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pixiefelixie · 1 month ago

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⭑.ᐟ MAKE HIM SNAP: LEE FELIX (NSFW / 18+ ONLY)

: ̗̀➛ pairing: lee felix x brat fem!reader (a bit of seungmin x reader) : ̗̀➛ word count: ~8k : ̗̀➛ content: fluff, smut, felix is the sweetest thing but so mean, reader actively tries to make felix mad, minor injury in the kitchen

part 2 is out!

you make a bet with seungmin: you've got one week to get your boyfriend, felix—who seems completely incapable of getting mad at you—to finally snap. after a series of failed attempts, you figure if anything’s going to work, it might as well be in bed.

author's note: i’ve been on a writing grind lately so here’s a second fic in one sitting because apparently i have no self-control. i’m shitting my balls. i need felix like yesterday. enjoy! ♡

smut warnings below the cut!

: ̗̀➛ smut warnings: hard dom!felix, explicit sexual content, oral (f. receiving), reader has the biggest degradation kink, brat taming, slight edging, light bondage, power play, unprotected piv (don't), missionary, doggy style, semi-voyeurism

you’d always thought of him as sunshine.

everyone did.

even when he wasn’t smiling, felix had that glow—warm and unbothered, with freckles that danced across his cheeks like constellations and a voice that made people turn around just to hear him speak again. he was soft. gentle. sweet in that quiet, domestic way. the kind of boy who folded your laundry before you even remembered you’d done it.

even in bed—he was gentle. worshipful. like every touch was a question and you were the only answer. he was all murmured praise, soft sighs, slow hands. he loved you softly. every time.

which is probably why no one—including you—had ever seen him mad.

not truly.

you were perched on the edge of the couch in the boys’ dorm, nervously fidgeting with the sleeve of your hoodie. it was felix’s, naturally—oversized and warm and still faintly smelling like his laundry detergent.

you were here because you’d accidentally taken something you weren’t supposed to. a usb, to be exact. felix had handed it to you earlier in the day along with your own, and in your rush to leave, you’d pocketed the wrong one.

“i just feel so bad,” you groaned, glancing toward the hallway. “he said he needed it for something tonight. like, deadline-needed.”

seungmin was sprawled across the other end of the couch, legs kicked up, eyes on his phone. he barely glanced up as he responded.

“you’re being dramatic.”

“no, like—really bad. i shouldn’t have—”

“honestly?” he cut in, finally looking at you, a smirk tugging at his lips. “i don’t think he’s even capable of getting mad at you.”

you blinked. “what?”

he chuckled, flipping his phone over. “i mean, come on. you could probably punch him in the face and he’d apologize for getting in the way of your fist.”

you laughed despite yourself. “that is so not true.”

“isn’t it?”

you opened your mouth to argue—but then the front door opened.

felix stepped in, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair slightly damp from the drizzle outside. his eyes found you immediately.

“hey,” you said, standing. “i brought it—sorry again, i seriously didn’t mean—”

“shh.” he was already moving toward you, gentle hands coming up to cradle your arms, thumbs brushing soothingly against the fabric of his hoodie—the one you were wearing. “don’t stress, angel. it’s okay.”

“but you said you needed it for tonight,” you mumbled, guilt creeping up your spine. “i should’ve double-checked—”

“and i should’ve labeled mine.” he gave a small laugh, pulling you closer, tucking your head under his chin with that easy warmth that always made your chest flutter. “it’s not a big deal. really.”

you swore you saw seungmin choke on a laugh in your peripheral vision.

your eyes flicked sideways—just in time to catch him turning away, phone suddenly so interesting he might’ve been reading the terms and conditions. his shoulders were shaking, just barely.

felix either didn’t notice or chose to ignore it.

“i’m gonna head out again to drop this off,” he said, voice still soft, fingertips lingering at your elbow for a second longer before letting go.

you nodded, brushing your hair back behind your ear. “right. of course.”

“thanks for coming all the way back,” he added, gaze warm and fond, like you’d just done something heroic instead of, you know, returning the thing you accidentally stole. he gave your arm one last squeeze. “text me when you get home, yeah?”

“i will.”

then he was gone—door shutting behind him with that soft click that always left the room feeling quieter somehow.

and the very second it closed, seungmin’s voice rang out from behind you.

“god, that was disgusting.”

you turned.

“excuse me?”

he didn’t even look up from his phone. “you took his drive and somehow walked away with a hug, and a thank you.”

you opened your mouth to argue.

then closed it.

“okay, but—”

“nope. don’t justify it.” seungmin pointed his phone at the door.

you rolled your eyes, hoisting your bag over your shoulder, but the words stuck with you. warmed you a little too much. annoyingly so.

still, you couldn’t help yourself.

“he’s still a person. he’s not, like… impervious to irritation.” you muttered, half to yourself, half to the room. “if i pissed him off enough, he’d crack,”

seungmin didn’t even flinch. “tell me when that ever happens.”

you groaned, dragging your hands down your face. “you know i’m gonna try to, just to prove you wrong.”

“mhm,” seungmin said flatly, not even looking up. “60 bucks. you have a week.”

“60 bucks,” you repeated. “i’m gonna find his limit,” you said, dead serious. “he has to have one.”

“good luck.”

you’d been thinking about it for days—how to do it, how to gently prod at the edge of felix’s emotional limits without actually hurting him. you weren’t trying to be cruel. you just wanted to see something other than that unwavering calm, that endless warmth. you wanted to prove he could feel sharp things, too. that he wasn’t made of clouds and soft blankets and chamomile tea.

jealousy. that was your angle.

was felix ever jealous? you genuinely didn’t know. he’d never so much as blinked when people flirted with you—though to be fair, you’d never exactly flirted back. you never had a reason to. you didn’t want to.

but now, you needed a reaction.

just enough to light a spark. not enough to burn the house down.

so when your company hosted a casual dinner event—open to significant others and friends—you didn’t hesitate to bring felix. he looked unfairly good that night, dressed in soft black slacks and a black button up that hugged his frame a little too well. his hand found yours under the table the second you sat down, thumb stroking slow, lazy circles against your palm like always.

you were seated at a long table with a mix of coworkers and guests, plates being passed around, wine glasses clinking gently, soft laughter filling the room.

he was beside you, of course—close and warm and always tuned in to you.

but the guy on your other side?

friendly. talkative. a little too charming in that “business casual” way. you leaned into it. not too obvious. just enough to let felix notice.

you laughed at something the guy said—tilting your head just slightly, touching his arm in that way that could maybe be seen as flirty. maybe. you were careful. just close enough to the line to toe it, not cross it.

felix didn’t say a word.

he was smiling, even. still soft-spoken. still squeezing your hand every now and then. still brushing your thigh under the table with his when he shifted in his seat. he even leaned in at one point and murmured, “you okay?”

you nodded, playing it cool. “mhm. just chatting.”

felix grinned. that same soft, sunny smile that always made you feel like you were the only one in the room.

“alright,” he said, brushing your cheek with his knuckle before pulling back like nothing was even slightly off.

he went back to being quiet and polite. still engaged in the conversation going around the table, nodding at someone’s story, chiming in with a laugh when appropriate. he didn’t stiffen. didn’t narrow his eyes. didn’t even glance at the guy beside you like he might be competition.

you sat there smiling and nodding at whatever work guy was saying about his vacation to bali, but your stomach was knotting. tighter by the second.

because you knew what you were doing. you knew exactly how much you were leaning. exactly when you let your laugh ring just a little louder, your fingers trail just a little longer.

but felix wasn’t reacting.

or at least—he wasn’t reacting the way you expected.

he was just… him. gentle. warm. steady. and he could’ve been using this moment to get back at you.

there were plenty of chances. the woman across the table who complimented his accent. the one seated diagonally, sipping wine and laughing just a little too brightly at his jokes. one even asked him how his skin was so clear and if he worked out—which, in fairness, was a valid question.

felix didn’t take the bait. he was polite, as always. gracious, even. gave small answers. thanked them with a nod and a soft smile. but he didn’t engage.

didn’t lean in. didn’t flirt. didn’t offer even a flicker of attention that could be mistaken as anything more than manners.

and slowly—almost like he was aware of your internal panic creeping in—he started leaning in closer to you. gradually, without showiness. his knee pressed against yours beneath the table. then reached for his water glass and poured some into yours before you could even realize it was empty.

this wasn’t going to work.

you weren’t going to rattle him. you weren’t going to get that flash of possessiveness, that glint of sharp jealousy in his eyes.

because felix didn’t play games.

not with you.

he loved you out loud, completely, and without keeping score. he didn’t need to punish you or mirror your actions to prove a point. he didn’t flinch under pressure. he didn’t crack under quiet provocations.

he just was. wholeheartedly. constant. grounded.

this wasn’t going to work.

it had been a few days since the whole work dinner experiment—since felix had gently, unknowingly, demolished your plan by doing absolutely nothing except love you the way he always did. respectfully. consistently. infuriatingly.

but you weren’t done.

not yet.

jealousy didn’t work, sure. but irritation? that had potential. everyone had a limit, and you were determined to find felix’s.

you were at his place now—well, technically his and seungmin’s—kitchen lights warm, sleeves rolled up, and flour already dusting the countertop like early snow.

the goal today was mild sabotage. nothing irreversible. nothing that would actually ruin the cake. just… enough sugar to make it way too sweet. enough to maybe make him sigh. maybe scold you a little. maybe just something.

you waited until he stepped away to grab a new mixing bowl, and then—quickly, quietly—you dumped in an extra quarter cup. maybe a little more.

by the time he came back, you were standing innocently with the spatula, “gently folding” the batter like you hadn’t just committed a culinary crime.

he paused. looked at the bowl. then looked at you.

“…did you add too much sugar?”

you blinked up at him. “no?”

he hummed. scooped a bit of batter on his finger. tasted it.

and then—smiled. not annoyed. just… amused.

“if you wanted it sweeter, you could’ve just told me,” he said, voice playful, handing you a towel to wipe your fingers off. “i’m gonna balance it so it doesn’t taste like pure syrup.”

you sighed loudly, dramatic, flopping back against the counter. “this is so annoying.”

he laughed and leaned past you to grab a lemon from the fruit bowl.

“go chop up some of the fruit, okay? i’ll deal with this.”

you looked at seungmin, who hadn’t said a word. he gave you a look that screamed pathetic.

you stuck your tongue out at him and turned back to the cutting board, muttering under your breath.

great. jealousy failed. chaos failed. sugar sabotage failed. what were you supposed to do now? bake the cake upside down? hide the eggs?

you didn’t know.

you really didn’t know anymore.

your plan—whatever it had been—was unraveling, slipping through your fingers like flour dust in the air. and the worst part? you kind of… didn’t want to push anymore. felix had been so patient, so kind through all of it, and suddenly, you just felt silly. immature. you had something good, and you were trying to poke holes in it just to see if it would leak.

lost in thought, you didn’t even realize how close your fingers were to the blade until it was too late.

the knife slipped.

there was a sharp sting.

you yelped, the sound cutting through the warm haze of the kitchen as the knife clattered onto the counter and fruit scattered everywhere.

“ah!” you gasped, clutching your hand. blood was already rising.

felix’s head snapped up instantly. “what happened?”

you stepped back, breath shallow. “i—i cut myself—”

he was already there. crossing the kitchen faster than you’d ever seen him move, his hands reaching out to check your fingers—but the moment he saw the blood, something in him shifted.

“what were you even doing?” he snapped, voice sharper than the knife that slipped. he grabbed a towel with jerky, frustrated movements, wrapping it around your wound with practiced precision but no softness. “were you even paying attention?”

your lips parted, stunned. “i—i don’t know, i was just—”

“you weren’t thinking,” he cut in, tone clipped.

his voice rose, not yelling, but full-bodied, biting. that low, velvety rasp he usually used to whisper sweet things into your ear was now slicing through the air like it had teeth.

“for fuck’s sake,” he muttered, shaking his head, “i asked you to do one simple thing. not play with the goddamn knife.”

you stared at him, completely disarmed. not just by the tone. but by how he looked.

chest rising and falling under his fitted sweater, sleeves pushed back just enough to show the flex of his forearms. his jaw clenched, eyes dark with something deeper than just irritation. he looked… furious. unshakable. and so hot it was almost insulting.

your mouth went dry.

you couldn’t stop staring—at the way felix was breathing, his tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, like he was trying to bite back whatever else he wanted to say. his hands, still stained with flour, flexed at his sides. every muscle in his jaw was tense.

seungmin stood up, crossing the kitchen to the cabinet.

he grabbed the first aid kit, crouching beside the chair you’d sunk into. he opened it like this wasn’t the most charged atmosphere he’d ever stood in. like felix hadn’t just snapped for the first time in recorded history.

“here,” he said, pulling out some antiseptic and a few band-aids. “don’t bleed on the tile. it’s ugly enough already.”

you gave him a weak glare, but he just smirked.

felix hadn’t moved. he was still standing there, looking at the floor now, his expression twisted with something like regret.

seungmin didn’t let up.

“you got really worked up there, man,” he said, tone light but clearly pointed.

that finally made felix move. he blinked like he was coming out of something, then turned toward you—eyes wide now, softer, voice quiet.

“i’m sorry, baby” he said.

you didn’t say anything for a second. just stared at him, still a little stunned by the whiplash.

but even now, with his shoulders slumped and his tone apologetic, he still looked good. still had that raw energy simmering just under the surface. still had you simmering.

you swallowed hard.

“it’s okay,” you said slowly.

seungmin raised a brow but said nothing, silently peeling the wrapper off a band-aid.

felix crouched in front of you, his hand ghosting over yours. his voice was soft again, almost too soft.

“i won’t yell like that again,” he murmured.

you blinked at him, and for a second—just a second—you wanted to say don’t promise that.

because god, the way his voice had cracked when he was angry. the way he looked at you like your carelessness hurt him. the way he shook with something that wasn’t just rage, but deep, desperate concern—you hadn’t expected it to do something to you.

but he was still doing everything out of love.

even when his voice rose and his hands tightened and his eyes darkened—he was still the same felix. still checking if you were okay. still apologizing even though you had started this whole mess.

and somehow, that made it worse.

you hadn’t even pissed him off correctly. not really. he didn’t yell because you were annoying. he yelled because you were bleeding and he didn’t know how else to handle the sudden fear curling in his gut.

and now he was kneeling in front of you, shame written in every line of his face, like he had done something unforgivable.

you wished he hadn't come down from it so fast.

you wished—maybe more than anything—that he knew he didn’t have to keep being perfect for you to love him.

you didn’t know what else to do.

jealousy had failed. sabotage had failed. even blood hadn’t done it right. every attempt chipped at something inside you—your confidence, your ego, your grasp on what you were even trying to prove. and yet…

seungmin had texted you the evening of the baking incident: [ that was a close one ] [ but it didn’t count. try harder. ]

you'd stared at it for a long time. not because he was wrong—but because you agreed.

so now? one last attempt.

if you couldn’t get felix to be mad at you, then maybe—just maybe—you could make him lose control somewhere else.

which is why he was between your thighs right now.

you were sprawled across his bed, hips twitching, sheets clutched in your fists.

felix was eating you out like it was a mission. like you were something sacred, and he had all the time in the world to worship every inch of you.

his mouth was obscene—lips slick, tongue working you open so slowly you wanted to scream. and he kept murmuring things between licks, low and reverent.

felix’s tongue traced a slow, reverent line up your slit, lips closing over your clit with a tenderness that made your hips twitch. he groaned softly into you, the sound vibrating through your core like a low hum of devotion, and his arms curled tighter around your thighs, anchoring you in place. every motion was soaked in patience, in worship. you were trembling, half mad with need already, and all he’d done was kiss you like he loved you—which, of course, he did.

“taste so good, angel… always so sweet for me, aren’t you?”

“f-felix…” your voice broke on his name, hands knotted in the sheets. he just hummed again, content like he could spend the rest of his life here, lips gliding over your clit, tongue flicking in slow, perfect circles that had your thighs quivering. he was gentle, god, so gentle. like you were the only thing in the world worth touching delicately.

and maybe that was the problem.

you were panting, already so close—too close—and he hadn’t even slipped a finger inside yet. you could feel your orgasm mounting fast, could feel the heat blooming in your belly, the ache curling in your spine, and you knew what would come next. he’d hold you through it. he’d kiss your thighs, murmur praise, make you feel like you were the center of the universe.

you were already trembling, one hand fisting in his sheets, the other tangled in his hair, breath coming in staggered whines. he didn’t speed up. didn’t deviate. tongue curling soft and hot over your clit again and again until your hips twitched and a ragged moan slipped out without your permission.

and then he paused. just for a second.

his eyes lifted to yours, warm and glassy, lips shiny with you.

“shhh, darling…” he whispered, and the way he said it made your stomach flip. “seungmin’s in the living room, remember?”

your chest heaved. right. right—he always told you. always so careful to remind you, not because he was annoyed, but because you’d confessed once—embarrassed and flushed, the sheet pulled up to your chin after a particularly loud session—that you hated the idea of his roommate hearing. and since then, felix had always made sure to keep things quiet. to warn you. to soothe you when your voice got too high, your cries too desperate. he’d press a kiss to your throat, a hand to your mouth, shushing you.

but tonight, something twisted in you.

you weren’t going to hold back.

so when his mouth dipped again, lips closing over your clit in a slow, gentle suck, you let it out—a high, shaky moan that cracked on the end, followed by a breathless, “fuck, felix—!”

he froze.

lifted his head.

his mouth was still glistening, chin slick with you, flushed and beautiful in that way that always made your stomach twist. but his brows were drawn, just slightly, and his voice—when it came—was low and firm, not scolding but edged with something new.

“hey.” his thumb stroked up your inner thigh, slow but deliberate. “quiet down.”

it wasn’t a question. wasn’t a soft reminder like before. it was a command.

and it did something to you.

your breath hitched, thighs twitching around his shoulders as the authority in his tone settled in your chest like a stone dropped into water—rippling outward, stirring everything.

still, something in you bristled.

not in defiance. not exactly.

but you couldn’t stop yourself.

you pouted. just a little. “why?”

his eyes narrowed. there was a flicker of disbelief there, a tension that rippled beneath the surface like he didn’t quite believe you were pushing this boundary.

“because seungmin’s out there,” he said, slower this time, more deliberate, as if you’d forgotten. “and you hate being overheard.”

you shrugged, arching your back slightly, enough to grind your hips closer to his face again. “maybe i changed my mind.”

his eyes flicked to your cunt, glistening and swollen and shamelessly on display, then back up to your face. his expression had shifted. no longer just disbelief. something darker had crept in now—possessive and sharp, curling like smoke at the edges of his voice.

“well i don’t want him to hear you.”

the words were quiet. flat. measured.

you blinked, breath catching.

“i don’t want anyone hearing what you sound like when i’ve got you like this,” he continued, leaning in until you could feel the heat of his breath against your inner thigh.

you bit your lip, the heat rising in your face. in your chest.

“but…” you started, trying to keep your tone airy. “you always do what i want.”

that did it.

you watched his jaw clench tighter, watched the tension rise in his shoulders, watched the composure crack. just a little.

felix rose—slowly, smoothly, like a tide pulling back before it crashes—and settled over you, forearms bracketing your head, chest brushing yours as he leveled his face just above yours.

you felt it instantly.

that shift.

gone was the usual ease in his posture, the warm, pliant softness you always leaned into. what loomed above you now wasn’t your sweet, sunny felix—it was the part of him he always held back, the part that simmered under the surface like magma, always contained, until you poked at it.

and tonight?

you’d done nothing but poke.

he leaned in again, slow, like a tiger in tall grass, and planted his palm flat against the mattress beside your head. his voice was soft now, but laced with something that made your spine arch—authority, finality, control.

“you really think i don’t know?”

you swallowed hard.

“that you’ve been bratty for days,” he said, like it was fact. like it was math. “flirting with that guy at dinner. cutting your hand because you couldn’t stand that i didn’t break. ”

your cheeks flamed, breath catching, but you still held the edge in your smile.

“i was just distracted—”

his hand moved fast, gripping your jaw—not hard, just enough to make you stop talking.

“don’t,” he said. “don’t give me that look.”

your heart kicked up behind your ribs. he’d never grabbed your face like that before. never interrupted. never spoke like that.

it made your thighs press together. instinctive.

and he noticed.

he dipped closer, forehead brushing yours, and you could feel his heart beating in time with yours—hard, steady, controlled.

“you think i haven’t been watching you push?” he hissed. “every little act.”

you whimpered, lips parting—but he kept going.

“you’ve been begging for this,” he said, biting out the words. “not out loud. but with every goddamn thing you’ve done.”

you shivered.

“and you think i don’t see you?” he growled. “you think i don’t know exactly what that look means?”

his hand grabbed your jaw, fingers firm, tilting your face toward his—close enough to kiss, but he didn’t. he just held you there, breath brushing your lips, eyes burning through you.

“tell me the truth,” he said, voice a warning, a promise. “tell me what you want.”

you could barely breathe.

your voice came out thin, cracked around the edges. “you, like this…” your eyes were wide, lashes wet, trembling as you looked up at him. “this is what i want.”

felix didn’t flinch.

didn’t soften.

he just stared, his grip on your jaw unrelenting, eyes dark and unforgiving as they searched your face—saw the way you shook beneath him, the way your thighs pressed together, the way your chest rose and fell in shallow, panicked little gasps.

“of course it is,” he said flatly.

you blinked.

he tilted your face up a little more, enough that it hurt your neck to hold the position. his voice dropped, hard and disgusted. “look at you. shaking like a leaf, soaking the fucking sheets—just because i stopped being nice.”

you winced.

but your cunt clenched hard.

the words cut. not because they were cruel—but because they were true. and he knew it. you weren’t just turned on. you were unraveling. dripping and desperate, your body buzzing from the tension, your shame crawling over your skin like fire ants—but still, the burn felt good.

“you’re pathetic,” he said, letting go of your jaw like your skin burned his fingers.

he pushed you back roughly, your bound wrists catching against the bed as your shoulders hit the mattress. his hands were already on your thighs, spreading them open without care. not reverent. not gentle.

like you were his and he was sick of pretending otherwise.

“you want to be hated, don’t you? love isn’t enough for you?” he muttered, gaze locked on your slick cunt as he stroked two fingers through the mess between your legs.

your hips bucked.

“well,” felix said, voice like gravel dragged slow across glass, “if that’s what you want…”

his fingers sank into you—two at once, fast, merciless. your body jolted, a high cry tearing from your throat before you could stop it. he twisted his wrist, curled just right, and you felt the tremble start in your toes.

“i’ll give it to you.”

you gasped, back arching. “y-you don’t mean that,” you choked, words splintering on a sob. “you love me—”

he laughed.

dark. sharp.

“i’m gonna fuck you like i don’t.” he said, without softness.

his fingers pulled free. you barely had a second to breathe before he shoved your thighs wide, leaned over, and pressed his cock to your dripping cunt—still wet from your own need, from the tears and the shame and the way his voice had stripped you bare.

he held there.

right at your entrance, the head of his cock teasing just enough to make you squirm, to make your hips buck in desperate little jerks that only dragged the moment out longer. he could’ve slammed in. could’ve torn the rest of you open in a single thrust, left you breathless and sobbing.

but he didn’t.

because under all that dark fire, under the roughness and anger and heat, he was still him. still sweet. still good. still felix.

his jaw was tight, the muscle ticking as he looked down at you—ruined and trembling, legs spread wide, wrists bound and face flushed with lust and tears and something more fragile. he blinked, and for a second, just a second, you saw the question flicker through his expression.

“is that what you want?” he asked.

his voice had dropped low. he was still offering you a way out. still giving you that choice.

you knew it for what it was.

you nodded, frantic. fast. moaning as you tried to roll your hips, tried to force him inside again, but his grip on your thigh only tightened.

“talk to me,” he rasped, a thread of control still clinging to him.

you blinked at him through the haze, a smile curling on your lips—half brat, half breathless.

“yes,” you said, voice thin and greedy. “yes, i want it. i want you to fuck me like you’re sick of me. like i finally got under your skin.”

he cursed.

low and vicious.

you saw it—the moment that final wall crumbled, the way the storm in his eyes finally spilled over. his cock pushed in deep, slow at first, like he wanted to draw it out, make it last.

but then your cunt clenched—tight and wet and fluttering around him—and he snapped.

“you did,” he growled, pulling back and slamming in hard enough to make the bed jolt, your cry piercing the room. “you fucking did.”

his hips snapped forward again—louder this time, harder, brutal enough to knock the air from your lungs, the rhythm punching out soft, choked sounds from your throat with every thrust. not words. not anymore. just ragged little whimpers, helpless and high, your whole body jostling beneath him as he used you—fucked you—with none of the gentleness you’d always known.

“you wanted this,” he spat, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his hairline onto your chest as he folded you tighter, pushing your thighs up toward your shoulders to drive in even deeper. “you fucking asked for it.”

you sobbed—quiet at first, then louder, messy and wet as the tears finally spilled. they streaked hot down your cheeks, dripping into your hair, your jaw slack with pleasure too sharp to feel good and too good to survive. your wrists twisted uselessly in their binds, fingers curling tight as your whole body tried to keep up with the pace of him.

it was too much.

it was everything.

he growled—an actual growl, raw and guttural—as he looked down at you, at the tears rolling over your cheeks, at the way your mouth opened and closed, begging silently for something neither of you could name.

his rhythm never faltered.

not once.

even as your body broke beneath him—hips arching, wrists straining, cheeks soaked with tears that burned like proof—he kept going. kept fucking you with that same relentless pace, hips slamming against the backs of your thighs, the sound obscene, wet and cruel in the dark.

he watched your face twist with every thrust—watched you come apart, watched the edge of pleasure curdle into panic and drag you right back down into need.

and even then—you didn’t stop.

you couldn’t stop.

your lips trembled open around another sob, your voice half-hoarse, but still you met his glare with a shaky smirk, eyes glazed and bratty to your last breath.

“i never knew you were capable of being mean,” you gasped, voice cracking as you arched under him.

he snarled, something between pain and disbelief, and slammed in so deep you screamed, your entire body jolting up the bed from the force of it.

“because i love you,” he growled, voice so low it scraped the inside of your chest. “i’ve only ever tried to treat you well. like you matter. like you’re everything to me.”

he leaned in closer, one hand pressing hard into your hip, the other curling around your throat.

“but that’s not what you wanted, was it?”

you sobbed. not an answer. just a broken, keening sound.

he dipped lower, lips barely brushing yours. “you wanted this. you wanted me mean. you wanted me to use you, and now you’ve got it.”

his cock dragged out slow, thick and aching—and then drove back in so hard your moan broke on your tongue.

“you never wanted soft.”

you blinked up at him, tears hot and sticky down your temples, your mouth quivering.

“i was—” you panted, a hiccupped cry catching in your chest, “i was trying to prove a point—”

he sneered, not stopping, not relenting, pounding into you like he wanted to fuck the brat right out of your soul.

“to who, y/n?” he hissed, words snapping like whips.

you moaned—high and messy and wrong, because you were still so turned on, because the way he said your name made your body sing even while you trembled.

“who?” he shouted again, voice rising with disbelief and something deeper—something unspoken that cracked open in his throat like it hurt to say.

and you said it.

whimpered it.

half-mindless, but not mindless enough.

“seungmin.”

felix went still.

then he laughed.

it was low. bitter. a hollow bark of disbelief as his hand slid up the length of your thigh, slow and mocking, his cock still throbbing just barely inside you.

“fucking knew it,” he muttered, more to himself than you, jaw tight as he gave a small, almost deranged shake of his head. “you and him. the way you bicker. the looks.”

his hand curled around your throat again, thumb dragging over the mess of tears smeared across your cheek. not to wipe them.

just to feel them.

“and of course you’d moan his name out while i’m balls deep in you.”

you gasped, breath stuttering under the press of his palm, legs twitching around his hips.

he laughed again—sharper now, teeth flashing in the low light. “fucking pathetic.”

you whimpered.

“here i am,” he snarled, voice dropping to a whisper, “treating you like you’re mine—spending months giving you everything. folding your laundry. holding you when you cry.”

he slammed into you again, cruel and sudden.

you screamed, head snapping back.

“and you’ve been pushing me,” he said, voice quiet, almost calm—but beneath it, something was cracking. something brittle.

another thrust, hard and fast, punching a choked cry out of your lungs.

“all of that just to prove a point to kim seungmin?”

your mouth dropped open—useless, silent, your head lolling on the pillow as his cock hit that deep, devastating spot again and again, your body unable to hide how badly you were still enjoying it.

he sneered. “do you even understand what you’re doing?”

your eyes flicked to him—blurry, swimming, lashes soaked—and your lips moved, trying to form a denial. but you couldn’t lie.

not with your cunt sucking him in so greedily. not with the moans that still clawed up your throat even when you bit down on them. not with the guilt chewing holes through your stomach while your body begged for more.

“i—i wasn’t trying—” you whispered, but he cut you off.

“you weren’t trying?”

he laughed. dark and sharp and filled with something that sounded like it hurt his ribs to release.

“god, you’re worse than i thought,” he spat, pulling out just enough to let the next thrust slam in deeper. “you don’t even know what game you’re playing. you’re playing me, you’re playing him—”

you didn’t know anymore.

if he was really mad. if this was just another version of his anger wrapped in arousal, or if something had actually shattered under the weight of everything you’d done. you couldn’t tell if he meant the things he said—or if he was just saying them because it was what you’d asked for, begged for, pushed for until something inside him snapped.

all you knew was that your head was spinning, your lungs barely worked, and your body couldn’t stop trembling around him.

“i’m close,” you whimpered, your voice a rasp, broken and high and soaked in panic, “felix—please—”

he didn’t slow. if anything, he fucked you harder.

you were sobbing now, face sticky with tears, wrists straining in the binds as your body shook from the pressure curling tighter and tighter in your belly.

“i don’t think you deserve to cum,” he hissed, biting the words like they tasted foul. “not after what you did. you little bitch.”

the word slapped.

“i’m sorry,” you cried, the words tumbling out, raw and hoarse and true. “i’m sorry, i didn’t mean—i didn’t—felix, please, i’m sorry—”

and for a second, just a second, something shifted in his face.

his brow twitched. his grip faltered. his eyes—not all the way, but just a little—softened.

he looked down at you, at your flushed face, your tear-soaked skin, your body trembling and still trying to push back against him, even through the guilt, even through the shame. begging for him.

he cursed under his breath. a low, ragged sound.

then he pulled out.

you whined—sharp and instinctive, your whole body lurching, chasing him.

“no—please—”

but he grabbed your hips and flipped you, fast and rough, until you were flat on your stomach, then dragging you up to your knees with no gentleness, no care.

he leaned in, lips at your ear, voice back to that quiet, dangerous whisper.

“all fours.”

you scrambled to obey, tears still dripping from your chin onto the sheets, your ass high, back arched, your pussy swollen and dripping and empty.

he stared for a long second.

then, flatly:

“prove it. prove your sorry.”

he didn’t move.

not even a little.

just knelt behind you, one hand resting heavy on your lower back, the other wrapped around the curve of your ass—fingers digging in, spreading you open so wide the air hit your cunt like ice. his cock stood thick and flushed against your thigh, glistening with everything he’d already taken from you. close. so close.

but he didn’t move

“you want to cum so badly?” he said, voice low and flat, unreadable, like it didn’t matter either way. “then do it yourself.”

your breath caught.

you blinked, stunned.

he gripped your ass harder, a sharp squeeze that made you jolt forward, but he didn’t move to stop you.

“come on,” he said, the cruelty now bitter instead of sharp. “you were so good at playing games earlier.”

your whole body shook.

you whimpered once—just one broken sound—and then moved. slowly. shamefully.

you rocked your hips back. tentative at first. your slick folds kissed the head of his cock and you moaned, soft and strangled, before pushing further, inching down onto him until the stretch began to burn again.

it wasn’t graceful. it wasn’t like when he took care of you.

it was work.

every inch felt like a trial. your legs trembled under the weight of it, thighs threatening to give out as you lowered yourself onto him, your breath coming in ragged sobs, your cunt pulsing with how close you were, how desperately your body wanted him to take over.

but he didn’t.

“make yourself cum,” he snapped, voice tighter now.

you nodded, rocking your hips again—sliding down fully this time, burying him inside, your body jerking as your sob turned to a long, high cry. your knees were slipping, your arms too bound to help you balance, and every time you moved your hips, your body twitched with the effort.

he just watched.

watched you ride his cock without rhythm, without grace—just need. just ruin. his hands stayed on your ass, holding it open, holding you wide for him to see.

but he didn’t help.

you were doing it alone.

“felix, i can’t—”

“you wanted this.”

and so you kept going.

kept fucking yourself back on him, over and over, your movements messy and broken, your body trembling with the weight of everything you’d done—everything you’d wanted.

and as you cried, he gripped your ass harder, dragging his thumbs over the skin, watching your hole stretch around him like it was all you were good for.

your thighs were giving out.

completely.

each roll of your hips got weaker, sloppier—your knees buckling inward, your movements more tremble than thrust, the sheer weight of him inside you unbearable.

your arms were still bound, chest pressed into the sheets, your cries muffled now—raw and constant, more sob than sound—as you tried to keep going. but your body wouldn’t move.

you shook your head, weakly, voice cracking as you rasped, “i—i can’t… i can’t do it…”

you felt his exhale first—long and deep. then the weight of his hands on your hips shifted. and his voice followed, low and so done.

“of course you can’t.”

you shivered.

“you couldn’t even fuck yourself properly,” he muttered, hands gripping your hips with new purpose. “you begged for this. cried for it. ruined both of us trying to prove something—and now you can’t even finish what you started?”

you sobbed but that was all he gave you time for. because he snapped his hips forward. you screamed, head slamming into the pillow, the thrust knocking your whole body up the bed.

and then he didn’t stop.

he fucked into you from behind, deep and punishing, dragging you back onto his cock with every stroke, the sound of skin on skin wet and violent, your cries rising in pitch until you couldn’t hold anything in anymore.

“isn’t this what you wanted?” he growled, voice right at your ear now, one hand on the back of your neck, the other gripping your waist so tight it burned. “to get used like this? to cry on my dick and act like you’re sorry?”

your throat was raw, your eyes stinging, your body screaming with the oncoming wave, your orgasm building so hard it almost felt like pain.

“felix—fuck—i’m gonna—”

his pace didn’t stutter.

didn’t falter.

“yeah?” he breathed, his voice a rasp, full of hate and heat and something so possessive it twisted your stomach. “that’s right.”

his thrusts turned vicious, his cock pounding into you, his voice ragged and shaking.

“cum then.”

and you did.

you came with a scream—full-bodied, wrecked, your spine arching like it was trying to tear free from your skin. it hit so hard you thought for a second you might black out. your pussy clamped down around him, fluttering and pulsing in rhythmic spasms, gushing slick down his cock in hot, wet waves that soaked your thighs and his lap and the sheets beneath you.

felix groaned—a sound ripped from the very pit of his chest, primal and deep, his pace faltering for the first time as he felt it. felt you soak him. felt you break.

“fuck—” he hissed, slamming into you again—chasing it now, rutting through the mess of your orgasm, the loud slap of his hips against your soaked skin. “you’re dripping, baby—fuck, you’re making such a mess—”

you sobbed into the sheets, body twitching, overstimulation crawling up your spine like static. but he didn’t stop. wouldn’t let up. not now. not after all of it.

and then—slowly, like the fire had finally started to burn itself out—his rhythm began to falter. just a little. his groans turned heavier, strained, his thrusts rougher but less precise. his body hunched forward, chest heaving, cock throbbing inside you as he buried himself one last time.

he shuddered against your back, hips twitching as he came inside of you, the warmth of it spilling deep and raw, filling you in heavy bursts. he stayed there for a moment, his hands slowly loosening their grip on your hips, breath ghosting against your shoulder.

then, gently, slowly, his body folded over yours.

his forehead pressed to the space between your shoulder blades. his chest to your back. one hand slid forward—shaky, tentative—and rested just beneath your ribs.

he stayed there, breathing with you.

then, without a word, he eased back.

his chest lifted off yours, his grip on your hip released fully, and for a moment, the loss of contact felt colder than the air in the room. he slid one palm down the arch of your spine, a soft, absent stroke. then came the slow shift of his hips—his cock slipping out, careful and deliberate, so tender in contrast to everything before.

you whimpered from the loss and the mess—his cum already spilling out of you in lazy drips, sliding down your thighs, thick and warm, clinging to the backs of your knees as gravity pulled it down. you twitched from the sensitivity, your body still trembling in little aftershocks, your hips useless, your arms limp where they lay tangled and bound under your chest.

you heard the faint shuffle of a drawer, the rustle of fabric, the hiss of warm water being poured. your eyes fluttered closed, head sinking into the pillow, your whole body too loose to lift.

you barely registered the soft wet cloth between your thighs until it was there—warm, soothing. he held you gently, one hand under your hip to tilt you, the other cleaning you with slow, careful strokes, wiping away the slick, the sweat, the release still dripping out of you.

he then settled you on clean sheets, wrapped a new blanket over your shoulders.

still nothing.

not a single word.

but he lay beside you, close but not pressed in, his fingers brushing soft through your hair, over your temple, down the curve of your jaw. you blinked slow and you opened your eyes.

and there he was.

your felix.

bathed in the low light of the room, hair a tousled halo of gold against the pillow, freckles blooming soft across his cheeks, lips pink and parted just barely. he looked tired. beautiful. like something that shouldn’t exist outside a dream.

you loved it. all of it. the softness now. the brutality before.

the way he made space for every version of you. the way he let himself be more than just the sun.

“i love you, felix.”

his hand stilled, resting against your cheek. his eyes softened then blinked, and they turned glassy.

“i love you too,” he whispered, his voice low, husky, still thick with the weight of everything.

you gave a little smile, lids already starting to droop again, your limbs heavy under the blanket he’d wrapped around you.

“i wouldn’t want you any other way,” you murmured.

that made him laugh—quiet, breathless, a sound like surrender.

and then you laughed too. barely a sound, more breath than voice, your smile curling into the pillow as your eyes slipped closed again.

he stayed beside you.

his fingers returned to your hair, softer than ever now, smoothing it back from your face as your breathing evened out, your body finally letting go.

and when you fell asleep, it was in silence.

the next morning, you woke slowly—warm, sore in all the right places, and still tangled in the soft scent of felix. the sheets around you were a little crooked, the pillow beside you empty.

you blinked blearily and reached for your phone, but it wasn’t the screen that caught your eye.

there was a note. folded and sitting neatly on the nightstand.

recording right now, but i’ll be back soon. pour yourself a cup of coffee. i love you! – lix ♡

you smiled—small, sleepy, still a little ruined from the night before. the words made your chest ache and flutter all at once. he hadn’t said anything heavy. no apologies. no over-explanations. just soft and simple. just felix.

you stretched out your limbs, wincing slightly at the ache before dragging yourself out of bed and into one of felix’s oversized sweaters and boxers.

barefoot and quietly smug, you padded down the hallway into the kitchen.

and there he was.

seungmin.

leaning against the counter in sweats and a hoodie, eyes fixed on his phone, coffee half-drunk on the table beside him. he looked up when he heard you—expression unreadable—and you did what anyone would do after getting absolutely obliterated in the next room over by his bandmate.

you pretended nothing happened.

“morning,” you said, voice light, moving straight to the coffee pot. “didn’t think you’d be up.”

“i’ve been up,” he said simply.

you nodded and reached for a mug—felix’s, the pale blue one with the tiny chip in the rim—and poured yourself a cup. steam curled up around your face, and you focused on it like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

and then you felt it.

his presence. he stepped closer. closer.

you didn’t dare turn around.

then, casually—like it was nothing—he reached over your shoulder and set something on the counter in front of you.

sixty bucks in cash.

you stared at the bills for a second.

then turned.

slowly.

seungmin was already taking a sip of his coffee, eyes flicking to yours over the rim of his mug.

“congrats.”

your mouth twitched, the corner pulling into the smallest smile.

you looked down at the cash again and without saying anything, you plucked the bills off the counter and shoved them straight into the front pocket of felix’s hoodie like you’d just been handed your trophy.

“you really thought i wouldn’t pull it off?” you asked, turning back to your coffee, tone breezy.

“i hoped you wouldn’t,” he deadpanned. “i was rooting for the soft boy.”

you huffed a laugh, lifting the mug to your lips. “he’s still soft.”

seungmin gave you a long, dry look.

you shrugged, eyes twinkling over the rim. “...just not all the time.”

he snorted.

then leaned back against the counter, sipping slow from his mug. “so,” he said casually, “how’d you do it?”

“do what?”

“make him snap.”

you licked your lips, fighting another smile. “i might’ve… slipped your name in there a few times.”

his eyes narrowed, slow. “yeah?”

“just—it got him pretty worked up.” you said, laughing as you set the mug down. seungmin stared for a beat.

then—he rolled his eyes. “of course it did.”

there was a long pause. not uncomfortable. just tension.

he said, quiet but clear, “tell him he doesn’t have anything to worry about.”

you nodded.

“i will.”

you stepped back slowly, letting the silence hold, and turned toward the hallway—when the front door clicked open.

both your heads turned.

felix stepped in, hair tied back, hoodie sleeves bunched at his elbows, a little windblown from the walk. his eyes lit up the moment he saw you.

“hey, angel,” he said, smile so warm it melted straight into your ribs.

you crossed the room in a few slow steps, rising onto your toes to meet him halfway. your hand curled around his jaw, thumb brushing the skin just below his cheekbone, and you kissed him.

his other hand found your waist immediately, like muscle memory, pulling you in as he smiled against your lips. he pulled away just enough to wrap his arms around you, tucking you into his chest. his chin rested lightly on top of your head, breath warm as it fanned through your hair.

you melted into him, your hands slipping under the hem of his hoodie, fingertips grazing the bare skin at his waist. his heart beat steady against your cheek, and you let yourself breathe him in.

then, behind you, a shift in the air.

felix’s gaze lifted—over your shoulder.

met seungmin’s across the room.

you didn’t see what was unraveling between the two of them.

after a moment, you pulled back slightly, enough to tilt your head and meet his eyes.

felix looked down at you with a smile. and that was all you needed.

4K notes · View notes

woantohae · 2 months ago

Text

In my arms || (Bob Reynolds x reader)

Summary: The Thunderbolts are constantly on missions, busy trying to do good and save whoever they can. One of them was Bob Reynolds, the defenseless yet powerful man who is part of this team and family. However, he doesn't participate in these missions so he can continue practicing controlling his powers.

Despite telling them he's capable, the team prefers to give him more time to get used to them, until one mission, when a member of the team is injured. And all Bob can think about is the fury he feels when he hears Y/N being hurt. And how much he wants revenge on whoever did it.

content warnings: angst, he fell first and he fell harder, "avengers" tower, fluff, thunderbolts being a family, violence, curse words, SPOILERS FOR THUNDERBOLTS*, Yelena and Bob being like brother and sister, "touch her and you die" trope.

Author's note: I WATCHED THUNDERBOLTS*!!!! And let me tell you, it was better than i imagined. Honestly, it became one of my favorites and it can easily be in my top 3 of Marvel movies. I just can't describe the experience with enough words, but the waiting was totally worth it ✨️ AND THE POST CREDIT SCENE 👀 MARVEL ATE WITH THAT ONE.

With that being said, i'm excited to tell you that i'm gonna write more of Bob Reynolds 👉🏻👈🏻 So here you go, a one shot with him, wich contains a few spoilers of the movie. At this point our reader will be polaris lol.

Hope you like it and comment what do you think of this one 💌

Bob was getting used to the place.

What had once been Avengers Tower had now become his new "home." He had an incredible view of New York City, several rooms to hang out in, thousands of dishes and meals he'd never been able to prepare in his life, and the pleasant company he shared every day.

The team had made him feel comfortable and part of something worthwhile, despite what they'd gone through to get to this moment.

Bob still felt guilty about what happened when Void took control of him and darkened everything in its path, even when Yelena reminded him it wasn't his fault and that he wasn't alone. The blonde had become a trusted person for him and was always there when he needed her. He told her his secrets and how he felt, and the Russian always gave him advice or a word of encouragement. Even with the trust he had in her, he confided in her something he never thought would happen to him. Or rather, something he thought was impossible to happen in such a short time.

He was attracted to Y/N.

The girl whom his other self had caused to see horrible things from her past, the one who could move metal objects with a simple flick of her fingers, and the one who made his heart race and his cheeks blush. It was a feeling that consumed him every time he was near her or even thought about her.

And Yelena, being the good spy she was and good at reading people, knew how Bob felt about Y/N. She always encouraged him to get closer and talk to her more, but Bob simply couldn't do it. It was not that easy.

"It sounds easy," John says, after hearing the plan for carrying out the mission.

Bob shakes his head to return to reality and ignore such thoughts.

"Wait until we get there and they welcome us with open arms," Bucky says, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"We still made it last time, and look at us here," Y/N replies, shrugging her shoulders.

Ava laughs and shakes her head.

"We'd better get moving," she says.

Bob looks at the group with hope in his eyes, but feels unsure about what he's gonna say.

"Can I come with you, guys?" he asks.

All heads turn to look at him with a mixture of surprise and sympathy for his question. They know he wants to help however he can, but after Void was under control and hadn't appeared for quite some time, they weren't so sure it was a good idea to expose him like that again.

"Bob..." Yelena begins to say.

Bob hurries to explain himself.

"I know what you're gonna say. But I think I'm ready, I know I can control it" Bob says with determination in his voice "I've been practicing and trying to talk to him, so maybe I can do it, today"

"We know, Bobby," says John, "But we must complete the mission without any mistakes or problems along the way."

The brunette looks down and clears his throat, nodding. He raises his gaze to smile and meet Y/N's gaze, who smiles back.

"No, no, I understand," he says dejectedly. "When the time is right, I can come with you."

Bucky pats his shoulder and Alexei gives him a thumbs-up. Despite their attempt to lift his spirits, he can't help but feel useless and without any reason to be in the group, other than washing dishes, tidying the place, or reading books he finds lying around.

He hates the feeling.

But it is what it is, right now. And he has to face it.

After the meeting to organize the plan, the group dispersed to look for the weapons and prepare the car in which they would go to the location. Bob watched from afar as the rest of them prepared, while playing with his fingers. He shifted his gaze to the large window overlooking the city and didn't feel Y/N's presence approaching him.

"Hey," she said in a soft tone.

Bob turned his head to look at her and smiled delightedly.

"Hey," she asked.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

He nods and laughs softly, pretending to be okay and swallowing the feeling that bothered him.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine"

The girl mimics his smile and stares at him, while Bob feels the heat spread to his cheeks.

"Hey, how about we watch a movie when I get back?" she offers, patting his arm to get his attention.

Bob smiles.

"I was actually thinking it could be a movie night with just us. If you like that idea," Y/N says, crossing her arms and shrugging her shoulders with a smile on her face.

"A movie would be nice. I think it would be fun to have a movie night with the rest of the team," he says awkwardly "We haven't had one of those in a while, so..."

She lets out a soft laugh, thinking how cute he looks all flustered.

"Oh..." he remains silent to calm his nerves until he speaks again so as not to make a fool of himself. "Oh! Yeah, just the two of us. Of course. It could be fun. Count me in!"

Y/N smiles and laughs softly, wich sounds angelical to Bob's ears.

"Great. It's a date" she says.

Bucky calls her to let her know they're about to leave, so she starts walking away from Bob.

"See you, Bob."

"See you. Good luck," Bob says with a dazed smile on his face, remembering the girl's words.

It's a date.

Bob walks to his room with an excited smile, feeling happiness in his chest, but when he remembers the last thing Y/N said, his eyes widen.

"Oh shit! It is a date!"

He needs to prepare for it.

----------

Bob listened and watched from the communications room to see how the team was doing on the mission.

It wasn't going so easy as they planed back in the tower a few hours ago, as they had run into a group of mercenaries who weren't going to give up so easily. The brunette just hoped everyone was okay and managed to complete the mission—and he really hoped Y/N was okay and didn't get hurt.

A feeling of anguish and anxiety was causing Bob's chest to tighten. His leg kept moving as he played with the Rubik's Cube in his hands, unable to complete a color.

The sound of bullets filled his ears, and his jaw clenched as he heard and saw Yelena or Bucky being hit. Alexei grumbled as he tried to pull a man off John to help him, and Ava took care of a few. Y/N tried to stop the bullets as best she could, but there were some hidden snipers she couldn't sense with her powers so easily.

"There's to many of them!" John complains through the earpiece in Bob's ear.

"Fuck! If we don't stop the ones from the roof we cannot go back to the car!" Ava exclaims in an almost exhaustive voice.

"Shit. C'mon guys" Bob whispers while frowning his eyebrows at the scene.

"Bob, can you see how many are on the roof?" Yelena asks from the communicator in her ear.

"Uh, yeah, yeah" he says inmediatly "There's five on the roof. Three of them has guns and two of them are programming something on the computer. Seems like.... oh no"

"What Bob?" Bucky asks.

"It's a bomb! You need to get out of there" Bob says quickly.

"Shit," Yelena curses.

"I can try to stop them. But I need you to cover my back," Y/N says in a confident, hurried tone.

Bob watches as the girl begins to head toward the other side to attack the group of men with guns at the entrance. The others try to stop anyone from attacking her, and she moves stealthily between the bodies to reach the entrance. Bob focuses his attention on the cameras in the building that shows Y/N, his heart aching at what's happening in the footage. Or what could happen.

"Please, be careful," Bob whispers.

Y/N stops the guards' bullets at the entrance with precision in her movements and attacks some who plan to hit her. Bob's eyes glance at the rest of the team as they manage to escape thanks to the distraction caused by the girl with green sparkles flashing from her fingers. However, he doesn't stop for more than five seconds just to check on the girl again. He wants to make sure she's okay, even if it's from behind the computer. Far away from the place where she is right now —just the thought of it makes his inner self freak out.

Something it's beginning to awake inside of him. Something he thought he had buried for his own good.

Or rather someone.

"Y/N, all done. Let's head to the car. I'll try to get to you right away," Bucky orders.

"No. It's okay, I got this," she chimes in stubbornly.

Bob shakes his head.

But before she can do so, a stray bullet hits her shoulder, destabilizing the girl.

"Fuck!" she complains, touching her shoulder.

"Y/N?" Bucky asks worriedly.

"Y/N!" Bob yells, watching as one of the guards hits her with her gun on the back of her head, causing the girl to fall unconscious to the ground.

That's it.

Bob rushes out of the tower's communications room and runs to the balcony, where he takes to the air with determination. He doesn't stop for a second, because time is precious, especially after seeing Y/N getting attacked. The only thing that keeps repeating in his mind is the visual image of the girl being injured, so he moves quickly through the air until he reaches the others. He had seen the coordinates and the area where they were, so it was easy for him to arrive in time.

Bob tries to find the place that the camera allowed him to watched the area in wich the girl was back at the tower, and when he finds it, he is surprised to find that one of the men responsible of attacking Y/N is carrying her unconscious body in his arms. Fury courses through his veins at the sight, and he rushes to stop the bastard. It's as if he's being consumed by darkness, a sensation he knows all too well.

As soon as he's in front of the guy, he stops him and without a second thought, tries to attack him, careful not to hit Y/N. The man looks at him in horror and carefully places the girl's body on the ground, then raises his hands in surrender.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know..." he stumbles, but all Bob sees is red.

He growls and begins to mercilessly beat the man's body, making him bleed, and doesn't stop until he's unconscious. Blow after blow, unleashing all the anger he felt at seeing how the bastard hurt the girl. He can still see her grimace of pain and how her body fell unconscious to the ground, helpless, and who knows what they might have done to her if he hadn't arrived in time.

"Please...." the man begs almost unconscious.

Bob doesn't hear him. He doesn't want to.

And Void doesn't want to too.

The rest of the team arrives at Y/N's location, only to see her lying on the ground with a scarlet stain forming on the shoulder of her suit, while Bob kills the man. Ava approaches the girl's body and makes sure she has a steady pulse, while John makes sure that no one appears and attacks them by surprise.

"Bob," Yelena warns and tries to approach him to make him see reason.

"No! He hurt her. No one can touch her, or hurt her!" he exclaims in a mixture of anger and darkness. "No one! You heard me? Fucking no one!"

The others stare at the scene and notice how Y/N wakes up and observes the state Bob is in. Ignoring the pain in her shoulder, she rushes over to him and wraps her arms around him from behind, resting her face on his.

"Bob, hey. It's okay," she murmurs in his ear, feeling the man begin to slow down the blows, so she tightens her grip on his body. "I'm okay. Everything will be okay."

Bob calms down and brings his now covered in blood hands to Y/N's arms, then turns his body and hugs her with all his strength, trying to cover her body to protect her just in case, and also feel her in his arms and make sure nothing happens to her anymore.

"You are hurt" he whispers in her ear.

"It's just a scratch. I'll be fine" Y/N says with a small smile on her lips.

"He hurt you. I couln't allow him to do it" he says in a broken voice.

Y/N looks at the rest of the team and smiles at them, letting them know she's okay. Kinda. Bucky sighs and shakes his head at the girl in that state, knowing she must be screaming from the pain of the bullet, while Alexei smiles sideways and tries to encourage her from a distance. The blonde russian girl mouths to her that she will get the car ready to go, to wich Y/N nods and indicates her to do so.

"We still have our date," she tells him, still standing with the brunette, glancing at the man's lifeless body.

Bob lets out a sigh and nods his head against Y/N's chest, agreeing with her.

"Our date," he says in a soft tone, relaxing at the touch of her fingers in his hair. Although he can't help but feel anger again when he smells the metallic scent coming from the girl's wound.

"Yeah. Are we still up to that?"

"Definitely" Bob answers and lets out a small laugh.

She smiles and then pulls away from him to look him in the eye. Those blue orbits who watch her with a spark on his eyes.

"So let's go home and have our date, okay?" Bob nods and then lowers his gaze to the girl's wound.

"First, we need to treat your wound," he says, pointing to the red stain on her suit.

"Would you help me with that?"

"You don't have to ask me twice."

They both stare at each other with a small smile on their faces, understanding how much they care for each other and would do anything to keep them safe and viceversa.

Especially Bob.

And as long as Y/N is in his arms, he'll be okay.

#fanfic #fluff #angst #bob reynolds x reader #marvel #thunderbolts #sentry masterlist #sentry x reader #the void x reader

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fairyhaos · 2 months ago

Text

◇ the way you make me feel // choi seungcheol

seungcheol x gn!reader, 2.6k+ words

tags: requested by anon, established relationship, fluff, mild angst, seungcheol is sooo down bad oh lawwd

warnings: pet names, 1 vvv mild curse word ig?? (ass)

notes: any fic where i get to write besotted cheol is a great fic! might be slightly ooc but oh well. who cares. ty anon for this request <3

“I'm going to be very honest, honey… this feels like a sleeping arrangement for a couple that's just had an argument.”

You laugh a little at the mild pout on your boyfriend's face as he stares contemplatively at the bed after you've suggested a rather… interesting sleep method that he's never really heard of before.

“It's really not,” you assure him. “Other couples do this all the time! And I thought it would be fun to try out too.”

Your boyfriend, Seungcheol, blinks at the bed before looking over at you, mystified.

“Really? People want to do this?”

“Yes, Cheol.”

“Hm.” Seungcheol frowns. “What did you say this was called again?”

“The Scandinavian Sleep Method,” you say cheerfully, hopping over to the drawers with all the different duvets and duvet covers that you and your boyfriend have collected over the years you've been living together. “Isn't it such a great idea? We sleep in the same bed, but we each have a different duvet so we get better sleep but still get to be next to each other.”

You begin pulling out different duvets, inspecting them and continuing to chatter as you do so.

“I know how much you love weighted blankets, but you know they're not something I'm a big fan of,” you say. “And you really hate my fluffy covers, for some reason. But if we sleep this way, then both of us can sleep happily without causing disturbance to the other's sleep quality!”

With a flourish, you turn back round to Seungcheol, the offending weighted blanket and fluffy cover in your hands, as if emphasising your point. There's a bright beam on your face, evidently eager to try out this new idea, but Seungcheol?

He's still looking a bit hesitant.

Which, understandable. You're introducing a new sleeping arrangement three years after you've been quite happily living together. Anyone would find that weird.

“If we don't like it, we can switch back,” you assure him. You shrug. “It's just a trend I saw online, Cheol. I thought it would be cool.”

Seungcheol pauses, and then smiles, nodding once. “Fine, fine. Let's try out, then. We'll see if the Scandinavians actually sleep well.”

You cheer, dropping the bedding and skipping across the room to launch yourself into Seungcheol’s arms. He catches you easily, laughing as he does so, amused at how delighted you are by his acceptance.

“Yes! I love you. Now I get to make the bed all aesthetic with different layered sheets!”

Seungcheol laughs again. “All right, sweetheart. Tell me if you need more sheets to fit in with your vision, okay? I'll buy you whatever you need.”

“Oh my god, suddenly I love you even more.”

───────────── 🗝

Admittedly, Seungcheol does love hearing you say that you, the absolute love of his life, love him (and any self-respecting boyfriend would feel the same), but he's wondering if this entire thing is really, really all that worth it.

Because, well.

Seungcheol hates the Scandinavian Sleep Method.

He harbours no hatred towards the Scandinavians themselves, of course, but their sleep method, for him, well and truly sucks.

Of course, he can understand why people like it. There are aspects he doesn't mind, too: such as how it's currently way less likely for him to wake up at 4am with a cold ass because you've stolen half the covers from him again. Or how he doesn't have to worry about the fluffy, fuzzy feeling of your sheets pressing creepily soft kisses against his ankles. Or how he can now actually sleep peacefully without finding that he's been suffocated by your weight on his chest because now, you actually sleep on your side of the bed.

Nevertheless, he hates this.

Unfortunately, he can't bring himself to say anything about this, because—

“I seriously think my quality of sleep has improved so much,” you say to Seungcheol one Sunday morning, beaming over your cup of coffee as he makes breakfast waffles for you. “The Scandinavians really know what they're talking about, huh?”

And your eyes are bright, sparkling as you say this, so full of life even though it's nine in the morning on a Sunday.

So Seungcheol smiles back, happy purely because you're happy, even though if you really pressed him, he'd admit that he's not really happy at all.

“I guess they do,” he says, turning back to the waffles. “Do you want honey with the waffles? Or the new maple syrup I bought you?”

“Ooh, maple syrup, please!”

And then Seungcheol had done all sorts of fancy tricks with the bottle of maple syrup, and you had clapped your hands and laughed, delighted, and Seungcheol felt a little better, the weight of his guilt that he didn't share your opinion beginning to lighten.

There's no real big reason why he hates this sleeping arrangement. Sure, it stops all your bad sleeping habits, but, truthfully, he… misses all those things.

He misses waking up to you all huddled up in the blankets, looking all small and adorable whilst swathed in the thick fabric. He misses cuddling you close and entangling his legs with yours in order to escape from the weird fluffy texture of your sheets. He misses feeling the comforting weight of you asleep against his chest, warm and secure like the physical manifestation of his soul, safely tucked against his side.

Now, you simply smile at him, face shiny and soft from your skincare routine, and give him a peck on the cheek goodnight before snuggling under your duvet, away from him, in your own little bubble of comfort.

Without him.

It makes him feel like an abandoned dog left in the rain outside of his owner's home.

Excuse him for being dramatic, but he's literally slept with you curled up in his arms for a very, very long time now. And these days, now that you're no longer with him and are miles away on the other half of the bed, he can't fall asleep by himself.

Withdrawal symptoms from cuddling must be a thing, because he's going through them right now.

“Just talk about how you feel, then,” is what any sane person would say about this matter, which is very good, very sound, advice.

However, it's also what Joshua says to Seungcheol when he complains to him about the new sleeping arrangement, and everyone knows Joshua is the least sane person in existence, so Seungcheol decides to ignore his advice.

Joshua rolls his eyes, used to but not pleased by Seungcheol's stubbornness.

“You're being silly,” he says, when Seungcheol vetoes his suggestion. “This is obviously impacting your sleep quality in a negative way, which is the exact opposite of what Y/N was hoping for.”

“But Y/N seems to be sleeping better,” Seungcheol argues. He rubs his eyes, and the world spins a little as he does so. “So I probably shouldn't say anything, right?”

“No, you should say something,” Joshua says firmly. “What do you think Y/N will do when it becomes obvious that this new arrangement is actively harming you, and yet you didn't say anything? Hell, if I found out my boyfriend wasn't telling me that kind of stuff, I'd get really mad.”

Seungcheol frowns. “What? Why?”

“Because you're my boyfriend?” Joshua says. “Uh—not actually mine, obviously. But that's how Y/N would feel. You need to communicate your feelings. That's what couples do.”

Joshua takes a sip of his tea, spinning around in Seungcheol's desk chair in his study whilst Seungcheol, the owner of the chair, is currently exiled to the small wooden stool beside it.

“Just think about how you'd feel if you were in Y/N's shoes. How would you feel if your partner wasn't telling you that they're sleeping badly and feeling increasingly more terrible throughout the weeks because of something that could be easily fixed by them talking it out with you?”

And oh, now Seungcheol understands. Now it makes more sense. He'd want you to communicate your feelings immediately.

Joshua must see the revelation on Seungcheol's face, because he snorts smugly. “I knew you'd get there in the end.”

“Shut up,” Seungcheol grumbles, and Joshua mocks him for how ridiculously macho-man he was being before. “I'll talk to Y/N about this tonight.”

“Well done,” Joshua says amusedly, spinning around in Seungcheol's chair so fast that its joints, even as expensive and well-oiled as they are, begin to groan in surprise. “I'm so proud of you.”

“Shut up,” Seungcheol says again, and Joshua laughs. “And get off my chair.”

“Hmph! You're so mean. I bought this chair for you, you know.”

“No, you didn't.”

“No, I didn't. But you believed me for a second, didn't you?”

“Definitely not. Now get out of my house before Y/N gets home.”

───────────── 🗝

It's one of those very, very rare days where you finish work later than Seungcheol, and so when you unlock the front door and finally make it inside, you're more than ready to just fall into your boyfriend's arms.

Except, the entire ground floor of your house is dark when you get home.

“Where is he?” you say to yourself, mystified. “Cheol? Where are you?”

“In our room!” he calls back from upstairs, and you take off your coat and shoes, dumping your bag by the doorway and bounding up the stairs two at a time to get to your boyfriend.

“Seungcheol! Why were the hallway lights off? Have you eaten dinner yet? What's— wait, what are you doing?”

In the middle of your bed, right over where the two halves of your bedding meet, Seungcheol is sprawled out in an upside down starfish shape, staring up at you balefully as you walk into the room, and you laugh a little at the state your boyfriend is in.

“Hello,” you say amusedly. “You look like you're sulking.”

Seungcheol just continues to blink up at you like a displeased cat.

You laugh again, bending down and kissing him on the forehead. “Definitely sulking, I see. What's wrong, baby? What happened?”

There's a long moment where Seungcheol doesn't say anything, and you continue to smile down at him, petting his hair fondly. And then, he frowns, and speaks.

“What do you think of our bed?”

You look over at the head of the bed, scanning it briefly. “I think it looks fine.”

It's apparently the wrong thing to say, because Seungcheol frowns harder.

“Why? Do you not like it?”

“I don't like it,” Seungcheol says, and sits up, turning around to face you. “I don't like this sleeping arrangement.”

You tilt your head. “Oh? I thought you didn't mind the Scandinavian Sleep Method.”

Seungcheol sighs. “I lied,” he admits. “I actually hate it so much. It's the worst thing in the entire world.”

Your face softens in worry, feeling something thick and bitter rising to your throat at the idea that you've been forcing Seungcheol to go through with something he hates.

“I'm sorry,” you say sincerely, sitting down beside him on the bed. “I didn't realise. You should've said something, Cheol. I would've changed back in an instant.”

Seungcheol, for how big and manly and good at acting as your guard dog he is, still always melts under your touch, and the moment you wrap your arms around his neck, he softens into your embrace, burying his face in your shoulder.

“Would you really?” he asks, muffled into your blazer, and you belatedly realise that you're still in your work clothes. You haven't even washed your hands.

“Of course I would,” you say in your best don't be silly voice. “I don't want you to be feeling bad.”

His hands wrap around your waist, warm and comforting and he pulls you in closer, hugging you even tighter.

“Sorry,” he says. “I feel like I'm being stupid. This isn't even anything big. It just… makes me feel really terrible, and I don't know why.”

“Hey, that's totally okay,” you say placatingly, threading your fingers through his hair and patting him consolingly on the back. “I told you we didn't have to carry on with this, baby. I said we could switch back whenever we wanted to.”

He squeezes you tighter, arms wrapping more securely around you. “I still feel bad. You liked this sleeping method.”

You laugh softly, resting your chin on his shoulder. “Yes, but not as much as I like you.”

If possible, he seems to melt even further into you at those words, and you smile, adoring how clearly he adores you.

“Come on, sweetheart,” you say affectionately, kissing Seungcheol's ear before untangling yourself from his embrace. “Let's start remaking the bed then, hm?”

You pull away from his arms, and Seungcheol is staring at you with big eyes, irises all melty soft. And then he nods, smiling slightly, looking like a pleased puppy as he gets off the bed and begins helping you take the covers off the duvets.

───────────── 🗝

It's unusual for Seungcheol to be so shy like this—normally, he's the one telling you to be more outspoken, more confident, so it's a nice change. You quite like being able to reassure him, gently tell him what to do, praise him and shower him with love in the way that he always does with you.

“So why did you hate the Scandinavian Sleep Method?” you ask him a bit later as the two of you sit in front of the washing machine, watching it spin your bedding round and round. Seungcheol had insisted that you wash all of it right away, because otherwise the two of you were bound to put it off for a whole month.

Your boyfriend shrugs. He watches the bedding get spun in circles again and again and again.

And then, he finally looks at you, clad in your classic two-piece cotton pyjamas, hair all a mess, your face softened and natural now that you've washed up for the night, all ready to go to bed.

You look so pretty like this, so open and comforting and god, Seungcheol had missed you.

Even though he sees you every day. But that's whatever. He's missed being this close with you at night, in this kind of domestic setting, where it's just the two of you pressed close together in your house as the rest of the world sleeps.

“That sleeping arrangement…” he begins quietly, and you look up.

“Hm?”

Seungcheol holds your gaze very seriously as he continues. “It didn't let me hug you.”

You blink. “What?”

“It didn't let me hug you,” he repeats, as serious as ever, and you want to laugh in fondness because it really is that serious for him. “I couldn't cuddle you to sleep. I hated that.”

“Oh,” you say, positively melting away at his reason, so unbelievably in love with him that your heart is goo in your chest. “That's so sweet, Cheol, oh my god.”

You lean over and pinch his cheek, cooing over him, and he bats your hand away with a groan, smiling.

“Go away,” he grumbles, but it's so full of warmth that the words carry no weight whatsoever.

“But then you can't cuddle me in your sleep,” you say, pouting exaggeratedly. “Unless… you don't wanna cuddle me any more?”

You gasp dramatically, leaning away from him for full effect, and then yelp when he grabs you by the waist and pulls you into his side, preventing you from moving away.

“Don't say silly things like that,” he reprimands teasingly, laughter tinging the ends of his words. He kisses your shoulder. “Of course I want to cuddle you. It's the only thing I'll be doing every night from now on.”

“That's awfully cheesy,” you point out. “Sap.”

“It's all your fault.”

“Huh, I suppose it is,” you say proudly, snuggling into your boyfriend. “Glad to know I have such an effect on you.”

Seungcheol sighs, fond, and kisses your shoulder once again. “Oh, if only you knew.”

fics tags: @jeonginssa @weird-bookworm @minhui896 @slytherinshua @haowrld @belladaises @moonlitskiiies @mirxzii @zozojella @kawennote09 @a-wandering-stay @abibliolife @wonranghaeee @icyminghao @sweet-like-caramel @your-yxnnie @odxrilove @kyeomyun @crackedpumpkin @kellesvt @eightlightstar @onlyyjeonghan @aaniag @starshuas @raevyng @isabellah29 @hrts4hanniehae @mcu-incorrect @dokyeomkyeom @suraandsugar @tulsa24 @melodicrabbit @dokyeomkyeom @hopeless-foolery @aaa-sia

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cressidagrey · 1 month ago

Text

It's a Match!

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Lydia Colbert (Original Character)

Summary:

When Arthur Leclerc decides his brooding brother Charles needs a love life, he does the obvious: he makes him a secret dating profile. With their mother’s help and absolutely no permission, Arthur impersonates Charles on Raya—and Chaos ensues. Until one suspiciously perfect woman (with a dachshund) changes everything.

Warnings and Notes:

Catfishing is obviously bad, even when it's played for laughs in this story. Thanks to the internet for helping me come up with some unhinged online dating stories.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Lorenzo stood in the kitchen, nursing a glass of wine and watching Arthur scroll through his phone at alarming speed.

“So,” Lorenzo said slowly, “he’s not coming to dinner?”

Arthur didn’t look up. “Nope. Texted me twenty minutes ago to say he was ‘in a complicated emotional place’ and ‘needed to listen to piano alone.’”

Lorenzo exhaled. “Jesus.”

“He also said he thinks he might be ‘unlovable at a molecular level.’”

“Did he actually say that?”

“Verbatim,” Arthur said, flipping screens. “Followed by a photo of Leo looking like a tired therapist on his day off. and the crying emoji. Twice.”

Lorenzo dragged a hand down his face. “It’s been three months since Sophie.”

“Technically, two months, twenty-one days,” Arthur said, glancing at the clock. “But who’s counting.”

Lorenzo sighed. “He needs help.”

“He needs therapy,” Arthur said with a snort.

And then Arthur’s eyes lit up like a cartoon character with a plan. “He needs a girlfriend.”

Lorenzo froze. “Arthur.”

“Hear me out.”

“No.”

Arthur put his phone down slowly, deliberately. “I’m making a Raya profile.”

Lorenzo blinked. “You’re what?”

“Not for me. For him. I’m going to fix it. The spiral. The sad playlists. All of it.”

“You want to impersonate Charles on a dating app.”

“I want to rescue him. Emotionally. Romantically. Digitally.”

Lorenzo stared at him. “Arthur. That is identity theft.”

“That is love,” Arthur replied. “I’m Cupid with a Wi-Fi connection.”

“You’re Cupid with a death wish. You’re going to catfish people as our brother?”

“Not catfish. Curate. Like a gallery. Of his best self. It’s not lying. It’s… repackaging.” Arthur stood and began pacing. “Charles is clearly not going to do this himself. He’s too busy posting moody black-and-white stories of Leo looking out windows with captions like ‘we all leave eventually.’ I mean—what are we even doing?”

“You’re being insane.”

“It’s matchmaking!” Arthur said, pointing at Lorenzo like a man unveiling a conspiracy theory. “He’s clearly not going to do it himself. He’s still following his ex on Instagram, liking her stories at 2 a.m., and writing playlist titles like 'slow laps and slower heartbreak.' He needs help. I’m being a hero. Do you remember what he said last week? That he was thinking of deleting Instagram and starting over under a new name in the Alps? That’s not healing. That’s the first act of a French drama where he falls in love with his housekeeper’s goat.”

Lorenzo pinched the bridge of his nose. “And you think putting him on a dating app is the answer?”

“With me controlling it? Yes.”

“You’re barely qualified to manage your own love life!”

Arthur ignored that. “It’s foolproof. I’ll use good photos—Ferrari gala, that one boat pic, something with Leo so women know he has a soul. And I’ll write the bio. Sexy but a little tragic. Like if James Bond cried at Chopin.”

“This is criminal.”

“This is charitable.”

“You’re going to end up matching him with someone who thinks astrology is a political stance!”

“Then I’ll filter for that! Lorenzo, trust me. I’ve seen what’s out there. These women are feral—but one of them might just be perfect.”

Lorenzo sighed. “Just don’t use that photo from Mykonos.”

Arthur looked offended. “The shirtless boat one? That’s the opener.”

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Joris Trouche

Arthur: hey bestie question do u have any good pics of charles

Joris: Of course I do?? What for?

Arthur: nothing shady promise

Joris: Arthur. What are you doing.

Arthur: do u want him to die alone and spend the rest of his life crying into his dog

Joris: What???

Arthur: do u want Leo to be his emergency contact forever

Joris: Arthur WHAT are you doing

Arthur: just send me the Monaco yacht one and the one from Singapore last year you know the one. the good hair day.

Joris: Arthur. Are you making a dating profile for him

Arthur: no. (not legally)

Joris: You’re insane. He’s going to kill you.

Arthur: worth it he’s brooding to “All Too Well (10 Minute Version)” again i’m desperate

Joris: …check your inbox and delete this chat before he finds it I’m not going down with you

Arthur: ur an accomplice now welcome to the operation code name: Raya Redemption

Joris: God help us all

***

Text Messages: Lorenzo Leclerc & Joris Trouche

Joris: Lorenzo. We have a situation. A serious one.

Lorenzo: If this is about Charles lying on the floor again, I’ve already poured myself a drink.

Joris: No, this is worse. Arthur is making him a Raya profile.

Lorenzo: ...I know.

Joris: YOU KNOW???

Lorenzo: He told me over dinner while Charles was listening to Debussy in the dark and crying into Leo.

Joris: He just asked me for high-resolution thirst traps. High-resolution, Lorenzo.

i just sent him photos. under duress.

Lorenzo: why would you send him photos???

Joris: BECAUSE HE SAID CHARLES WAS BROODING TO TAYLOR SWIFT AND I PANICKED.

Lorenzo: that… tracks. Let me guess. Monaco yacht and Singapore hair day?

Joris: Yes. And he used the phrase “do u want Leo to be his emergency contact forever” like this was a national crisis.

Lorenzo: That does sound like Arthur. You’re an accomplice now. Welcome to the pit.

Joris: He named the operation Raya Redemption.

Lorenzo: Of course he did.

Joris: Should we… tell Charles?

Lorenzo: Not until Arthur gets at least one date out of it. I want to see where this goes.

Joris: Your family is unwell.

Lorenzo: That’s the most accurate thing you’ve ever said.

***

Arthur Leclerc cracked his knuckles, opened the Raya app, and began typing with the enthusiasm of a man who once made a Tinder bio for Pierre Gasly that had just said “French. Fast. Flexible.”

He had Spotify’s Ultimate Seduction playlist in the background, two open tabs of Charles’ most photogenic Instagram photos, and the moral compass of a raccoon in a jewelry store.

“Let’s make some magic, baby.”

He hit “Create New Profile.”

Name: Charles Age: 27 Location: Monaco (obviously) Profession: Formula 1 Driver. Winner of your heart. Photos:

Shirtless boat pic from Mykonos (for the people)

Shirtless post-workout mirror selfie, beads of sweat on his chest

Shirtless with Leo in his arms

Shirtless from the beach in Sardinia, wet curls, gaze angled to the sun like a Renaissance oil painting with commitment issues

BONUS: A picture of just his hands, veins out, no explanation

Bio :

Fast cars. Fine wine. Passionate nights. I like long drives through the Italian countryside and strong espresso.

Swipe right if you can keep up—on the track or off it.

Arthur read it back and grinned.

“Perfect. Bit mysterious. Bit unhinged. Bit sexy. Very me—I mean, Charles.”

Then came the matching filters.

Looking for: Women Age range: 21–35 Distance: Global Interests: Dancing, cooking, racing, danger, chaos, espresso martinis Turn-ons (optional): Confidence. High heels. Deep playlists. Women who look like they could ruin my life in Italian.

Arthur sat back, admiring his masterpiece.

“This,” he muttered, sipping Coke from a wineglass, “is how you get Charles off the floor and into someone’s arms.”

He hit publish.

Fifteen minutes later, the first like came in from someone named Hot4Horsepower.

Arthur grinned. “And so it begins.”

***

Raya Chat Log – @/charles_leclerc (aka Arthur Leclerc with a mission)

@/Hot4Horsepower: hey charles ;)) i love fast cars and slow burns what’s your lap time in bed?

@/charles_leclerc: Hi. First question: Have you ever watched an actual Grand Prix or do you just like the racesuits?

@/Hot4Horsepower: i like the tight suits and the adrenaline also i once watched drive to survive season 3

@/charles_leclerc: So no actual race experience. Strike one. Next: How do you feel about dogs with emotional trauma?

@/Hot4Horsepower: uh what are you okay?

@/charles_leclerc: I’m not the one who used “lap time in bed” as an opener.

***

@/LenaOffline: sooo… if we date, can i come to Monza in your suitcase?

@/charles_leclerc: Can you fit in a suitcase?

@/LenaOffline: ...maybe??

@/charles_leclerc: Follow-up: Do you have a criminal record?

@/LenaOffline: not convicted

@/charles_leclerc: Next question: how many cardboard cutouts of me do you own?

@/LenaOffline: just the one! and one of Carlos for symmetry!

***

@/JulesUnfiltered: charles i already have our wedding vision board saved. do you want a spring ceremony or winter elopement?

@/charles_leclerc: Let’s backtrack.

Have we met?

Do you own a scrapbook labeled “Operation Husband”?

Be honest.

@/JulesUnfiltered: only the digital kind!!! also i emailed your management about matching tattoos

***

@/Lola.LateAgain: would u date someone who only dates for clout asking for a friend

@/charles_leclerc: That friend sounds suspiciously like you.

@/Lola.LateAgain: rude. anyway, how famous are you really?

@/charles_leclerc: Famous enough to Google. Not famous enough to be having this conversation willingly.

***

@/RoxieWithIssues: hey charles you ever been to ibiza?? bc i’ve got a villa and handcuffs jk unless?

***

@/JoWithAView: charlessssssss if we dated u could crash into me any time xx also do u still talk to seb? bc i had a dream abt u both

@/charles_leclerc: What kind of dream?

@/JoWithAView: the kind i can't describe here but i made a Pinterest board

***

@/MilfInSector1: hi baby u like older women? i make a mean carbonara and bad decisions

@/charles_leclerc: Define “older.” Define “mean.” Define “bad.”

@/MilfInSector1: 55 Spicy 2008 tattoo of Alonso’s face on my thigh

@/charles_leclerc: …This was a mistake.

***

@/AlinaUnbothered: omg ur real??? like i thought this was a bot. or worse. pierre.

@/charles_leclerc: Define “worse.”

@/AlinaUnbothered: someone not emotionally devastated. r u?

@/charles_leclerc: I once wept to a Debussy piano solo while making risotto. Does that count?

@/AlinaUnbothered: ur perfect. i collect tiny ceramic frogs. is that a dealbreaker?

@/charles_leclerc: Only if they’re haunted.

@/AlinaUnbothered: some of them are

***

@/ToeSucker88: u have beautiful feet pls send pics i have a collage due

***

@/Cleo.CalmDown: Hey cutie. Do you like handcuffs?

@/charles_leclerc: Depends. Are we talking F1 steering wheel tethers or prison time?

@/Cleo.CalmDown: Whichever gets you sweating. Also, I once dated two brothers at the same time. You have any siblings?

@/charles_leclerc:…

***

@/FreyaLikesFire: Hi Charles. I don’t actually watch F1 but I think you’re the guy who plays the piano in that viral TikTok, right?

@/charles_leclerc: …Yes. And I also occasionally drive very expensive cars. Do you know what DRS is?

@/FreyaLikesFire: Isn’t that the drug that makes hamsters fight?

@/charles_leclerc: That’s not even close.

***

@/SashaWanders: If I was your Ferrari, would you drive me fast or slow?

@/charles_leclerc: You would probably overheat and break down before we made it out of Q2.

@/SashaWanders: Kinky.

***

@/IsabelButSpicier: I don’t really care what you do as long as you’re hot and sad.

@/charles_leclerc: You just described every Ferrari strategy debrief. But okay, go off.

***

@/ClaraAfterDark: Let’s cut to the chase. I don’t cook, I don’t clean, but I will emotionally destroy you in under ten minutes. Interested? You look like you cry after sex. I find that hot.

***

@/NinaKnowsBest: Hi future baby daddy How do you feel about naming our first child ‘Ferrari?’ Girl or boy doesn’t matter x

@/charles_leclerc: That child will be bullied from kindergarten to Monaco GP.

@/NinaKnowsBest: Not if they’re hot.

***

@/EmTheEnigma: Let’s play a game: if you had to choose between your dog and me, which one would you kiss goodnight?

@/charles_leclerc: Leo. No hesitation. ***

@/EvaInParis: Hey babe. Do you come with the Ferrari or do I have to steal one?

@/charles_leclerc: Hi. Have you ever been convicted of grand theft auto?

@/EvaInParis: LOL I plead the fifth.

@/charles_leclerc: This is Monaco. We don’t have the fifth. Goodbye.

***

@/SofiaOnSet: What’s your star sign? Asking to check if our birth charts align. I will not date another Virgo. I’ve had four. They all cried.

@/charles_leclerc:

I’m a Libra.

Are you planning on picking our wedding date using astrology?

Be honest—have you hexed an ex?

@/SofiaOnSet: That’s private.

@/charles_leclerc: So that’s a yes.

***

@/MayaWearsBlack: Can we skip the small talk? I only date drivers and DJs. You’re lucky you’re both hot and famous.

@/charles_leclerc:

Would you love me if I worked at a bakery?

How many drivers have you “dated”? Please round to the nearest dozen.

Do you know how to spell “empathy”? No autocorrect.

@/MayaWearsBlack: Who needs empathy when you’ve got a paddock pass?

@/charles_leclerc: Your honesty is terrifying. Goodbye.

***

@/TatianaFromIbiza: Let’s get married in Mykonos. I’ll bring the champagne, you bring the tux.

@/charles_leclerc: How do you feel about prenups?

@/TatianaFromIbiza: I’m an experience, not an investment.

@/charles_leclerc: You are a lawsuit waiting to happen.

***

@/BiancaWithIntentions: soooo if i date u, do i get paddock passes? asking for my sister (and me, obviously)

@/charles_leclerc: That depends. Would you say your intentions are: A) Romantic B) Opportunistic C) “Saw Drive to Survive and decided to try my luck”

@/BiancaWithIntentions: D) All of the above lol

***

@/VeraUnfiltered: I think you’re the one. I already told my therapist about you. She says I’m too impulsive but what does she know?

@/charles_leclerc: How long ago did you swipe right?

@/VeraUnfiltered: Twelve minutes. But I can feel things.

@/charles_leclerc: Like restraining orders approaching in the distance?

***

@/RomyInRed: Would you date someone who has been banned from Ibiza?

@/charles_leclerc: Follow-up questions:

What did you do in Ibiza?

Was it arson?

Are you legally allowed to leave the country?

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: bro

Arthur: we have a situation

Lorenzo: what did you do

Arthur: it’s not what I did it’s what the women of Raya have done to me

Lorenzo: Arthur.

Arthur: I opened the messages for Charles and I’m genuinely afraid

Lorenzo: Afraid of what??

Arthur: of toe pics witchcraft and one woman who casually mentioned she has a tattoo of Alonso on her thigh like. full face. 2008 Renault colors.

Lorenzo: I’m going to be sick.

Arthur: they’re all insane one of them collects haunted ceramic frogs another said she wants Charles to crash into her

Lorenzo: You created this account You brought this on yourself This is karma. This is divine justice.

Arthur: I was trying to help Charles find love but apparently Charles’ vibe attracts women who have cursed amulets and open warrants

Lorenzo: Delete it.

Arthur: No. I can fix this. I just need filters. And maybe an exorcism.

***

Pascale was in the kitchen, folding linen napkins with the serene efficiency of a woman who had raised three sons, lived through Charles’ La La Land phase, and once confiscated a bottle of cologne that smelled like “heartbreak and leather.”

Arthur hovered in the doorway like a raccoon with a secret.

“Maman?”

“Yes?”

“…I need to confess something.”

She looked up, suspicious. “Did you crash another scooter?”

“No. Worse.”

She put the napkins down slowly. “Go on.”

“I made Charles a Raya profile.”

A beat of silence.

“And I’ve been pretending to be him. Vetting the women. And—please don’t yell—but I think I might’ve… accidentally turned him into a sex symbol with commitment issues.”

Pascale blinked once. Then reached for her wine glass. “What exactly does that mean?”

Arthur swallowed. “One woman sent a voice memo that was just her breathing heavily. Another wrote an essay about his collarbones. And someone named ‘MILFInSector1’ offered to show him her Alonso tattoo. On her thigh, Maman.”

She closed her eyes. “Show me the profile.”

“You’re not mad?”

“I’m disappointed. In your taste.”

Arthur handed over the phone like it was radioactive.

She scrolled through in silence.

First: shirtless boat pic. Then: shirtless workout mirror selfie. Then: Charles shirtless on a beach, looking like he was about to write a tragic sonnet about the sea.

“Arthur,” she said slowly. “Is he wearing a shirt in any of these?”

“Technically… no.”

She tapped the screen. “This one looks like he just seduced a widow on the Italian coast and then vanished before sunrise.”

“That was the vibe!”

She gave him a look. “And this one? With Leo? Shirtless again?”

“It’s the dog dad bait. Women love a soft side.”

“He looks like a cover model for Brooding Bachelor: Mediterranean Edition.”

Arthur grinned. “Exactly.”

Pascale sighed like she’d aged ten years in five minutes. “Read me the bio.”

Arthur cleared his throat.

“Fast cars. Fine wine. Passionate nights. I like long drives through the Italian countryside and strong espresso. Swipe right if you can keep up—on the track or off it.”

Pascale stared. Then sipped her wine with great purpose.

“You wrote this like he’s a walking cologne commercial with a god complex.”

“Thank you.”

“Not a compliment. We’re fixing it. Sit down.”

They sat down at the table. Pascale adjusted her glasses like she was about to perform surgery.

“First, we’re removing at least three of the shirtless photos. Leave one. Two max. Any more and he looks like he’s trying to sell protein powder and regrets.”

“Can we keep the Leo one?”

“He’s shirtless and holding the dog. That’s double bait. You’re not stacking emotional manipulation with abs.”

Arthur sulked. “The steering wheel hands?”

“That one can stay. It’s tasteful. Mysterious. Almost… cinematic.”

Arthur perked up. “Knew you’d get it.”

“Now,” she said, rewriting the bio, “‘Swipe right if you can keep up’ makes him sound like he’s running from Interpol. We’re dialing it back.”

They replaced it with:

“Piano at night. Pasta on Sundays. Quiet mornings, loud engines. Looking for someone kind—with a sense of humor and a stronger tolerance for espresso than me.”

Arthur blinked. “That’s… actually kind of good.”

“I raised you,” she said simply.

She also added a hard filter: “No users with the words ‘feral,’ ‘MILF,’ or ‘toe’ in their usernames.”

Arthur blinked again. “How do you know this much about dating apps?”

Pascale sipped her wine and smiled. “Darling. I may be a widow. I’m not dead.”

***

Raya Chat Log – @/charles_leclerc (still illegally operated by Arthur)

@/AnaSaysMaybe: So… are you actually looking for something serious or just another Italian summer situationship?

@/charles_leclerc: Ideally something meaningful. No drama. No performative sadness.

@/AnaSaysMaybe: But you're a Ferrari driver.

@/charles_leclerc: Touché.

***

@/SimoneAtSunset: Okay but real talk: Is the “piano at night” thing a metaphor for vulnerability, or are you actually playing piano?

@/charles_leclerc: I’m actually playing piano.

@/SimoneAtSunset: That’s either the hottest thing I’ve ever heard or the most manipulative.

***

@/NoelleDoesNotReply: Your profile is giving tragic espresso husband. I love it.

@/charles_leclerc: That’s… oddly flattering. Thank you.

@/NoelleDoesNotReply: Just a heads up though—I don’t reply to texts between the hours of 11 p.m. and 4 p.m. And I ghost people when Mercury’s in retrograde.

@/charles_leclerc: So you ghost people… for sixteen hours a day?

@/NoelleDoesNotReply: Self-care x

***

@/AstridOnFire: You had me at “piano at night.” I melt for emotionally repressed men with a flair for the dramatic.

@/charles_leclerc: I’m… not sure that’s the healthiest criteria, but alright.

@/AstridOnFire: It’s okay, I fix people.

@/charles_leclerc: That is the least reassuring sentence I’ve ever read.

***

@/CamilleOnCamera: Are you actually looking for a relationship? Or are you just here to cry to Chopin and pretend you're okay?

@/charles_leclerc: I’m open to something real. Why?

@/CamilleOnCamera: Because I don’t do emotions, but I do look great in photos. So if you want a beautiful mutual breakdown, I’m your girl.

***

@/JulietteFromNowhere: You seem genuinely lovely, but just so you know—I bring a lot of intensity to relationships. Like, “sent my ex a Spotify playlist titled ‘Haunt Me Forever’” energy.

@/charles_leclerc: …Out of curiosity, how long after the breakup?

@/JulietteFromNowhere:Six months. But I made the playlist during the relationship. Just in case.

***

@/ZaraLikesChaos: Do you believe in soulmates or is that too cringe?

@/charles_leclerc: I think it depends. Soulmates, maybe. Destiny, yes.

@/ZaraLikesChaos: Good answer. Anyway, my tarot reader says I’m going to marry someone with intense eyebrows. I’m pretty sure it’s you.

***

@/TaliaWithoutLimits: What’s your opinion on monogamy?

@/charles_leclerc: Essential, if I’m being honest.

@/TaliaWithoutLimits: Shame. I’m more of a… rotating-cast-of-men kind of girl. But I thought maybe I’d make an exception if you were taller.

***

@/NaomiNotNice: You look like you feel things. I like that in a man.

@/charles_leclerc: …Thank you?

@/NaomiNotNice: Do you mind if I name our first child Enzo?

@/charles_leclerc: We haven’t even met yet.

@/NaomiNotNice: Manifesting.

***

@/MilaInMotion: What’s your relationship with your mother like?

@/charles_leclerc: Close. She helps with most of my major life decisions.

@/MilaInMotion: Oh. Yeah. That’s going to be a problem for me. I’m allergic to mother-in-laws.

***

@/DaphneOnTheRun: Your dog is adorable. I trust men more when they’re dog people.

@/charles_leclerc: Leo is the most stable relationship I’ve had.

@/DaphneOnTheRun: Same. My ex stole my cat in the breakup, but I got the espresso machine. Also, I burned his passport.

@/charles_leclerc: Wait what

***

@/EvaAfterMidnight: Hi. If we go out, please don’t talk to me about F1. I’ll pretend to care, but it’s mostly for the photos.

@/charles_leclerc: …Charming.

***

@/LucieOffGrid: Hi. You have a dog, a soul, and a tragic vibe. I’m intrigued. I live on a boat most of the year. No Wi-Fi. I churn my own butter.

@/charles_leclerc: That’s incredibly niche. How do you… date people?

@/LucieOffGrid: I don’t. I just appear in their lives, ruin them, and disappear again. Like fog. Or ex-girlfriends.

@/charles_leclerc: Oh dear God.

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: progress report

Lorenzo: this can’t be good

Arthur: we are still getting weirdos…but they are technically better weirdos?

Lorenzo: Define “technically”

Arthur: no toe pics no thigh tattoos no one’s tried to hex him with moon water yet

Lorenzo: So… less weird?

Arthur: less weird but not normal

Arthur: example: one girl churns her own butter and lives on her boat another just sent him her cat’s star chart

Lorenzo: I don’t know if this is evolution or a new form of crisis

Arthur: they’re soft weirdos now like chaotic but moisturized

Lorenzo: and you haven’t found anyone normal?

Arthur: define “normal” because one girl said she’s emotionally allergic to mothers another made a Spotify playlist titled ‘haunt me forever’ for her ex boyfriend

Lorenzo: You deserve this

Arthur: excuse me I’ve filtered out the truly cursed ones

Lorenzo: That’s like bragging about evacuating only some of the haunted dolls

Arthur: baby steps we’re moving in the right direction

***

Arthur was sitting cross-legged on the couch, hoodie up, blue light permanently etched into his retinas. His thumb moved on instinct now, scrolling through Raya like a war veteran—twitching every time he saw the words “feral,” “open relationship,” or “wanna crash into me?”

He was ready to give up.

And then.

@/lydiacolbert

Her profile popped up like a glitch in the system. A miracle in neutral tones.

Photos:

Lydia petting a small cream dachshund on a sunny terrace.

Lydia on a bike, holding her face in the sun.

Lydia laughing in Mykonos. Natural. Unbothered. Beautiful.

Lydia holding a flower pot like it’s an award she just earned.

Lydia’s dog—in a sweater. A blue sweater and a pink collar. Judging the camera.

Bio:

Currently accepting applications from people who enjoy quiet mornings, dry wit, and very judgmental dachshunds. Looking for something real. Or someone who won’t mind that my dog hates 90% of men.

Arthur sat up straight.

He reread it.

Then again.

“Charles,” he whispered to no one. “This is her. This is the one Leo won’t bark at.”

He clicked into the profile, skimmed her answers.

Interests: Cooking. Books. Dogs. Art museums. Sarcasm. Mild chaos. Turn-ons: Honesty. Calm confidence. Emotionally intelligent introverts.

Arthur blinked. “Oh my god, she’s hot and sane.”

He hit match faster than Charles on a quali lap in Monaco.

Seconds later: MATCHED.

Arthur stood, fists in the air. “YES. YES. FINALLY.”

Leo—who was asleep on a pillow in the corner—lifted his head in alarm. Arthur turned to him, grinning.

“Buddy,” he said breathlessly, “you’re getting a sister.”

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: I FOUND HER WE’RE SAVED

Lorenzo: You matched with a therapist?

Arthur: Better. Model. Dachshund. Judgmental. Possibly magic. Mild chaos. No witchcraft.

Lorenzo: …What’s the catch?

Arthur: There is no catch.

***

Raya Chat Log – @/charles_leclerc (operated by Arthur Leclerc, matchmaking menace)

@/lydiacolbert has matched with you. ✅

@/lydiacolbert: Hi Charles. I don’t usually message first, but your dog looks exactly like mine when he’s silently judging me for talking to men on the internet. I respect that kind of energy.

Arthur stared at the screen.

Then sat bolt upright.

“She’s perfect.”

Leo looked up from the corner, unimpressed.

Arthur cracked his knuckles and whispered, “Do not ruin this.”

He typed back—cautiously, like approaching a feral cat that might also own a book deal.

@/charles_leclerc: Hello. I think Leo and your dog would get along. Or at least agree to judge us quietly from opposite sides of the room.

@/lydiacolbert: That’s honestly the most romantic thing I’ve read on this app. Désirée only tolerates people who can make risotto and don’t talk during movies. She once growled at a man who suggested pineapple on pizza. She was right.

Arthur blinked. Whispered, “Marry her.”

He texted Lorenzo immediately.

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: She messaged FIRST.

Lorenzo: Who??

Arthur: LYDIA. Dog girl. Sanity girl. Flower-pot-on-a-bike girl.

Lorenzo: And?

Arthur: She’s funny. She’s dry. Her dog’s name is Désirée. She likes risotto and hates pineapple on pizza. I think Leo just wagged his tail at the screen.

Lorenzo: …You’re not qualified to handle this.

Arthur: I KNOW. I need backup. Should I respond with poetry or just ask her what her dog’s birth chart is?

Lorenzo: Respond like a normal person. And don’t mention astrology.

***

Back in the app, Arthur took a breath. And for once, he typed like Charles would.

@/charles_leclerc: Leo once refused to walk for three blocks because someone in a Juventus jersey smiled at him. I trust his instincts more than my own at this point.

@/lydiacolbert: A man after my own heart. Or at least after my dog’s high standards. What’s your risotto strategy?

Arthur choked on his Coke Zero.

“Oh no,” he muttered. “She’s real. She’s emotionally literate. And she cooks.”

He took a beat. Typed.

@/charles_leclerc: Parmesan. Patience. A disturbing number of YouTube tutorials. And wine. Always wine.

@/lydiacolbert: Noted. Désirée says we’ll allow one date.

Arthur stared at the message. Then slowly turned to Leo.

“Buddy,” he whispered. “We might’ve found her.”

***

Group Chat: Raya Redemption HQ 💘🐾

Members: Arthur, Lorenzo, Pascale, Joris

Arthur: EVERYONE SHUT UP AND LOOK AT THIS WOMAN

Arthur: screenshot of Lydia’s profile ✨Model. Dachshund. Wears linen. Reads books. Owns plants. Emotionally stable.✨ WE ARE NO LONGER IN CRISIS

Lorenzo: Did she send you toe pics?

Arthur: NO. She sent a message about her dog judging her for messaging men. It was dry. It was flirty. It was sane. She makes risotto and hates pineapple on pizza. I’m in love for Charles.

Joris: So… we’re not deleting the app after all?

Arthur: No. We’re framing this match and hanging it above the fireplace.

Pascale: Arthur, I swear to God, if you are still pretending to be your brother, this woman deserves better than whatever Cirque du Soleil act you’re pulling.

Arthur: Maman, relax. I’m being tasteful. No shirtless photos, no espresso metaphors. We even discussed dogs before pasta.

Lorenzo: That’s the most terrifying sentence I’ve read today.

Arthur: I’M DOING EVERYTHING RIGHT. Even Leo approved. He wagged his tail. Once.

Pascale: You bribed him with ham, didn’t you?

Arthur: That’s beside the point.

Joris: Okay, but real talk—what’s the plan here? Are you going to tell Charles at some point, or is he just going to find out he’s dating someone from an app he never downloaded?

Arthur: We’ll ease him into it. Like exposure therapy. Step 1: Let him spiral less. Step 2: Keep messaging Lydia until she’s emotionally invested. Step 3: Gently reveal the deception. Step 4: Wedding.

Lorenzo: You skipped “tell the truth” and “deal with the emotional fallout” in your little master plan.

Pascale: I raised criminals.

Arthur: You raised innovators.

Pascale: When Charles finds out, I’m making all of you explain it to him. In person. While I film it.

Arthur: You’ll thank me when he’s married to the elegant Parisian woman with a judgmental dachshund and a normal relationship with emotional intimacy.

Lorenzo: Or he’ll drown you in the Monaco marina.

Arthur: That’s a risk I’m willing to take.

***

Charles took a sip of his espresso and opened Twitter with the innocent hope of seeing race predictions or maybe a meme about Pierre’s new sunglasses.

Instead, the first thing he saw was a tweet with his face and the words:

@/paddocktea:okay but WHO is running charles leclerc’s raya account(s) bc i just found TWO and they are… spiritually different??? exhibit a: “Fast cars. Fine wine. Passionate nights. I like long drives and women who don’t ask too many questions.” vs “Piano at night. Pasta on Sundays. Looking for someone kind and espresso-tolerant.” one of these was written by a shirtless man with cologne in his eyes and the other by someone’s extremely French mother

[2 screenshots attached]

Charles blinked.

Scrolled.

Opened the replies.

@/feralgirlsf1: first version: "I will ruin you in Lake Como" second version: "I will feed you carbonara and never leave" who is writing this man’s character arc

@/drive_me_delirious: I KNOW ARTHUR MADE THE FIRST ONE. I KNOW IT IN MY BONES. but who made the sad poet rebrand? because I want to thank her

@/alonsohater420: Pascale Leclerc. That’s my theory. That woman raised sons and keeps receipts.

@/feralforferrari: “Winner of your heart” STOP WHO LET HIM TYPE THAT???

@/leoclubfanpage: not me cross-referencing shirtless beach pics with his Instagram to determine authenticity 💀

@/wifedashboard: someone said the new bio sounds like his maman made it and honestly?? not wrong

Charles put down his espresso with surgical care.

Then clicked on the screenshots.

First one:

Shirtless. Mykonos.

Shirtless. Beach.

Shirtless. Leo.

“Fast cars. Fine wine. Passionate nights.”

He audibly choked.

Second one:

Sweater. Steering wheel.

“Piano at night. Pasta on Sundays.”

***

Text Messages: Charles Leclerc and Lorenzo Leclerc

Charles: WHAT IS THIS

Lorenzo: …Good morning?

Charles: WHY AM I TRENDING FOR A RAYA PROFILE I’VE NEVER MADE??? WHY ARE THERE TWO OF THEM??

Lorenzo: Define “trending.”

Charles: Lorenzo. There are slideshows. There are threads.

Charles: There are comparative analyses of which version of my fictional dating self is hotter.

Charles: Someone said the first one was “sex on a Vespa” and the second one was “grief with a good red.”

Lorenzo: ...Okay but that’s honestly fair.

Charles: WHO. DID. THIS.

Lorenzo: I think now’s a good time to ask if you are in the country…

Charles: LORENZO.

Lorenzo: Okay. Fine. The first one was Arthur. The second one was… a joint operation.

Charles: WHAT.

Lorenzo: Arthur made the original profile without your knowledge. You were spiraling. He panicked. Then he asked Maman for help and she helped him rebrand you into someone… softer.

Charles: YOU LET MAMAN EDIT MY FAKE DATING PROFILE??

Lorenzo: She cut out the shirtless pics. You should be grateful.

Charles: I AM GOING TO LOSE MY MIND.

***

Group Chat: Les Leclercs

Members: Charles, Arthur, Lorenzo, Pascale

Charles: ARE YOU ALL OUT OF YOUR MINDS???

Charles: I woke up to find out I apparently have not one, but TWO dating profiles.

Charles: TWO. ON RAYA. WITH BIOS.

Charles: AND PHOTOS. OF MY BODY. WITHOUT MY KNOWLEDGE.

Arthur: hi love would you like a chamomile tea and a therapist or should I start running

Charles: YOU PUT “WINNER OF YOUR HEART” IN THE BIO.

Pascale: I removed it. The first one made you sound like a cologne ad that’s banned in most countries. The second one is tasteful. Sophisticated. A man with depth and a signature pasta.

Charles: YOU REBRANDED ME AS A TRAGIC HUSBAND?!?

Arthur: you’re welcome

Charles: WHAT WOULD POSSESS YOU TO DO THIS

Arthur: you said “I’m emotionally unlovable at a molecular level” while listening to Debussy

Arthur: you were spiraling I intervened with vibes and wi-fi

Lorenzo: Arthur called it “Operation Raya Redemption” We even had a shared folder

Charles: A FOLDER???

Arthur: look bro we were just trying to get you off the floor and into the emotional arms of someone whose dog wears sweaters

Charles: WHAT DOES THAT MEAN

Lorenzo: …Arthur. Now is a good time.

Arthur: right okay so

Arthur: you got a match

Charles: NO.

Arthur: YES.

Pascale: She messaged first. That’s a good sign. Confident. Emotionally balanced.

Charles: NO ONE IS EMOTIONALLY BALANCED IN THIS FAMILY

Arthur: her name is Lydia she’s a model she lives in Paris and she has a dachshund named Désirée who wears sweaters and hates most men so obviously, she’s perfect

Lorenzo: She likes sarcasm, risotto, and espresso. She messaged to say your dog looks like hers when judging her for dating. You flirted about risotto for like six messages.

Charles: I DID WHAT??

Arthur: technically I flirted but I was channeling your tragic poet energy so it was spiritually accurate

Pascale: She’s very elegant. Also, she uses punctuation in her messages. We vetted her.

Charles: YOU VETTED HER??

Arthur: Maman and I read her Instagram captions. She passed. No star sign rants. No frog collections. Her bookshelf had actual books.

Charles: I’m going to lie down and scream into a pillow.

Arthur: you’re welcome.

Lorenzo: You should at least meet Lydia.

Pascale: She has excellent hair. You owe it to Leo.

Charles: …what does Leo have to do with this

Arthur: he wagged his tail when he saw her dog’s photo it was a sign

Pascale: I really think she’s a good match, Charles. She didn’t even bring up racing. Just said your dog looked adorable.

Charles: I AM DELETING THIS APP I AM DELETING THIS FAMILY CHAT I AM DELETING MYSELF

***

Charles was sitting on the floor. Because of course he was.

His phone sat on the couch above him, like a bomb. Still open to the group chat where his family casually confessed to identity theft and matchmaking in one breath.

He sighed.

Then, like a man opening a cursed scroll, he opened the Raya app. Logged in with the password Arthur had supplied: Pinsàroulettes16 (Arthur was not subtle.Charles should probably consider himself lucky that nobody had hacked it yet.)

New Matches: 1 @/lydiacolbert ✅

He blinked at the name.

Then the profile.

Paris.

Model.

Cream-colored dachshund in a blue sweater.

Laughing in Mykonos.

Holding a flower pot like it told her a secret.

Judgmental but kind eyes.

Her bio:

Currently accepting applications from people who enjoy quiet mornings, dry wit, and very judgmental dachshunds. Looking for something real. Or someone who won’t mind that my dog hates 90% of men.

Charles stared.

Then scrolled to the messages.

@/lydiacolbert: Hi Charles. I don’t usually message first, but your dog looks exactly like mine when he’s silently judging me for talking to men on the internet. I respect that kind of energy.

@/charles_leclerc (aka Arthur): Hello. I think Leo and your dog would get along. Or at least agree to judge us quietly from opposite sides of the room.

@/charles_leclerc: Leo once refused to walk for three blocks because someone in a Juventus jersey smiled at him. I trust his instincts more than my own at this point.

@/lydiacolbert: A man after my own heart. Or at least after my dog’s high standards. What’s your risotto strategy?

@/charles_leclerc: Parmesan. Patience. A disturbing number of YouTube tutorials. And wine. Always wine.

@/lydiacolbert: Noted. Désirée says we’ll allow one date.

Charles sat very still.

Then read it again.

He felt something ridiculous tug at the corner of his mouth.

Leo stretched next to him and sighed—like even he was judging him a little less now.

Charles hesitated.

Then, for the first time, typed something himself.

@/charles_leclerc: Would Désirée tolerate a walk with Leo sometime next week? I promise not to suggest pineapple on anything.

He hit send.

Then set the phone down.

And muttered to Leo, “If I marry her, you’re getting a tux.”

Leo rolled over, unimpressed.

***

Charles arrived early. Like, way early. Like, sat-down-twenty-minutes-before-the-reservation-straightening-the-salt-shakers early.

Leo was wearing his least-offensive harness—the navy one Pascale called “respectable.” Charles had asked his mother to steam his shirt because he would have burned it. And he’d spent ten minutes standing in front of his cologne collection with the expression of a man selecting a weapon for emotional battle.

He went with the subtle one. The one that didn’t smell like haunted heartbreak on the Riviera.

Now he was trying not to pass out.

He kept checking his phone—not for messages, but to reread hers. Like they were prayers. Or sheet music. Something steady. Predictable. Beautiful.

He was on the fourth reread when he heard a soft “Hi.”

And he looked up.

And that was it.

Time? Paused. Brain? Empty. Soul? Gone. Sold. Stolen.

Because yes, Lydia looked like her pictures. The soft light, the clean lines, the effortless grace. But in real life, she looked like sunlight through linen curtains. Like the kind of quiet joy you don’t realize you’ve been missing until it’s there, in front of you, wearing ankle boots and a knowing smile.

And behind her, trotting like a tiny fashion editor late for brunch, was Désirée—new sweater, same disapproval.

Charles stood too fast. Knocked his knee on the table.

“Hi. Bonjour. Sorry. I’m—hi.”

Lydia tilted her head, smiling like someone who wasn’t startled by awkward men but delighted by them.

“That’s a lot of hellos.”

“I panicked,” he confessed, trying to smile but probably just grimacing.

“Well,” she said, settling across from him, “panic suits you.”

They sat. Leo gave Désirée a slow blink. Désirée gave Leo a look that said You are lucky I’m in a tolerant mood. Neither barked. It was, Charles decided, a miracle.

They ordered drinks. A croissant for him. An oat milk cappuccino for her. Two biscuits for the dogs. And the conversation just... happened.

They talked about risotto (“Saffron?” “Obviously.”) About books. About espresso machines (“Manual or capsule?” “Is that even a question?”). About why Désirée once growled at a barista for adding whipped cream. (“It was a crime against coffee,” Lydia said, without irony.)

And with every laugh, every dry observation, every easy silence, something in Charles started to settle. Like maybe he wasn’t broken. Like maybe he was just… waiting.

Until the warmth in his chest got too dangerous.

And he blurted it out.

“I need to confess something.”

Lydia paused, cappuccino halfway to her mouth. “Okay. I’m listening. Should I be concerned?”

Charles exhaled. “Maybe.”

She leaned in slightly. “Did you lie about being able to make risotto? Because honestly, I’d survive.”

“No. I can make risotto.”

“Then what is it?”

Charles swallowed. “This profile. On Raya. It wasn’t me. Not at first. It was my brother. Arthur. He made it without telling me.”

Lydia raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

“And then,” Charles continued grimly, “my maman got involved. She edited it. There were… filters. There was a group chat. I only found out after it went viral on Twitter.”

Lydia blinked.

Then leaned back. Processing.

Then she squinted.

“Wait—both versions of your profile were real?”

Charles groaned. “Yes. One was Arthur’s masterpiece. All shirtless photos and chaos. The other was… Arthur’s chaos, edited by a woman who once made me redo a thank-you note because it wasn’t emotionally sincere.”

And then—

She laughed.

Not a polite giggle. Not a smirk.

A full, head-back, eyes-crinkled, joyful laugh.

“You’re telling me,” she gasped, “your mother edited your Raya profile?”

Charles nodded miserably. “She cut the shirtless photos. Said I was ‘the first one made me sound like a cologne ad that’s banned in most countries.’ Her words. Not mine.”

“I love your family already,” Lydia said, still wheezing. Désirée sneezed under the table, as if in agreement.

Charles looked at her sideways. “So… you’re not running?”

“No,” she said, smiling. “But I am making fun of you for this forever.”

He laughed—really laughed. The kind that surprised him. The kind that had been stuck behind his ribs since Sophie. The kind he didn’t know he missed until this exact moment.

Then Lydia, still grinning, reached across the table and stole half his croissant with zero shame.

Charles blinked at her, stunned.

“So… am I meeting your mum on the second date or the third?” He nearly choked on his espresso.

She leaned closer and said, very softly, “I’m really glad you showed up—even if it took your brother, your mother, and a deeply haunted dating app to make it happen,”

And Charles, soft, stunned, grinning like a fool, thought:

I’m screwed. She’s it. Leo’s going to need a tux.

***

Group Chat: Les Leclercs

Charles: I met her.

Arthur: WHO LYDIA??

Charles: Yes.

Arthur: IS SHE REAL OR WAS THAT PROFILE A TRAP LAID BY A SUPERNATURAL ENTITY??

Charles: She’s real. And not a ghost. Unless ghosts can steal your croissant and your soul in the same hour.

Lorenzo: Define “steal your soul.”

Charles: She laughed at my confession. Not at me. With me. Said she’s making fun of me forever and then ate half my pastry like it was her birthright.

Lorenzo: ...I think you’re in love.

Arthur: WAIT. BACK UP. YOU TOLD HER???

Charles: I panicked. She asked what my risotto confession was and it just— came out.

Pascale: And what did she say?

Charles: She laughed. Like, full-body, eyes-crinkled, gorgeous laugh. Then said she loved my family already.

Pascale: She has taste.

Arthur: I AM A GENIUS.

Lorenzo: You’re a liability.

Arthur: A romantic visionary. I BROUGHT THIS WOMAN INTO OUR LIVES.

Charles: You catfished her.

Arthur: Tomato, tomahto.

Pascale: Invite her to Sunday lunch.

Charles: Already did.

Arthur: WHAT

Lorenzo: WHAT

Pascale: Good boy.

Charles: She said yes. She wants to meet the people responsible for her favorite romantic heist.

Arthur: I’m going to cry

Lorenzo: Please don’t.

Arthur: Do you think Désirée would let me hold her?? Or is that reserved for emotionally mysterious men and premium-grade deli meats?

Charles: She said you need to pass an emotional vibe check.

Arthur: I AM an emotional vibe check.

Charles: Anyway. I like her. I really like her.

Arthur: Can I make a speech at the wedding?

Charles: Absolutely not.

Arthur: ...Too late. Already drafting one.

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bitebitekxll · 5 months ago

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Do they purr - genshin non-humans

៚ Zhongli ✧ Xiao ✧ Wanderer ✧ Albedo ✧ Venti

Notes: Holy hell how do I have 50 followers??? THANK YOU EVERYONE FOR SUPPORTING MY SILLY MUSINGS. This literally was just my way to learn how to write smut and post self-indulgent head canons but I’m glad people are enjoying this with me :DDDD

𝐙𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐈 ᥫ᭡

Yes, 100%. He will deny it every time but lay on this man’s chest, maybe press a kiss to his jaw, and his chest is going like a fucking engine. He will insist that it’s not a purr, it’s simply a content growl— or perhaps a rumble, at most. He isn’t some measly cat, after all, he is a mighty dragon, the Prime Adeptus—

It’s definitely a purr.

Get him a cat ear hairband. He will give you the most long-suffering, unamused look while he wears them, but he will wear them. Anything for his beloved ♡~

𝐗𝐈𝐀𝐎 ᥫ᭡

No, unfortunately. You have found no evidence that your stone-faced Yaksha is capable of emitting a purr, or purr-like sound (though certainly not for lacking of trying).

However… there is the matter of whether he is able to trill or coo like a bird, given that is his true nature.

He gets annoyed when you ask him, adamant that is not something he can do, and how dare you even entertain such a notion. Have you no respect for the adepti? Hmph.

…but you swear you’ve heard him chirp when you catch him off guard: kissing him without warning or praising him unabashedly.

It seems this will require further investigation.

𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐀 ᥫ᭡

Not purring, but whirring!! Got this idea from @seabirdtxt ‘s Glitch in Irminsul fic (it’s SAGAU focused on the diff vers of scara existing at the same time, go read it it’s great) and it just makes so much sense to me.

As a mechanical puppet, and an advanced one at that, Scara has tons of machinery going on inside of him. Though it usually can’t be heard, if you get especially close to his chest— a privilege only reserved for you and maybe Nahida during hugs —you can hear the whirring and clicking of his moving parts inside. It doesn’t sound the same as a purr, not exactly, but it’s pretty damn close.

Most of the time it’s pretty faint, but sometimes Scara might just make it louder— it’s got nothing to do with the way your face lights up or how you smile when you hear it, don’t be stupid.

Of course, the only way he can make the noise louder is by overworking his system, making the parts inside move faster than they’re supposed to. If he does it too much or for too long, well…

You’ll know it’s time to lecture him on taking better care of himself when he starts burning up. Overheating is the first sign he’s about to overload his system and shut down (or from everyone else’s perspective: pass out).

You’re the only one who can make him stupid enough to be willing to break his own mechanisms just to see that adorable ridiculous expression on your face. (He might come back to his senses in a petulant huff if you start calling him a cat, tho)

𝐀𝐋𝐁𝐄𝐃𝐎 ᥫ᭡

Sadly, purring is not a feature homunculi come with. But this is Albedo we’re talking about, he can definitely figure it out.

He won’t tell you just what idea you’ve sparked with your question— you always worry when he starts self-experimenting —but it’ll be fine! He takes all the necessary precautions, limits any risk, because there’s always some risk in life, and downs a concoction or two in his quest to see if he can change the makeup of his own body. As an artificial life form, he’s less delicate than an organic one, so he doesn’t need to worry about pesky issues like rearranging his (non-existent) organs in a fatal manner.

And it works! Well, sort of. You come back home to a boyfriend that is fully capable of purring!! And also!! Has, uh, cat ears…

Albedo would consider it a success— he accomplished his goal, even if there were a few side effects. And you get a pretty catboy equipped with the cute, twitching ears and a fuzzy blonde tail; everybody wins! ♡

Of course, there’s always the chance his experiment just turns him into a cat entirely… but it wears off after a day or so, so it’s not the worst thing Albedo’s done to himself.

Either way, congratulations, he can now purr for the next 24 hours. And regardless of his cat-to-boy ratio, he will be expecting pets. Get to it~

𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈 ᥫ᭡

He has bird vocalisations! Except he’s worse at hiding it then Xiao may or may not be. It’s not outright chirping, but it is a cooing trill in the back of his throat, too vibrational to be a regular hum.

It’s the sound he makes when he’s perfectly content, laying in a warm patch of sun on the soft grass, sat atop a roof with alcohol warming his veins, and curled up in your arms, round cheek smushed against your chest. He takes in a deep breath, filling his lungs with your scent, and then releasing it in a sigh, accompanied by the musical tones of his little trill.

He makes shorter ones when he’s pleasantly surprised; when you unexpectedly toss him an apple or pat his head. He’ll grin or lean into the touch and make that sound in his throat. Too quiet to be heard by the people around you over the din of the town, but you’ll hear it. It’s a sound just for you ♡

#salemwritesathing #genshin hcs #genshin x reader #zhongli x reader #wanderer x reader #scara x reader #scaramouche x reader #xiao x reader #albedo x reader #venti x reader #genshin fic

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thepencilnerd · 3 months ago

Text

Echo

pairing: Jack Abbot x doctor!Reader summary: Under the bright lights of a fundraising gala, what began as polite smiles and veiled jabs unravels into something far more intimate. Between rooftop confessions, quiet grief, and a night neither party can take back, something buried for years finally comes undone. warnings: 18+ MDNI, explicit sexual content (semi-public sex, f!reader), blood and trauma in a hospital setting, description of medical procedures and deaths genre/notes: slow burn, frenemies to lovers (much banter), robby cameo + being a father figure, heavy angst + heavy fluff, hurt/comfort, emotionally repressed idiots in love, non-linear timeline, one (1) very touch-starved man, abbot down bad for his s.o. and def has a pain kink, balcony sex + confessions, pwp word count: 9k a/n: love letter to grief, rooftop confessions, and all the things left unsaid (+ shameless, self-indulgent smut), basically i saw this dress on pinterest and i—

The hospital’s annual fundraiser was all overpriced wine and board member schmoozing—the kind of thing Jack Abbot usually avoided. He and Robby had spent the better part of the week arguing with Gloria about why they really didn’t need to be the ones attending.

“But who better to represent the emergency department than its finest?” Gloria had smiled with teeth. "Unless, of course, you'd prefer we reallocate your trauma bay supply order for next fiscal quarter?"

Abbot had muttered something under his breath. Robby had called it extortion. Gloria had walked away victorious.

“If she reassigns our trauma supply budget one more time, I swear to God I’m quitting,” Robby had muttered, though they both knew he wouldn’t.

“Right there with you, brother,” Jack had said dryly.

Which was how he ended up in a suit, lingering by the bar with his tie already loosened.

The gala was obscene in its extravagance. A live string quartet played near the grand staircase. Crystal chandeliers caught every glint of champagne. Rich donors floated from one hors d'oeuvre table to the next, laughing politely and stuffing their faces with canapés that probably cost more than a full day of supplies for the ER.

It made Jack sick.

Not the donations—he appreciated those. Hell, the hospital needed them. But the tone of it, the way money moved through the room like perfume: thick, cloying, and designed to mask something rotten underneath. The people here didn’t know what a trauma bay smelled like at 3 a.m. They didn’t care. They were here to write a check, slap their name on a wing, and pretend it made them saints.

Jack took a sip of his club soda and stared at the bottom of his glass.

He wanted to gouge his eyes out. He just wasn’t sure which fork to use.

Scanning the room, his eyes landed on Robby across the space, mid-conversation with a bejeweled donor who looked like she’d never set foot inside a hospital ward. Robby’s eyes caught Jack’s for the briefest second and widened—just enough to scream help me. Jack raised his glass and shot him a wink.

Then he saw you. He'd recognize your stride anywhere.

What he definitely hadn’t expected was the red satin dress.

Floor-length, plunging back, slit high at the left thigh, the kind of fabric that caught the light like it was trying to start a fire. When you walked into the room, it was almost as though time stopped. You were across the room, charming some rich donor, laughing politely as he fumbled through a question about pediatric trauma outcomes.

Jack didn’t hear the question. He didn’t hear your answer either.

As you turned away from the donor, your bright smile dropped like a mask torn off. Your jaw clenched. You let out a tight breath through your nose, barely more than a sigh. It was the kind of reaction only someone who’d seen you under a hundred different kinds of stress might catch.

Then you looked up and locked eyes with him. You froze.

Goddamn did Jack Abbot look good in a suit.

Salt-and-pepper curls styled just enough to look deliberate, not overdone. The tux hugged his frame perfectly—sharp at the shoulders, tailored at the waist, cutting the kind of silhouette that belonged on a magazine cover instead of an ER floor. He’d even opted for a close shave, his normally stubbled facial hair absent. And his tie—loosened just a touch too much—left a sliver of his throat visible, collar open like he’d tried to behave and gave up halfway through the evening.

You didn’t smile. Neither did he.

But neither of you looked away.

The first time you met Dr. Jack Abbot, you were fresh off your fourth twelve-hour day shift that week. For the first two years of your residency, you’d been under Robby’s wing—solid, day-shift training, plenty of first-time experiences, and a support system that kept you steady. But when it came time to switch rotations, it was Robby who recommended you move to nights.

"More fast-paced," he’d reasoned. "Higher stakes. They could use your skills. You’re ready."

You’d heard about Jack Abbot by then. Everyone had. Ex-military. Brilliant. Demanding. A damn good trauma attending, and an even tougher mentor. You were equal parts intrigued and warned.

The ED hallway was buzzing, but you didn’t miss the way Jack paused as you approached. He glanced at your badge, then at your posture—upright, composed, betraying none of the exhaustion you carried—and finally at the trauma board.

“Hope you’re fast,” was all he said, voice low and dry, like a test he didn’t expect you to pass.

Turns out, you were more than fast. You were precise. Efficient. Clinical.

When a GSW came in thirty minutes later—a young man with a single penetrating wound to the upper abdomen—you and Abbot stepped in together. He hung back just enough to supervise, giving you space to lead the resuscitation while staying close.

You scanned the vitals: hypotensive, tachycardic, altered mentation. “GSW to the upper abdomen, likely mesenteric involvement. Initial BP was 80/40 with HR in the 130s, GCS at 13 but trending downward. Type and crossmatch. Two units O-neg. Prep for a laparotomy?” you asked, assessing quickly as you reached for gloves. Abbot nodded once, already handing you a sterile gown without a word.

He didn’t stop you, but he didn’t let you coast either.

“What’s your plan if the pressure doesn’t stabilize after the second unit?” he asked as you both finished gowning up.

“Call for a third, reassess fluid responsiveness, consider vasopressors if no improvement,” you replied, already focused.

“And if there’s massive hemoperitoneum?”

“Prioritize source control. Suction, pack, find the bleeder.”

Jack gave a small, approving hum. Then you glanced back at him, sharp, poised. He was holding out the handle of a blade to you—steady, without fanfare.

“I’m not handling it,” he said matter-of-factly. “You are.”

You blinked once, then reached for the blade. Gloved fingers curled around the handle as the rest of the room faded into peripheral noise. It was your show now—and he was trusting you to lead it.

The team moved quickly. You made the incision, suctioned blood, clamped the bleeder—a mesenteric vessel torn clean. Laparotomy pads soaked in seconds. Abbot kept an eye on the monitor, watching your hands. You found the source and controlled it, methodical and focused, with Jack’s quiet presence steady behind your shoulder.

Jack nodded once, the faintest glimmer of something like approval in his eyes. After the patient was wheeled off to the OR, gloves off and adrenaline still thrumming beneath your skin, he tossed you a saline flush and a towel. The rest of the team was still moving in organized flurries, cleaning up the bay, resetting trays, pulling down blood-streaked drapes. You peeled off your gloves slowly, breath catching up to you now that the adrenaline was fading.

The smell of antiseptic, blood, and sweat clung to everything. Your scrub top was damp with effort. And still, Jack hadn’t said anything else. Just watched you like he was recalibrating something in his head. Taking the measure of you.

“Not bad,” he said.

You raised a brow. “Not bad?”

He smirked. “Guess we’ll keep you. Though I should probably check the return policy with Robby before the trial period ends.”

Then, lower—just for you: “Though going nipples to navel on that first cut? That’s no man’s land. Bit too risky of a procedure for me to do myself.”

You blinked, thrown off your axis, trying to decide if he was being sarcastic or sincere—or both. “What?”

But Jack was already walking away, gloves off, like he hadn’t just left you standing there like a deer in headlights.

You weren’t expecting to see him either.

Jack Abbot in a tux. Sharp lapels. Cuffs neat. Hair styled but slightly tousled like he hadn’t quite figured out how to look formal without messing it up on purpose. Heat rose to your face, tinting it the color of the rosé being served tonight.

Turning around, you reached for a flute of champagne to occupy your thoughts. He’d just crossed the room, weaving past a pair of donors discussing their latest golf fundraiser, his eyes never leaving you. The clink of glass and silver faded just enough for you to hear the soft brush of his dress shoes stop beside yours.

“Red,” he said, nodding toward your dress. "Didn’t think it was in your rotation." He caught the soft trace of your perfume just as you inhaled the quiet warmth of his cologne.

You arched a brow. “Tux? Let me guess—last worn at prom?”

He huffed a laugh. The corner of his mouth tilted. "Wouldn't you like to know."

“Not really,” you smirked.

He leaned a little closer, voice low. "How’d Gloria rope you into this mess?"

You took a sip of champagne, letting the bubbles fizz on your tongue before replying, “She said the hospital needed a pretty face for the press photos.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “And you volunteered willingly, I assume?”

“I did. She said she wanted someone who wasn’t going to mention sock puppets in his opening speech.”

Jack tilted his head. "So you pointed her to literally anyone but me and Robby."

You smiled into your glass. “You and Robby are very pretty. Just not ‘donate-millions-of-dollars’ pretty.”

He cracked a grin. “Fair enough.”

You both leaned back slightly, falling into a rare pocket of easy quiet.

“If I'm being honest,” he said after a breath, “these things make my skin crawl. Donors patting themselves on the back for saving lives they’ve never seen.”

“Agreed,” you murmured. “It’s like they want the moral gold star without the 2 a.m. trauma call. Or the third straight shift without sleep.”

Jack glanced sideways at you. “Or the resident paycheck that barely covers rent.”

You let out a dry laugh. “And definitely not the part where we spend a decade training, rack up six figures of debt, and still have to fight for safe staffing ratios.”

He nodded once, quiet. “But hey, at least they get their name etched onto a plaque of a hallway they'll get lost in.”

"God," you sighed. "I'd love to switch places with them for a day."

Jack snorted. “Five minutes in a trauma bay and they’d be crying into their cufflinks.”

You were about to take another sip when you paused. “You realize you’re wearing cufflinks.”

“Which is why I’m drinking soda instead of champagne. Keeps me grounded.”

A quiet breath escaped you, the corner of your mouth twitching. “Your commitment to moral superiority is truly inspiring.”

He gave you a narrowed look, not quite smiling but close. “Someone’s gotta keep the place honest.”

You smiled to yourself, looking down and shaking your head, before excusing yourself to go charm another cluster of donors. “See you around—Jack.”

You’d only ever said his first name once before.

He noticed.

Jack stood there a second too long, stunned, watching your retreating back like he wasn’t sure what just happened—or why it mattered so much.

The patient was coding. Jack was tied up in Room 3 with a liver lac. You were alone when Trauma 2 rolled in—blunt trauma, hypotensive, bleeding out.

You didn’t wait. “I need two large-bore IVs, rapid sequence intubation kit, and thoracotomy tray—stat,” you barked to the team, already moving. “Start the MTP now.”

You slid the laryngoscope in cleanly, tube placed with practiced precision.

“Vitals are dropping,” a nurse called out.

“I know,” you forced out. “Keep pushing the units.”

The tray snapped open beside you. You didn’t hesitate. Just in case.

Abbot walked in right as you pulled your hands back, already prepped.

His eyes flicked from the open thoracotomy tray to the line placement to your gloved hands, bloody up to the wrists. He froze mid-step.

Then, without missing another beat, he stepped in beside you. “What the hell?” he muttered, voice low and calm. He didn’t raise it. He never did when it really mattered.

His presence was immediate—like someone flipping a switch—and suddenly the entire bay adjusted to him, calibrated around the two of you.

You didn’t look at him. Just adjusted your grip and said, “Vitals holding. Pressure’s up.”

“Balloon’s a little high,” he murmured, his voice almost too soft to hear over the hum of monitors.

You didn’t flinch, but your pulse jumped. “Adjusted,” you said, fingers tightening slightly on the handle as you recalibrated, eyes glued to the screen.

A beat passed. Then another.

The pressure crept upward. Slowly. Steadily.

The patient stabilized.

You exhaled quietly through your nose, trying to ignore the chill of adrenaline threading down your spine. Jack was still watching you—too closely. And you couldn’t tell if he was impressed or pissed or both. He didn’t say anything for a long moment.

When you finally looked up, his eyes locked with yours—steady, unreadable, searching like he was still deciding how angry he was allowed to be.

“You never should’ve done that without approval from an attending,” he said quietly, the words measured but firm, laced with something heavier beneath the surface.

You nodded, jaw clenched. “Understood.”

Jack stepped closer. Lowered his voice.

“But that was pretty badass. You just saved a life. Good job.”

Then he turned and left the trauma bay. The moment lingered—his words echoing in your ears louder than they should have.

Every pair of eyes seemed to shift away once he left, the noise of the trauma bay gradually returning to its usual rhythm. Monitors beeped. Carts wheeled past. Gloves peeled off with a quiet snap and hit the bin. Hands—steady during the crisis—now trembled faintly.

Pride lingered. So did fear. And you weren’t sure which feeling was winning.

Outside by the nurses' bay, Jack was leaning against the wall, one foot braced behind him, chart in hand but not moving. His gaze was distant—somewhere far beyond the clipboard. A crooked smirk ghosted across his lips, then faded as quickly as it had come. He was still thinking about what you'd done. How steady your hands had been. How much you'd grown.

He’d been impressed. He’d also been scared.

That kind of procedure… it wasn’t something he’d ever do lightly. And you? You hadn’t hesitated. Not out of recklessness, but because you’d known it was the right call. The only call.

"Ballsy," he muttered under his breath. "Damn near reckless."

But his chest swelled—quietly, privately—with something that felt a lot like pride.

The third time you ran into each other that night, it wasn’t by accident.

You were leaning against a balcony railing, champagne nearly gone. One glass hadn’t been enough to drown out the unbearable jargon and vapid conversations—but you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t go overboard tonight. Just enough to appear socially well-versed.

The night had cooled, the breeze brushing goosebumps along your bare arms. Jack found you there, hands in his pockets, jacket unbuttoned, eyes catching on the subtle shiver that moved through your frame.

“You always hide from donors this early?” he asked.

You didn’t need to turn to know it was him. You’d heard those footsteps enough times to recognize the rhythm—the soft, sure cadence of someone who never rushed but never wandered. A grin tugged at the corner of your mouth before you could stop it. Subtle. Reflexive. Familiar.

“Only the boring ones.”

He smirked and stepped beside you, pulling his jacket off with one fluid motion.

Before you could say anything, he draped it over your shoulders—slow, deliberate. His fingers brushed your bare arm on the way down. The heat of him lingered even through the fabric. And then there was the scent of his cologne—clean, sharp, and grounded by something warmer beneath it. The scent made your chest ache with something unnameable—familiar, steady, a little too easy to lean into. It curled in your lungs, lingered in the back of your throat. Your knees dipped slightly, an involuntary response you buried with practiced ease. You’d never admit that, of course. Not even to yourself.

“You’ll freeze,” he said, voice quiet, almost an afterthought.

You didn’t correct him. Just glanced up. He was already looking at you.

“You look good,” he said finally.

Your brow raised.

“In red,” he added, softer this time.

You didn’t say thank you. Just looked at him. Let it sit there for a moment—heavy, a little too charged to touch.

"If you keep being nice to me, people are going to start wondering if the sodas were spiked."

That earned you a low chuckle, the corner of his mouth tugging upward in that infuriatingly subtle way he smiled when he actually meant it.

"Guess I'll have to ruin it with a sober insult later," he said.

You gave him a dry stare. "Looking forward to it."

The air between you tightened, warm and brittle. He shifted just slightly closer, like something unspoken pulled him there.

You shot him a sidelong glance, trying to smother the tension with humor. “Don’t you have some attractive widows to go butter up?”

His lips twitched. “Already secured donations from all of them,” he said, only half joking. Then, quieter, with a faint shrug: “None of them were interesting.”

That gave you pause.

“I prefer women with poor work-life balance and sharp comebacks.” He looked at you again, the curve of his mouth bordering on a real smile now. "You?"

"Hm," you hummed to yourself. "I prefer women with competitive streaks and sharp eyeliner. And men with stress-induced insomnia, commitment issues, and the emotional availability of a damp dishrag."

Jack huffed out a quiet laugh. "Bold of you to describe my entire personality like it's a turn-on."

"If the shoe fits," you murmured, toying with your empty glass.

He looked at you then—really looked. Head tilted just enough to feel like he was trying to read something between the lines.

"It’s always the sharp ones," he said. "Cut deepest, don’t they?"

Your lips twitched. "Funny. I was just thinking the same about emotionally repressed men in positions of authority."

"Touché."

But neither of you moved further.

Jack’s voice lowered, something quieter threading through. “You know, for what it’s worth… I notice. How hard you work. How much you give.”

That caught you off guard. The words settled in your chest, raw and warm. You swallowed around them.

“Then I hope you notice how often it gets overlooked,” you said, voice softer now. “By everyone else.”

His eyes flicked toward yours, something unreadable in them. Like he wanted to say something else. Like maybe he would.

“Hey!”

Robby’s voice cut through the air like a 10-blade.

You turned, blinking back to the present. Robby's head was poking out of the curtains, waving a hand. “Sorry to interrupt your… mood lighting, but I need to help charm this silver fox donor who won’t stop talking about his golf handicap and yacht collection. Won’t stop asking for the 'hot doctor with attitude.' So naturally, I assumed he meant you.”

You glanced back at Jack, reluctant.

He gave you a nod, but didn’t say anything. Just watched you go.

Before you turned to leave, you slid the jacket from your shoulders and held it out to him. Jack stepped forward to take it, but his fingers brushed yours—warm, lingering, just a second longer than necessary.

His jaw tightened for half a breath—barely perceptible—before he masked it, reaching to take the jacket with a small nod. His fingers brushed yours again as he pulled it into his arms. The warmth still clung to it—so did your scent. Subtle, familiar, something floral and grounding. It curled in his chest as he inhaled, slow and quiet, like he didn’t mean to. As you walked away, you felt the weight of his gaze follow you—sharp, lingering, impossible to shake. Like he was still holding something back—he wasn’t quite ready to let you go.

Once you were gone, he allowed himself to bring the jacket up to his face and breathe in lightly, letting the remaining trace of you settle in his lungs. It lingered—clean, unmistakable, and quietly devastating.

With each year, the line between rivalry and familiarity blurred just a little more.

It wasn’t just that you were the senior-most resident anymore—it was that you were his senior-most resident. The one who matched him pace for pace in trauma bays, who called out orders with the same clipped authority, who rolled your eyes at his sarcastic one-liners only to throw them right back at him.

Jack gave you a hard time. You gave it right back.

It started as cold professionalism. Then it turned sharp. Competitive. Then somehow... comfortable.

“Think you can manage this without slicing through the aorta this time?” Jack murmured once during a late night thoracotomy.

“Only if you don’t pass out from blood loss first, old man,” you replied smoothly.

“Old man,” he repeated under his breath. “Remind me why I let you lead in my trauma bay?”

“Because I’m the best.”

He didn’t respond. Just passed the next instrument with a soft, resigned smirk.

There was a night Shen caught you both bickering over a chart like a married couple.

"The guy had a fever and a murmur—of course I’m thinking endocarditis," you said, exasperated, scribbling into the margins.

"And I’m saying we still need to rule out pulmonary embolism first," Jack shot back, arms crossed, watching you like a hawk.

"I’m writing the note," you reminded him.

"Are you going to type it up for me too?"

"If you want it to be legible."

Jack scoffed, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

That’s when Shen passed by, shook his head, and muttered under his breath, "Just kiss already."

Neither of you responded. Jack’s pen stilled in his hand. You didn’t look at him. He didn’t look at you.

But later that night, as you leaned against the med station reviewing labs, he passed behind you, fingers grazing your lower back as he brushed by.

Casual. Too casual. And yet, your breath caught anyway.

You didn’t talk about it.

You never talked about it.

But it was there, all the same.

Back inside, the ballroom lights felt too bright. You smiled at a passing donor, glass still in hand, but your mind was still outside—on the breeze, on his jacket, on the way Jack had looked at you like he wasn’t ready to let you go.

You found yourself drifting toward the edge of the room, eyes scanning unconsciously. Jack had disappeared into the crowd.

Or so you thought.

“Looking for me?”

You turned to see him at your side again, now holding two drinks—one club soda, one bubbling glass.

You raised an eyebrow. “Trying to get me trashed on overpriced spirits, Dr. Abbot?”

“I would, if this were alcohol.” He offered the glass to you. “It’s ginger ale.”

You eyed it suspiciously, then took it anyway. “Classy.”

He tilted his head, lips twitching. “You called me Jack earlier.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.” The bubbles soothed your stomach, uneasy from all the talking and dizzy heights of empty small talk.

The quiet pressed in, heavy and hesitant, neither of you quite ready to fill it—but neither willing to walk away.

“Well, Dr. L/N,” he said, tone dipping into something light but curious, “how do you plan on spending the rest of your evening?”

You gave him a half-smile. “Getting some sleep. Or trying to.” You looked back out across the ballroom, then added, “I talked to Robby earlier—offered to be on-call for day shift tomorrow. Filling in for Langdon.”

Jack’s brows lifted. “Aren't you supposed to be off?”

“Yup. So are you,” you said, glancing at him.

His mouth twitched, but he didn’t deny it. You both knew the pattern by now—same days off, same shifts. Neither of you had ever pointed it out.

“What else would I do on a Friday?” There was something brittle in the joke, something quieter under it. “Work keeps me occupied.”

Jack watched you for a second longer, then said, softer this time, “You shouldn’t have to keep yourself occupied. It's okay to take a breather.”

You let out a dry breath of a laugh, the edge of a smile curling—biting, but small. “That’s rich coming from the only other person who works as many shifts as I do.”

Jack didn’t answer. He just stepped a little closer.

“You could’ve said no to being on-call,” he said. “Could’ve said you had plans.”

“I do,” you retorted. “Sleep for three hours. Chug coffee. Go back.”

Jack tipped his head, like he was trying to read more into your tone than you meant to give away. “Y/N—”

The name stopped you cold. You took a half-step back before you could think better of it, reflexive and immediate, voice clipped and low. “Don’t.”

That caught him off guard.

“I—sorry,” he said, brows furrowing slightly. “I just—”

“It’s fine,” you said quickly, too quickly.

Jack looked at you then, something close to understanding flickering in his eyes. As though he remembered, too. How could he forget?

The first time he'd said your name.

Blood on your scrubs. Tears in your throat. A patient you couldn't save.

He didn’t say anything else. Just nodded once, slowly, and let you go.

Then, just as his mouth parted to say something else—

“Dr. Abbot!” Gloria’s voice rang out from the other end of the ballroom, hand ushering him to come over. “The donor from Penn wants a word before he leaves!”

Jack clenched his jaw. His eyes lingered on yours.

“Rain check,” he said, voice low.

You didn’t answer, just gave a small nod as he walked away. And for a long moment after, you stayed where you were, ginger ale sweating in your hand.

You didn’t know it at the time, but this was the moment you’d remember whenever someone asked when medicine stopped being just medicine.

The trauma call came in: car accident, two parents and a child, maybe 8 or 9. The parents were in rough shape but still awake, still responsive—moaning through cracked ribs and splintered glass. The kid, though—blunt force, GCS 3 on arrival. Completely unresponsive. You felt it in your gut before the vitals even came in.

Jack was across the bay when the doors opened. He looked up once—nodded at you. “You’re lead. I'll stabilize the parents."

You didn’t hesitate. Airway, trauma labs, two large-bore IVs. Portable chest. Fast scan. You called it all before the stretcher stopped moving.

The child’s body was limp. Small. Already pale. The pressure in your chest felt like a dam ready to burst.

You intubated with steady hands, but your voice faltered—just slightly—when you called for epinephrine. Jack appeared beside you somewhere around the second round of compressions, gloves on, silent. Watching. Present.

“Vitals still unstable,” someone called from behind you. “BP 62 over palp. Pulse weak. We’re pushing TXA now.” At least he'd stabilized the parents, you thought. If he could save them, you could save their little girl.

Four bags of blood and 18 minutes of chest compressions. The monitor stayed flat.

Still, you kept going. Pushing meds. Calling for another round. Someone offered to take over for compressions, murmured that you needed a break. You shook your head. “I’m fine.”

Then again, more firmly. “I’ve got it.”

No one tried to argue. You were lead. You had it.

Even as your arms began to ache. Even as the blood kept pooling, the compressions rhythmically jarring through your bones. You wouldn’t stop. Couldn’t. The team was moving around you, quiet, reverent.

Then Jack stepped in closer.

“Monitor hasn't picked up a rhythm in 12 minutes,” he said gently. “We can't keep up with the blood loss. There's too much internal damage. You know this.”

You shook your head, barely perceptible, and kept going. Compressing, counting, calling for another round of epi.

Jack’s voice stayed level. “Anyone else would’ve been pronounced dead at the scene.”

You ignored him. Just a few more compressions and transfusions and she'd come back.

Then—

“Y/N.”

That made you freeze.

Your name. His voice.

Your hands were still trembling against the child’s chest.

You looked at the monitor. Heard the continuous tone. Flatline.

No pulse.

“Call it,” Jack pleaded softly.

Your voice was quiet. Hoarse. Cold.

“Time of death, 03:17.”

You stepped back, stripped your gloves off slowly. Fingers stained with blood you couldn’t stop from spilling. Jack said nothing. He didn’t leave.

You swallowed hard, trying to force the tears down. To breathe through the break in your chest.

Jack didn’t touch you this time. He just stood there.

Let you fall apart, silently.

Then you ripped off your gloves and threw them hard into the bin, the sound louder than it had any right to be. You turned and stormed out of the trauma bay without looking back, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

That was the first time he said your name.

And it pulled you back. You never forgot it.

Sometimes you wished you had.

Back inside, the music had changed.

You’d barely rejoined the crowd when the lights dimmed and the emcee called out for the first dance of the evening.

Across the ballroom, Jack saw you before you saw him. You were standing near the edge of the crowd, nursing the last of your drink, the weight of something invisible pressing into your posture.

But you weren’t alone. A tall man—one of the younger donors—had his hand on your arm, leaning in to say something. He offered you his hand.

Jack’s jaw tensed.

He didn’t move—at first. Just watched as you smiled politely, took the man's hand, let him lead you to the dance floor.

It was brief. Chaste. Just a dance. But Jack hated the way the guy's hand lingered at your waist. Hated how close he stood, how you nodded along to something he said, even if your smile didn’t reach your eyes.

A minute later, you gently swapped out with Robby, excusing yourself from your first partner. Robby took your hand with a flourish and spun you once like a game show host. You smiled for the first time in hours.

"You okay?" he asked gently, settling into a slower sway with you.

You shrugged. "Long week."

Robby gave you a dad-look. "Anything in particular on your mind, or just the usual existential dread?"

A quiet laugh escaped, softer than you meant for it to. "Just the usual, I guess."

For a while, the two of you swayed in silence. Robby’s gaze stayed soft. "You’ve been a little quiet lately. Even more than usual. You sleeping okay? Eating?"

Instead of answering right away, your eyes drifted to his shoulder. "I’m fine."

"You always say that. Doesn’t mean I believe it."

A small, grateful smile curved your lips. Robby always knew how to make space—never too much, never too little. He left the door open without pushing you through it.

"You know I’ve got your back, right kid? You ever need to talk, about anything, even the stuff you think you’re not supposed to say out loud—come find me."

"Thanks, Robby. I mean it."

He gave your hand a gentle squeeze. "I know you do."

A voice cut in—low and smooth.

"Mind if I cut in?"

You turned.

Jack stood there, one hand extended. He didn’t look at Robby. He didn’t need to.

Robby chuckled under his breath and stepped aside. "She’s all yours."

Jack’s eyes met yours, steady and unreadable.

“Dance with me?” he asked, softer than you'd expected.

For a second, you didn’t answer. Your breath caught, mind still echoing with the last time you’d heard him say your name.

But then you nodded—slow, tentative—and slid your hand into his.

He guided you gently into step, the rhythm of the music slower than your pulse. His hand settled against your waist, warm and sure, like it had always belonged there. The other laced with yours, a silent tether.

You moved together with a surprising ease, like muscle memory forged in proximity, not practice. It wasn’t just a dance—it was a conversation. A quiet exchange, careful and cautious. Every shift of weight, every brush of fingers was a sentence neither of you dared speak aloud.

You didn’t look up right away. Couldn't. The proximity was dizzying. It wasn’t the champagne. It was him.

Jack’s voice came, low and even. “You always this good at pretending everything’s fine?”

You finally glanced up, something caught between a smile and a flinch playing on your face. “Only when I’m trying to impress a colleague.”

His mouth twitched, barely. “That why you always pull it together when I’m around?”

You didn’t answer.

Gliding across the floor, you felt like you were floating. And still, the weight of his hand at your waist grounded you.

You weren’t sure which was more dangerous: the silence, or the closeness.

“I used to think if I kept moving, I wouldn’t have to feel any of it,” you said, voice barely above the swell of the music. “But some things catch up to you anyway.”

Jack’s grip shifted slightly, not tighter, just… more present. “Running works—until it doesn’t.”

A beat passed.

“I don’t run,” you said quietly.

He met your eyes. “No. You bury it. Same result, different damage.”

You exhaled through your nose, something between a laugh and a sigh. “Funny. Thought we were dancing, not diagnosing.”

“We can do both,” he said, dry but not unkind. “I go to therapy. You slow dance at charity galas.”

Your gaze flicked to his lips, then away. “Guess my way is cheaper since I'm not paying for any of the wine or dine.”

Jack’s hand at your waist didn’t budge. If anything, it steadied you more.

“Y/N,” he said after a moment, voice gentler now. Like he was handing something over. Like he wanted you to take it.

Your shoulders tensed. Jaw muscles flexed.

He noticed.

You looked up, met his gaze, and said, quieter than before but with unmistakable weight, “Jack, you’re walking on thin ice.”

He didn’t flinch. But something flickered in his expression—something equal parts affection and surrender.

You only used each other’s names when it mattered.

The only difference was: he loved it. You hated it.

The hospital had quieted for the night, but the kind of quiet that screamed underneath.

You assisted on his last case—another loss, but this one had cut deeper than usual. Maybe it was the way Jack had gone cold, all clinical control and efficiency… until the voice crack. Just a flicker. A tremor. He’d kept going, ordering transfusions, calling vitals, his tone even until it wasn’t. You saw it—behind the focused eyes, there was fear.

You were the one standing next to him when he finally called it.

You found him up there—on the roof—where the city lights couldn’t quite wash out the weight in his shoulders. Jack was staring out past the edge, hands in his coat pockets, the wind catching just enough to make his scrubs flutter at the hem.

You didn’t speak right away. Just stood a few paces behind him, letting your presence fill the space before your voice did.

“I figured I’d find you up here.”

Jack didn’t turn. “Shouldn’t you be home?”

“I had to wrap up some charting.”

A beat.

“They were a veteran,” he said. “Had a daughter who just got into college.”

You took a step closer. “That wasn’t your fault.”

He let out a quiet, humorless sound. “I know. Doesn’t help.”

You hesitated, then moved beside him, standing shoulder to shoulder.

“I must have had a reason at one time to keep coming back," he murmured, “but I can't think of it right now."

You didn’t have an answer.

But you said his name.

“Jack.”

It was the first time you’d said it out loud. Not Dr. Abbot. Not anything guarded. Just him.

He turned then, slowly.

“Don’t shut down on me,” you said. “Not tonight.”

The wind carried your words away, but he heard them. You saw it in the way his jaw tightened. The way his shoulders dropped just slightly.

“I don’t know how to stay,” he said, voice rough.

“You don’t have to stay alone.”

He glanced at you then—just briefly, like eye contact might split him open.

You searched his face, thinking back to the moment in the trauma bay where he called it. Where his voice cracked but didn’t waver. Where his gloved hands were steady even though his eyes gave him away. You’d never seen him look like that before—so composed, so clinical, and still, so unmistakably human.

The memory stuck to your ribs.

“I know it’s not fair,” you said, voice low. “That we carry the worst of them home. That we never get to know if we were enough.”

Jack didn’t speak. But he didn’t move either. That was something. So you added, a little too soft, “But you are. You are enough.”

A long silence.

Then, to break it—because it felt like too much—you rolled your shoulder and said, “Robby’s gonna kick your ass if you jump off during his shift.”

Jack huffed, the sound barely audible but real.

“Come on,” you added, nodding toward the stairwell. “Let’s get off this roof before someone reports us for loitering.”

You didn't move.

Not yet.

Just stood there in silence, waiting—not because you needed him to follow, but because you weren’t going anywhere without him.

And Jack came. Eventually. Quiet and heavy and slow, the shuffle of his shoes steadying against the roof's concrete.

He didn��t say anything. Just stepped beside you, close enough to share warmth but not break space.

Then you walked. Together. Not quite brushing shoulders, but close enough to feel it. Close enough to stay.

The night had grown heavier.

Somehow, you and Jack had found your way back to the balcony—again. It was quieter out here, the city humming beneath you, wind tugging softly at your hair. Your skin still held the memory of his hand at your waist. The music inside was muffled now, like the two of you had stepped out of the narrative entirely.

Jack leaned against the railing, but his gaze never left you. Something about the way he was looking—like he’d been holding back something for far too long.

You crossed your arms, more to anchor yourself than anything. “You’re staring.”

“You said my name,” he replied, voice low.

Your throat tightened. “You started it.”

He pushed off the railing, slow and deliberate. “You know what I mean.”

You didn’t back away. But your voice came sharper this time, more breath than warning. “Don’t. Don’t start something neither of us can come back from.”

That gave him pause. He looked like he wanted to say something—maybe everything—but bit it back. Jaw tight. Shoulders tense.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” Jack said. “But I can't keep pretending this is nothing.”

With a quiet breath, he confessed. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Your heart tripped.

“I try,” he continued, voice cracking. “God, I’ve tried. But you show up in every shift. Every damn quiet moment. I hear your voice when I walk through those doors. I look for you at every trauma call. And when you’re not there, it’s worse.”

You didn’t speak.

“I’ve been through hell,” he went on, stepping closer, “seen things I still don’t have names for—but none of it scares me the way you do. Because this?” He gestured between you. “This is real. And if I say it out loud, I don’t get to pretend anymore.”

Your breath hitched. “Jack…”

He looked at you, eyes tired and wide open. “Say something. Please.”

Your voice came out thinner than you meant. “You're my attending, we’re not supposed to—”

“I don’t care.”

The silence cracked wide open between you.

You let out a breath—shaky, exasperated.

"Fuck," you said, voice breaking. "What do you want me to say? That I can't stop thinking about you either? That I see your eyes every time I close mine—your smile, rare as it is, stuck in my head like a damn echo? That I come home and swear I can still smell your cologne because it’s the only thing that brings me any sense of comfort?"

Your hands were trembling now. You didn’t stop—couldn't.

"Pretending this means nothing is easier than risking what happens if it actually matters. Because if it does—Jack—"

Jack caught you before you could even get the words out. His mouth was on yours, rough and unyielding, and you didn’t stop him. Didn’t want to. You kissed him like you meant it, because fucking hell, did you mean it.

When your back hit the wall beside the balcony doors with a quiet thud, he pressed closer, hands framing your jaw like you were something to be memorized.

There was nothing polite in the way you touched each other now. Just years of tension, unspoken things, and the desperate need to feel something real.

You didn’t let go.

Neither did he.

His lips trailed lower, brushing the hinge of your jaw before nipping gently at your neck. The sound you made—half breath, half shock—only seemed to spur him on.

“Then don’t pretend,” Jack whispered against your skin, voice rough and reverent. “Let yourself have this. Let us have this.”

Your hands cradled the sides of his face, fingers brushing across his cheekbones. All these years spent by his side and you hadn’t taken the time to admire his freckles.

You leaned in again, pressing your lips to his—slower now, deeper. One of his hands slid down your back, splaying across the small of it as if anchoring you in place. The other tangled into your hair, careful but needing.

You gasped when his hips met yours again, your breath catching between kisses. He pulled back just enough to look at you, cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide.

"I need you," you finally said.

And that was all he needed.

He rushed to close the curtains on the inside and lock the balcony doors before returning to you.

Your world narrowed to the way his mouth reclaimed yours, the press of his body, the heat building like a fuse lit too close to the end. Somewhere in the distance, the city kept moving. But here, in the quiet shelter of the balcony, there was only this.

Jack dropped to his knees, the motion fluid. You sucked in a breath as his hands slid up the backs of your thighs, coaxing one leg upward until your heel hooked over his shoulder. Your foot pressed gently against the curve of his back.

He tugged at the hem of your dress. You were already holding the hem of your dress, bunching it at your hips with practiced ease. The lace of your underwear was delicate, barely in the way—he hooked a finger around the side, sliding it with a slow, deliberate motion that made your breath hitch.

You were already soaked, and the way his eyes flicked up confirmed he knew it. He looked up at you once, eyes dark and unwavering, before leaning in.

His mouth was slow at first—exploring, learning you. The way your breath stuttered when his tongue found a sensitive spot, the way your fingers clenched in his hair. “You taste just as incredible as I imagined,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. When he inserted a finger and curled towards himself, you nearly buckled.

You didn’t mean to cry out, but it slipped past your lips, helpless and raw. Your hand flew up to cover your mouth, which made him smirk. He caught your elbow with his free hand, gently but insistently, pulling your hand away and intertwining your fingers into his hair. You gave his curls a tug and were met with a moan. It was impossible to hide the smug grin that painted your face.

“I want to hear you,” he murmured, voice thick with heat. His voice dipped lower, rougher.

You felt the press of the marble wall cool behind you as your back arched. One hand flew to the wall, the other gripping his shoulder as he kept going—steadfast, focused, like you were the only thing that existed. Like this was something he'd been starving for.

And maybe you had been too. Because every sound, every gasp that left you was honest.

You hiked your knee higher, anchoring your heel along the dip of his back. The dress had long since stopped mattering.

Jack’s grip tightened, one hand digging into the curve of your ass as he anchored you against the wall. His other hand slipped between your thighs, fingers sliding inside you with precision, curling until your legs nearly gave out.

"Jack, I'm—" You moaned into your clenched teeth, the sound too loud, too needy—but he wanted it, taking it in like oxygen.

Your head fell back against the wall with a soft thud, eyes fluttering closed as your breath came in shallow, stuttering waves. He didn’t let up. The rhythm was relentless, mouth and hand working in tandem, dragging you closer to the edge with every sweep, every flick, drinking you like water from a desert oasis. He stopped only when you tapped his cheek twice, silently begging for mercy.

Your skin glistened, painted with heat. Before he pulled away, Jack leaned in again, his tongue tracing the trails of your release up your inner thigh with slow, savoring strokes. Each pass of his mouth made you twitch, gasp, overstimulated but unwilling to stop. He kissed the soft skin in their wake.

When he finally looked up, his face was just as wrecked, jaw set and glistening with you. And the look in his eyes when he glanced up—hungry, worshipful—was enough to ruin you.

His lips were parted just slightly, chest rising and falling in quick, uneven bursts. “God, you’re perfect.” His eyes lifted to meet yours with something close to divine awe.

It came out quiet—like a confession he'd finally allowed himself to say out loud.

You leaned down and kissed him, tasting yourself on his tongue. He let out a low, contented sound against your mouth, one hand tightening around your thigh, the other still steadying your hip. You could feel the tension in him—tender, aching—as if the moment might slip through his fingers if he didn’t hold it close.

Your fingers slipped into your dress, pulling free a small foil square tucked just inside the cup of your bra. Jack blinked down at it, then back up at you, clearly caught off guard.

He raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

You shrugged, breathless. "Was holding it for a friend."

Jack smirked, eyes dragging down your body. "Sure you were."

You made quick work of his belt, unbuckling it and pushing his pants down just enough.

“He talks too much,” you muttered, smirking.

You looked down.

And stopped.

He was perfect. Cut, trimmed, thick, just the right length. The kind of sight that made your breath hitch. Your hand slid along his length with a few firm pumps—just enough to make him hiss between his teeth.

You couldn't resist. Lowered to your knees, gave him a few languid licks, savoring the taste. He whimpered, his hand gently gripping your hair—but not pulling, not yet.

After a few more pumps, Jack pulled you up by the chin with a bruising kiss, swallowing your gasp.

“I’m not coming anywhere but inside you,” he growled against your lips.

You smiled, teasing. “Maybe next time, then.” Your fingers trailed down the front of his dress shirt, feeling the heat of his body even through the fabric—muscles taut and firm beneath your touch.

Then you turned, facing the wall—cheeks hot, breath short. One hand braced flat against the cool marble, the other gathering the bunched fabric of your dress. You looked over your shoulder, eyes dark with want.

Jack swore under his breath. He moved behind you in a blur, hands rough on your hips as he lined himself up. The heat of him pressed against you, teasing, maddening.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice lower than gravel.

You pushed back, just enough for him to sink in, slow and deliberate. He filled you up inch by inch, warm and hot and perfect, making you gasp as your forehead pressed to the wall.

His hands wrapped around your hips as he bottomed out, his mouth dragging along your neck, teeth grazing your skin until he whispered a sharp, broken "fuck"—more to himself than to you. Like he was trying not to explode.

You tried to move, just a little forward, a little back—restless with need—but his hands tightened.

“Don’t,” he breathed. “Just—just give me a second. You feel fucking incredible.”

“Jack,” you whimpered.

If he clenched his teeth any harder, he might've popped his jaw. "Fuck, I love when you call me by my name."

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “Please.”

That undid him.

He gripped your hips tighter, fingertips digging into your supple flesh—just shy of bruising. The pain was delicious, grounding you to every thrust, every second of connection, hips rocking forward, slowly at first—deep, deliberate, like he wanted to feel every inch of you from the inside out. Each thrust sent a spark up your spine, your moans echoing softly. His mouth returned to your neck, biting just enough to leave a mark, his breath hot against your skin.

"You feel too good," he muttered, almost like it hurt. "Too good."

You tried to respond, but the words got lost somewhere in your throat as his pace picked up—harder, deeper, everything building.

Your hands flattened against the wall, bracing yourself as your body rocked with his rhythm. It was dizzying—overwhelming—in all the best ways. Every drag of his hips made your knees tremble, every grunt and growl in your ear pushed you closer to unraveling.

Without warning, he turned you around to face him. His eyes were blown wide, pupils dilated, chest heaving. He lifted your left leg with his right hand, supporting your thigh against his side as he surged forward again.

The angle had you seeing stars—vision spinning as he hit that spot inside you with maddening precision. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders as your head dropped forward against his.

Your hands clasped behind his neck, holding tight, desperate to keep him there. You raked your fingers through his curls, tugging hard enough to make him moan—and dragged your nails lightly down the back of his neck, leaving a faint trail of heat in their wake. His mouth found yours again—tongue hot, hungry—kissing you like he needed it to breathe. His left hand anchored you by the hip, grinding you against him as his rhythm deepened, pulling another cry from your throat.

There was nothing left but heat, hands, breath. And the way he looked at you like you were the only thing he'd ever wanted—needed.

"I'm yours," he whispered, forehead resting against yours, voice ragged. It wasn’t a declaration—it was a truth. Raw and full and real.

Your lips brushed his, trembling. “And I’m yours.”

The moment cracked open between you. You kissed him—desperate, hungry, chasing the high you were both barely holding onto.

You felt yourself teetering, the peak just within reach. Jack looked like he was holding back, focusing on keeping every muscle drawn tight with restraint—putting your pleasure before his. But you needed him there with you, completely.

You leaned into his ear, breath hot. “I need you to cum for me, Jack.” His fingers dug deeper into your hip. "I need you to fill me up." Your knee wrapped tighter around his torso, drawing him impossibly closer as you held him to you, clinging like he was the only thing keeping you grounded. You bit the curve of his neck, sharp and claiming.

That was all it took.

He let out a guttural sound, hips stuttering as he came undone, pulling you with him into a release that felt like freefall—earth-shattering and unrelenting.

Your release crashed through you moments after his, drawn out and all-consuming. Every nerve lit up, your body shaking with the intensity of it. It wasn’t like anything else—no drug, no high. Just him. You. This.

For a long beat, neither of you moved. Your breath came in broken gasps, foreheads pressed together, bodies trembling in the aftermath. Sweaty. Beautiful. And quiet.

Jack’s hand smoothed up your spine, grounding you. His lips brushed your temple, and the world finally began to settle back into place.

He gently brushed strands of damp hair from your face, fingers tender where they swept against your skin. The breeze caught a few pieces, but they clung to the sheen on your cheeks. When you finally let your leg down, your knees buckled slightly. Jack caught you without hesitation—arms strong, sure, keeping you steady as your weight shifted. You clung to him without thinking, hands gripping his shoulders like a lifeline. When you finally loosened your grip, he didn’t let go right away—his arms still braced around you like muscle memory, like instinct.

Pulling back, you realized what a disheveled mess the two of you were.

You reached up and smoothed down the front of his shirt, fixing the lapels of his suit, tugging the hem of his jacket into place. Thankfully whatever hair gel he used was bulletproof, only a curl or two out of place. He brushed his fingers along your hairline, gently tucking back strands that had come loose, then adjusted the strap of your dress where it had slipped off your shoulder.

There was a beat of silence—comfortable, but heavy.

Clearing your throat, you tried to gather your thoughts. “I, uh…”

Jack’s eyes remained a little dazed, as if he was still anchoring himself to the moment.

A breath escaped you—half-laugh, half-exhale. “Tea. I was gonna ask if you wanted to come back to mine for tea.”

He blinked once, then his lips quirked.

“Tea?”

“Yeah,” you said, half-smiling. “Or, like… whatever. Just to wind down. You don’t have to.”

Jack shook his head once, slow. “Only if you’re not just holding it for a friend.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too. “You’re welcome anytime, Jack. You know that, right?”

His gaze softened. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I do.”

You nodded once, awkward and earnest. “Cool. Good. Great.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “You always this smooth after balcony sex?”

You shot him a glare filled with playful menace. "Depends. You always this cocky after someone invites you over for tea?”

He smiled—one of those rare ones, small and sideways. “Only when it’s not just for the tea.”

You groaned. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah,” he said again, softer this time. “But I’m yours, remember?”

You tilted your head, smirking. “Return policy on that is… nonexistent, right?”

His smile widened just a touch. “For as long as you’ll have me.”

“Careful, Jack. That almost sounded romantic.”

He chuckled, then sobered just enough to meet your eyes. “Maybe it was.”

The breeze danced around you both again, brushing cool air against warm skin. Still, the embers between you remained.

“Come on,” you said, tugging gently at his hand. “Let’s go before someone realizes we’ve been out here defiling the sacred balcony.”

He followed without hesitation. Fingers laced with yours.

This time, neither of you looked back.

#the pitt #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt imagine #jack abbot x reader #dr abbot x reader #jack abbot smut #jack abbot #jack abbot imagine #shawn hatosy #dr. abbot x reader #dr abbot #dr abbot smut #the pitt x reader #dr abbot x you #jack abbot x you

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andvys · 21 days ago

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The edges of your soul (I haven't seen yet) ⭐︎ chapter sixteen

⭐︎ One day I am gonna grow wings...

Warnings: hurt/no comfort, angst, jealousy, mentions of self harm, mentions of depression, mentions of unreciprocated feelings, mentions of death, Steve's pov! a little Eddie and Steve bromance cause lego head needs a friend

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Summary: As the distance and the space between you and Steve grows bigger and colder, he begins to fall back into the pit you pulled him out of, leading him to feel nothing but despair, leading him to realize something he's been afraid of.

Word count: 9.8k

Author's note: attention attention please !! as you all know this story is a collab with my dearest @hellfire--cult , this would have not been as great without her. as I mentioned before, she works on all the chapters with me, we come up with all the ideas together, we write together but this chapter especially -- I left this one for her, it's over 9k words and of them are written by her so give her the love she deserves ♡ also y'all should listen to let down by radiohead while reading this. this song is Steve's song (I am so projecting)

series masterlist ⭐︎ previous chapter

☀︎

The house was warm, that was the first thing he noticed when he got out of bed and out of the blankets.

This meant he slept for a long time. The fireplace must have been lit for a while now, because he didn’t believe it was cold outside. He could see the snow and some people cleaning it out from the small roads, and he wondered how long he had been asleep. For how long had he been lying in that bed without your warmth again.

Steve could feel his heart bursting, and he felt so conflicted. Thanks to his nightmare, he knew this was the right decision, yet the pain that comes with it is just breaking him slowly. He cannot control it. He cannot stop it. He wishes it had been different, and he knew that he hurt you… But that pain would just save you both from worse.

He put on his sweater, some sweatpants, and his slippers, taking a deep breath in before grabbing the doorknob. He couldn’t hear Nancy’s voice, nor Eddie’s jokes, anywhere around the house, but there was someone. He could hear noises coming from the living room, some clanking, some moving around. He knew it was you.

And he knew he had to face you. This was the best sleep he has gotten in a long while, and he knows it is the same with you. He needed to talk to you. He needed to at least go back to how you two were, and he knows it’s selfish. He knows it. But–

He sighed, walking out of the room to finally head towards the living room. He first saw the back of your head, putting on your boots to probably head out. His breath was quickening by the second, and he could feel his heart in his throat, almost making him choke. He gulped, or at least he tried, finally talking.

“Where’s Eddie and Nance?”

He saw how you stiffened for a second, your movements stopping as you tied up your boots, only to resume after recovering yourself.

“Nance is out with Eddie. She took him to the coffee shop.” He felt himself tense up when he saw you tightening up your shoelaces one last time, and his panic set in.

“And where are you going?”

You were still giving him your back, not wanting to face him, and he was growing desperate. He felt his mouth go dry, his fingertips started to itch, and he had to make you talk to him. He needed it.

“Sunshine, we– we need to talk…” His voice was tired. It was raspy, deep, just– it sounded like the voice of someone who was slowly giving up. You rose to your feet, still not turning to face him.

“What part of I need space do you not get, Steve?” Your voice sounded cold, fed up with him, and he felt his stomach turn. He didn’t like that. Was that how he sounded to you? Was that how he treated you before?

“Trust me, I get it, but I can’t help but feel like we haven’t talked it all through–” And with those words of his, you finally turned. You looked confused, angry, your eyebrows meeting in the middle as if Steve had just said the most insane thing in the world.

“I think you were clear enough.” And he took a step back as if he had been slapped, but he wasn’t going to back down. He had to try to keep you with him, because he felt like– Like he was going insane.

"We need each other. You should know that by now! I-- I don't want you to stop talking to me... I can barely stand it." He confessed, and you were still looking at him with emotions he couldn’t read anymore because all he could see was his own desperation. His own needs.

"... We– We finally slept after not being able to... for a while... Look-- I-- I don't know why but I can only sleep okay with you, and you are okay when you sleep with me... So we can't--"

And without his knowledge, the filtering in his mouth fucked him over again, and he saw the hurt crossing your features. He saw the twitch, the anger turning into a sad one, and he felt his heart sink to the floor.

He didn’t know? He didn’t know why? Of course he did. He did. He absolutely did, and he lied again.

"That's where we differ and where you hurt me again." And he just stood there, stunned as he looked at how your eyes didn’t want to meet his again. How your body untensed and slouched at his words.

"I--"

"I know why I can sleep okay with you. I made it clear. I made it known... Maybe you just don’t want to admit it, or see that you can only sleep okay with me because–” And he could see how you stopped talking, looking down at the floor as if you were about to just… crumble down.

“Sunshine–”

“You see Robin in me.”

Steve Harrington has never wanted to scream louder in his life. He never wanted to scream and deny something so much to defend his own word. That was not the case. That was not what he thought. That is not the reason why he is pushing you away. The reason why he is hiding his feelings. That is not it, far from it.

"No, no, that's-- That's not it. That's not it at all--"

"Then why? Why do you act like this with me if it isn't because of the same feelings I have for you? Why do you– Why are you acting like this?"

His mouth opened to give you a response, but then, his eyes flickered to the scar on your face. His body froze up, his tongue stopped working, and his throat went dry. Your eyes looked up to look for his one last time, and Steve was just standing there– And he didn’t deny it, even if he wanted to at the top of his lungs.

He started recovering a little too late, when he heard your breathing become even more elaborate than before and you started grabbing your stuff as quickly as possible, messily so. He tried gulping, moistening his throat again to be able to speak, but– But what could he say? What could he possibly say not to make you even more confused? What can he say that won’t give away his true feelings for you?

He didn’t know how to save it. How to save the relationship. How to keep you. He didn’t know anymore, even when he desperately wanted to. But he would be selfish and evil if he did that, wouldn’t he? He would keep making you feel… lost.

“I won’t be a replacement, Steve…”

He saw you leave something on the coffee table, and those were your last words before leaving, and his back finally touched the doorway of the living room. He felt his eyes burn as he looked at the ceiling, wondering if everything he was doing was right at all. Was he selfish for being scared? Was he an idiot for caring for you?

He walked towards the coffee table, his eyes filling up with tears as he saw Robin’s hair tie lying on the surface of it now. It was not it. That was not it. You were not a replacement at all, but that’s all you thought you were to him. If he denied it, he would hurt you. If he didn’t, he would hurt you. Either way he looked at it from, he ends up hurting you.

Time. You need time. Maybe without him pestering you, you could learn to see him as a friend again, even when he didn’t want that at all, but it was better than nothing. He could give you that space, try not to cross paths with you, or at least the minimum amount possible.

He had lived without you for an entire year, and he had survived.

He could try that again.

—--------------------------------------

Two days passed.

You two haven’t even crossed paths for dinner.

He ate in his room, or didn’t eat at all, and Eddie had started becoming more and more worried. His foot got better, and he could walk for short periods of time with no wheelchair or crutches, but it was still hard to do so.

He stopped making jokes about you and Aaron. He stopped them completely, knowing his best friend was hurting through all of it, yet Steve didn’t even try to talk to him. In fact, neither he nor Nancy saw much of Steve. He was gone at the very early morning, and he came back very late.

Eddie knew Steve wasn’t sleeping either, just as much as he knew that you too were not. He has heard you walking in the hallway, stopping for a few seconds before heading back to your room. He could only assume you stood at Steve’s door, maybe wondering if whether to knock or not, and deciding against it in the end.

Nancy was worried too, but Eddie noticed his best friend was letting go a bit, enjoying life once again. It was nice seeing her with a smile, and he knew she was trying to make you enjoy it too, even if your face didn’t match hers.

But there was one thing he noticed about Nancy, and that was that she was being… mean towards Steve. He knew Nance was protecting you, but there was no need to make remarks about the possibility of Aaron making a move on you when Steve was in earshot.

To his surprise, on the third night, while he was having a late snack, Steve walked in, shaking his jacket off from the snow and hanging it on the coat rack. He wanted to make small talk, try to make Steve look alive, at least.

“H–Hey, b–bro!” He cringed to himself because– Since when has Eddie ever said the word bro? Steve noticed, frowning in confusion at him.

“... Hey?” Now, Eddie called Steve out with no other plan than to greet his friend. He was nervous about how to approach Steve now without scaring him off, so he raised the hand that was holding an apple, showing it to him.

“An apple?” Eddie tried, and Steve shook his head. Eddie saw the tiredness around the eyes, and the overall pain itched in his features.

“No, I’m good.” He saw Steve heading to his room, so he tried again, panicking a little bit at the possibility of losing his chance of talking to Steve.

“YOU! Um– What have you been doing?” The brown haired man stopped for a second and then looked at Eddie.

“I help in the kitchen and in organizing the supply closet. Doing my share for the free food and stay.” He said monotonously. Eddie gave a nervous nod, gulping as he limped towards his friend.

“Cool– Cool…” It was silent then between the two of them, and while Eddie was a ball of nerves, Steve was just staring at him as if he were crazy. “I– I talked to Tommy a bit today! Did– Did you know they taught the kids how to shoot guns!?”

At his words, Steve frowned, a flicker of amusement, anger, and confusion crossing his features.

“They gave them guns?”

“Well, they’re not kids anymore, Steve.” Eddie reminded his friend, and Steve sighed, nodding. Finally, a small tug on his lips appeared, a huff.

“Let me guess, Max outdid them all?” Eddie’s eyes flickered with amusement, nodding and crossing his arms as he felt his chest warm up at hearing Steve’s voice.

“Of course! But Tommy tried to gift her a gun and–”

“Let me guess, her brother wasn’t too keen on that.” Eddie was smiling as Steve engaged in the conversation, and he nodded enthusiastically. Maybe it wasn’t all lost. Maybe Steve did need time as well as you did, and–

“Eddie, have you–”

And Eddie’s eyes clenched tightly at the sound of your boys. He saw how Steve’s eyes found yours, the slight bit of happiness in his features disappearing, leaving behind an emotionless mask.

You, on the other hand, Eddie noticed how you wanted to say something, yet you held back. How your eyes were looking for Steve’s, only for the male to look away before muttering a goodbye and leaving for his room. Eddie sighed, looking down at the floor, shaking his head. He didn’t know how to handle the situation, because just like Steve–

“Sunshine–”

“Never mind.” And you were gone.

You didn’t want to talk at all.

You would all be leaving the community the next day.

You felt your heart ache from it, but you wanted to keep going. You needed to find your family, and you won’t be able to do it if you keep staying here, despite finally feeling safe in a secluded place.

Aaron, Tommy, and Paxton had prepared a small party for your departure. They barely had any celebrations, so this sounded like the perfect excuse for one, as they called it. You had told them with Nancy that there was no need for that, that they had done enough, but it gave them a bit of an excuse to get drunk and have fun.

So now, you were in the living room, sitting on the couch with Nancy, trying to decide what you two were going to wear for the night. Eddie was sipping on his coffee, sitting at the table, and looking down at the RV’s inventory. Nancy had pointed out that Eddie had grown a bit distant with her, and she didn’t know why. You noticed as well, but your mind was preoccupied with… someone else.

Someone you hadn’t seen in a whole day, and it was making your insides turn wildly. You have been out with Nancy, Aaron, and Tommy for most of the week, and when you came back to your house, Eddie would greet you, but Steve had not yet returned home.

You had asked for time. You had asked for space. He is giving that to you, and yet it feels wrong. It feels so fucking wrong and you are angry that it does. Because it was not fair. It was not fair that your heart was still clinging to him like a vice, and you couldn’t stop it. No matter what had happened days ago. No matter that he didn’t deny that you were Robin’s replacement. Your heart was betraying you.

And said man, walked into the kitchen, all dressed up to go out again in the day, and your body froze at seeing his face. It was– It was angry. All of his facial muscles were tense as he headed towards the sink to grab a glass of water. You swallowed the lump in your throat, feeling your stomach turning inside out because– It almost looked like–

“So… Dress? Or… Skirt?” Nancy asked, and you blinked a few times, finally zoning back into the conversation. You licked your lips and nodded, trying to focus on the topic once again.

“Um, pants? It’s cold?” You answered, and Nancy rolled her eyes, shaking her head.

“It’s a party! We should all dress up since we never get to do it!” Nancy exclaims, nudging your shoulder. “Who knows when we’ll get that chance again!”

She is right. You know she is. You never get the chance to do these kinds of things anymore. It would be nice to just let loose and enjoy yourself, go all out.

“Plus, we have a nice variety here!”

You nod, though your eyes keep moving back to him. Your heart skips in your chest every few seconds, not in affection but in anxiety. His expression kept growing angrier and angrier.

“Alright, uh…” You pause and furrow your eyebrows, trying your best to just focus, but it’s nearly impossible when he is here. “Skirt… You should wear a skirt, I think it would look cute.”

“Cute?” Nancy scoffs, shaking her head. “I’m trying to look hot! Don’t think that Tommy wants a cute girl.”

Finally, you are able to look away from him and back at her. An amused flicker in your eyes and a teasing smile resting on your face now. You raise your eyebrows at her.

“Aw, Nancy!”

“Don’t.” She murmurs, biting back her smile. “Why don’t we talk about you? I’m sure Aaron would love–”

“Can you both just shut up!?”

You and Nancy freeze at his words. Her blue eyes widen as she turns towards him, looking a little taken aback. His features are deeply painted in anger. His hazel eyes are filled with nothing but anger, no other emotions living in them at this moment. A frown is etched into his features. The tone in his voice was full of malice. She hasn’t seen that side of him since… since Hawkins.

Even Eddie is surprised as he just looks up from the journal, freezing completely at the sudden outburst.

“What’s wrong with you!?” Nancy grumbles at him, not hesitating to ask.

Steve’s eyes are settled on you, not on her. They are burning.

“What’s wrong with me?” He scoffs as a humorless laugh falls from his lips. “You are both acting like we aren’t in the middle of the end of the world. Fucking christ–��

“Steve, it’s good to let go–” Eddie tries, only to be ignored by the brunette.

You are all a little shocked and surprised to see the Steve from a few months ago once again coming forth.

“Right, because living in a fantasy and high school puppy love got us here.” Steve scoffs, shaking his head as he sends a glare towards Nancy. He wants to say more, he wants it to hurt because he can’t believe what he is hearing. Not too long ago, she opened up and confessed her love for his best friend, only to be moving on already?

You look between them, and anger sparks inside of you when you see the way Nancy’s shoulders slump and her face falls with guilt. She looks down, avoiding his eyes now.

Steve huffs and slams his glass on the counter. He brushes past Eddie, almost knocking his shoulder in the process. He grabs his jacket and storms out of the house, slamming the door shut behind him.

He closes his eyes for a moment and breathes in the fresh air, though it does little to calm him down. All he feels is pure rage. He can’t even think straight anymore; it’s like his mind is in a haze, and he is stuck in a state of anger because this is all he’s been feeling the past couple of days.

The door opens behind him, and he opens his eyes, already huffing because he knows it’s Eddie who is gonna try to talk some sense into him.

But the moment he smells the sweet scent of your body wash, he tenses up.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Your voice is sharp and angry, just like his own was.

Steve turns around to face you. You are looking up at him, jaw clenched and eyes full of confusion.

“Don’t bother yourself with it, go back to your little dress talk.” Steve mumbles as a new wave of irritation sparks at him, knowing who you are getting dressed up for.

You shake your head at him in disbelief, knowing what he is implying again. He thinks this is childish. He thinks this is immature. He thinks that you are immature for indulging in this. And it’s nothing new to you anymore, but it still pains you every time.

Your usual soft features now burn with anger, matching his own energy.

“You’re acting like a jerk, again!” You exclaim, frustrating him further.

Steve is so guided by anger that he can’t even see how much his indifference and anger are hurting you.

“You don’t get to tell me how I’m acting. You, of all people, should keep that to yourself.”

Your lips parted, and your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. You shake your head at him slowly, stepping closer to him, unknowingly making his heart ache in his chest – that should be enough of a warning for him. His heart is screaming at him, along with the little voice in his head that is just begging for him to stop.

“What is that supposed to mean?” You ask, tilting your head to the side.

Steve clenches his jaw, also taking another step closer. He looks down at you.

“Oh, you fucking know. You don’t get to call me a jerk when you have been one to me for weeks now, so just go back in the house and make yourself look pretty for your little boyfriend while I go live in the real world–”

“What– is this about Aaron?” You scoff.

Aaron. Aaron. Aaron.

He’s heard that name numerous times in the past few days, and every time it sends a flash of rage through him. He can’t wait for tomorrow to come, to leave this place, and to never look back.

He takes a deep breath, staring at your confused face. He stares and stares. And he bites his tongue, knowing that if he keeps this conversation going, he will say something that he will regret.

And his silence only fuels your anger, it makes it burn inside of you. He keeps doing this. And you can’t bear it anymore. It leaves you fuming.

You are both breathing heavily. Staring at each other intensely. The fire is burning between you, dangerously so. One that will do damage. One that will burn everything around you.

“You want me to live in the real world?” You ask, glaring at him. “You want me to be more serious, more mature? Got it.” You mumble in anger, looking at him one last time before you storm back into the house, slamming the door and leaving him standing.

Steve is breathless, packed with anger, and unable to think clearly. Everything in him burns deeper and stronger than before. He puts on his jacket before he walks down the stairs, storming away from the house.

The sky is getting darker already, and not many people are around at this hour – most people must be getting ready for the farewell party planned for them. Steve isn’t looking forward to it, he is only looking forward to getting back on the road.

He has no particular destination. He just needed to get out of the house and away from you, but no matter how much distance he puts between you both, the anger never fades away. If anything, it only worsens, especially when he stumbles upon the stables and the only one left working with the horses is Aaron.

Steve halts in his tracks when he catches sight of him. The man is cleaning up the stable, unaware of the death glares directed towards him.

The sight of him makes his blood boil, and he knows exactly why: it’s because of you. The moment you stepped foot inside this community, he had been on you, whisking you away with ease.

And you let him. You let him after trying with him.

He doesn’t know what angers him more. The fact that you are spending time with another man, the way you did with him, or the fact that this man might be using your vulnerable state for his own entertainment.

Before thinking it through, he storms towards him and into the stable, making the man turn around.

Aaron notices the anger right away, feeling the tension and seeing the hatred in his hazel eyes. He can tell what Steve is looking for. He can see it from a mile away.

“Steve.” Aaron nods, looking him up and down. “You alright?” He asks, raising his eyebrow at him. He turns his back to him, putting away the last saddle. He takes his gloves off and runs a hand through his hair before he turns around again.

“What are your intentions with her?”

Aaron crosses his arms over his chest, furrowing his eyebrows. “That’s what you came here for?” Aaron asks, looking into hateful eyes. “You looking for a fight?”

Steve huffs, and he takes another step closer. Everything about the cowboy makes him burn in the worst ways possible. His hands clench into fists, and he has to restrain himself from throwing a punch – the result of his frustrations.

“How about you go and take a walk to clear your head, and then we can talk–”

Steve doesn’t think when he takes another step forward and grabs Aaron by the collar of his jacket, slamming the older man against the wall behind him.

“What are your intentions with her?” Steve repeats through gritted teeth.

Aaron sighs, shaking his head at the brunette. He doesn’t even look fazed. He clenches his jaw as he stares into his eyes for a moment. He can see right through him. He can see every bit of fear in his eyes. Anger. Hatred for him, all that because of you. What a fool, Aaron thinks. This didn’t have to happen. He put this all on himself.

Aaron was patient with Steve so far. He didn’t care about the little huffs directed towards him or the glares the brunette kept sending his way. He didn’t pay much attention to him at all. He did see the jealousy, something that you didn’t see. He did see the way he kept watching you like a hawk, something a friend wouldn’t do.

Aaron didn’t get to know Steve as well as he got to know you or Eddie, or even Nancy, but he can see the way something is holding him back from you.

And all Aaron can see him as is a foolish man. A weak, foolish man.

“Slow down, buddy. Clearly my intentions are the same as yours.” Aaron huffs, ripping Steve’s hands off with ease. He pushes him back and away from him, glaring back at him now. “It’s just that you don’t have the balls to act on them.”

Deep down, Steve knows that. He knows that the man before him has a genuine interest, otherwise, he wouldn’t have offered to be the one to take you to your family. It’s not a conversation that was meant for his ears, but Steve overheard it. Two nights ago, when Aaron had walked you to the cabin, the window in the kitchen was open, and Steve was washing the dishes when he heard something that ruined his mood entirely.

‘I know you’re just trying to get back to your family. I don’t know what your plans are after that, but if you want to, I can be the one to take you. We’ll get your family and you come back here with me. The community has a lot to offer for you and them.’

Steve’s blood had been boiling since that night. How dare he try to take you away from him?

He doesn’t know where you stand with Aaron. He doesn’t know if anything has happened between you already. He isn’t sure if he even wants to know. He didn’t stick around to hear your answer, too afraid to hear you accept his offer.

Given the fact that there is a farewell party for all of you tonight, he guesses that you declined it.

But it does little to make him feel better.

“Don’t you dare touch her.”

Aaron huffs at him, as though in disbelief.

“That’s her ultimate decision. I ain’t forcing her or manipulating her.” Aaron mumbles. His blue eyes also flashing with anger now as he tilts his head at him, he takes a step towards him. “Unlike you, giving her all that hope, making her feel special, just to let her down? Kind of immature, don’t you think, buddy?”

Steve tenses up at his words. He swallows harshly as he feels a pang in his chest. You talked about your feelings to him?

Aaron shakes his head at him. He grabs his cowboy hat off the rack on the wall and puts it on his head. He takes a moment to look around the stable, before he takes another step back towards Steve. He places his hand on his shoulder, patting it.

“Don’t worry, she’s in good hands with me.” Aaron promises – no ounce of arrogance or cockiness in his voice, none of that at all. He takes one last look at him before he walks away, leaving him standing there. “Close the doors on your way out, will ya?”

Steve is staring into blank space. He is breathing heavily. The anger grips strongly at him, stronger than ever before. His chest starts rising up and down. He sees red. Everything, all at once, comes rushing through him, and before he can stop himself, he draws his arm back and throws his fist into the wall.

The rage was stopping him from feeling pain, from seeing the blood now slipping through the cracks in his skin.

He wants to scream.

He wants to break everything.

The burning in his knuckles does nothing to mend the anger that he is feeling. He wants to be angry at Aaron so bad, he wants to hate him, but does he even have a reason to? No. He doesn’t. He can only hate himself for causing all of this, for being the reason why you are looking for comfort in someone else’s arms.

He could’ve had you. He could’ve been with you. He could’ve been the one to take you to the farewell party, but instead he will have to watch you with another man.

Blood is dripping from his knuckles and down onto the floor, staining the wood. Heavy breaths fall from his lips. He wants to throw his fist into the wall again, over and over again. He wants to feel something other than despair and heartbreak.

Instead, he curls his hand into a fist and he holds back, knowing it won’t change anything. He turns around and slams his back against the wall. He closes his eyes and takes deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart.

All that flashes in his mind is you.

You. You. You.

And despite the aching the thought of you leaves in his chest, it begins to calm him down. Your laughter echoes in his ears. Your face flashes before his eyes. Your scent fills his senses. Your touch that always lingers on his skin. Like a wave of peacefulness that washes over him, he finds himself relaxing slowly.

And he doesn’t know for long he sits there, staring into blank space, but when he finally calms down again, he pushes himself off the wall and gets back on his feet. The blood on his knuckles is dry by now. The cuts are burning.

He makes his way out of the stable and closes the door like Aaron had told him to. The cold wind nips at his skin, making him shudder. The walk back to the cabin isn’t a long one. The light is still on, burning in the living room.

Dread fills him, knowing that Eddie must have waited for him. You and Nancy must be gone by now. The footsteps in the snow indicate that you have left and when he steps into the cabin and he notices that your jacket is gone, he knows for sure.

“Steve?” Eddie calls out to him as he comes limping out of the living room. His eyebrows are furrowed. Eyes filled with concern as the brunette brushes past him and into the bathroom. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Steve grumbles. He throws his jacket off and onto the ground before he makes his way over to the sink and starts the water. “Why aren’t you at the party?” He scrunches up his face as the cuts begin to sting stronger than before, thanks to the warm water.

Eddie walks a little slower without the crutches. His leg is still unable to move properly.

“I was waiting for you.” Eddie mumbles as he stops in the doorway. It takes him a moment to register the blood in the sink and Steve’s pained face.

“I’m not going–”

“What the hell happened!” Eddie cuts him off, staring at him, bewildered.

“Nothing–”

“Don’t fucking say it’s nothing, Steve!” Eddie’s frown deepens as he limps his way over to him. “What…?” He mumbles, looking back and forth between his bleeding knuckles and his face.

Steve sighs. His head hangs low, and he presses his lips into a straight line. No words are spoken. For a moment, it’s quiet between them. Only the sound of the running water fills the room.

Steve knows that lying won’t get him out of this. Eddie can see right through him.

With a sigh, he tilts his head up again. He glances into the mirror but chooses to look away again quickly, not wanting to see his reflection.

“I talked to Aaron.”

“Oh… Oh, please tell me you didn’t.” Eddie trails off as his eyes continue to flicker between the cuts on Steve’s knuckles and his angry face.

“No.” Steve sighs, shaking his head. “We just talked…”

“And then what?” Eddie crosses his arms over his chest, raising one eyebrow at him. He knows exactly what was talked about or who.

“Nothing. He left, and then I…” Steve pauses, feeling embarrassed to even admit such a thing.

Eddie’s eyes scan his face, and he stares at him for a long moment. He takes in the anger still flashing in his hazel eyes. The despair. Eddie understands it, not because he ever felt this, but because he had seen this before. Anger that turns a gentle person into this – choosing to feel pain instead of fixing that one thing.

“So you decided to what… punch walls?” Eddie asks, sighing.

“Eddie–”

“No, Steve. You’re at that point again?” He asks, and Steve finally turns to take a look at him. The worry in dark brown eyes is so clear that it makes him feel guilty.

Steve had felt this kind of anger before. Through the grief of losing Robin, he discovered this anger within himself. The kind that made him feel sick. The kind that made him want to break everything in his wake.

“No.” Steve sighs, closing his eyes once again. The water is still running over his knuckles.

“Then what…? Did Aaron say something?”

“No, Eddie.” Steve clenches his jaw. “He just… He wants her. I want her. I can’t have her–”

“You can.” Eddie scoffs, frowning even deeper at him than before. He doesn’t understand him. “You’re acting like he stole her from you. Dude, do you even hear yourself? She wants you–”

“Yeah, but I can’t have her, Eddie.” Steve snaps at him. He shuts off the water and turns to face him, not bothering to hide the vulnerability now crossing his features. “I can’t, okay? You think I don’t want to? You think I didn’t want to kiss her? You think it was easy to push her away? To pretend like I didn’t… like I don’t feel something for her? Fuck… You have no idea how much I–” Steve pauses, his voice turning shaky. His heart leaps to his throat. The realization of what he was about to speak into the universe dawned on him. He quickly shuts his mouth.

Eddie’s soft eyes widen, and his words get caught in his throat too. He knew. Of course, he knew, but to hear him say it – well, almost say it, still shocks him.

“Steve…”

Steve shakes his head. He runs his hand down his face and takes another deep breath.

“Are you ready?” Steve asks, eying Eddie’s black button-down shirt.

“Steve…” Eddie huffs, his shoulders slumping.

“It’s fine, Eddie.” Steve mumbles, looking down. “It’s fine. This is our last night here, and I know you wanted to go to that stupid party, so let’s just… get this over with.”

“Are you sure?” Eddie doesn’t hesitate to ask.

Steve would rather stay hauled up in this cabin, than watch you be flirted with all night.

“Yeah.” Steve nods.

Eddie hesitates.

“But if you wanna leave at any time–”

“Then I’ll tell you.” Steve nods, looking down at his cracked knuckles. He takes a deep breath.

“She is there with him, Steve.” Eddie warns him.

Steve grimaces at his words. His chest pangs. He saw the footsteps in the snow from when he came to pick you up.

“Yeah, I know.” He mumbles. “I’ll be fine.”

Eddie isn’t sure if he should believe him, but he doesn’t have much of a choice when Steve brushes past him after picking up his jacket, grumbling a ‘c’mon’ as he makes his way into Eddie’s room to pick up the crutches.

“Yeah…” Eddie mumbles.

Lights are hanging from the ceiling. The barn is covered in candles. Country music is playing. The smell of food lingers in the air. People are dancing, having fun – living a night that was meant for a normal world, not this one.

Eddie is looking around with a smile on his face, loving the sight before him.

But Steve, he is watching with a frown. His eyes are glued to you. His heart is racing, everything in him burning yet fluttering. You are wearing a dress. And you look breathtaking. Beautiful. Everything around him, everything inside the room, disappears. All he sees is you. All that matters is you. Only ever you.

You are smiling. The golden light that shines down on you makes your features look even softer.

His breath gets caught in his throat. His heart skips a beat when a giggle falls from your lips. The sound reached his ears even over the music and from afar.

“This is amazing.” Eddie whistles. “Are those spare ribs?” He gasps, slapping Steve’s shoulder and pulling him out of his trance.

The brunette blinks. He furrows his eyebrows and glances at the metalhead for a second before he looks back at you. The softness in his eyes quickly disappears when he notices the arm around the back of your chair. A sour taste settles on Steve’s tongue when he sees how close you are sitting next to Aaron, comfortably so. His blue eyes are stuck on you. A smile lingering on his face as he watches you tell a story. You are waving around with your hands, giggling through words. Nancy and Tommy, who sit across from you, laugh with you, nodding along to whatever story you are telling. But Aaron, he is watching intently, looking at you with a smile so soft that it could only mirror his own.

The cracks on Steve’s knuckles start burning yet again when he clenches his fist. It’s his fault, he tells himself. It’s his fault that you are sitting there next to another man instead of being here with him.

And he really can’t blame Aaron now, can he?

Tommy spots him and Eddie. His eyes light up as he looks between them. Raising his hand up, he waves them over.

“We don’t have to sit with them if you don’t want to.” Eddie assures Steve, not wanting to force him to share a table with you when you are here with someone else.

“No, it’s fine. It would be kind of weird not to sit with them.” Steve mumbles. Slapping Eddie’s shoulder, “come on…”

Your eyes found his as your smile slowly faded. He took a seat across from you, right next to Tommy, while Eddie sat on his other side. His heart beat into his throat the more he looked at you, the more he scanned you, the more he tried to understand what you were feeling. He saw the makeup, the effort you took to look beautiful… and not for him.

And that thought made his heart break even more.

It felt like time stopped for a few seconds, like everyone else in the room didn’t exist any longer. The galaxy stopped moving. The rush of blood cells filled each other’s ears, ringing noisily, being a nuisance. He noticed how your eyes drifted to his hand that was resting on the table, and he winced, quickly moving it away. Space and time started working again, and the noise around the two of you came back like a stampede.

“Well, how do you like it?” Tommy asked, making Steve clear his throat, finally turning his head to look at the man.

“It’s… nice. Thank you for putting in uhm… the effort in making this.” He cringed a bit at his awkwardness, but Tommy chuckled, patting his back.

“Well… Nice fellows like yourselves and–” His eyes found Nancy, who was sitting next to him already, her eyes a little glossed over thanks to the glass of wine she had already drunk. A smile appeared on Tommy’s lips as he continued talking. “Beautiful ladies like these two deserve a nice… farewell party.”

Eddie whistled under his breath, and Steve wanted to bolt the fuck out of there. He felt his stomach turning with nausea, and he gave a short nod, trying not to look uncomfortable. His eyes found you again, and he noticed how you were trying to listen to what Aaron was saying, but you kept looking at Steve’s way.

His heart turned, his knuckles turning white from making his hands turn into tight fists over his lap. Eddie noticed, a frown appearing on his features, his gaze finding you looking Steve’s way as you tried to smile at Aaron. He sighed, feeling like things should have gone differently. That this should not be the situation you deserved, the both of you, to be in.

You all got drinks, and Steve was numb to it all. His eyes kept going from his beer to you. It was constant, and you could barely handle it any longer. He saw you whisper something into Aaron’s ear, and he nodded, a smile on his face, and Steve’s stomach dropped when you two got up and walked towards the small dance floor in the middle of the wide dining place.

The song was slow and country-like, played live. Tommy left to get more drinks for him and Nancy, and she took this chance to scoot closer to his friends, her eyes on you and Aaron. Eddie’s eyes never left Steve.

The brown haired man saw how Aaron’s hand enveloped yours, his other hand pressing onto the small of your back, pulling your body close to his. Steve felt like vomiting as he watched you sway at the music, slowly, while talking to the man who was holding you so tenderly. Holding you the way he wanted to. The way he desired to.

Eddie felt his entire body freeze up, and a frown appeared on his eyebrows. He was happy for you, but he couldn’t help but feel helpless for Steve. He wanted to save him from the pain, because even if what his friend did was stupid, he didn’t deserve to hurt the way he was hurting.

“Steve, maybe we should… head out–”

“You just got here, Eddie.” Nancy fought back, and Eddie clenched his eyes, not being able to feel anger at his best friend for the very first time. She didn’t care about Steve, and how he was slowly crumbling down the more he watched you dance with another man.

“Steve, we can go back to the cabin–”

But Steve stopped listening. He couldn’t hear anything but his own heartbeat in his ears as he saw your eyes, finding blue ones. You looked shy, nervous, and you were asking a silent question that Steve knew too well.

Those same eyes you used back at the mansion, those weeks ago.

Those same eyes you looked at him with before you got closer.

He saw you stop moving completely, still holding onto one another, and Aaron held your gaze for a moment before he leaned in. Steve felt his chest clench, and he was hoping you would move away. That he misinterpreted your eyes for something else. That you weren’t actually asking for the same thing you had tried to get that day at the mansion from him. That you weren’t going to go through with it.

He wanted to believe it so badly, but then he saw you lean in, your hand gripping the much older man’s as you raised on your tippy toes, and he should save himself from heartbreak. He should save himself from pain, but he can’t stop looking. He cannot turn his head away from seeing how you are inching closer to Aaron and how you aren’t stopping it and–

You kissed.

You were kissing another man.

Steve was frozen in his spot, unaware of how Nancy and Eddie were trying to shake him back into the present, but all he could see, all he could gaze at, were your lips moving against another man’s. His heart was melting in his chest, and he felt as if his skin was peeling off his muscles. Every cell in his body was screaming at him, and his stomach felt like a void. It felt as if someone had punched a hole in it, and all he could feel was that never-ending precipice.

Aaron’s arms enveloped around your body, pulling you closer, as some whistles could be heard, and Eddie’s hand was on Steve’s shoulder immediately. He was trying to shake his friend’s gaze away from you, but it was to no avail. His eyes, becoming redder by the second. His body started to have a few spasms. His neck, now filled with his veins popping out because of how hard he was clenching his jaw.

Steve was in pain.

Nancy was smiling your way, genuinely happy for you, unaware of how deep in a hole Steve was slowly carving himself in. Your arms were wrapped around the older man’s shoulder as you two kept kissing, and kissing, and kissing, and Steve felt vile rising up in his throat, threatening to come out of his mouth.

He needed to punch something. He needed the physical pain to overlap with the emotional one because he didn’t want to feel that anymore. His breathing was heavy, growing more labored by the second, and he wondered if he had been on your mind at any point. He wondered if this was how you would have kissed him all those days ago.

And he will now never get to experience it.

He snapped out when Aaron pulled away from you with a smile on his face. His eyes shining for you as he took off his hat and put it on your head instead. The whistles now louder in this room, making Steve frown deeper, especially when you hid your face in Aaron’s chest and the man chuckled, wrapping his arm around you for a moment before his hand came to hold onto yours, and he started to slowly head out of the barn, pulling you along. Steve felt a cold sweat as dread filled him. He looked at how you followed, and he couldn’t see your face. He couldn’t decipher what you were feeling just by looking at the back of your head, and that was irking him.

But you were following the other man. You were gonna go with him. Alone. To god knows where. And that was the line for him. That was the one thing that Steve’s body reacted to. He abruptly stood up as anger, sadness, and possessiveness took hold of him, and he was ready to go after you two. He was ready to put a stop to it, somehow, but he had to try–

He was stopped from moving when he felt his right arm being grabbed and pulled. His head turned, his eyes sharp, filled with pain, clashing with blue ones. Nancy was glaring at Steve, stopping him from moving completely, and he had never wanted to shove a woman away the way he wanted to now. He needed to get to you. He needed to stop you. You were already walking out, and you kept following him–

“Nancy, let me go.” He growled, and Nancy yanked on his arm, stopping him again. Eddie got up from his chair, worry etched in his features.

“No. You have no right to go after her.” She spat back, making Steve send a glare her way as the anger filled his entire body.

“He is using her! She– She doesn’t deserve–” He didn’t know what he should say or what he wanted to say, but Nancy was not having it, her own protectiveness shining through.

“You rejected her! You are the sole culprit of how you’re feeling now! Do not blame her for living her life. Let her have this!” She almost screamed at him, and his eyes stared at her, his heart beating into his throat. He knew she was right. He knew Nancy was right, but it didn’t hurt any less.

“But he–”

“He is mending what you broke.”

Nancy’s words stabbed him, deep. He could feel his cheeks burning, his eyes, his fingertips, his stomach, everything was in flames, and he couldn’t stop it. He could feel his feet wanting to work, but at the same time, they were not cooperating. He needed to run the fuck out of there, because he felt it. He could feel himself about to break.

Eddie’s eyes were wide at Nancy’s words, a new type of feeling surging up because– Before you, there was Steve, and Nancy was not caring for his feelings at all. She was not measuring her words, and Eddie felt disappointed. His hand raised to touch Steve’s shoulder, only for said man to rush away from him, heading to the back door of the barn.

Nancy was left there, huffing, and Eddie’s eyes found hers. He was glaring at her, and the girl’s shoulders fell at the sight of her best friend’s gaze. Eddie shook his head at her, a snarl on his lips, before he limped after Steve. He understood you. He understood Nancy. But no one was trying to understand Steve.

He knew his best friend was heading back to the cabin, away from the possible path you might have taken with the other man. He groaned a bit at how slow his pace was, but he couldn’t force his leg. Doctor’s orders.

Finally, he saw Steve, sitting on the porch of the cabin, his head in his hands, elbows on his bent knees. Eddie sighed, walking towards him and taking a seat next to him on the stairs. He had to tread carefully, not wanting to make Steve snap and walk away from him because this needed to be talked about. He needed to let it out, or he would consume himself with his thoughts.

“Steve… Talk to me.” Eddie tried and waited. He kept his hands to himself as he heard the music playing from afar. It took minutes, the only sound being Steve’s harsh breaths as he tried to calm himself down.

"Go back to the party, Eddie." And Eddie could only huff, shaking his head.

"No, not when my best friend looks like he is about to die." At that, Steve grunts into his hands, not showing his face yet.

"I am not–"

"Steve– If this hurts you so much, why did you do what you did? You– You could be happy and yet..." Eddie tried, and after a minute, Steve finally looked up, dropping his hands. His eyes were red, tears running down his cheeks as he looked at the ground before him. His thoughts were consuming him, yet at the same time they were numbing him.

"I am bound to lose people. It's a miracle you and Nancy are still here... I did it thinking it was the best for the both of us..." He tried explaining, and the words in his tongue felt like a lie, or like he was trying to convince himself that he was giving a logical reason. Eddie sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"Steve, it clearly isn't..." Steve’s eyes find his best friend’s, fresh tears forming in his waterline.

"I don't want to be something that pulls her back if something were to happen to me... You know her... And– Eddie, if I were to lose her... I don't know how I would be able to handle it... I don't think I could handle another loss like that..." And Eddie understood Steve’s words. He wouldn’t be able to go on. Not again. Eddie knew it was luck that kept Steve with them after Robin passed, and Steve was letting Eddie know that he might not be as lucky next time.

"Steve, that's– I understand you're... dealing with the trauma, but... But Robin would want you to pursue this girl, you know that." He tried, knowing that was the truth. Robin would want Steve to be happy, yet Steve’s face turned a little colder, shaking his head.

"... Robin is dead. I don't know what she would want." Eddie scoffed, looking down at the floor.

"And there you go again, putting that wall up."

"I'm not putting anything–"

"Whenever someone tells you something merely true, you get defensive like this." Steve frowned at his best friend, but Eddie continued, "This girl said she was coming to the community with us, where the two of you could be happy and safe... didn't you think of that?"

"Of course I did... But what if one of us doesn't reach it?" Their eyes meet again, and Steve manages to keep talking, somehow, even when he feels his throat getting closed up by the second.

"Then you are a fucking wuss for not wanting to fight for your life to stay with her, with us. I'm sitting here, ready to go against anything and everything so I could stay with you guys, to see my uncle again, to finally reunite and present my sweetheart to you all... You're so afraid of loss that you forget how much you can win, Steve."

Those words made Steve freeze on the spot. He stared at Eddie as if he had just now opened the Pandora box for him. He could feel the tears now threatening to leave his eyes again, looking towards the horizon.

“It’s the end of the world…” And Eddie took a deep breath in, slowly reaching up to wrap an arm around his best friend’s shoulder, trying to give some comfort.

“And you should live your life to the fullest. Grasping at happiness when presented to you, not running away from it, Steve, even if you’re scared shitless.” Steve could feel his body trembling, the words sinking into his system, and he could barely hold it in as he clenched his eyes together, gulping the lump that formed in his throat.

“I lost her.” He sniffled, and he could feel his chest aching as Eddie’s hand gripped his shoulder in comfort. “It’s too late now.”

“Personally, I don’t think so.” Eddie tried as he felt Steve start to lean closer to him, seeking comfort.

“She’s with him…” He whispered, and a tear rolled down his cheek despite his eyes staying closed. He felt everything dawning on him at once. The regret, the anger, the sadness, because Eddie was right. Eddie was fucking right and Steve was stupid. He had been stupid and let his trauma, his fear, guide him to make one of the worst decisions of his life.

And now you might be gone. You might not want him again. You might not forgive him. Should he even try? Should he? Would that only confuse you? Hurt you? Anger you? He didn’t want you to feel any of those things again, but he isn’t sure if he could make you happy. Not ever again.

“And then she’ll come with us, Steve…” Eddie tried once again, his heart clenching when Steve finally laid his head on his shoulder, a sob ripping out from his throat.

“She’s with him…” He repeated, and that did it. He started crying to Eddie, realizing he had pushed you to be with someone else. He had rejected you, despite it not being what he wanted. He had rejected his own happiness out of fear of ending up alone, or dead.

Funny, because he feels dead now.

He thought it would be easy to let go of you because he never had you. He never kissed you. He never held you. He never got to experience you in that way. He thought it would be easy, only to be hit with the realization that you were more important than what he originally thought you were. You were a part of his life that he needed in order to keep going.

And he realized it a little too late. He thought it would be better not to engage in a relationship in the middle of the apocalypse, because that could only end up badly. One of the two could die. He had lost all hope of having a normal life in the end of the world after Robin died.

When she passed away, all the fantasies of having a nice little house in California with the community vanished. It was as if reality hit him in the worst way possible, and he had to come to terms that life wasn’t going to be easy like it used to, even if he wanted to look at it in a positive way.

But when he met you, you rekindled that hope. And he thought it was foolish. He thought it couldn’t be. He thought that it was something that could never happen. A normal life. With families. Friends. A lover. Children.

And now, look at him. In a community that had all of that. Life. Normalcy. Pretending monsters and infected didn’t exist. He tried to fight it, tried to think that everything just seemed a little fake to him, but it wasn’t. No.

It just made him realize that he had made the wrong decision. It made him realize that what he did was wrong. And Eddie just now made him admit it. Because Eddie was right. Steve was losing more than what he thought he was saving himself from. He was losing you… But the reality of the situation was, you were now with another man.

His hand went to the back pocket of his jeans, moving a bit on his spot to get what he wanted out. Finally, he got hold of the picture he always took with him, maybe as a good luck charm, maybe to remind himself that the world could actually be good again.

Eddie’s eyes widened a bit when he saw the polaroid picture in Steve’s hand. It was you. Back at the mansion. The metalhead winced inwardly, now understanding Steve’s feelings even more, and how deep they ran inside of him. Steve could only stare at you in the picture, how content you looked, how you deserved to be happy. And maybe, this man you were now with, alone, could give that to you.

A man who offered you to stay in this community.

In this perfect little world, he thought, didn’t exist anymore.

And you deserved the perfect.

You deserved the best.

And Steve, he wasn’t any of that.

Wasn't he?

☀︎

let's all thank roe for making us cry. because I cried like a bitch. hope you all feel bad for steve

taglist: @prettyboyeddiemunson @pretentious-blonde @thecreelhouse @tvserie-s-world @thesickestqrmydcll @crispystarfishhottub @sophal22 @definitionwanderlust @talkativecarnation @mysticalwoolenfroglegs @ariesandwolves @mortqlprojections @sattlersquarry @sherrylyn0628 @purpleeyeswithgoldensparkles @micheledawn1975 @keepingitlokiii @littleromanoff2005 @sunshine-mrk @xxladymjxx @bananasplits-world @myharrington @btskzfav @hawkeyeharrington

#steve harrington x reader #stranger things angst #steve harrington x you #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington angst #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington

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sacr1ficialang3l · 3 months ago

Text

†These crosses all over my body remind me of who I used to be.†

SUMMARY: Sam and Dean dress up as priest to investigate some mysterious deaths. What Sam does not expect is to find himself a little sacrificial lamb in the process. 4.7k

WARNINGS: smut (mdni). religious themes. religious trauma. mentions of self-harm. reader is an ex-catholic. one tiny scene of s.a. but nothing really happens. car sex. unprotected piv. blasphemy. priest kink. reader is heavily traumatized. if you're extremely religious or sensitive to religious imagery pls don't read. writer is also heavily traumatized and has a thing for rosaries.

NOTES: here i am again, writing about priest!sam. everyone say thank you ethel cain. as always, english is not my first language. enjoy<3

You knew something was going to happen today, you just didn’t expect it to come in the shape of a hot priest.

Your friend Alex’s cousin died a day ago. He was found in his room, his own wired earphones wrapped around his neck. He didn’t hang himself, instead he had somehow pulled on the earphones for long enough to kill himself. The police couldn’t really explain it, but there was no sign of break in or the presence of anyone else in the room either.

You had only met the guy once, which made your presence at his wake just a little awkward. It was supposed to be a family-and-close-friends-only kind of thing, but it was being held at Alex’s house, and she had begged you to come.

Alex didn’t have the best relationship with her family. They were all very religious, strict, and… moralistic. Her parents weren’t that bad, but the rest of the family was pretty awful. They never skipped a chance to comment on her clothes, or question her career decisions, and God forbid they saw her even glance at the beers her uncles were drinking like holy water.

You once even had to hear one of her aunts ask what was taking so long for her to get a husband and start having kids. You were both 20 at the time.

Now, two years later, you’re trapped in one small house with at least twenty of them. You convinced Alex’s mom that there would be too many people and she’d be way too busy to serve them all, so you offered to help by passing around snacks and drinks. It worked, and she let you stay. But that means you’re now stuck in the corner of the living room with a tray full of mini chocolate chip cookies, smiling at a bunch of people you really don’t like.

Alex had advised you to dress up for the occasion, and you had to dig deep into your closet to find the clothes you used to wear when you actually attended church. You wore a black dress that was supposed to hit your knees, but since you hadn’t worn it since you were a teen, it now hit almost at mid-thigh. It earned you a few questioning looks from the grand-aunts, but at least it covered what it needed to.

In your search, you also found an old rosary. It used to be your favorite, and the sight of it made you feel nauseous for just a second. Still, just for Alex, you placed it around your neck and pretended it didn’t drag you back to the dark times.

It used to be a comfort to have around your neck. Now, it’s tight and itchy. Like a noose, or a leash, or both.

It feels like a punishment—like the weight of sins you no longer believe in but still carry.

You’re walking toward a group of gossiping women—so much for “Do not go about spreading slander among your people,” you guess—when two new people walk through the door. You start to dread the presence of more self-righteous old assholes… until you actually catch sight of them.

Two priests enter the living room, followed by Alex’s father. They’re in full getup—suits, Bibles, and clerical collars. And they are insanely hot.

Both guys look younger than thirty, and they’re explaining something to Alex’s parents. You stare for a moment longer than necessary, until the shorter one glances over and catches your eye.

You immediately turn around and start walking somewhere, anywhere. You try to find your friend, but she’s nowhere in sight, so you just head toward the group of ladies you were originally aiming for and offer them some cookies.

That’s when Alex’s mother finds you and hands you a new tray with the mini-pies you and her daughter made yesterday.

“The church sent their two new junior priests to pay their respects. Isn’t that so kind of them?” she asks, genuinely touched by it. You try not to grimace. “Go and offer them the pies, and make sure to get them everything they need.”

Cool. Now you had to serve two literal clerics. Like this day couldn’t get any worse.

You’re awkward and shy when around people you find attractive, so you walk up to the men with your eyes on the floor and a mental chant of don’t trip, don’t trip, don’t trip.

“Uhm—mini-pies?”

You meet their eyes for a second. First the shorter one’s, who at the mention of pie immediately looks toward the tray and starts digging in. Okay, safe. Then your eyes drift to the taller one.

And Holy fucking God indeed.

The guy is absolutely gorgeous. Big hazel eyes, his styled long hair already falling onto his forehead a bit from the heat of the summer, and just so fucking tall. You can only hold eye contact for a second before your gaze drops back to the floor.

“Hell yeah.” exclaims the first guy, mouth stuffed with mini-pies.

You raise your eyebrows, surprised by his cursing. Some priests, huh?

It’s not the most blasphemous thing you’ve seen a man of the church do anyway, so you don’t comment on it.

The taller—giant, just fucking huge—man sends him a glare and rolls his eyes.

“Excuse him, he is our newest recruit. I’m Father Frehley.” He presents himself, extending his hand towards you.

For the smallest second, you’re overcome with terror. That hand, sliding out from a black sleeve, framed by the white, crisp cuffs—it’s too familiar. Too sickening.

You swallow it. Don’t be fucking pathetic. Get over it.

You struggle a bit to grab the tray with just one hand, movements clumsy with nerves, but the other guy helps you by grabbing the whole tray and immediately devouring the rest of the mini-pies.

You shake Father Frehley’s hand, meeting his eyes again. One, two, three, four… you look away. Okay, an improvement.

“This is Father Simmons.”

The shorter guy shakes his hand in greeting gesture, crumbs and blueberry filling all over his mouth. You frown a little, looking back and forth between the priests.

“Frehley and Simmons? Like… Kiss?” You raise an eyebrow, making both men stare at you, taken aback for a second, before Frehley chuckles and lowers his head.

“Yeah, exactly. Freakish coincidence.”

You’re still a bit skeptical, but you let it go. You already had enough to deal with today.

“So, are you the daughter of the homeowners?” Simmons asks, using a napkin to clean the remains of mini-pies off his face.

You shake your head quickly. “Oh, no. No, I am their daughter Alex’s friend.” You introduce yourself.

“So you knew the deceased?” Frehley asks, glancing around the room. You take the chance to study his features. Once his eyes return to you, you look down at your hands.

“Not really. I think I met him once or twice,” you shrug. The priests look a bit confused, so you continue. “The truth is, Alex doesn’t really… get along with some of the people here.”

You glance around the room again, trying to find Alex. She’s alone at the dessert table, looking like she definitely needs a sweet treat. But she doesn’t need rescuing—yet.

“I’m here for moral support. Even though I don’t like them much either.”

“Well, it is in times like this when the Lord wants us to support each other the most,” Simmons begins. “I’m sure He is pleased with you—”

That’d be a new one, he never seemed to be before.

You can’t help the snort that escapes you but you quickly turn to the priests, apologetic.

“Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to disrespect you,” you add quickly. “Thank you for your words.”

You try to sound as genuine as possible, but you’re pretty sure your expression gives you away.

“So why do they have you handing out snacks?” Frehley asks in a low voice, leaning forward a bit. God, his voice is so smooth and warm. Maybe you wouldn’t mind attending Mass if he were the one directing it.

“That’s how I convinced her mom to let me stay.” You sigh, shaking your head. Come on, girl. That was a Father. “But my real mission is to keep an eye on Alex. The moment some invasive family member tries to interrogate her, I slide in and interrupt the speech with some desserts.”

Both men chuckle at your words, and you study their faces again. What were two sexy guys like that doing in the church? You guess life does work in mysterious ways.

They continue asking what you know about the cousin’s death. You recount what you’ve heard, always keeping an eye on your friend. At some point, you two make eye contact, and she sends you one of those “those guys are fine” looks. You have to bite down a laugh.

“It was nice of you to come.” you add once the silence gets a bit awkward. “I am sure many here find comfort in your presence.”

“Not you, though?” Simmons jokes, and you can’t help but let out an amused huff.

“That obvious?”

“Just a bit.” Frehley looks at you with the prettiest smile you’ve ever seen. You swear this is divine punishment.

“Yeah, well… my relationship with religion isn’t the best.” you avert your gaze again. “Grew up very Catholic—and I’m talking all-girls, nun-run Catholic school kinda thing.”

And now I feel guilty for breathing… and also kinda wanna fuck a priest.

“Oh, so the hardcore stuff.” Simmons teases, and it makes you laugh.

“But you’re not anymore?”

You shake your head. “No,” You had worked for years to keep the apology out of your voice when you said this. “I’m not.”

The eyes of the Christ in the front of the bible being held in Frehley’s arms burn into your skin.

“Let's say my relationship with God is very complicated.” You scoff, taking in a deep breath. “I really don’t mean to offend, but… many things happened that made me—well, not a fan of all things religious.” The scars on your back ache just a little, but you ignore it.

Both priests nod, and they don’t seem angry. They’re young, and seem smart enough to understand. You relax a bit, feeling less uncomfortable than you usually do around clergy members.

You feel both their eyes on you then, so your gaze drifts around the living room. And thank every deity you’ve ever heard of—because there’s Alex, cornered by the man you two had dubbed Creepy Uncle.

You quickly grab the old tray with the cookies (Simmons had finished off all the mini-pies) and turn back to the priests.

“Well, it was nice meeting you, Fathers,” you say quickly, walking backward. “I think the mom’s in the kitchen if you wanna talk to her—but right now, I’ve gotta go play superhero.”

Turns out, going to save Alex from Creepy Uncle was a very bad idea. Because the moment she’s out of sight, he latches onto you.

He keeps inching closer, backing you up against the dessert table. His breath reeks of beer, and the way he pronounces every word—slow, suggestive, like he thinks he’s clever—makes your skin crawl. Even the spit flying from his mouth feels calculated. It all reminds you of the men from your old church: the cheating husbands who hovered near high schoolers, that one youth pastor you still try not to think about.

His hand starts to move toward you, and you freeze. Too many years of being taught not to fight back. Your stomach flips as his fingers reach for a strand of your hair—

And then your guardian angel steps in.

“Mrs. Evergreen wants us to pray.” Frehley hovers behind Creepy Uncle. His dark eyes and twisted mouth make him look menacing, almost scary. Like a predator—big, stealthy, quiet, but ready to sink his teeth into your jugular if he had to.

A different kind of fear bubbles inside you. The kind that makes you press your thighs together, heat pooling in your lower stomach.

Creepy Uncle finally leaves, looking bashful in front of the priest.

Frehley gives you a careful yet somehow comforting look before walking away to stand next to Simmons.

You stay in the back, hiding in the corner of the living room as the family begins to pray. You try to keep your expression neutral, forcing yourself to be respectful. Not everyone who believes in God is bad, you tell yourself, over and over.

A few tears are shed during the more emotional speeches. The priests stand in the background, both of them looking a little lost. Did the church really send their newest, least-prepared members for this?

You’re already congratulating yourself for how well you're handling the situation when Alex’s aunt, the mother of the deceased, walks to the front of the room.

“Oh merciful God, I beg for you to forgive me.”

There it is. You see it in her eyes, her trembling hands, the pained tremor in her voice. The guilt, the shame, the self-blame. The same weight that was once tattooed into you, the one you can’t seem to get rid of.

Her son is dead, and she’s apologizing for it.

You shift on your feet, swallowing the lump forming in your throat. It tastes like wine and sacramental bread, the same taste that was forced into your mouth the day of your first communion.

“I confess to almighty God, and to you, my brothers and sisters, that I have greatly sinned.”

No. No, no, no, no, no.

“In my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done, and in what I have failed to do.”

Your knees weaken, and your throat tightens. Not this one. Not this prayer. Not again.

“Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault;”

You’re drowning, choking, dying. The rosary around your neck tightens. The crucifix on the wall looms over you, ready to strike. God is here, and He demands repentance with blood.

“Therefore I ask blessed Mary ever-Virgin, all the Angels and…”

You run. You did back then, and you do now.

You stumble out of the house, breath ragged, panic clawing at you.