to his cheek where that girl had caught him with her knife. You reached out to touch it, shifting his hat back on his head slightly so you could get a better look. “You should probably clean that and put something on it so it doesn’t get infected,” you said and he shrugged.

“Will you help me?” he asked and you nodded.

He came back a moment later with a first aid kit from one of the packs. You rested it on the sofa cushion next to you as you began to take bits out of it, searching for the things you wanted.

He sat himself down on the floor between your legs, his knees resting against his chest so he could lean forward comfortably, his arms wrapped around to rest on his shins. You smoothed his curls back with one hand whilst you began to clean up the wound with an alcohol wipe with the other. He sneered slightly as the alcohol smarted. You deftly picked the fibres from his hat out of the wound, before sealing it with some surgical glue, your fingers pushing the two sides of the cut back together until it set. His fingers slowly traced at the back of your calves tenderly as he waited, his movements subtle so that no one else would notice, but the tenderness of his touch spoke volumes to your overwhelmed emotions and hormones.

“Thanks,” he finally said as you covered the wound with a large bandaid before he shuffled back, just in time for Nora and Abby to come in with food.

He didn’t stray too far from you as you all ate. You slowly picked at the food in your bowl as everyone scoffed theirs down in methodical silence.

By the time you all went to sleep you were shattered. “I’ll take the first watch,” Manny said as everyone began to settle in their chosen spots around the room.

“Who wants to take second?” Abby asked the room.

“Y/N hasn’t done one in a while,” Owen began but one sharp look from Manny had Nora quickly volunteering in your stead.

“Y/N has her stomach bug thing, she didn’t really sleep last night, she can do tomorrow or something,” she said, helping give an excuse and everyone else seemed to accept that.

‘Thank you,’ you quietly mouthed to her when no one was looking, but she just rolled her eyes and brushed you off like it was no big deal.

-------------------------------------

You managed to sleep all the way through until 3:30 when Manny and Nora swapped and he came to settle down next to you to keep you close. You turned your body towards him to find him staring at you.

“Go to sleep, Alvarez,” you whispered to him. His eyes softened as they took you in in the dark, his lip slightly quirking upwards, before he rolled onto his back.

You just lay there watching him for a moment as he stared up at the ceiling. He didn’t look at you again, but after a while, his hand slowly shifted across the floor towards you, his fingers reaching for yours- and you let him. You quietly shuffled closer to him, your fingers fully intertwining between your bodies as your head lulled to the side and rested against his shoulder. And that’s how you stayed for the rest of the night, content and safe in each other's presence until dawn.

-------------------------------------

You woke at the first crack of light, your stomach once again turning on you and you raced from the main room to the toilet to be sick. This was awful. You hoped it’d get better soon but who knew. You had heard about some women getting morning sickness way worse than others, you had just never thought it’d be you. Then again- you never thought you’d end up pregnant at all.

You leaned forward and wretched into the bowl again. As you braced yourself against the grimy porcelain, rough hands moved to sweep your hair back out the way.

“It’s okay, I’m here,” Manny’s gruff morning voice said as he rubbed at your back again with a soothing hand.

“I’m really starting to hate you right now,” you groaned as you spat into the toilet.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t blame you,” he sighed, fatigue still heavy in his voice.

When you finally felt well enough to sit back from the bowl, he reached over to flush it for you before encouraging you back into his arms. He rubbed soothingly at your back again as you rested against his chest.

“I really hope this part doesn’t last that long,” you told him as you nuzzled into his shirt, soaking in the smell of him. He was slightly sweaty and dirty from the last few days hike, but for some reason you didn’t mind it.

“I think this place still has hot water,” he said as his fingers brushed up and down your arm. “We can take a shower if you want before the others get up,” he suggested, hoping the simple pleasure of hot water would make you feel better.

“Really?” you asked softly in disbelief.

His breath chuffed over the top of your head as he let out a small amused laugh. “Yeah, I checked last night when everyone went to sleep. There’s some half decent towels left in the cupboard too,” he supplied and you finally pushed yourself away from his chest to look at him with a semblance of hope in your eyes.

“Come on,” he said encouragingly as he helped you to stand.

You hovered there in silence as you waited for him to go grab the towels from the cupboard and your packs so you both had some fresh clothes to change into after.

You both continued to exist in that comfortable silence as he turned the water on and steam began to fill the cold bathroom. You watched as he checked the cupboards for any left over shampoo, conditioner and soap, placing them inside the shower before he helped you to strip.

You had always wondered what things would be like between you if given some time and a domestic setting, but you never could have imagined this. He encouraged you to lift your arms up so he could pull your jumper and top off in one go. Next he gently undid your belt before easily sliding your now too big for you trousers down your legs, letting them bunch at your ankles, ready for you to step out of.

You hesitantly lifted your hands to his waist, reaching for the hem of his shirt to help him do the same. Your eyes lingered on his skin as it was slowly exposed to you, your fingers sliding back down the toned muscles of his flesh and sending a ripple of goosebumps over his skin.

Slowly he lifted his finger under your chin, encouraging your eyes to meet his. There was a lingering moment of tension between you before he leaned in to capture your lips in a kiss. It wasn’t hungry or rushed or passionate like any of the other ones you’d shared during your quick moments together in the cold, but tender and soft and it sent shivers down your spine and the backs of your legs.

As he continued to kiss you, he gradually reached down to undo his own trousers and kick them off so you both stood fully naked before one another. “We’re wasting the water,” he mumbled with a faint smile on his lips against your own and you reluctantly broke apart from him to climb into the shower and move under the water.

You let out an audible sigh as you tilted your head back under the flow of hot water. Hot water felt like such a luxury when you were on the road. You closed your eyes as you relished in it, your hands reaching up to run your fingers through your hair and ensure it was thoroughly wet.

You listened closely as you heard him step into the old claw foot tub and slide the curtain closed. Felt the air around you change as he stepped closer to crowd your space.

“Turn around,” he instructed softly and you did, the water instead cascading over your tender breasts and warming your chest.

There was a click clack as you heard him open and close the shampoo bottle, before placing it back on the side with a thud. You tilted your head back towards him as he lifted his hands up to your head. You let out a small moan of relaxation as his fingers began to massage and lather the shampoo into your scalp. His touch was so tender- so gentle- unlike any way you had seen him act before.

You kept your eyes closed as you relished in the feeling. You didn’t think you’d ever had someone else wash your hair since you were a little girl and your mom used to do it. You relaxed back into his touch as he continued to rub and massage your scalp, your fingers blindly moving behind you to brace yourself on his thighs. You were sure you heard his breathing hitch, but you didn’t pay it much mind.

“Turn around again,” he instructed after a couple of minutes and you reluctantly did, your eyes locking onto his dark hazy ones as you stepped back under the running water.

As you lifted your hands to run your fingers through your hair again and make sure you got all the bubbles out, you heard him reaching for the conditioner and getting it ready in his palm. When you felt the shampoo was fully washed out, you caught his eyes and he silently shifted his hand to tell you to turn around again, before he started to run the conditioner through your lengths.

You had never felt so pampered in your life and it was just what you needed after two full days of vomiting hell. When the conditioner was all slicked through your hair, he grabbed the bar of soap and tenderly ran it over your skin as you waited for the conditioner to set in. His hands were soft but thorough as they glided over your skin and rubbed the soap into all your folds and intimate areas.

“What about you?” you asked him when he finally stepped back to let you wash everything off.

“I’ll sort myself out in a minute,” he said, shrugging you off. You had every mind to protest, but the way his soft brown eyes stared at you earnestly, told you how guilty he felt for your current situation and that he wanted to do his best to try and start making amends.

As you slowly washed out all the conditioner and made sure all the soap suds were washed from your body, you were surprised by the sudden feeling of his fingers gliding softly over your lower abdomen- to where you both knew his child was growing inside of you. When you looked at him, you noticed his eyes were laser focused on that spot as he still struggled to come to terms with the reality you now faced.

You were both snapped away from the moment by the sound of a fist thumping on the door. “Hurry up you two, you’re gonna use up all the hot water,” Nora’s voice called out in protest.

You and Manny both shared one more tender look with each other before he finally encouraged you to get out of the shower and he could quickly have his before Nora’s fist hammered on the door once again.

-------------------------------------

An hour and a half later, everyone was huddled in front of the fire again, all debating on what the group's next move should be. You had all been on the road moving back and forth from camp to camp, looking for information about Joel so Abby could track him down for so long, you’d never even discussed what would happen afterwards.

“I say we keep heading back to Seattle and join the WLFs like the other fireflies we came across,” Mel suggested.

“I mean, they’re a bit extreme aren’t they?” Nora said.

“Maybe,” Mel said slightly defensively, not liking that her suggestion would need justification, especially after what you had all just done. “But at least they’re in control of the whole city. And there’s a lot of them and Marlene always told me that the way to survive was strength in numbers.”

“I mean, it’s where everyone else has gone,” Owen offered up, not really objecting to the idea.

“Manny, Y/N, what do you think?” Abby asked.

You didn’t know what to think. You’d barely had time to think past the last 24 hours, let alone what you wanted for the future. But you knew you needed to start making a decision- and soon.

You had been a member of the fireflies for so long, you had no idea what you’d be without them. Maybe joining the next best thing was the right move to make. But that didn’t fully factor in the child that was taking form in your body. To be a member of the WLF was to basically be a soldier- and who knew what their leader Isaac was gonna make of your situation when in a few months time it became impossible to ignore.

Not to mention, as a soldier with the WLF you were basically canon fodder. Although you increased your risk of survival against the infected with a large group, you were an afterthought when it came down to missions or inevitable rivalries over territory and resources. Then there was the added element of the girl from the cabin eventually tracking you all down. Being in a large group would no doubt deter her or at the very least make the chances of her succeeding in killing you all a lot harder.

You turned your gaze to Manny hoping he would have an answer. Desperate to know his opinion and what he was thinking.

“I mean, what other choice have we got?” he said to the group. You knew he was fishing to see if there were any other ideas or options, but the way he asked made it seem like he’d already made up his mind on the matter.

As long as you’d known Manny, you had always seen him take the easy option where he could. He was very much a throw my weapon around now and ask questions later kind of guy. Manny had already been a member of the fireflies for three years when you had joined. He was only a couple of years older than you, but it was clear the toll that being placed into survival mode at a young age and being groomed into a child soldier had done to him.

You hoped someone else would have an answer. Hoped someone else would be brave enough to say ‘why don’t we go find a community to join or just try and hack it out in the world on our own just the six of us’- but they didn’t.

When Abby turned her head back to you again for your final say so, all you could do was give a small nod of acceptance.

“I guess that’s it then,” she announced as she got up off the floor, “it looks like we’re going to Seattle.”

-------------------------------------

TO BE CONTINUED....

#manny alvarez x reader #manny alvarez #oh baby #tlou fanfic #manny tlou #Danny Ramirez characters #the last of us #reader insert #the last of us reader insert

177 notes · View notes