#(this is for the post. there is smut in the fic) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

swordgrace · 2 days ago

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❝ 𝐧𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: forced to attend a charity gala for val, you and bucky navigate a new life in the spotlight. the only caveat is, he’s pining for you — and he’s pining hard.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: (post-tb*) bucky barnes x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 7.0K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: light nsfw, very mild smut, friends to lovers, yearning bucky, confession of feelings, bucky is silly & charming, lots of fluff, heavy making out, neck kissing, sexual tension, body worship, light dry humping, groping & lots of touching, really sweet ending.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this might be one of my favorite fics I’ve written lately ngl :’) I just adore a softer side to Bucky where he’s happy. If enough people like this fic, I have a part 2 planned! ❤️ I hope you all enjoy! 🫶

Frivolous events have never been your forte.

Thousands of crystals dangle from a gaudy chandelier, hanging high from a scaling ceiling in the middle of the ballroom. Light dances in luminescent refraction, spilling onto the pale marble below.

It’s mesmerizing, a worthwhile distraction that effectively silences the hum of conversation buzzing around you. Excitement blankets the air, teeming with business disguised as laughter.

In the space for reflection, you find yourself more discomforted by your dress than the atmosphere. Philanthropists, chairmen, politicians — it all felt exceedingly ‘larger-than-life’ for you.

The New Avengers Foundation Gala was the solution to a cut in funding Valentina had experienced in the wake of O.X.E Group’s dismantlement.

In the upper wings of the hall, were showrooms dedicated to the new mightiest heroes of a futuristic generation. It was all too polished, too modernized, too corporate — it was somewhat soulless, each of you washed down to a mere moniker.

Attendees, patrons, and donors alike were thoroughly engrossed with Valentina’s peacocking display — and the press loved it, too.

Banners hung from the rafters, bearing a glamour shot of each member of the team, all wearing new gear that held an exaggerated flair. It was strange, seeing your face plastered there — haunting, really.

Unfortunately for the team, you were all along for the ride; a tumultuous, unpredictable ride that left you feeling mildly uncomfortable.

It was as if you were living in a skin that didn’t belong to you, catering to people who saw you as an accessory, a curiosity.

Indigo silk barely touched the floor beneath you, off-the-shoulder sleeves accentuating your neckline as if you had something to show. The wardrobe wasn’t something you’d selected; Val chose it.

Constricted within your fabric coffin, you continued to marvel at the general splendor of the pavilion, cradling a half-drank glass of champagne.

Unbeknownst to you, Bucky Barnes’s eyes had followed you across the room for the past hour, his gaze disarmingly soft. It was to check in on you, he’d told himself, but it extended beyond that.

To any outsider, he resembled a man yearning for someone who didn’t have a clue, wistful and contemplative. Friends don’t look at one another in the way Bucky looks at you.

Discomfort rippled from you in waves, slithering like some fever over your skin, tugging at the corners of your thoughts.

Whenever you took a step, you felt as if you might collapse from the pressure, or simply from the balancing act on stilettos.

From afar, Bucky was deliberating going to you, noticing the way Valentina had swarmed in with calculated, measured steps. She was dangerous, even still; and he didn’t trust her with you.

“God, you do clean up nicely,” Valentina’s biting tone sank into you like teeth, spiking your nervous system. “You know, I started to think you might’ve been a little hopeless.” She chimes, champagne in-hand.

Swiveling, you’re faced with your boss, the corner of her mouth pulled into a half-smirk. After everything, you’re still wary of her, never fully bringing your guard down in the process.

“Thanks,” With a low mumble, you can’t quite decipher if she’s paying you a compliment or mocking you — maybe it’s somewhere in between. “I’m not used to this.” You confessed, fingers tense around your glass.

“You’ll have to work on your posture,” She chided, clicking her tongue with faux disapproval. “Looks bad in the pictures.”

It was all optics with her — a team of government rejects rebranded as the new face of heroism, rebuilding the legacy left behind by shoes too big to fill. Admittedly, she made you nervous; too sharp, too clever, a well-dressed viper.

Withholding the urge to retort with a quip of your own, you forced a smile, noticing photographers swimming in your peripheral like sharks.

“Turn around and give them a smile, yeah?” Valentina uttered, low enough for only you to hear. A hand fell flat against the back of your arm, turning you just in time to be bombarded by flashes of light and camera clicks.

With pearlescent teeth and a wolfish smile, she stood firmly beside you, guiding you through it. Your own smile was threadbare and pensive, as if it pained you to play along.

It all seemed scripted, rehearsed, fake. Everything lacked authenticity, and it grated on you through the photographs.

Bucky was already in-motion, weaving through the gathering crowd, departing a conversation with an investor mid-sentence. He wouldn’t call it a rescue mission, but he knew you, knew how anxious it made you.

His brief stint in Washington as a congressman afforded him time in the spotlight, pressed beneath mountains of questions and constant prying.

Quietly, he slipped in from the fringes, coming to stand beside you. Valentina noticed, but made no motion to dismiss him, allowing the press to make a frenzy of it all.

Vibranium graced the small of your back, a kiss of ice through the silk that clung to you, the gesture comforting. Realizing that Bucky had joined you, you began to relax, anchoring yourself to his presence.

When the cameras receded, the weight within your chest had lifted, replaced by relief as you turned to Bucky. “Thank you,” You murmured, appreciative. “Don’t go anywhere.” It was a soft plea, one that he heeded.

“Mr. Barnes,” Valentina spoke as if he’d irked her in some regard, polished nails tapping against her champagne glass. “Suit’s a little outdated, but we can work with that.” She remarked condescendingly.

Bucky huffed, hovering near your right side, one hand shoved into his pocket. “Yeah, well,” He shrugged, nonchalant. “I’m a little old-fashioned.” His own wry joke prompted him to smile.

With a snarky hum, Valentina dismissed his jest, peering over her shoulder as an older man approached, a New Avengers pin on his lapel. “Ah, Senator Locke. It’s a pleasure to have you at our little event.”

Involuntarily, you stayed close to Bucky, glued to his hip whenever the crowds grew thick. Even with his newfound status as an Avenger, many people still saw the Winter Soldier, a Soviet machine, capable of such destruction.

“Wouldn’t miss it, Ms. Fontaine. You’ve done excellent work, keeping Americans safe with the team you’ve assembled.” He chimed, gaze flickering toward you and Bucky; you, in particular.

“The safety and security of our citizens is our highest priority. The Avengers work with that at the forefront of their mission,” Smooth, calculated and completely fake. “Your contribution is appreciated.”

Bucky bristled, holding back a scoff as he attempted to maintain some level of cordiality. A majority of the people in-attendance held Valentina in some high regard.

Every syllable that dripped from Valentina was steeped by a facade of altruism — she was purely in this for personal gain.

Senator Locke glanced at you, perhaps for too long, prompting you to shift your weight. The stilettos dug into your heels, feet aching as you cleared your throat.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, miss. You’re certainly much prettier in-person than on a television screen.” Locke nodded, hand outstretched for a shake. Knowing that you’re left without options, you keep the gesture brief.

Through a clenched jaw and furrowed brows, Bucky bites his tongue, keeping himself in-check when the Senator brazenly remarks about your appearance. He was the essence of ire, stewing quietly beside you, digits clenched into his pocket.

“Oh,” It was all you could muster before Valentina shot you a pointed glare through gritted teeth. “Thank you, Senator. I suppose I wanted the world to see a new side of me.” God, it sounded so ridiculous.

“I would like to speak to you further about your involvement with the Avengers. Have you been to Washington?” He continued, and Valentina seemed poised to interject, capitalizing on the opportunity — in her own way.

“Senator, my team is incredibly busy with global threats and outreach efforts,” With another pensive, venomous smile, she tapped her now-empty glass. “Though, I’m certain she’d entertain a dance.”

The more he spoke, the more livid Bucky became, silently seething as he prepared for a scare tactic. He turned around, and one swipe of his phone had told him where Senator Locke’s address was.

As the proposition of a dance was placed into the open, you gawked, jaw unhinged as you closed your mouth. Unfortunately, you couldn’t object — you were playing the part, catering to strangers for funding.

Waved over by another gaggle of shareholders, Valentina hummed, heels clicking over polished marble. “Senator, if you’ll excuse me.”

As she departed, you were left with Locke and Bucky. However, Bucky had a scheme of his own, throwing on a charming smile, maliciously deceptive as he cleared his throat.

“So, about Washington …” Locke began, but not before Bucky could interject.

He leaned down, low and calculating, murmuring something indecipherable into the Senator’s ear. You couldn’t quite discern what was being exchanged between the two, but Locke’s face had turned as white as a sheet.

“I deeply apologize for the offense, M—Mr. Barnes, I …” As pale as a ghost, the man hastily nodded several times over, swallowing the lump within his throat before stepping away. “Pardon me.”

Bewildered, you watched in stunned silence as the Senator quickly retreated, weaving back through the sea of patrons to find Valentina.

It left you shocked, brows creased in confusion, craning to glance at Bucky with a hint of amusement. “What was that all about? You looked like you scared him into an early grave.” You mused, head cocked to one side.

A hint of smugness crept onto his features, turning to look at you, visibly playful. “Told him that I knew his address and how to track him.” Bucky chimed, gesturing for you to follow him elsewhere.

“Bucky, you didn’t!” With a conspiratorial gasp, you were swift to follow, abandoning your lukewarm glass of champagne on the table behind you. “How did you know where he lived, anyway?”

“Google.” Holding up his phone from the confines of his pocket, his tone held a charming lilt, more upbeat now that Locke and Valentina were gone.

Smooth jazz reverberated from the ballroom, a live band dresses in finely-tailored suits situated in one corner. There were plenty of people dancing already, a good place to assimilate and disappear from prying senators.

With a bubbly laugh, you slipped inside with him, heartbeat beginning to settle, anxiousness receding altogether. Having him by your side seemed to ease whatever discomfort you’d experienced before.

“Thank you for that,” A sigh of relief escaped you, hands twisting together, fingers locked before your navel. “I don’t like being here, and I don’t …” Trailing off, you felt Bucky’s gaze shift to you.

A tender stare settled over your countenance, openly admiring your beauty; it was involuntary, revolving around you as if you were the sun itself. “It’s alright.” He murmured, able to understand your frustration.

Pushing a tremulous exhale through your nose, you mustered up a smile, palm running over the underside of your forearm. “Sometimes I miss the way things were before we became Avengers.”

Valentina would’ve labeled you ungrateful, shaming you for being apprehensive at the opportunity presented to you. Maybe you should’ve been happy about it all, but the public light wasn’t for you.

“Yeah,” Bucky sighed, lips pulling into a half-smile, placating. “Me too.” Despite his short-lived career as a congressman, the current limelight made him miss it; just a little bit.

The friendship you formed with Bucky was meaningful to you, but some sliver wanted more, craved something else. It whispered between stolen glances, hands brushing but never firm, eyes following one another around a room.

Between rooms of shareholders, media, and senators, he was the prettiest thing here — the only thing interesting enough to keep you grounded.

Broad shoulders were accentuated by the fit of his blazer, white dress shirt complete with a bowtie; so handsome that it made you pause. Bucky was always attractive, but more so now, inches apart and smiling.

“Before he comes back, interested in a dance?” Bucky propositions, his question seemingly innocuous. He narrowly avoided dancing at a previous Congress gala, but this seemed as good a time as any.

Smitten, you attempt to swallow the twinge of nervousness that pools within your belly, still rubbing at your arm. “I might step on you, if that’s okay with you. These heels are killing me.”

Bucky chuckles, unperturbed by the idea of being stepped on mid-sway. “I think I can handle it.” He offers a hand, metallic palm shimmering beneath the crystalline glow, visibly reassuring.

Steeling yourself, flesh slips into icy metal, soothing the heat that’s made residence in your skin. Slowly, the both of you step out onto the ballroom floor, over sparkling tile, intermingling amongst the crowds.

Some time ago, he was somewhat adverse to touch — felt undeserving, felt as if he’d ruin something good. When your hand slipped into his, he found himself craving it, but only if it came from you.

There were plenty of fleeting moments; moments that still whispered from the recesses of his mind, bright spots slipping through the dark. You grounded him; you were a sanctuary.

A slow jazz ballad blankets the room, chandelier glistening overhead, idle chatter humming in the spaces between. Gently, Bucky’s hand finds your waist, digits slipping over satiny, azure fabric, the texture soft.

It was muscle memory for him, lamenting over memories from nearly a century ago; for you, it was somewhat awkward. Joined hands drift to your sides in a classic waltz, something slow and idle.

Baccarat Rouge 540 — it’s Bucky’s cologne, an amalgamation of woodsy scents, imbued with strains of amber and a spice of something floral. It’s rich, a smell that you commit to memory, being this close together.

As you slowly turn about the floor, you decide to shatter the silence, gaze fluttering toward the stubbled slope of his jaw. “You’re really good at this,” You muse, hushed. “Very smooth.”

A bemused huff escaped him, accompanied by a glint of pearlescent teeth. “It’s been a long time,” He confessed, keeping you close. “You haven’t stepped on me yet.” Bucky remarks teasingly.

“We just started, there’s still plenty of time,” Playful, you return his quip with one of your own, minding his feet as you shift to the right. “Hopefully Valentina isn’t upset about the Senator thing.”

“She’ll live,” Bucky murmured, still sore about the entire ordeal. She was vicious, calculating; there was always an ulterior motive with her, wreathed in shadows. “I don’t trust her with you.”

While you were flattered by his concern, you felt that you could handle yourself, despite the uncertainty. “I’ll be alright, Buck. I think she took advantage of my discomfort, that’s all.”

“That’s my point. She’s dangerous.” Through pinched brows, his gaze fell to you, wrought with something incendiary. He was protective over you for a multitude of reasons. “I want to keep you safe.”

His cadence softened to a gentle lull, one that filled your stomach with butterflies. The way he stared at you — it didn’t seem strictly platonic, but maybe you were reading into it too much.

“Thanks.” Little more than a mere whisper, you danced with him still, swaying to the melodramatic hum of the music. The both of you seemed to settle, enjoying the presence of one another; he couldn’t take his eyes off of you.

The heel of your stiletto happened to wobble, but he was swift in steadying you, hand tight around your waist. “Easy,” Bucky murmured, a brief chuckle bubbling from his throat. “I’ve got you, doll.”

It was an innocuous nickname, sweet; Bucky had called you it only on a handful of occasions, and all of them were typically playful.

The way he said it this time almost held a weight to it, as if there were underlying implications.

“Still haven’t stepped on you,” Teasingly, you muster up a smile, one that makes Bucky’s heart stop. It’s accompanied by a flutter of lashes, a soft laugh, a gaze tender enough to melt through him. “Yet.”

Bucky huffed, giving you a look as he drew you closer, involuntarily. The distance between bodies had grown thin, breath hitching within your throat when you realized it.

Shy, your hand came to perch against his chest, digits brushing over his bowtie, throat stirring with a low hum. Silence settled in between, a tenuous pause full of unspoken feelings, thoughts left unsaid.

Through parted lips, Bucky decided to break the ice, dark lashes kissing the skin beneath his eyes. Jazz continued to fill the ballroom with the croon of trumpets and gentle piano, the both of you waltzing in tentative steps.

“You look really beautiful.” Bucky murmured, swallowing the growing lump within his throat. It wasn’t often that he paid compliments like these, but his charm was still perfectly intact, albeit rusty.

He’d been on a handful of dates after the coding in his brain had been broken; none of them were fulfilling. There was a lack of true understanding, a baseless connection.

Until he met you, and he found himself fearful — you were something to lose. You left him feeling seen in ways he didn’t think possible, comfortable to be himself, just Bucky Barnes, the rawest iteration of his heart.

Flustered, you smiled at him, attempting to keep your heartbeat from teetering off of the edge. “Thank you, Buck,” Smiling still, you mustered the courage to look at him fully. “You … You look really handsome, too.”

Bucky chuckled as if you’d said something humorous, vibranium palm cold over yours, thumb lightly tracing your knuckles. “It’s the bowtie, isn’t it?” He mused, wisps of dark hair framing his countenance.

“Mm-hm,” Dimples formed at either corner of your mouth, gaze softening as he gently spun you around. “It ties everything together.” Your tongue-and-cheek joke almost made you cringe, nose wrinkling.

“Funny. Did you mean to make that joke?” He teases, and you feel heat warm your features, smitten as you look elsewhere. God, you were perfect — beautiful beyond comprehension.

“Accidental,” With a soft huff, you clear your throat, deciding to press the matter further and be serious. “Really, Bucky. You look wonderful.” The tender cadence of your tone had magnetized him.

“I don’t hold a candle to you,” Bucky utters, voice thick with a pleasant husk, one that itches at the back of your mind. “Nobody in here does.” It’s that soft admittance that makes you shiver from delight.

His eyes never leave you, and suddenly, everything feels too real, too close; the flush of his lips entice you, and you’re left wanting.

Stunned speechless, you quiet, stewing within the tension that brews between the both of you. It’s been simmering for months — part of you wondered when to let it snap, but you’re afraid of the consequences.

Bucky deliberates on what to do next, what to say; your mouth is dangerously close, lips parted, gaze innocuously doe-eyed. He’s imagined it often, what it might’ve been like to kiss you — and it’s always the sweetest fantasy.

“Bucky,” Words hang heavy within your throat, confession sizzling away like floating ash. There’s so much left unsaid — he knows it, and so do you. “Do you really mean that?” Serious, you let your voice hush.

The both of you have danced around the burning flame smoldering between you for a long while, now. It was beginning to reach out, take you both, and Bucky found himself preparing to take that plunge with enthusiasm.

“Yeah,” He says it softly, as if it’s reserved only for you, and he feels nervous. You make him want more, more than he ever thought possible. “I mean it, doll.” Bucky utters, and he’s a second away from bridging the gap.

In a room full of people, you’re comfortable enough to simply exist, fading into the background, and he fades with you.

It’s as if time slows, suspended in the moment — you want to live in it, blinking in sluggish flickers of your eyelashes. The erratic hum of your heartbeat sings a melody beneath your chest, hand absently clenching around his metal one.

He’s thinking of kissing you — any unsteadiness shifts into certainty, and the longer he stares at you, the more his resolve crumbles. Bucky tilts closer, enough for you to feel his breath feather over your mouth.

“Kiss me, Bucky.”

That’s all it takes — it’s his name on your tongue, spoken with such tenderness that he fears he’ll fall apart in front of you, unraveling.

A hitch forms within the bottom of his throat, and he’s moving inward, lips a mere breadth apart. His mouth is almost on yours, disarmingly gentle, and then it’s all ripped away.

“Bucky!”

Congressman Gary’s voice pierces through the tension, deflating it entirely, and the tension slithers away into a state of dormancy. The music begins to come to a close, a sense of finality present as you recoil, features burning with heat.

When he realizes how close you were, he’s left frustrated, noticing that you’ve already receded. Soured, his gaze floats past your shoulder and toward Gary, who seems eager to speak with him.

The smile you give him is cordial, a kindly facade that does little to mask your true feelings. He can see it, lingering beneath your eyes — you’re disappointed, but you smother it anyway.

“Sorry about that.” Bucky mumbles a grousing apology, but you’re quick to dismiss it. He tries to turn on the practiced politician’s charm — but it falters when he thinks about kissing you.

“It’s okay,” Reassuring, you squeeze his metal hand and step away, allowing him space to speak with Gary. “I’m going to find Yelena.” You nod, and he’s reluctant to let you go, but he does anyway.

With a soft nod, Bucky watches you go, slipping away through the crowd in your indigo gown. He’s cursing himself, left sorely shattered in the wake of it all, his head swimming, thoughts scrambled entirely.

He doesn’t register whatever jargon Gary throws his way — something about shareholders, but Bucky is too preoccupied with watching you leave to care.

Your feet are killing you — a raw blister has rubbed into your heel, splitting skin, pangs of a dull ache shooting into your legs. As soon as you cross the threshold into the Watchtower, you’re discarding the stilettos, bare feet crossing over cold tile.

For the duration of the gala, you avoided Valentina, speaking cordially with those who approached, but it was exceedingly difficult.

Bucky hadn’t left your mind — he’d invaded it, a feverish haze that you didn’t want to escape from. The dance left you wrought with exhilaration, wondering if whatever you felt wasn’t misinterpreted like you thought.

The team disperses not long after arrival, a mutual exhaustion from an evening of prying eyes, camera flashes, and being brandished like a polished accessory.

In the inky gloom that pools through tinted window panes, moonlight catches over dark flooring, the night unobstructed by clouds. A pair of stilettos dangles from your hand, footsteps light as you stop to lean against the island.

Relief washes through you as you rock the balls of your feet against the tile, happy to be rid of your high-heels. It’s quiet — too quiet, save for the sound of footsteps behind you.

“Kicked the heels off quick.” Bucky’s timbre cuts through the hush, warm and amiable as he makes a round to the refrigerator.

His bowtie is loosened, first few buttons of his dress shirt undone, blazer draped in a pleated heap over one shoulder. The sight is devastatingly handsome, causing your breath to hitch within your throat.

“My feet are already thanking me,” You remark, leaning against the dark, polished granite. Bucky takes a swig of water, vibranium hand closed around a cool glass. “How was your talk with Gary?”

He was still feeling the stinging disappointment of not being able to kiss you at the gala. Bucky was attempting to discern how to broach the topic with you, or at the very least, come clean about how he felt.

It was easier said than done, wanting someone that he thought he was entirely undeserving of. The way you stared at him, leaned in, said his name — it was all he could think about, consuming every waking thought.

“Nothing important,” Bucky shrugs, ogling you from over the rim of his glass. “Could’ve sent a text.” He muses, body jostling with a soft scoff.

“Oh.” You hum, your tone sounding somewhat awkward. Whatever happened at the gala was something you were desperate to talk about, addressing unspoken feelings.

That’s all you can muster, a meager ‘oh’ as you fumble about. Swallowing the lump within your throat, a gap of silence settles between, thick with a cloud of tension.

Bucky deliberates, still clutching onto his glass as if it’s anchoring him to reality. It begins to splinter beneath the pressure of vibranium.

“Well, I … I think I’m going to go change and lay down. I’m eager to get out of this dress,” Sheepishly, you shuffle around the island and slowly begin to make your way towards the corridor. “Goodnight, Buck.”

As you awkwardly make for the mouth of the hallway, Bucky calmly places his glass into the sink, bristling with a newfound determination. He makes the choice to go after you, finish what began at the gala.

With measured strides, he’s following after you. He watched you leave once already tonight without kissing you — he wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice.

“Wait.” He stops you, a gentle palm on your waist, cadence laced with a thinly-veiled want. “You’re gonna run off on me like that, doll?”

Listening to the pace behind you climb in intensity, you whirl around, nearly colliding into Bucky as he plants a chaste kiss against your mouth.

It’s disarming, but fleeting, brief — he’s wading into your waters. “Bucky, what …” You whisper, doe-eyed and awestruck.

Exhilarated and breathless, you’re stunned when his stubbled mouth fans over yours, and the contact is too hurried, too hasty. Yet, he burns your lips with the kiss, and you’re left wanting more.

“I should’ve done that sooner.” He confesses, tone dropping to a warm timbre that makes your stomach erupt with butterflies. Your breath hitches, gaze wide-eyed and wanton.

“You should’ve.” Breathless, you concur, lashes fluttering as they kiss the skin beneath your eyes. Fingers tense around the backs of your stilettos, and you’re waiting.

Bucky’s jaw clenches, blue eyes burning as he peers down at you — azure dress, dazzling eyes, taking his breath away.

He exhales; the sound is sharp, poignant, excited — his gaze traces over your countenance, across delicate features and the curve of your mouth.

His body is close, chests nearly brushing, hand still hovering around your waist. “May I?” Bucky’s tone softens, a humming purr that makes your knees wobble.

“Please, Buck.” Lips parted, and you’re careening up on your toes to meet him halfway. He dips down, mouth clamoring for yours, lips brushing in a heated swarm.

Stifling a gasp, your hand drops your stilettos as if they’re a meaningless thing, listening to them clatter against the tile. They both gather against his chest, muscle firm beneath your palms.

Passion bleeds through his lips, certain and steady, vibranium hand shifting to cup your jaw. You shiver from the contact, icy metal sweeping over burning skin, other hand holding your hips.

It’s fireworks — months of pining, of dancing around smothered feelings, only to explode to the surface. Satisfaction ripples through you, a warm elation that curls around your bones.

Wisps of brunette tickle your cheeks, his hair soft as it brushes over your face. The pleasant scratch of his beard grounds you, a reminder that all of this is real, visceral — not a fantasy.

There’s a lull in the kiss as you draw away, chest constricting with soft, excitable sighs. “I’ve been waiting on you, Bucky Barnes.” You whisper, unable to keep yourself from beaming, teeth and all.

“Wish I got the hint,” Bucky grumbles, his metal thumb circling over the soft flesh beneath your jaw, pressing a kiss to your crown. “You’re beautiful.” He murmurs, appreciative as he cups your face.

“I wasn’t very good at dropping hints,” The softness of your confession pulls a chuckle from him, arm still caging you against his body. “I just — You’re incredible, Bucky.” Your words come as a surprise, but aren’t unwanted.

A rosy pallor clings to his features, slipping beneath his beard as he plants another kiss to your forehead, gaze warm as it follows the curve of your mouth. “I don’t know about that, sweetheart.” He admires your sentiment, nonetheless.

“I know,” Insistent, you gently tap his chest, fingertips hovering above his collarbone. “I know that I adore you just the way you are.” Affection curled within your tone, sweet and tender.

Bucky paused, a slow smile spreading over his features, lashes fluttering a time or two. There was something raw about the way he stared at you, as if you were the thing he lived for, breathed for.

A comfortable bout of silence slipped between, his hand still stroking over your jaw, fingertips circling your cheekbone. “I think you’re perfect.” He stated, as if it were fact.

A hitch formed within your throat, taken aback by the sincerity of his words. His stare never wavered, exceedingly soft as you coaxed him in for another kiss; and he didn’t protest.

It was soft, wrought with ardor, something that stole every wisp of air from your lungs. Bucky only craved your touch — you were what he wanted, everything he wanted.

Physical intimacy wasn’t something he’d experienced for years; between HYDRA, the ice, scrambled memories, on the run … It never allowed him time to let it sink in, that he could be desirable.

The way your hands caressed over his chest pulled a low grunt from his mouth, lost within entangled lips as he reciprocated.

“Do you …” Murmuring against his mouth, Bucky stilled, lashes fluttering in rapid succession. “Do you want to come to my room?” You asked, insides stirring with butterflies.

A brief pause settled between the two of you, the idea being turned over within his mind. The implications were there — what you wanted, what he wanted.

“I’ll follow you, doll.” Bucky murmured, cadence low and warm as it curled around you, eliciting a brief shiver. His vibranium hand smoothed over the small of your back, and he stooped to retrieve your shoes, too.

Hushed, the both of you strolled for your room, at the very end of the main level. It was a corridor you shared with Bob and Ava, typically quiet with minimal disturbances.

The rhythm of your heart had kicked into a gallop, slamming beneath your breast as you traipsed barefoot over cold tile, Bucky sticking close to your side.

He was smiling, and so were you; anticipation hung heavy, a subtle expectancy that you were eager to entertain. As you came up to your door, you pressed the button, letting it open with a soft hiss.

The room you’d concocted for yourself was home — warm and comely, surrounded by all facets of your personality, vibrant with color. It was very lived-in, bed partially made, items scattered over your vanity.

Bucky had been inside a handful of times, drinking in the details when he slipped inside behind you. He placed your stilettos down, pacing forward with a tender gaze.

“Always thought you had a knack for decorating,” He teased, cadence disarmingly gentle, little more than a soft husk. “Smells good in here, too.” It’s all you — floral scents, sweeter aromas that he’s associated with you.

“It’s a mess of colors,” You muse, nose wrinkling as he moves to sit down on the edge of your bed, forearms resting against his knees. “It’s the honeycomb lavender scent, if you’re interested.”

Bucky chuckles, flashing a glimpse of pearlescent teeth, canting his head to one side. “Yeah?” He muses, gaze boring into you like fire, melting right through you with ease.

“Mm-hm, I can get you a bottle.” Playful, you step closer, lingering within arm’s reach. Being around him like this still feels surreal, as if reality hasn’t fully settled in.

Gently, he reaches for your hand, coaxing you closer until you’re standing in-between his legs. “Might take you up on that.” He utters, palms settling over your hips, thumbs tracing circles over your dress.

Soft fingertips shift to caress over his hairline, carding into brunette tresses. It pulls a low, content sigh from his lips, mouth still upturned into a light smile, gaze tracing across your figure.

He holds you tightly when you dip down to kiss him, lips flush, colliding in a passionate kiss. Hands trace reverently along your sides, and you shiver beneath the gentle contact.

Metal fingertips find the zipper at the middle of your spine, hesitant; he looks to you for consent, and you’re quick to nod.

“Let me.” In a hushed tone, you gently tug at your dress, unraveling azure fabric from your body. Bucky unzips you with care, dragging it down until it kisses the small of your back.

The dress piles in a heap at your feet, leaving you in your undergarments, eliciting a sigh from his mouth. He appraises you with rapture, metal palm akin to a touch of ice to your hip.

“You’re gorgeous.” Bucky huffs, mesmerized and awestruck as he coaxes you into his lap. Your knees come to squeeze at either side of his hips, sweet breath feathering over his face.

“Thanks,” Flustered, you accept his compliment without protest, hands loosely gathering over the bowtie that he’s partially undone. “So are you.”

He cracks a smile, a brief chuckle splitting through his chest as he plants a kiss to your jaw. “Hm,” He hums, low and content, hands caressing over your hips. “You mind if I …”

“You don’t have to ask, Buck.” Through fluttering lashes and another dizzying, pretty smile, he leans forward to kiss you, mouths connecting in a flurry of passion. He’s tender, but not excessively so.

Mouths mold together, his stubble scraping over your maw, a reminder that this is all real. Your breath hitches, excitement pooling within your belly.

His kiss makes your legs quiver, fingers gingerly shifting towards the buttons still holding his dress shirt together.

Digits tense over his sternum, each action marked by a gentle affection that Bucky craves. His hands leave your hips, moving to tug his bowtie off, encouraging you to remove his shirt.

It’s sluggish, meant to savor — he’s still kissing you even as you’re untethering each button, pushing the white fabric off of him.

Bucky exhales, a contented noise that drags through his chest, steady and sure, throat bobbing as he swallows. He finds a purpose with you; something clean, something gentle.

A flicker of nervousness stirs within him; he hasn’t had something like this in decades. You’re something sacred, something to lose, and he looks at you like you’re the sun, as if he hasn’t felt warmth in years.

He’s still in a white, sleeveless undershirt, material stretched snugly over his burly musculature. The silvery glint of dog-tags sparkles beneath the dim lighting of your bedroom.

A tangle of now-faded scars sits at the divide where vibranium kisses flesh, drawing your gaze there, oozing with empathy.

Lips collide, and collide again — a tangle of heat and brewing desire. He kisses you as if you might slip right through his fingers, stopping only to let his mouth press over your throat.

“Bucky.” You sigh, feeling his hand settle over your hip, the other slipping to stroke over your ribs. Metal smooths across your body, caressing until he cups your breast.

Soft fingertips trace over his chest, moving to gently grasp at the nape of his neck, threading over his hair. He continues to lavish your neck in sweet, lingering kisses, kneading at your clothed chest.

Desire pulls at the fringes of your mind, creeping in like some haze. His mouth peppers a trail, from beneath your jaw to your collar, and back up again. He repeats it a time or two, stroking your hip.

His mouth works at you still, drifting from your jaw to the silky expanse of your throat, scruffy beard scratching pleasantly against your skin.

One of your palms settles over his vibranium bicep, firm and icy underneath your flesh. Bucky shudders as if it’s a phantom sensation, lips parting with surprise.

Your embrace is fearless, and you touch his arm as if it’s just that, just him; not an instrument of destruction like he used to believe. His mouth finds yours again, bleeding passion.

Quiet, he grips you tightly before standing, ensuring that one of your legs settles over his hip. Bucky moves you back into your pillows, pressed further into the mattress, lips still joined.

He settles between your legs, pulling a soft moan from your mouth, noses brushing over one another. Your hand idly drags along his metal forearm, the other gliding beneath his undershirt, feeling along his abdomen.

Your fingertips are like kisses of silk — affectionate, tender, and delicate. He can’t remember the last time someone touched him like this, as if he were something to covet, someone worth loving.

Coming to rest on either side of him, your knees idly squeeze at his ribs, hand continuing to ascend. Bucky indulges you, using one arm to tug off his undershirt, dog-tags dangling toward your collar.

Something incendiary resides within his gaze, warm and smoldering intermingled with adoration. Through a momentary gap, you exhale, warm breath pluming over his lips before you resume the kiss.

With a soft sigh, you’re turning into him, chest brushing against his, other hand drifting to grasp at his bicep. His mouth is ceaseless, constant — you’re lost within his lips.

The warm flesh of his hand returns to knead at your breast, rolling over flesh, tingles of bliss shooting through your body.

Bodies bump together, flush; Bucky shivers when your hips seem to grind against his own, producing a friction that nearly shatters his resolve. He wants to; he thinks about it often.

He’s deliberate, attentive; Bucky kisses you as if you’re the center of everything, tender as it stretches on for several moments.

Kisses edge with something desirous, and you withdraw to catch your breath, visibly smitten. He moves toward your throat again, dipping further until he finds your collarbone.

“Bucky,” Another low, pleading moan ripples through your chest, a sound that he’s desperate to hear more of. “Bucky, please.” You sigh, satisfied and yearning for more.

There’s a moment of him continuing — metal fingers fisting into the sheets, walking the fine line of restraint. Desire rages between the both of you like a burning wildfire.

Again, he lavishes kisses over your chest, trailing towards the soft juncture between your shoulder and throat. After leaving his mark there, he finds your mouth once more, and kisses hard.

Reciprocating, the heat of entangled mouths lasts for what feels like a lifetime; it’s like fireworks dancing in your belly, nerves electrified, and you’re soaring, floating.

It slows to a crawl when he draws away, settled comfortably between your thighs. “I want to do this the right way.” He drawls, hot breath feathering over your visage.

“What’s wrong?” Thinking it was something to do with you, the sudden pause in your heated proclivities struck you as concerning.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Bucky doesn’t stray far, still hovering above you, propped up on one arm. The other moves to cup your jaw, warm and soothing. “You deserve a first date before all of this.” He muses, a twinkle in his eye.

Relieved, you can’t help but smile, flustered and completely enamored with him. “For a second, I thought I’d scared you off.” You murmur, sweet and playful as you trace your fingers over his chest.

“Not in the slightest,” He utters, and for a second, he looks razed. “You’ve got any idea what you do to me, sweetheart?” Bucky’s tone drops to a husky purr, and it makes your head spin.

“I have an inkling,” Through an excitable sigh, you relax when his lips press against your jaw, lingering and affectionate. “You might have to show me.”

Bucky huffs, gaze somewhat half-lidded, eclipsed by both ardor and desire. You can tell he wants you, but he wants to show a little chivalry; it’s ridiculously attractive.

“I want to show you, believe me,” He assures, lips still climbing over your cheek, sealing beside the corner of your mouth. “I want to take you out first, that’s all.”

“When are you taking me out?” You muse, lips still tugged into a smile. The fact that he cares enough for this means the world to you, and to him.

Bucky couldn’t recall the last time he’d really taken a girl out, and meant it. The look on your face was enchanting, full of mirth and delight as you caressed his collarbone.

“After recon in Kaunas,” He chuckles, moving to lay down beside you. Still, he doesn’t go anywhere, drawing you right into the warmth of his chest, hand holding tightly to your hip. “Gives me time to figure out how to impress you.”

The laughter that tumbled from your lips made him feel alive; it got a faint smile out of him, mouth crinkling at either corner. “You don’t need to impress me,” You assure. “I just want to be with you.”

With a nonplussed hum, his brows furrowed together, chest falling as he exhaled. “You’re perfect,” Bucky murmured, planting a kiss against your crown. “Me too, doll.”

Exhaustion began to creep up, and you were too tired to throw your pajamas on, comfortably curled into his side. He continued to caress from your hip to your spine, his breathing evening out.

“Don’t go anywhere, Buck.” Through a soft whisper, your tone is fringed with grogginess, as if you’re actively staving off sleep. He huffs, with no intention of leaving you anytime soon; or forever, if you wanted that.

“I’m not,” He presses a kiss against your forehead when you begin to succumb to sleep, lightly tugging your sheets around your body. “I’m not going anywhere.”

#mcu #marvel #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x female reader #thunderbolts #thunderbolts x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fanfiction #sebastian stan #sebastian stan x reader #marvel x reader #marvel fanfic #marvel smut

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ceramini · 1 day ago

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✦ STRONG ENOUGH TO RUIN YOU

pairing 𐐪𐑂 gym instructor!sunghoon x afab!reader

word count 𐐪𐑂 approximately 1.2k words (dw im working on making my fics longer)

genre 𐐪𐑂 smut, slow burn, instructor/client tension, fluff, dom!sunghoon, MDNI 18+

synopsis ───── you sign up for personal training thinking it’ll be a harmless way to finally stay consistent. you didn’t expect sunghoon, your cocky, too-pretty, too-hands-on gym instructor who makes you forget how to breathe mid-stretch. what starts with harmless corrections and tension-filled check-ins quickly unravels into something you can’t control. or hide.

nini’s note 🗒️ this is like INCREDIBLY over due (in terms of posting for sunghoon despite him being my wrecker..), but I just saw those photos of sunghoon in the gym and my mind is running. im actually foaming at the mouth he is so fine and his arms are like so big I want him to choke me hard im not even lying also i like how all the enha writers are just going feral abt those pics, I’ve seen like 3 of these already 😭😭.. remember 2 enjoy responsibly + comments, likes & reblogs are very much appreciated <33

𓋜 if want to read something else, check out the ꕀ LIBRARY

You weren’t even supposed to pick him.

There were three trainers available when you signed up. All perfectly qualified, all recommended. You picked the one who didn’t have 40k followers on Instagram. The one who wasn’t always in the mirror with his shirt off. The one who didn’t look like a boyband idol who accidentally wandered into a squat rack.

So why the hell were you stuck with Park Sunghoon?

“Looks like you’re with me now,” he’d said that first day, smiling just a little too knowingly. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”

You knew what that meant.

What you didn’t expect was how good he’d be at his job.

Firm, focused, never distracted, even when your breathing stuttered, even when his palm slid to your lower back and your brain short-circuited. He’d press your shoulders down, tap your thighs, adjust your grip with long, capable fingers. Always murmuring soft corrections like:

“Back straight, baby.”

“Stay with me.”

“Just like that. You’re getting better.”

He always said your name like it tasted sweet.

And now here you were, halfway through week five, sitting on the gym floor with your thighs trembling, heart in your throat, and his hand still on your waist.

“Need help stretching it out?” he says, voice low.

You should say no.

Instead, you nod.

You’re on your back. Hips tilted. One leg bent.

Sunghoon is kneeling beside you, gently moving your leg across your body as he leans over.

“Relax,” he murmurs, fingers firm on your outer thigh. “Let me guide you.”

You swear his voice gets lower every time he touches you. A slow, patient growl. You squeeze your eyes shut as the stretch deepens.

“Good girl,” he says suddenly. “Just breathe.”

Oh fuck.

You don’t know what part of your body clenches first.

“You always tense up when I say that,” he muses, amused.

You peek one eye open. He’s grinning. Smirking.

“I do not.”

“You do,” he says, stroking up your leg with his thumb. “But it’s okay. It’s cute.”

You shove his shoulder weakly. He doesn’t move an inch. You feel his grip tighten, just slightly.

“You know,” he says softly, “you’ve been a real good client. You always listen. Always do what I tell you.”

There’s a pause.

“Would you keep listening if I told you to spread your legs for me?”

Silence. Then—

You do.

Without a word. Breath shaking. Core throbbing.

Sunghoon’s eyes darken.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “I thought so.”

You’re up against the mirror.

His fingers are inside you.

Your cheek is pressed to the glass, the fog of your breath smudging your reflection. His body is flush behind you, strong, firm, solid, guiding your hips back into his hand, where he’s curling his fingers in slow, purposeful strokes.

“See how pretty you look?” he whispers, biting your ear. “Can you see how wet you are?”

You whimper. He speeds up.

You try to close your legs but he clicks his tongue.

“Ah—uh uh. Don’t run. Let me stretch you, baby.”

He spreads his fingers. You gasp.

“Already so tight,” he groans. “Can’t wait to feel you wrapped around my cock. You gonna take me like a good girl?”

You nod frantically.

“You want me that bad?”

“Sunghoon, please—”

He leans forward, lips against your jaw.

“Beg.”

You’re already halfway gone. Voice cracked. Mind empty.

“Please fuck me. Please—need it so bad—I’ll be good—”

You cry out as his palm lands against your ass, sharp and quick.

He groans behind you.

“Then get on the bench.”

The workout bench is cold on your skin.

You’re bent over it now, cheek pressed to the padding, thighs parted the way he told you. Your leggings are halfway down, soaked through, your body still trembling from his fingers.

Sunghoon stands behind you, breathing heavy, a flush spreading down his chest, biceps flexing as he strokes himself, slow and hard.

“God, look at this fucking ass,” he growls, palming the curve of your hip. “You really let me do this here?”

You nod, whimpering. “Wanted you— wanted this—”

He leans over, lips brushing your shoulder. “You’ve been teasing me for weeks. Every time you show up in those tiny shorts, acting shy—”

His cock presses between your folds and you gasp, arching.

He slides it through your slick, groaning.

“Fuck, you’re so wet. All for me?”

You can barely answer. He slaps your ass again— not hard, just enough to make you flinch.

“Answer me, baby.”

“All—fuck—all for you, Hoon.”

You don’t even recognize your own voice. It’s high, messy. You’re already unraveling, and he hasn’t even put it in yet.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “Now take it.”

He sinks in slowly.

Not teasing, not fast, just… deep.

You both moan when he bottoms out. One hand grips your hip, the other slides under your stomach to press against your clit.

“You’re so tight,” he says against your spine, voice wrecked. “Fucking perfect.”

You cry out as he starts moving, steady thrusts, grinding into that spot that makes your knees buckle. His cock fills you completely, like it was made for you, and his abs brush your back every time he presses forward.

“Shit, you��re taking me so good—” he pants, fucking into you harder. “Let me ruin you, baby. Let me make you forget your own name.”

You do.

You can’t say anything but his name. Over and over again.

“Hoon—Hoon, please—please—”

He grabs your hair, pulling you back so you see your fucked-out reflection in the mirror.

“Look,” he growls. “That’s what I do to you. That’s what you look like when I fuck you dumb.”

You’re already crying a little, not from pain, but from the overwhelm. He notices, slows down just slightly.

“You okay?”

You nod frantically. “More—please don’t stop—need you—”

He wipes your tears with a shaky hand, eyes dark.

“Yeah? You want me to break you, baby?”

You say yes so fast he laughs, but it’s breathless, desperate, like he’s just as gone.

“Say it again.”

“Break me, Sunghoon.”

He grabs your wrists, pins them behind your back, and lets go.

You’re cock drunk by the time he starts whispering praise.

“Taking me so good—god, you were made for this.”

“Such a perfect little body—fuck, I’ve been dreaming of this.”

“Gonna cum for me? Show me how pretty you look when you fall apart.”

You’re gone. You can’t stop shaking.

“Come on, baby. Cum for me. Make a mess.”

You do, hard. Loud. Full-body, leg-shaking, soul-leaving climax. You scream his name, you cry, your body locks up around his cock like it never wants to let go.

Sunghoon loses it.

“Fuck—fuckfuck—gonna fill you up, baby—shit—”

He buries himself to the hilt and cums hard, hips jerking, hands gripping you so tight you’ll probably bruise. You can feel him twitching inside you, groaning against your shoulder, dropping messy kisses onto your back as he rides out the wave.

He pulls out slow, hands still gentle, watching your cunt drip with his cum.

“Shit,” he says softly. “That was—fuck.”

You just lay there, legs spread, brain fried.

Sunghoon grabs a towel, wipes you clean, helps you sit up. He kisses your temple, holds your face in both hands.

“Was that okay?” he asks, genuinely.

You nod, tears still drying on your cheeks.

He kisses you again, soft this time. No smirk. No games.

“I’ll take care of you, okay?” he murmurs. “Even if this doesn’t mean anything. Even if it’s just once.”

You blink. “You think I’d let you hit raw and not mean it?”

He laughs, then kisses you again, and this one feels like a promise.

TAGLIST ───── @gxwesn @gyarumindd @somuchdard @ssanhwatto @jinxedly @seokjinthescientist @hoonprksung @eunvyue <3 you can join my taglist through this doc! —> here

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jeonstudios · 24 hours ago

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dextrocardia | 18

Dextrocardia. Originally a medical term, but also a way to describe someone who's got their heart in the right place.

"She's been moved to another operation to help out. This pairing is necessary because you'll be undercover as spouses. I know you two can be professional about this."

"What?!" It's Jeongguk's upset voice that sounds, and for once, you share his displeased opinion.

Spouses.

pairing: cop!jk x f detective!reader

genre: undercover cops, fake marriage, e2l au, angst, fluff, (smut?)

word count: 4.2k

warnings: blood and violence, knife (and glass) wounds.

rating: NC-17 – Adults Only

masterlist

part 18/?

You run, feet pounding the floor as you flee into the living room. Determined, Hoseong follows, though not as quickly as before. A loud booming sound echoes through the apartment just as it looks like he's about to charge again—how, you don’t know. The water wasn’t quite boiling anymore, so it wasn’t hot enough to melt his skin off, but it might have left burns. You hope it has. His face did turn red almost immediately, but whether it’s from the water or rage, you’re not sure.

You don't know what the sound was either, not until you see a tall, dark figure storm into the living room with quick, furious steps. The living room is dimmer than the kitchen, and the figure is a little blurry, but you try to focus your eyes on it as it appears behind Hoseong.

“Oh, you fucking idiot,” the man spits, his voice even sharper than Hoseong’s.

You close your eyes and let out a shaky sigh as your body relaxes almost involuntarily.

You’re not sure if Hoseong even registers what’s happening before Jeongguk yanks him back by the collar of his jacket, knocking the knife from his hand and immediately delivering a series of hard punches to his face.

Leaving the rest of the fight to Jeongguk, you stumble toward the wall and slide down with your back against it, partially protected by the L-shaped sectional sofa. You watch the fight—or rather, you watch Jeongguk beat the living shit out of Hoseong, your breaths ragged. At first, Hoseong makes a real effort to fight back, landing maybe one or two hits, but even in his prime, you doubt he’d stand a chance one on one against Jeongguk, much less now, worn out and possibly (hopefully) injured.

Even though you assume you’re out of immediate danger, you still can’t calm down. Pain is starting to set in everywhere, and you can’t seem to take a deep breath, either from panic or the pain itself. Maybe it’s the adrenaline wearing off, or perhaps you’re going into shock? Your trembling hands press against your side, and you don’t dare look down to see the extent of your injuries. The glimpses you caught of your hands earlier were more than enough. Any more might push you into a full-blown panic.

With Hoseong now on his back, his upper half obscured from your view by the couch, the loud sound of fists meeting flesh echoes through the room.

You watch.

Punch after punch.

Losing track of time, you can't tell whether it’s been thirty seconds or three minutes when Jeongguk straightens up. There are dark circles of varying sizes scattered unevenly across your white living room wall. He pauses, glancing your way quickly with his chest heaving as he pulls something shiny from his pocket.

You hear the unmistakable sound of handcuffs clicking shut when Jeongguk bends back down. Hoseong, still mostly hidden from your view, only mumbles something when Jeongguk drags him closer to the wall, fastening the handcuffs to a radiator.

Then, Jeongguk hurries toward you, touching his jaw and unknowingly smearing blood across his skin. His wide, worried eyes meet yours as he kneels in front of you, trying to look you over and deem your condition.

“Are you alright?” he asks, voice low but tense.

“I haven’t—haven’t looked, but it feels like I’m dying," you whisper, voice shaky.

You force your trembling hands to lift the hoodie for him, seeing his eyes go even wider.

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath, panic filling his voice as he reaches for you. “Put pressure on it.”

He pulls you closer by your wrist, effortlessly scooping you up into his arms. You slump against his chest, trying to stay awake. Unsure of how deep the wound to your side is, you at least know you’ve lost a lot of blood; your black clothes are damp with it, and there's a worrying puddle on the floor.

Jeongguk carries you through the apartment, past the door he evidently kicked in, and rushes down the stairs to his waiting car that stands abandoned, practically in the middle of the street. His bad parking job has gathered attention from a couple of pedestrians and a middle aged woman, loudly complaining about how her car's blocked in. It feels like you’re seconds away from passing out, maybe even dying, but you manage to stand (with his support) for the second it takes him to open the passenger door, his strong arms quickly helping you inside.

Without a word to the curious—now silent—bystanders, Jeongguk darts around to the driver’s side, jumping into the seat and starting the car in one fluid motion. A second later, he's speeding out of there, and besides the fact that he’s driving like a Formula 1 driver, you don’t pay much attention, already knowing you’re headed to the hospital. Jeongguk calls ahead, rushed but clear words warning them that you’re coming in with a 'deep stab wound and significant blood loss.'

“Keep putting pressure,” Jeongguk instructs after hanging up and tossing his phone somewhere to the side, his voice desperate, and his strong hand right hand pressing over yours.

But you can’t, feeling your own hand lose the last of its strength. Your eyes are already closing.

You feel absolutely terrible the next time you open them. There’s no sharp pain, but your whole body feels sore, beaten, and heavy. A tired groan slips from your dry throat as you try to orient yourself. It’s bright, way too bright, but the rhythmic beeping to your left is what helps you place where you are.

You’re not alone. Your slight movement has alerted your visitor that you’re awake, and he immediately looks your way.

Jimin.

His eyes are soft as he meets your tired gaze, sitting slightly hunched over in a chair by your bedside, his hair a little messy. Although it’s good to see him, he’s not the one you want.

“Jeongguk?” you ask, your voice a weak whisper as your memories return to wash over you.

Just then, the door to your room opens as a nurse steps in. Before it swings shut behind her, you spot two figures in the hallway, their hushed, emotional voices drifting faintly into the room.

“...Right in front of her,” a familiar voice complains quietly, laced with anger and frustration.

“He wasn’t sure you wanted to see him,” Jimin explains, looking cautious.

“I want him,” you plead, still groggy, hurting, and starting to get teary-eyed.

Jimin nods and stands up. “I’ll get him. Want me to dim the light?”

You nod gratefully as Jimin flicks off a switch near the door, dimming one of the ceiling lights. The nurse, smiling gently, copies some numbers from the monitor onto her clipboard.

She introduces herself, but you’re on the brink of breaking down, your eyes watering more with each second, and so you can’t find it in you to care. She seems to understand and leaves quietly just as the door opens again, and Jeongguk steps inside. Your heart feels incredibly heavy as your eyes land on him. Heavy with both need and relief, weirdly enough. He approaches you carefully, his wide eyes hesitant, and he looks exhausted, still wearing the same black hoodie and dark gray jeans as before.

Like a child on the verge of an inconsolable breakdown, you hold your arms out for him, your hands thickly bandaged. Maybe you’re still high on pain meds, or maybe it’s just how you are now, but you don’t care. After all, you nearly died again, and all you wanted was him. You survived, and here he is. What else matters?

Jeongguk is careful in the way he bends down, letting you place your weak, injured hands around his neck. There’s nothing holding your tears back anymore, and you hug him as tightly as you can, so thankful and relieved.

In turn, he wraps his arms around you, holding you close but carefully, as if afraid he might hurt you.

You still haven’t said anything, and you don’t for a while; the only sounds in the room being your quiet sobs and the steady beeping of the machine. After a few minutes, you manage to calm down a little, but you don’t let go of him; instead you try to pull him into the bed with you. He gets the hint, mumbling “It’s bloody,” as he straightens up to shrug off his hoodie, dropping it carelessly on the floor. Left in just a black t-shirt, he bends down again and, this time, lets you pull him into the small hospital bed.

Still breathing shakily, you rest your head against his collarbone, breathing him in. It soothes you. He’s very warm, very safe, and he smells like the best thing in the world to you. His arms hold you tightly, and the slow and gentle motion of his hands rubbing across your back lulls you back to sleep.

The next time you come to, it’s to hushed voices.

“Oh? I’m sorry, sir, you cannot be in here. Visitation hours are between ten and six.”

Fluttering your tired eyes open, you see that the blurry room is dark, and so you simply close them again.

“She needs police protection,” Jeongguk answers tiredly and absentmindedly from beside, almost underneath you, and you feel his slow, warm breath in your hair at the top of your head.

“Police usually stay outside the patient’s room,” the nurse counters. Her voice is unfamiliar and although you’re not sure what time it is, you assume she must be part of the morning shift. “And I’ve certainly never seen them in bed with the patient.”

“Look, lady, respectfully, I don’t care.”

She doesn’t seem to buy it, and you’re a little surprised at Jeongguk’s choice of words. But then again, he’s probably exhausted and worried too, and he didn’t sound mean—just… tired and maybe a little annoyed. When the nurse doesn’t respond right away, Jeongguk sighs.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m not leaving. If you want to call security, go ahead. As long as she wants me here, I’ll find a legal reason to stay.”

There’s a brief pause as the nurse considers before finally relenting. “Fine.”

She leaves. If you weren’t still mostly asleep and pretty out of it, you might’ve laughed. You still think it warms something in you, though.

“You awake?” Jeongguk asks quietly, softly brushing your hair away from your face with his fingers.

You shift, trying to pull him closer as you hold onto his shirt, breathing him in.

“Yeah,” you mumble tiredly, eyes still adjusting to the light. As they do, they land on his hand as it comes into view.

The damage to your hands was mostly to the palms, one worse than the other, so the thick bandages leave your fingers free to reach for Jeongguk’s hand. His knuckles are red, swollen, and there are a few cuts on his skin. He lets you hold his hand to your face and gently run your fingers over his knuckles. Worry grows in you—don’t they look swollen? Could they maybe even be broken?

“You know I’d never… hurt you, right?” he asks quietly, and it takes you a second to realize what he means. It certainly wasn’t what you were thinking about.

You nod. “I know.”

“Good. So, how are you feeling?”

“I… don’t know. I feel… heavy. I take it I had surgery on my hands and… my stomach?”

“Yeah. Let’s call the doctor back here to explain everything. Also, Jihyo called your mom. She’s on a plane back.”

“Oh, no,” you groan.

“Yeah, sorry. But you were pretty bad.”

“It’s okay,” you say, knowing they did what they thought was best. It just means that you’ll have to actually tell her everything when she arrives. Which reminds you.

“What about... Hoseong?”

“In custody. He’s being treated at another hospital.”

“Okay. Good.”

Half an hour later, a female doctor stands at the foot of the hospital bed—while Jeongguk sits in the chair for once—going over everything. She has a kind face, looks to be in her forties, and she’s dressed in blue scrubs with one of those long white coats draped over them.

“So, while the wound to your abdomen was relatively deep and there were pretty significant lacerations to some of your intestines, we managed to stop the bleeding and repair everything. You’ll need to take it easy for a while, but if everything goes according to plan, there shouldn’t be any long-lasting damage.”

Well, it’s safe to say you’re relieved you didn’t look at your stomach; it seems like Hoseong essentially sliced it right open.

“As for your hands, there will be some scarring as well unfortunately, and we can’t tell just yet if there’s been any nerve damage. Fortunately, the injuries were to your palms and not the fingers or back of your hands, where there are more ligaments and delicate structures. So we'll remain hopeful that the your recovery is smooth and that there's been no damage to your nerves.”

Nodding, you follow along as she explains. It sounds reasonable enough, and you’re just happy that you’ll hopefully still have two functioning hands.

The doctor continues, gesturing to the foot of the bed. “We also treated the cuts on your feet. They weren’t as severe as your hands, but we did put in a few stitches, so I’d suggest staying off your feet for a while. Both for your own comfort but also to not risk reopening the wounds.“

You must’ve really been out of it because you didn’t even really notice until now that, yeah, there’s something wrapped around your feet that’s not socks.

“So there’s a chance I could make a full recovery, except for some scars?”

“Yes,” she smiles. “You were very lucky.”

“Okay, thank you.”

“No problem. We’d like to keep you for a few more days to make sure everything’s healing properly and to assess your hands as the swelling goes down.”

“Okay, I can do that.”

“Good. Just let us know if you have any more questions. The hand surgeon will be by later to talk more in depth about your hands as well.”

A few hours later, there’s another knock on the door. Expecting it to be a nurse or the hand surgeon, Jeongguk calls ‘Come in’ from beside you in the hospital bed, where he lies with your head on his chest. He went home for a bit to shower and change, Jimin staying by your side in the meantime, and when he came back, all you wanted to do was rest. And you wanted him close.

But it’s not a nurse. The person entering takes one look at you and bursts out in tears.

“Mom?” you say, and the bed shifts as Jeongguk rushes to stand, straightening his clothes—a black t-shirt and some gray sweatpants—as if he needs to look presentable for your mother.

You’re sure she would’ve asked about the man in your hospital bed if she wasn’t so distraught, but she barely glances between you and him before she approaches the bed with teary eyes.

“I got the call, and I–I was so scared,” she sniffles, her gaze trailing over your body and bandaged hands like she wants to hold you but isn’t sure how to.

“I know,” you say, trying to comfort her. “But I’m going to be okay, I promise.”

“So… what… what happened?”

You bite your lip, looking to Jeongguk.

“I’ll head to the cafeteria for a while,” he says, and you nod, grateful.

It’s time to tell your mother everything.

The next hour is a hard and very emotional one. The pain on your mother's face as you recount everything, starting with what Hoseong first did to you and what the consequences were, cuts through your heart as well.

Of course, you spare her the details of the rape and most of the following abuse, not wanting to hurt her more than necessary or put yourself through the shame you know you shouldn’t feel but can’t help experiencing.

You decide to leave Jeongguk’s involvement out of it, certainly not telling her that you spent months wholeheartedly believing he would kill you if only given the chance. For reasons you don’t want to untangle at the moment, you realize that you don’t want your mother to doubt him.

Jeongguk returns at the hour mark, a brown bag in one hand and a takeaway tray with three coffees in the other. Although you didn’t tell your mother about the time you spent deathly afraid of him, you did tell her that you’re essentially only alive right now because of this one very kind policeman. Maybe you also admitted, a little shyly, when she asked that you really like him. And you do; it’s just a summary of your feelings if they were simple.

His hair looks windswept, and you’re briefly taken aback by how handsome he truly is. You’re well aware of the fact—and you’d definitely never forget—but sometimes it just hits you. His dark eyes scan the room, widening in surprise when your mother approaches him so quickly he barely has time to set the coffees down on the small table by the bed before she grasps his hand.

“Thank you,” she says, trying hard not to cry as she clasps his one hand between her smaller ones. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you—that you saved my daughter. I wish there was anything I could do to repay you.”

“Mom,” you warn, embarrassed and wishing she wouldn’t ambush him like that.

However, Jeongguk’s surprised expression softens, and he pulls her into a very gentle one-armed hug, the brown bag still occupying his other hand.

“No need,” is all he says, and you meet his soft gaze over your mother’s head.

Your mother doesn’t stay long. By the time another thirty minutes have passed, she’s struggling to keep her eyes open. When you ask her about it, she admits to not sleeping at all, too worried ever since Jihyo called her with the news. She even forgot to retrieve her luggage at the airport in her haste to grab a cab to the hospital. Unfortunately, knowing that Hoseong is in custody but his friends are not still has her worried. It takes some time, but after convincing her that you’re safe now—not only do you have Jeongguk, but Jimin and Jin are always close by—she reluctantly agrees to go home and rest.

“So… how was it?” Jeongguk asks quietly a few seconds after the door shuts behind her.

You lean back in bed, letting your shoulders relax. You’re sure he knows how hard that conversation was; can tell from your puffy eyes and tired posture.

“Emotional,” you admit. “I never told her anything.”

His eyes widen slightly. “Nothing at all?”

You shake your head. “No. At first, I just didn’t want to worry her, and as things escalated… I was scared that involving her would make her more of a target. She couldn’t have done anything to help either way.”

He seems to be thinking about something, his gaze stuck on the hospital bed, maybe even on your hand where it lies by your side.

“What does she know now?”

“Basically everything, except the… gory details. Or are you asking what she knows about you?”

“Both, I guess. I mean, I take it you didn’t tell her what an ass I’ve been?”

If you had, she would’ve tried to tell him off, her shaky voice cursing him to hell. Evidently, she didn't do that.

“I didn’t, no. I left some details out; figured there was no use.”

Jeongguk leans back in the chair, clearly still bothered by something.

You raise your eyebrows in curiosity. “Why, did you want me to tell her?”

“No, but I also don’t want you to lie to her about me.”

You don't really know what to say to that, so you just look at him, understanding his mixed feelings. Unable to stop it, you yawn. These meds are making you so incredibly sleepy, and you feel like you’ll fall asleep within the next ten minutes whether you like it or not. Noticing how you lie back down, snuggling up with the blanket pulled to your chin, Jeongguk pulls out his phone. You keep your tired eyes on him while he focuses on the small screen, scrolling lazily.

So effortlessly handsome. You can’t even tell if you prefer him with his hair styled—which he doesn’t do very often—and wearing something clean and ironed, or like this: in a hoodie and sweatpants, his black hair a little wild and messy. He looks so warm and so cozy, leaning back in the chair and manspreading casually.

Manspreading is not something you typically like, but when he does it, it just looks… attractive. Probably because you know he’s not one to subject some poor woman to it on the morning commute. He doesn’t invade someone else’s personal space, doesn’t take up room that isn’t his.

“I spoke to Jihyo while I was getting the coffee earlier,” he says, eyes still casually glued to the phone. “She’s really busy, but she wanted me to tell you that she wishes she could be here.”

“It’s fine. She’s already been here,” you mumble into the blanket. He looks so warm.

“Yeah, but you were still unconscious.”

The blanket smells like a washed hospital blanket, not like you know he does. He smells like comfort.

“Mhm,” you agree tiredly, fighting to keep your eyes open. A second later, Jeongguk looks up to see you still watching him—tiredly but with a hint of longing.

He smiles. “Are you waiting for me to join you?”

You nod, certain that it comes off a little shyly. You weren’t very discreet, were you? The bed is pretty small, but you definitely prefer sleeping cuddled up to him rather than alone. It’s the scent of him, the feeling of his warm body against yours that makes you feel… You’re not sure if you can put it into words or if you just don’t want to, choosing to ignore aspects that will inevitably force you to make a decision. Not now.

Still smiling, he locks the phone and rises from the chair, making sure to flick the lights off before he comes to stand at your side. Scooting back to give him room, you watch as he lies down in front of you and slips his arm underneath your head. Then he’s pulling you close. So close that your face is practically in his chest. It becomes clear what he’s doing when a faint glow and quiet taps appear, originating from somewhere behind and above your head. Of course, he doesn’t have the same sleep requirements as you do at the moment, and if you were to guess, he’s probably working on something.

You’ve been left in a bit of a conundrum, though. What do you do with the arm that’s ended up in a bit of an awkward position at your side? The most natural thing would be to rest it against his waist, but it also feels… awkward to do that? Just because you, high on painkillers and almost murdered, like to cuddle with him doesn't mean everything's fine and dandy.

“You don’t have to do all of this,” you say quietly. Even in your slightly drowsy state of denial, you know that you’re confusing. You haven’t brought up the reason for your previous ‘split,’ and you haven’t really solved anything. After you almost died, you’re just relieved to be alive and that he’s okay too, and you hope he realizes that.

The near-silent tapping stops.

“I don’t mind,” he assures calmly, and his voice is quieter too. You like that he’s never seemed like much of an overthinker—at least not when it comes to what he wants. You lift your arm to put it around him, letting it hang off his waist.

He’s so warm, smells so good, and his slow and steady breaths lull you to sleep. As you drift off, you tell yourself not to think so much.

For the next few days, you remain on a fairly high dose of painkillers that keep you drowsy. You’re almost never alone; most of the time, Jeongguk is with you, but when he reluctantly leaves—either for the station or to go home and shower and change—Jin and Jimin take turns watching over you. Occasionally, they pop in to see if you’d like company, quickly taking the hint if you don’t and staying outside.

Your mother sits with you a few times as well, but you can’t relax when she looks at you like she does; as if she’s heartbroken, which you realize she might very well be. You’ve had years to process most of what’s happened to you, and you guess you’d feel the same if the roles were reversed, but you can’t take it, so you send her home with the promise that you’ll be fine. You’re just resting, anyway. After a bit of convincing, she leaves, but not before making a knowing comment about how cute the kind policeman is. You dismiss her with an embarrassed smile and a wave of your bandaged hand.

As the hours turn to days in that hospital room, think is unfortunately all you do. You think about what you’ve experienced and what you’ve seen. The feelings you feel are complicated, woven together in an intricate pattern with threads of varying thickness. Pull on one and it tugs at another; pull too hard on a strong thread and thinner might snap. The closer Jeongguk is, the more tangled the mess seems to be.

author's note: here's this!! posted in celebration of jeonstudios reaching a follower milestone and more importantly: the boys returning!!! i hope you liked it, please tell me if you did!! <3<3

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espressheauxs · 2 days ago

Text

𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧, 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 || 𝐈 || 𝐣𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐭

summary : the “right person, wrong time” kind of chaos decided it wasn’t done with him – it hadn’t really started, after all. It wanted him to feel in a way that not even Plato could immortalize the kind of punishment Zeus would strike down on him for feeling he deserved again. It was starved of a beginning, of a place in Jack’s life.

pairing : jack abbot x f!reader

words : 2.2k~

themes/warnings : MINORS DNI/DNR. Loads, and I’m talking LOADS of hurt before the comfort that follows, Age gap relationship (reader starts off in her 20s & jack in his 30s, progresses to late 20s/early 30s & jack in his 40s), implications of power imbalance, inappropriate workplace feelings, heavily implied emotional infidelity, actual infidelity (not from Jack or reader), mentions of grief/death/being widowed, religious/mythology references & allegory, mentions of mental/emotional health issues, jealousy, misunderstanding because two idiots are in love with each other, miscommunication because said idiots do not communicate with each other, mentions of therapy and medication, conflicting feelings about having/wanting children and being married, jack is so down *bad* for you like he just wants to give you the world, eventual smut maybe idk yet, Shen is a bestie ™ , reader has some specific / non North American characteristics / cultural references, but anyone is welcome to read!

p.s: if I see you reposting, stealing, feeding my FICS into AI or some other fuck shit, don’t. 👀🫵🏽

note : wow a mostly fully outlined fic is in the works. So far I’ve messily outline 5 parts. Thank you sosososososo much to @slyyywriting @celestianstars for proof reading. Also, @abbotjack you made a post asking to be emotionally endangered with anything jack related…okhereyougobyeeeeee

Jack never really had to think about the phrase “right person, wrong time”.

He thought he had “right person, right time” figured out, until life decided it wasn’t really going to be fair and vanish the floor out from under his feet.

The grief still keeps up with its daily appointments, reminding him it still exists with each prescription and psych appointment he has.

That he, after losing more than just part of his leg, now has to learn how to exist as only himself with his heart missing as well. It still is, or was, some days. He was still trying to figure that part out.

Medicine was his only purpose now. Has been for a long time. Only the chaos is different now – more controlled, predictable.

The “right person, wrong time” kind of chaos decided it wasn’t done with him – it hadn’t really started, after all. It wanted him to feel in a way that not even Plato could immortalize the kind of punishment Zeus would strike down on him for feeling he deserved again. It was starved of a beginning, of a place in Jack’s life.

His life decides he needs it now– the chaos night you start shifts with him; you transferred starting in your last year of residency, some 400 something miles east of Pittsburgh, chasing a purpose, a challenge, an ideal.

Dana loves you instantly, and much to Jack’s chagrin, you find a camaraderie in Dr. Shen in between iced coffee runs and bad jokes while charting.

Jack often sees you arrive a little while before he does, chatting it up with the nurses in the break room over the latest episode of British Bake Off, or huddling over a shared plate of pansit on the nights no one ever dares to call it the Q-word. Other nights, it’s steamy plates of your carbonara on the nights no one ever wants to label the S-word.

You’ve always offered when he walks by, but he simply shakes his head and mumbles a gentle thank you.

It fascinates him, the way you’re close with everyone. He’s close with Dana and Robby, but you are something else entirely different to him – professional, and enthusiastic to learn from anything Jack had to say keeps a safe enough distance from either of you reaching for anything more than an easy going working relationship.

The distance also exists as the ring that he wears, and so do you, in a necklace tucked under your scrubs – as the love he’s afraid will die a second death if he doesn’t hold on to the last memory he has, and the one that had just been borne to you.

He’s easily got at least a decade and change on you. It’s not appropriate, he knows. He’s pushing forty something, your attending, and you’re his newly minted resident in her twenties. Barely having started living life.

Jack thinks you’re too sweet sometimes. A lot of the time, really. It’s the way your face warms up when he looks directly at your eyes when he asks you why you make a decision or a give a dosage, or the way your nose sweats a little when he compliments you on a job well done.

Yet he admires it all the same, especially when he sees how you are with the oldest and the smallest patients.

Especially with the smallest ones that came in crying and left happy after dealing with a hair tourniquet on a nine month old’s little thumb. The parent thanks you with a watery laugh and a smile, and the baby squawks happily when you magic a small toy from the hospital’s gift shop from your scrubs pocket and pretend to make it sing.

He does not, can not, let himself dream about something far more dangerous than being shot at. It felt like a betrayal to the memory of a life and a love he barely got to live.

—

He doesn’t remember exactly when it happens or what you said, but you had opened up his chest in a pseudo emotional thoracotomy and burrowed yourself into his heart just by being you, if only to mend whatever he had left of it from the inside.

Night by night, case by case, guidance on your research in exchange for the good protein bars from Shen’s secret snack stash only you knew about.

Jack feels it ardently when you’re performing an actual thoracotomy under his guidance. Lithe fingers slicing and examining a bloodied heart.

His throat just aboutdries up when you look at him - not because it disgusts him (he’s seen far, far worse) , but seeing how you maneuvered someone’s thoracic cavity and their heart was like feeling it in his own, slowly being fixed by you, being examined for further damage that could be fixed.

“You knew exactly what you were doing,” he says after the patching up is done and he looks at you with blood smeared all over his gloved hands.

“Yeah, you think so, Doc?” You ask in a hushed tone, eyes glistening with enthusiasm and adrenaline.

His heart knows he shouldn't like it, the way it looks when you’re coming down from the high of saving a life while blood is smeared all over you.

Jack huffs out a laugh, shaking his head and looking at you with admiration and disbelief at your own fearlessness when breaking someone’s chest open, “Take the win. Besides, it was far too risky to do it by myself.”

You don’t immediate catch the way the timbre of his voice drops as he says it, but the look in his eyes gives it away mostly, and it leaves you feeling baffled by his praise for the first time.

“..what?” Your lips tug awkwardly, not knowing how to react or what to do, especially not with bloody PPE that has definitely been soaked all the way through.

—

Somehow, there’s a closeness between you that follows. Of things left unsaid yet understood. Often silently working like a well oiled machine, a singular unit perfectly in sync while caring for a patient, affirming your decisions and you wordlessly predicting what he needed in the ER.

When Robby had asked Jack who he would recommend as a fellow out of your group, he didn’t think twice when he said your name.

“She’s the smartest one out of all of us,” he’d once said to Robby while nursing a doordash order on the roof , “this hospital would be stupid not to keep her.”

He’d certainly be for not advocating for the best resident he’s had in years.

Robby had recommended Shen. Not because he didn’t like you or because he didn’t think you were capable. But reading Jack’s glowing recommendation about you only affirmed what he suspected. Time would only tell if Jack himself could see beyond his own words.

Shen stretches out a hand, blindly sipping on his coffee as Robby and Dana slip him a $50 bill each the next time they’re in front of the betting board.

—

Jack finds himself lingering, feeling a little more, without knowing how or when – only that he does, and you exist in him long after the sun has gone up and the moon has gone down.

The corners of his lips tug in a secret smile, as his nose is able to catch the whiff of your perfume and your own smell whenever he helps tie your surgical gown and you help with his.

He tries, he really does try to ignore the feeling that burrows itself deep whenever you pat his back after helping him tie on the surgical gown.

Your hands always lingered a little longer than they should, like a balm to soothe his aches, as if to tell him - “I have you. I’m here. You’re okay.”

Jack finds it easier to sleep in his bed on the days that you do, as if your touch carries him all the way to safety, away from sand & heat and the phantom burn he still felt in his leg.

On those nights, he dreams of a feeling that only wakes when he’s not.

—

The two of you never, ever fought. Disagreements? Sure. Difference of opinion only to arrive at the same answer? Definitely.

Jack knows that that’s what he likes about you since you came on several months ago. You’re definitely the favorite out of all the residents he’s taught. The prodigal resident that was never afraid to ask why decisions were being made.

It’s what makes you an excellent doctor in his eyes, noticing things that people often don’t. It was easier for him to teach a resident that was self confident but not arrogant, and unafraid to get their hands bloody.

But your fearlessness was something he didn’t like if it involved you making a decision that put you at risk.

Sure, he’d sometimes find it funny when you were the only one to vocally tell Gloria to fuck off when she knew fuck all about being on the front lines after she denied yet another increase in security (until then, no one had ever heard you drop so many f-bombs - Jack couldn’t not laugh when he was there to witness Robby’s eyebrows all but fly to his hairline when it happened). No one but Robby ever did that (less riddled with cuss words), everyone else simply ignored what she said.

Hell, you’d even ignore what Jack would say sometimes in light hearted, less life or death situations.

But this? It was never, never this – making a decision of this magnitude without consulting him on something you’d ever only seen him do once.

“You should’ve never, ever done that by yourself.” His eyes are full of bewilderment at the mess that he had walked into as the patient is rushed to OR 1 upstairs.

“Yeah, well, I did what you taught me to do – if I waited any longer for you to tell me what to do the patient would’ve fucking bled out!”

It’s the first time the two of you ever got into an argument. The two of you never, ever argued especially not in the middle of a literal bloody mess where everyone could see and hear. But your patience was worn past thin and your fucks had long flown out the window.

“I’m your attending, that’s not the kind of decision a resident gets to make on their own!”

Jack isn’t prepared for the way you all but stomp your foot on the pedal of the biohazard bin, practically shoving your bloodied scrubs and gloves into the damn thing. Nor is he prepared for the way you point at him furiously with your left hand, where he sees the thin band of silver taunting him.

He is not a religious man, but in that moment he knows he became a martyr for a love that could never be worshipped like he used to know how to do.

“You do not get to pull rank on me!” Your voice is loud, and you’re well past the point of giving a fuck after the way your life in and out of this hospital has been lately. “I may be younger than you, Dr. Abbot, but I’m not fucking stupid!”

“That was not the standard of care.” His voice drops, full of warning as he looks directly at you. For the first time in years, the tinnitus in his ears re-emerges as his eyes flit between your face and your hand. “You’re lucky that it’s something I’m not reporting.”

He regrets it the instant he sees the way the shock on your face melts into disenchantment, and the bile burns at his throat when he sees the way light leaves your eyes.

It's the first time in a long time he wished he’d rather fall on a sword, rather than ever see that look again.

The look that told him what everyone else could see between you – that you were to Jack what Psyche was to Eros.

That you cared about him and what he had to say in a way that was more than appropriate.

Your chest heaves as you look at him, eyes riddled with a rage that squeezes in his heart. His eyes zero in on the ring again as you rub your face, hair wild in all directions from the braid it was in.

“Well fuck the standard of care, and fuck you for making me feel like shit.”

The smallness and the vulnerability in your voice hits Jack squarely where it hurts, in the places where you had started to carefully stitch the broken pieces of him back together.

“Take a bre–”

The words die on his lips as you shoulder past him, shoving the door open and knob rattling as you let it go to storm your way out and past the nurses station and down the hall.

That night, a patient’s heart was saved at the expense of two.

—

#jack abbot x reader #dr abbot x reader #the pitt fanfiction #jack abbot fanfiction #jack abbot fanfic #jack abbot #the pitt x reader #espressheauxs writes

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vingtetunmars · 3 days ago

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Steady Now...

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: A quiet crush. A stolen glance. In the peaceful lull between seasons, you — Jackson’s gentle, sharp-witted stable handler — find yourself growing closer to Joel Miller. He’s gruff, older, and carries the weight of a broken world, but something about him pulls you in.

Part 2

Tags: NSFW, smut(18+), mutual pining, hesitant Joel, age differences (reader is in late 20s, Joel is 56-57), set between season 1 and 2, Jackson!Joel Miller, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it yall), "i'm old." "i dont care.", no physical description of reader. No use of Y/N.

A/N: Hey, I'm back with another one. This fic is basically just my fav tropes for joel. Hope you guys enjoy this one. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 7k

masterlist

You'd wake up before the sun most days.

There’s a comfort in the quiet, before boots start crunching on snow-packed roads and kids race down the street toward the mess hall. The stables were still, save for the soft grunts and stomps of the horses inside. You’ve always liked mornings best — when your breath fogs the air and the world feels like it’s just for you and the animals.

Jackson has its rhythm, and by now, you’ve settled into it like a hand in a well-worn glove.

You'd muck stalls first, throw feed into troughs, and check hooves. Sometimes Shimmer tries to nose into the grain early and you gently swat her away, muttering something soft under your breath. She’s a smart one. Too smart, really. Jesse said the two of you are alike — calm on the outside, chaos underneath. You’d argued that you weren’t that dramatic, and he just grinned, the cocky little shit.

Most afternoons, a few of the younger kids tumbled into the stables for their riding lessons. It’s become something of a ritual. You'd make them brush the horses first — “no shortcuts,” you always say — and they groan and roll their eyes but they do it anyway. You kept them in line with firm kindness. You weren't a pushover, and they know it. That’s why they trust you.

Dina’s got a natural seat. You told her that once, and her whole face lit up. Kat’s a little more cautious, her grip too tight, but you know she’ll grow out of it. Jesse mostly comes by to not help, but he always carries water buckets without being asked, so you let him hang around. They're good kids. In a world like this, that still feels miraculous.

Tommy stops by sometimes, checking on the horses, asking if you’ve had any trouble. He likes to walk the stalls with you, swapping stories from his patrols. You weren’t dumb — you know part of it is because Maria told him to keep an eye on things. But the other part is just Tommy being Tommy. He’s got that older brother energy, steady and protective in a way that’s comforting without smothering.

You’re one of the few people he really talks to. He’s told you things you suspect he hasn’t even told Maria. Not secrets, exactly — just things that linger in the bones. Memories. Regrets. The kind of things you’d only say aloud when your hands are busy and your heart feels safe.

Lately, though, there had been someone else lingering at the edge of your days.

Joel Miller.

He came back quiet. Grim-faced. Walked into Jackson like a man trying not to be noticed, even as the entire town noticed anyway. You know of him — everyone does. Tommy’s brother. The man who crossed the country and lived to tell about it. The one with the girl.

Ellie.

You liked her. She didn’t say much to you, not yet. There’s something sharp and watchful in her. Like she’s waiting for something to go wrong.

You understood that feeling.

As for Joel… well. You tried not to look too long. Not that it matters — he barely looks at you. Or anyone, really.

But you’d see him sometimes, walking Ellie to school, hauling lumber to help Tommy repair the walls, standing near the stables but never in them. His eyes always scan the horizon, like the fences aren’t real, like he was still out there somewhere, still waiting to be ambushed.

You thought about saying something — Hey. You like horses? Want to meet Shimmer? — but you don’t.

He was older. A lot older. And you know that’s not a crime, but it’s enough of a difference to keep your feelings folded up in your chest like a letter you’ll never send. You’ve got eyes, sure. You could admire a man who looks like he’s carved out of stone and gritted teeth, who spoke like every word has to be earned.

But admiration wasn't the same as invitation.

So you keep it to yourself. You let yourself glance when he walks by. You try not to linger.

And you get back to work.

Because horses need feeding, and kids need teaching, and life, somehow, goes on.

The wind carried a bite today. Not a storm, not yet, but the kind of chill that makes your fingers ache by noon.

You were brushing down one of the older horses, a sleepy gelding named Rusty, when the barn door creaks open. You didn’t look up right away. Not many people come this early — Tommy’s off on patrol, and the kids don’t roll in until after breakfast.

But then you heard the boots. Light. Hesitant.

“Hey,” a voice said. Dry, clipped. Still working out if it wants to stay or bolt.

You turn.

Ellie stands in the doorway with her hands shoved in her jacket pockets, shoulders tucked up like she’s trying to make herself smaller. Her eyes flick past you, scanning the stalls. She doesn’t meet your gaze right away.

“Hey, stranger,” you say, soft enough that she can ignore it if she wants. “You lost?”

Ellie snorts, barely. “Just wandering.”

You gesture with your chin. “You wander into barns often, or am I just lucky today?”

That earns a real reaction — the corner of her mouth pulls up. Brief. But it counts.

“I remember this place,” she said eventually. “From before.”

You nod. “Yeah. You came through with Joel, right? Didn’t stay long.”

She shrugs one shoulder. “Didn’t think we were gonna.” Then, quieter: “Guess plans change.”

You don’t ask. You could. You’ve heard whispers — that something went wrong in Salt Lake, that Joel came back different — but you weren’t the kind of person who digs at wounds. People talk enough already.

Instead, you lean against the stall, brushing slow circles into Rusty’s shoulder. “You wanna come in?”

Ellie hesitated. Then stepped fully inside, letting the door close behind her. The barn muffled the wind. Inside, it was warm and smells like hay and leather and something sweet under the surface.

“I used to help out,” she said, voice cautious. “At the stables. Back in the QZ. Not like this — just feeding and mucking. One time a horse bit this guy named Max and he cried like a baby. I was ten. It was hilarious.”

You smiled. “Yeah, horses’ll do that. They don’t care how tough you think you are.”

Ellie drifted closer to the stall, eyes on Rusty now. You watched the tension start to bleed from her shoulders. A little. Not all the way, but enough that she doesn’t look like she’s about to bolt anymore.

“He seems nice,” she murmured.

“He’s a grumpy old man,” you said, scratching behind Rusty’s ear. “But we love him anyway.”

You glance at her then. Her brow lifted, barely — like she’s trying not to smile again.

“You like animals?” you asked.

Ellie shrugged. “Guess so.”

Another pause. Then she asked, “Does it ever get… easier?”

You blinked. “The horses?”

She shook her head. “Jackson. Staying in one place. Pretending things are normal.”

That quiets you.

You leaned against the stall door, looking past her, toward the snow-dusted trees just visible through the slats.

“I don’t know if it ever feels normal,” you admitted. “But it gets less… loud, I guess. The fear. The twitchy feeling in your chest. You learn to breathe again. Might take a while, though.”

Ellie was quiet for a moment. Then: “Yeah. Sounds fake, but okay.”

You laughed. She didn't.

But she does touch Rusty’s nose when he leans close enough. Just the briefest brush of her fingers against his muzzle. You watch how gently she moves. She’s got good instincts — like she’s always waiting for something to go wrong, and still, she tries anyway.

“I could show you,” you said.

She blinked. “Show me what?”

You gestured toward the saddles hanging on the far wall. “How to ride. For real this time. Not just tossing hay and ducking out before you get spit on.”

Ellie tilted her head. Suspicious. “Why?”

“Because horses are good company,” you said simply. “And because it might help. Feeling a little more in control of something. Plus, Rusty owes me for biting me last winter. You can help me keep him in line.”

She doesn’t smile. Not really.

But she nodded.

“Okay,” she said. “Maybe.”

The porch creaked beneath his boots as he leaned back in the chair, a mug of coffee cooling slow in his hand.

It’s late morning, sun barely cutting through the clouds, and Jackson hums along in its steady rhythm — distant hammering from the north wall, dogs barking at something near the mill, Maria shouting at a runner who forgot his goddamn gloves again. It's the kind of noise that would've driven him up a wall years ago.

Now, it was almost peaceful.

Tommy sat beside him, boots kicked up on the railing, a little too relaxed for someone who was supposed to be leading patrols in two hours. Joel didn’t say anything about it. He wasn't in the mood to start a lecture, and besides — Tommy’s earned some quiet.

“You talk to Ellie this morning?” Tommy asked, squinting up at the sky.

“Briefly.”

“She seems better lately,” Tommy said. “Still got that mouth on her, but… I don’t know. Somethin’ feels lighter.”

Joel nodded, slow. “She asked me about horses.”

Tommy turned to look at him, eyebrow raised.

“Said she wants to learn how to ride,” Joel added. “Said she was at the stables talkin’ to someone.”

“Oh,” Tommy said, and something in his face relaxed. “That’d be her, then.”

Joel frowns. “Who?”

“You know. Her. The one that handles the kids. Stable hand. Been here a few years now.”

He did know. Of course he did.

Because Joel Miller wasn’t a fool.

He’d seen the way you move around Jackson — always steady, never loud. You made it a point not to cross his path directly, but he’s caught the looks. Short ones. Careful. Not flirtatious — not exactly — but... warm. Curious.

Too warm.

At first, he thought he imagined it. But it kept happening — that split-second shift in your eyes when he walked past, the way your voice dipped into something softer when you spoke to Ellie with him in earshot. Not obvious. Not inappropriate. Just... there.

He didn’t like it.

Or rather, he shouldn’t like it.

Because you were what, late twenties? Maybe? Young enough to be one of the kids he used to teach to patch drywall back in Austin. Young enough to still laugh without bitterness stitched behind it.

It wasn't right.

It was stupid, is what it is. Entertaining the thought. Entertaining any thoughts. Not when he’s still waking up every other night with his jaw clenched so tight it hurts. Not when he's still not sure what the hell kind of man he’s managed to become.

“She’d be good for it,” Tommy said, nodding like this is just logistics. “Got patience. Knows how to work with tough kids. Ellie’ll like her.”

Joel grunted.

Tommy side-eyed him. “You don’t think so?”

Joel took a slow sip of his coffee. It was bitter and lukewarm.

“She’s fine,” he said. “Just gotta make sure Ellie don’t get too distracted. That’s all.”

Tommy chuckles under his breath. “Christ, man. Let the kid learn how to ride a horse.”

Joel didn’t respond.

Because he was thinking, unwillingly, about what you’d look like helping Ellie into a saddle. About your quiet way with animals. About your voice — not just the sound of it, but the shape of it. Like you speak to be understood, not heard.

He thought about how you never push. Never linger too long.

And how sometimes, that’s worse than the ones who do.

Because it’d be so easy to say yes.

So easy to let her in.

But Joel Miller knew better.

So instead, he drained the rest of his coffee, sets the mug down, and muttered —

“I’ll walk Ellie to the stables tomorrow.”

Tommy grinned, just a little. “Sure you will.”

Joel didn’t take the bait.

The stable smelled like pine and saddle soap this morning — clean, for once — and you were brushing down Cinnamon when you heard the crunch of boots on the snow-packed earth outside.

You didn’t turn immediately. You figured it’s one of the younger kids, maybe Jesse swinging by before patrol to bum a coffee. But then the door creaks open and a voice floats in behind the cold air.

“Go on.”

It was Joel.

And Ellie.

You glanced up, already trying to make your face neutral. Calm. Friendly. Not stupid.

Ellie walked in first, already in a jacket too big for her, sleeves shoved halfway up her arms. Her expression was lighter than it was a few days ago. She looked... not quite happy, but maybe a step in that direction.

You offered her a small smile. “Look who’s back.”

She shrugged. “Guess I got bored.”

Behind her, Joel lingered in the doorway. One hand on the frame like he hasn’t decided whether to stay or not.

You didn’t say anything to him.

But your eyes flickered — once, quickly. You take in the layered flannel, the gray creeping into his beard, the set of his jaw that always looks like he’s bracing for something.

And then you’d look away.

You moved over to the saddle racks, keeping your hands busy. “You remember Rusty?” you asked Ellie. “He's been waiting for you.”

Ellie stepped closer, already reaching out to pet the stallion’s neck. She talked more than she did the first time — asked about reins and saddles and how to tell if a horse is pissed off. You answered her gently, careful to keep your voice even, your movements steady.

But sometimes — sometimes — you glanced back.

Just for a second. Just to see if he was still standing there.

He was.

Joel didn’t miss much. That’s kept him alive more times than he can count.

So he noticed.

He noticed the way your eyes lift, quick as a blink, when you think he’s not looking. The way your mouth tilted just a little when you laugh at something Ellie said — softer than usual. Like you’re letting your guard down for a second.

Like you wanted him to see it.

And he didn’t like it.

Mostly because he did.

You were too young. Too kind. Too whole in the ways he’s not. And it’s not just the age — though that’s enough on its own — it’s the life you must’ve lived. The one where you still smile with your whole face. Still wave to kids. Still talk to horses like they’re old friends.

And Joel’s not part of that world. He never will be.

Still — he watched the way your hands guide Ellie’s, slow and careful on the reins. He watched the way you move, with purpose but never sharpness. Like you’ve learned how to survive without turning to stone.

He hated how easy it would be.

To step closer.

To say something.

To want.

Ellie swung up into the saddle with a grunt, her arms flailing for balance. You steadied her gently, laughing under your breath, and Joel tore his eyes away. Looked at the snow instead. At the mountains. Anywhere but at you.

At first, he didn’t say much.

Just a nod when he dropped Ellie off. A grunt when you said good morning. Sometimes not even that. Sometimes just that tight-lipped expression like he was doing you a favor by standing there, arms crossed, watching Ellie with narrowed eyes while she tried to get Rusty to turn in a straight line.

You were fine with it.

You really were.

You had horses to feed and boots to clean, kids to teach and saddles to oil. You weren’t about to start talking to a brick wall with a Southern accent.

Still.

Every now and then, you asked a question. Small ones.

“This her first time on a horse?”

“She nervous?”

“You ever ride?”

And sometimes — not always — he answered.

“Once or twice.”

“No, she just don’t like losing.”

“Had one in Austin. Didn’t last long.”

It went like that for a few days.

Quiet.

But not cold.

And then, one morning, you were cleaning the brushes when he stepped a little closer and said, “She said you told her about that horse that bolted last winter. The one that knocked Jesse flat.”

You blinked, then grinned. “Yeah. She liked that part.”

He snorted. Not quite a laugh, but close.

After that, it kept happening. In pieces.

One day, he asked you how you kept the younger horses calm when it snowed heavy. Another, he pointed out a loosened saddle strap before you noticed it yourself. The conversations never lasted long — a minute, maybe two — but they added up. And you found yourself waiting for them. Measuring your mornings by them.

And then one afternoon, it just... happened.

Ellie was off riding slow circles in the clearing just beyond the stables. You and Joel stood near the fence, boots crunching lightly on packed snow. It was quiet — a rare, good kind of quiet. The kind you didn’t mind sitting in.

You handed him a flask of tea. Something warm for your fingers more than anything else.

He hesitated, then took it.

You didn’t watch him drink. You just looked out toward Ellie.

“She’s getting better,” you said.

He nodded. “Picks things up fast.”

“Got a stubborn streak though.”

“Yeah,” he said, and this time there was something in his voice. Something almost fond. “Wonder where she got that.”

You smiled a little.

He handed the flask back.

“I used to be more talkative, you know,” you said. “Before all this. Back when conversations didn’t feel like a negotiation.”

He glanced at you, just briefly.

“Still talk more than most,” he said.

That surprised a laugh out of you.

“Is that your way of sayin’ I talk too much?”

“Didn’t say that,” he replied.

“But you thought it.”

Joel tilted his head slightly, eyes still on Ellie. “Nah,” he said. “Don’t mind it.”

That quiet sat between you again. But it was different now. Not empty — just full of things unspoken.

You looked at him, and for once, didn’t try to hide it.

“Me neither,” you said.

And Joel didn’t look away.

Not this time.

You told yourself three times on the walk over: it’s not a big deal.

You weren’t bringing Joel dinner. You weren’t hoping for anything. You just made too much stew — which was true — and you knew Ellie didn’t love venison, and it’d be a shame to waste it. That’s all.

That’s all.

It was a crisp evening, the kind where smoke curled up from chimneys in lazy ribbons and the sky was pale with cloudlight. You carried the bowl in both hands, covered with a clean cloth, careful not to spill it.

When you reached Joel’s porch, you paused.

The window flickered with warm lamplight. You could hear faint music — one of those old folk tapes Tommy brought back from a run. Inside, someone was moving. Heavy steps.

You knocked twice.

The door opened slower than expected.

Joel looked surprised to see you. Or maybe not surprised — just tired. Like he hadn’t planned on company and wasn’t sure whether to let the moment stretch.

“Hey,” you said lightly, lifting the bowl a little. “Uh... made too much stew. Again. Thought I’d see if you and Ellie wanted some. Before it goes cold.”

You kept your tone casual. Nonchalant. Not nervous, even though your palms were sweating under the ceramic.

Joel’s eyes flicked down to the bowl, then back up to your face.

“That right?”

“Yeah. It’s good today. Won’t be tomorrow. Too much thyme.”

He looked at you like he knew exactly what you were doing — and also, maybe, like he didn’t mind.

He took the bowl.

“Thanks,” he said, after a beat.

You smiled. “No rush returning it.”

You turned to leave before he could say anything else — because staying longer would make it something it wasn’t. You didn’t need to see if he smiled back. You didn’t need a thank you from Ellie. You were just being... kind.

Just neighborly.

Right?

Still, as you walked back through the snow, you felt a little lighter. Like maybe this was your way of reaching out without falling flat on your face. And maybe — just maybe — Joel would reach back.

The stew was warm. Too warm for just leaving the house. She must’ve come straight over.

He knew what it meant. What it could mean. But he also knew how carefully she’d phrased it. Just enough plausible deniability to call it nothing.

He watched Ellie dig into it, muttering something about “finally, someone in this town who knows how to use salt.” Joel only half-listened.

His eyes were still on the empty bowl.

Clean. Sturdy. One of those old ceramic ones the town stockpiled from thrift runs. Familiar.

Too nice to just leave sitting in his kitchen.

It’d be rude not to return it.

Eventually.

He came just after sunset.

You were half-sitting on your worn couch, a book open in your lap that you hadn’t really been reading, when the knock came — three short taps.

You opened the door, and there he was: bowl in hand, snow in his hair, eyes a little cautious like he was already telling himself to keep it brief.

You smiled anyway. “That was fast.”

Joel shrugged. “Didn’t want to forget.” He held the bowl out like it was some kind of peace offering.

You took it, fingers brushing his — just barely — and stepped back from the door.

“You want some coffee?” you asked. “It’s late, but... I won’t tell if you won’t.”

He hesitated. Long enough that you nearly backtracked.

But then: “Sure.”

So you poured two mugs, set the clean bowl down on the counter, and moved back to the living room with Joel trailing behind. You sat on the far end of the couch, tucking your legs beneath you. He settled on the other end, cautious, like the cushions might betray him.

The fire cracked softly in the corner.

He held the mug with both hands. “Ellie liked the stew.”

You smiled, sipping your own. “She say that, or did she just eat like she hadn’t seen food in a week?”

Joel cracked the smallest smile. “Both.”

And just like that, the tension eased.

You talked.

About horses, mostly — Cinnamon’s sudden fear of wheelbarrows, how Jesse still held the reins too tight, how Dina was secretly a natural but pretended not to care. Joel mentioned growing up near horses in Texas, never getting attached, but remembering the sound they made in the cold. The huff of breath. The soft scrape of hooves.

He made a dry comment about one of Tommy’s failed repairs in the watchtower, and you snorted so hard you nearly spilled your coffee.

Joel laughed.

Actually laughed.

It was short. A little rusty. But real.

And it did something to you — like a warm press behind the ribs. You smiled down at your mug, trying to quiet the flutter in your chest.

For Joel, it was worse.

Because his heart was pulling in closer, just an inch. Just one easy step.

And his head — that damn part of him that always ran the numbers, always counted the years and the blood on his hands and the time he didn’t have left — it told him to stop. That this wasn’t fair. Not to you.

But then he’d glance sideways, and you’d be watching the firelight with that soft, far-off look, half-listening and completely calm, and that thought would falter.

Maybe this was harmless.

Maybe staying a little longer wouldn’t ruin anything.

Maybe.

“I missed this,” you said softly, almost to yourself. “Just... talking. Sitting with someone. Feels normal.”

Joel looked at you then.

Really looked.

And for a second, he didn’t fight it.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It does.”

You didn’t start bringing him coffee.

That felt too forward.

But you did start making enough for two when you knew Joel was around the stables. Sometimes you’d “accidentally” pour too much into your thermos and offer him the rest, passing him the cup with a shrug.

“Guess I can’t measure,” you’d say, dry.

Joel would take it with that unreadable look of his. “Suppose I can help with that.”

You didn’t touch him.

But sometimes, you’d brush past — just close enough to make the air shift. A hand on the gate near his. A glance that lingered one beat longer than it used to.

“You keep showing up like this, people are gonna start talkin’,” you joked once when he brought Ellie for her lesson.

Joel grunted. “Let ‘em.”

That surprised you. And for a moment — just a flicker — you let it show.

You didn’t flirt.

Not really.

But when Joel grumbled about something — how early it was, how cold it got at night, how damn much Tommy snored — you’d smirk and say, “Careful, Miller. Keep complaining and I might start thinking you like talking to me.”

And Joel?

He never said no.

He’d glance down, a huff of breath in his chest, something quiet and half-smiling at the corner of his mouth. And he always came back.

You weren’t brave enough to ask why.

Not yet.

But he hadn’t stopped you.

And that had to mean something.

The air in the barn was sharp with sawdust and winter. Joel leaned against the post with a mug in hand, watching Tommy hammer a loose plank back into place along one of the feed storage doors. Their boots crunched in old straw.

Tommy swore quietly as a nail bent sideways.

“Need a different hammer,” he muttered, straightening up and wiping his hands on his jacket. “This one’s for shit.”

Joel grunted. “Maybe the hammer ain’t the problem.”

Tommy shot him a look. “Didn’t know you came out here to heckle me.”

“I come out here to supervise. Free of charge.”

Tommy chuckled, stepping aside to grab a better tool. “How’s Ellie doing with the riding lessons, by the way?”

Joel paused, swirling what was left of his lukewarm coffee.

“Fine,” he said. “She listens to her.”

“Really?” Tommy laughed, impressed. “Didn’t even listen to me when I tried. Thought she was gonna sock me for telling her to sit straight.”

Joel smirked, then leaned a little heavier into the post. “She’s patient with her. Surprised me.”

Tommy nodded. “Yeah, she’s good with kids. Been teaching some of the younger ones since we got her settled.”

Joel looked out toward the pasture. The snow-covered stretch of fence, the sky a dull silver.

“She ever talk about where she came from?” he asked, tone even. Casual. Or at least trying.

Tommy didn’t catch the shift — didn’t hear the edge of it. He just kept hammering.

“Not much,” he said. “Came in around three years back. Said she was with a group before, didn’t say where. Sounded rough. Guess she was the only one who made it.”

Joel’s grip on the mug tightened just slightly.

“She ever say how?”

“Nope.” Tommy gave a small shake of the head. “Didn’t have to. You can see it on some people, y’know? The way they move. The way they check corners even when they’re home.”

Joel nodded slowly.

“She’s got that.”

A pause.

“But she never acted like she wanted trouble. Said she’d help patrol if we needed it, but... asked to stay with the stables.” Tommy straightened again, stretching his back. “Said she liked the quiet. The routine. I think she just wanted something that didn’t involve losing people.”

Joel’s chest pulled tight. He kept his face neutral.

“Guess that makes sense.”

Tommy gave him a sideways glance. “Why? You curious?”

Joel shrugged. “Just... gettin’ a read.”

“She’s good people, Joel. Smart. Quiet. Can handle herself, but doesn’t try to prove it all the time. Could’ve joined the scouting team or worked up north with weapons, but she didn’t. Wanted a job that didn’t need a gun on her hip every second. I respect that.”

Joel nodded again, like that answered a question he hadn’t asked aloud.

“She’s single, by the way,” Tommy added, like it was nothing.

Joel glanced over. “Didn’t ask.”

“Didn’t say you did.”

Joel rolled his eyes and pushed off the post. “Hammer’s fine, by the way. You’re just gettin’ soft.”

Tommy snorted. “said the man nursing a cup of coffee like it’s a damn antique.”

Joel walked off without another word, but he wasn’t heading far. His steps slowed once he was outside, eyes drifting out toward the stable building.

It was just curiosity.

Just trying to understand the kind of person teaching his kid how to ride.

That was all.

You weren’t expecting him.

It’d been three days since you made that throwaway comment, something mumbled between talk of saddles and the shifting weather. “Pipes’ve been acting up again,” you’d said, half-laughing. “Woke me up the other night—thought someone was trying to crawl through the damn walls.”

You hadn’t meant anything by it. Not really.

But now Joel was at your door, standing there with his sleeves rolled up and a toolbox in hand.

“Pipes still makin’ noise?” he asked, voice low and steady.

You blinked. “Joel—uh. Yeah. Sometimes.” You leaned on the doorframe, brows raised. “You came all the way here to play plumber?”

He gave a noncommittal shrug. “Got bored.”

You smirked. “Didn’t know you got bored.”

He didn’t answer that. Just looked at you, patient. Waiting.

You stepped aside. “Alright. Come in, then. Make yourself at home—just don’t start charging me for labor.”

He passed you with that slow, deliberate way of his, and you hated how your chest stirred at the sound of his boots on your floor. He went straight to the back wall, crouching where the pipework came up behind the little utility closet. You hovered in the doorway.

Joel pulled a wrench from the box. “This it?”

“Yep. That’s the one that hisses like it’s judging me.”

He huffed a breath. Might’ve been a laugh.

You leaned a shoulder against the wall, arms crossed. “Didn’t peg you for the handyman type.”

“I ain’t,” he said. “Just old.”

You let out a small laugh. “So that’s where the wisdom comes from.”

He glanced over his shoulder, catching your eye. “That what you think I am? Wise?”

“I think you’re a mystery.” You didn’t blink. “But hey—if the mystery wants to fix my pipes, who am I to stop him?”

You watched the way the corner of his mouth twitched. Barely there, but enough. He shook his head slightly and turned back to the task.

You lingered.

The tension settled into the room like a second skin — not sharp, but heavy. The kind you could pretend didn’t exist if you were careful with your words. If you didn’t look too long. If your fingers didn’t ache to fidget with something.

“I could’ve gotten Tommy to look at it,” you offered lightly. “You didn’t have to come all the way over.”

Joel didn’t turn. “Didn’t say I had to.”

Your heart skipped. Just a beat.

You shifted your weight. “Well. I owe you, then.”

“You don’t.”

“But maybe I wanna owe you.”

That made him pause.

His hand stilled on the pipe. His shoulders drew tight. Then, slowly, he straightened, turning to face you with that unreadable stare. Your breath caught in your throat — not fear. Not even nerves. Just the sense that you were toeing a line neither of you had the words for yet.

Joel looked at you.

Really looked.

His voice, when it came, was quiet. Rough. “You always talk like that?”

“Like what?”

He tilted his head. “Like you don’t mean half of what you’re sayin’.”

You didn’t look away.

“I mean it,” you said, soft. “I just know when to pull back.”

He held your gaze for a second too long.

And then—like a spell breaking—he looked away, returning to the pipes.

“I’ll finish this up,” he muttered.

You smiled faintly. Not triumphant, not smug. Just... warm. Like a spark had finally caught.

The pipe was quiet now.

The room wasn’t.

Joel stood by the door, toolbox back in hand, like he meant to leave. You stayed by the kitchen counter, arms folded loosely over your chest, not pressing him to go — but not rushing to fill the silence, either.

“Thanks for this,” you said. Your voice was warm, casual. Like everything wasn’t coiled tight between your ribs. “You want coffee before you head out?”

He didn’t answer right away.

He looked at you — long enough that your fingers started tapping against your arm.

Then he set the box down again, slow. “Yeah. Alright.”

You poured two mugs, handed one to him without brushing fingers, barely. He took it, leaned against the wall, sipped without a word.

And the quiet stretched.

And the air pressed in.

It wasn’t awkward.

It was thick — like something had been building and building and now it was just waiting for one of you to cut the cord.

You didn’t mean to say anything.

But your voice broke through anyway. “You’re quieter than usual.”

Joel looked at you.

He set his mug down.

And then he said it — simple, flat, direct:

“I noticed.”

You blinked. “...Noticed what?”

“The looks.” His tone wasn’t accusing. Wasn’t soft either. Just real. “The glances. The way you… hover sometimes. The jokes.”

You froze, heat crawling up your neck.

“I ain’t stupid,” Joel said. “Not blind either.”

Your throat went dry. “Didn’t think I was that obvious.”

“You weren’t.” He exhaled, jaw ticking. “But I still saw it. And I shouldn’t have let it go on this long.”

The words hit harder than you expected.

You opened your mouth — to say what, you didn’t know — but Joel kept going, his voice rough now. A little too fast. Like he needed to get it out before he lost his nerve.

“You don’t want this,” he muttered. “Not really.”

You frowned. “Excuse me?”

“I’m old. Got more ghosts than friends. I’ve done things — things I don’t talk about. And I’m not someone you—” he swallowed hard, like the words turned bitter in his mouth, “—should be wastin’ your time on.”

“That’s not your call to make.”

“You could find someone your age,” he shot back, voice sharp. “Someone without all the shit I carry.”

“I don’t want someone else.”

Joel looked at you like you were breaking some unspoken rule. Like you’d just reached into his chest and knocked something loose.

“I’m not some kid, Joel,” you said, stepping closer, coffee abandoned on the counter. “I’m twenty-eight. I’ll be thirty soon. I’ve survived things, same as you. I’ve lost people. I’ve seen how the world works.”

You paused, searching his face. “It’s not like it’s illegal.”

His mouth twitched, like he didn’t know whether to laugh or sigh.

You kept your voice gentle. “I wasn’t asking for forever. I wasn’t even asking—you’re the one who brought it up. But if you’re trying to push me away, Joel, don’t pretend it’s because I can’t make my own choices.”

The silence returned.

But this time, it felt earned.

Joel ran a hand through his hair, staring at the floor, shoulders tense.

And then he spoke — low, soft, quieter than before:

“I liked the glances.”

Your heart clenched.

He looked at you. Really looked at you. “That’s the problem.”

You didn’t smile. Not yet. But something eased inside you.

The words hung between you like a string pulled taut.

Joel hadn’t moved. Still leaning against the wall, jaw tight, hands clenched by his sides like he didn’t trust them to stay still.

Your chest rose slow with your breath. Measured. Steady. And then you stepped closer — close enough that your knees brushed the coffee table as you lowered yourself next to him on the couch.

Close enough that your shoulder just barely touched his.

“Are you gonna push me away again?” you asked, quiet.

Joel’s eyes flicked to yours. “I should.”

“But you’re not.”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

His jaw twitched, and when you looked at him — really looked — you saw it: not just the hesitation, but the wanting underneath it. The ache he tried so hard to fold behind all that worn-down steel.

You shifted again, closer, slow and careful like you might spook him.

He didn’t move away.

“If you really wanted me to stop,” you murmured, “you’d already be out the door.”

Joel exhaled like it hurt. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me.”

He turned his head toward you, eyes searching yours like he was looking for a way out — but none came.

And then his voice, low and strained: “You don’t know what I’ve done. What I carry. It ain’t light.”

“I never said you had to be.”

He looked down at your mouth.

Then back at your eyes.

“I’m too old for you,” he said. A protest without teeth.

You leaned in, barely a breath away now. “Then don’t act your age for once.”

That broke something.

Joel surged forward.

The kiss was messy — more force than finesse, rough with restraint finally snapping. His hands were on your jaw, your waist, the back of your neck like he couldn’t decide where to hold you first, couldn’t believe he was touching you at all. You kissed him back just as hungrily, fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt like you could anchor him there.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he muttered against your lips, between every breath. “This is a bad fuckin’ idea.”

You pulled back just enough to smirk. “Then stop.”

He didn’t.

You tangled again, mouths pressed hot and unyielding, fingers threading through his hair, his calloused hands firm on your hips like he’d been imagining this long before he ever admitted it.

His body was heat and solidity, but his kiss — for all the tension, the weight behind it — was careful. A man afraid of letting go completely. A man trying to memorize every second because he didn’t believe he deserved them.

You broke the kiss only when your lungs protested, forehead resting against his, breath mingling.

Joel’s hand stayed on your cheek.

Neither of you said anything for a moment.

Then, finally, your voice — quiet, teasing: “Still a bad idea?”

Joel swallowed, eyes closed. “Worst one I’ve had in years.”

You smiled against him.

“Good,” you whispered.

His hands were back on you before the next breath could fall.

You didn’t stop him.

Your fingers slipped beneath his collar, tracing the scarred skin of his neck, tugging him down to kiss you again — slower this time, deliberate, not rushed. But there was heat there, hunger. A need to feel, to prove something.

Joel’s hand slid along your spine and under your shirt, calloused fingers skimming over the small of your back. You gasped into his mouth when his palm flattened over your ribs, thumb brushing dangerously close to your breast.

“Tell me to stop,” he muttered, mouth ghosting along your jaw. “Tell me now.”

But you pulled your shirt over your head instead.

That was your answer.

Joel swore under his breath, voice gravel and smoke. His lips returned to yours, then wandered — the slope of your throat, the hollow beneath your ear, the edge of your shoulder. His mouth was reverent, starved, like he was tracing something he’d dreamed of but never thought he’d earn.

You tugged at his flannel, desperate to feel him closer. He let you pull it free, and when your hands found his skin, you both froze for a beat.

So much scar tissue. So much history written across his body.

You leaned in and pressed a kiss just over his heart.

Joel breathed deep — and then lowered you back onto the couch.

Your back hit the cushions, and he followed, bracing himself above you with an arm. His other hand slid down, dragging the hem of your pants with it, fingers curling over your hips, your thighs, until you lay bare beneath him.

“Look at me,” he said.

You did.

And when his hand finally touched your pussy, you arched, every nerve alive. His fingers were slow at first — skilled, attentive, learning what you liked by instinct. His mouth found your nipple when you gasped, and that was it — your thoughts blurred, pulse wild.

“You’re already so—” he stopped himself, jaw tightening. “Fuck.”

You whispered his name, breathless.

He kissed your lips again, deep and lingering. Then pulled back to undo his belt, hands trembling.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice nearly breaking. “I’ve got you.”

And when he finally eased into you — slow, careful, letting you adjust — your hands clutched his shoulders, grounding yourself in the solid weight of him, in the realness of it all.

Your pussy stretched to take his cock in fully, inch by inch, until he was fully seated inside you.

Neither of you spoke.

It was too much. And not enough.

Joel rocked into you — gentle at first, deliberate. The pace of a man who knew restraint better than most. But your fingers in his hair, the way you whispered his name, the way your legs wrapped around his waist — it all undid him.

“You feel so good,” you whispered, voice cracking.

“Christ,” he rasped, driving in deeper, slower. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

His forehead pressed against yours. Your breath mingled. His hips stuttered when you clenched around him, your nails biting into his back.

“Don’t stop,” you begged.

“I wasn’t planning to.”

Joel's gaze locked with yours, his expression intense and filled with desire. He increased his pace, his body moving with a sense of urgency.

He leaned down, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke, his breath hot against your skin. "Jesus, baby. You're so tight.”

He could feel you getting closer, as desperate for release as he was, his breath ragged and uneven.

"That's it, baby. Let go. Come for me, come for me," he huskily murmured, his words a mix of guidance and command.

You came with a shudder — clinging to him, head buried in his shoulder, a strangled sound caught in your throat. And Joel — God, Joel — followed seconds later, muffling his groan in your neck as he spilled deep inside you.

You stayed tangled on the couch, limbs heavy and warm.

No words were said.

But his fingers traced lazy lines over your arm.

Part 2

—comment if you wanna be added to this fic taglist

taglist: @started-with-f-ends-with-uck @havensucks

#kar's fics ☆#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us #pedro pascal #joel miller smut #joel miller #joel tlou #joel the last of us #pedro x reader

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buntanteen · 2 days ago

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svt fic recs list <3 - jun/wen junhui b'day edition - sfw & nsfw ver.

summary: 3 sfw & 4 nsfw junhui x reader insert fics :)

contains: sfw section contains potential suggestive content, nsfw section contains 18+ content (mdni), majority is afab!reader

key: (a) = angst, (f) = fluff, (sc) = suggestive content, (s) = smut, (smau) = social media au

✩ svt writing & fic rec masterlist ✩

✩ sfw section ✩

❥ sleepy jun (f)- @hazz-a-bear ~ i cry, i sob HE'S SO CUTE AND POUTY AND BABYYYYYYYYYYY!! FUCKKKK going work, i will give him ALLL the attention he ever so desires

❥ boyfriend texts with jun (f, smau) - @kozukensgf ~ i'm entirely obsessed with jun here...he is the IDEAL silly guy bf

❥ secrets to a furball (f) - @daisymbin ~ oh, don't mind me~ i'm just gonna walk out this window out of cuteness aggression :D

✩ nsfw section ✩

❥ nerdy!jun (s) - @hoshifighting ~ shy and needy and submissive and a nerd?!?!!? ARF ARF ARF ARFFFF

❥ like crazy (s) - @toruro ~ DEAR GOD HE'S EXACTLY WHAT I WANT AND NEEDDDDD (the intensity and roughness is perfectionnn)

❥ match of the season (s) - @junkissed (formerly @1-800-hwahui) ~ AHHHHHHHHHH jun's characterisation here?!? ADORABLEEEEE!! I loveeee how reader treats him so softly :,)

❥ selfish i may be (s) - @vampsol ~ teeheee so scandaloussss of them to do it so publiclyyyy :p

bun note: hiiii and happy june!!!!! it has been a while, but i hope everyone enjoyed happy burstday (i really enjoyed hhu's solos) and nana bnb!! i've spent my time restructuring the fic rec posts because i didn't like how it was a lil difficult to comprehend :3 the structure is heavily inspired/based on @fics-lovebot's fic rec post here :) also a big big thank you to over 1900 followers on here?!?!? isn't that insaneee??? and finally...HAPPY JUN DAYYY!!! BY BELOVED BABY KITTY CAT RAAAAAA NYANGGGGGG 🐱🐱🐱🐱🐱 I LOVE U SOOOO MUCH DUDE IT IS QUITE INSANE!!

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outtathisworld-imagines · 2 days ago

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Bad habit

——☀️——☀️——☀️——☀️——☀️——

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x F!Barnes!Reader

Warning: Smut! +18 MDNI! Oral (fem! and M!rec), intercourse, smoking, fingering, mild voyeurism, dirty talk, swearing, spanking, drug mentions, Bob loves a ‘good girl’ moment, unprotected sex- pls wrap before you tap. Not proofread

A.N: The image of Lewis used was the inspo 🥲

Please let me know what else you guys would like! I do have a few other fics on the back-burner (for now!) that I'll start to post soon and just let me know if you'd liked to be tagged in further works too ✨

——☀️——☀️——☀️——☀️——☀️——

Bob lay one night on his bed unable to sleep, the clock was taunting him by the hour.

He glanced over to it yet again for what felt like the millionth time, just as it turned to 2:26am. He sighed and rubbed his tired eyes before sitting up, turning on his bedside lamp and rummaging around in the drawer beside his bed.

Bob’s fingers crashed against the ridged cardboard box of a packet of cigarettes and he clutched onto them. Removing them from the drawer, still unopened, and for dire emergency’s only. The latter part he reminded himself of frequently, he knew it was a bad habit.

He looked at them for longer than he intended to before succumbing to temptation and throwing on his hoodie and shoes. Bob slowly walked to the balcony outside, he knew smoking indoors would set off the fire alarm resulting in him getting a lecture- he didn’t need a lecture, he needed a lungful of nicotine.

In recent months Bob had tried to be good, tried not to fall back into the habit he picked up in high school before escalating it to other drugs that gave him a buzz or relaxed him to the point where he could barely function without them back then. But tonight he just needed to take an edge off. That’s what he would say to the team if he was caught. Just a one and done kinda thing.

He made his way out to the balcony, the sounds of screeching New York hit his ears and the gentle breeze hit his face. Bob made his way as far as he could from the building, as if that would hide him any less from the team, took out his cigarettes and eagerly tearing into them and placing one in his mouth. His fingers toyed with the lighter, with each click, a sudden spark, a flash of flame before being blown out by the breeze. He groaned after the fifth attempt. “C’mon, Jesus,” he muttered.

The noise of New York faded when a sudden rough strike filled his ears, almost deafening him. A matchstick with a flame in the end of it was brought to his cigarette.

“Looked like you needed a hand.”

His cigarette almost fell from his lips seeing you being illuminated by the orange glow. He managed to get it lit and took a low slow drag.

“T-thanks…” he nervously replied with his exhale. The smell of smoke suddenly dancing over your skin. A silence filled the small balcony, Bob glaring at the lit cigarette between his fingers, almost afraid to look at you, the well-mannered, clean as a whistle, goody-two-shoes, equally as tortured sister of Bucky. “Are you gonna tell anyone?” He asked, like a kid getting caught stealing a piece of candy.

You smirked and shook your head, reaching into your own pocket and taking out your own cigarettes. “Your secret is safe with me.” You placed one between your own lips and looked at him between your lashes “Is mine safe with you?”

Bob smirked “Yeah,” he watched as you lit your own with another matchstick, a ribbon-like stream of smoke leaving your lips along with a sigh. Almost as if all your stress left your body that instant too. He watched intently as you took a few drags, he did the same with his own, the two of you sharing a secret together. “I’m actually pretty surprised…” he admitted, still shocked.

You rested your arms on the ledge of the railing “Oh yeah?” Your voice peaked with amusement. “Why’s that?”

“Because…you’re you.” He shrugged a shoulder. “You’re Bucky’s sister-“

“So?” You cut him off laughing, puffs of smoke leaving with each giggle.

Bob created his throat, his cigarette nearing the end. “Well, you wouldn’t have penned me as someone who smoked. You’re good.”

You shook your head with a sad smile. “I didn’t always do good things, I was just as bad as this habit. Smoking somehow always helped.” You looked at your cigarette, thoroughly inspecting the deep red glow and grey specks at the end. “Just because I’m a good girl now, doesn’t mean I don’t have my vices.“

His cigarette was finished, and he felt he was just as finished too around you.

His heart always skipped a beat seeing you around the tower, or over how you always looked out for him, how he couldn’t believe how pretty you were…how much he wanted to say those same words you just called yourself back to you. Wanting to utter ‘good girl’ like he was chanting a prayer. “I see.” Was all he could muster as a reply. Your brother would kill him with one hand if he knew that Bob thought of you in that way.

You offered him another which he declined, he hadn’t felt more at ease with your presence and he knew another cigarette probably wouldn’t cut it. You played with the box “I can’t even tell you how cheap these were back then- they practically threw them at us! God, my parents and Buck woulda throttled me if they knew, Bucky still would today.” You giggled. “I used to save my pocket money and buy singles from a senior girl at the back of the school yard when I was sixteen, thought I was cool.” You reminisced, shook your head and tucked them away in your pocket again. “I still use matchsticks. I could never get my head around a lighter.”

Bob smiled “Maybe if we find ourselves outside at almost three in the morning again, I’ll teach you.” You let out a laugh, music to Bob’s ears. “I should try and get some sleep.”

You nodded and he started to leave, pausing when you spoke up. “We all have our vices, Bob. We all need something to take the edge off.” You took a long drag this time and moved your focus from your cigarette to him. “Some people have smoking, coffee, shopping, gambling, sex,” Bob almost choked on the lungful of air he had inhaled at the same time and it made you smirk at how flustered he got at even just the mention of the word ‘sex’. You bit down on your lip “My vices are probably all those boxes.” You heard him gulp. “Goodnight Bob.”

He made his way back to his room, your words and presence and secret still lingering in his mind like the smoke from his cigarette.

He took off his shoes and smoke kissed hoodie and lay on his bed, seeing an orange glow from his window that faced the balcony and you being lit by it.

—•—

Two days later you found yourself outside again, it was nearing 3:30am. A lot warmer than the last few nights you had been out, much warmer than the night you and Bob revealed your in common secret.

Bob had watched you from his bedroom window, a longing feeling filling his chest. He wasn’t sure if that was for a smoke or for you.

He suspected the latter.

His body told him he needed both.

You didn’t hear him approach, to distracted by the moon in all her glory, making you glow just as much as the cigarette. “This bad habit is becoming a regular habit,” Bob’s voice made you turn around.

You smiled and silently encouraged him to join you. He fumbled getting a cigarette out of the packet “What you smoking?” You asked, Bob flashed you the packet and you let out a snort of laughter, he raised a brow. “You barely get a kick out of those!” With your forefinger and middle finger you removed your half-smoked cigarette and held it out to him. “Here, try this.”

Bob suddenly felt like he was on a beach back in Florida again, getting high by the crashing waves and the moon as his only sober witness. He tentatively took it from you and inhaled, exhaling with a cough and a low whistle. “Holy shit, that’s strong.” You grinned, almost proudly. “It’s good,” he nodded approvingly, taking it from his mouth again and inspecting it before placing it back between his lips and taking another lungful.

“Hey!” You chuckled and pulled it from his lips, placing it between your own. You let a moment of time pass to let you savour and enjoy the lingering warmth of his mouth and the taste of him on the end of the cigarette instead of the cigarette itself, your heart skipping as he danced across your tastebuds. You pulled out a fresh one and extended it out to him. “Have a full one, enjoy it.”

He leaned down to your hand, slowly testing the waters, and grabbed it with his mouth rather than his fingers. He watched you swallow hard, your cigarette turning into ash between your fingers you were so transfixed on him. “Join me before you go back in. One more.” He urged, you didn’t need that much convincing.

You grabbed another and he brought his lighter to you, with one click he instantly lit it. “First time lucky,” you teased. “Now, can you really impress me and do any tricks?” You asked, trying to cut through some of the thick tension surrounding you both.

Bob shrugged “Just some smoke rings, nothing fancy.” You encouraged him and your fluttery laughed echoed around the balcony watching him attempt the trick. You clapped, cigarette between your fingers, ash falling to the ground.

He bashfully waved your clapping and the smoke rings away. You mused for a moment before inching closer to him. “I have a trick, it’s called the ‘transfer’.”

Bob raised a brow “Okay…what is it?”

“You gotta close your eyes, open your mouth and then breathe in.” Your voice was low, eyes glowing from the moonlight and the orange glow. “You wanna try?”

Bob felt his hands starting to tremble the closer you got, his head involuntary nodding yes, his voice was seized. You watched as he closed his eyes, licking his lips in anticipation before opening his mouth a little. “Breathe in three…two…one…” you inhaled a mouthful of smoke and moved forward, he breathed in just as you exhaled.

The sensation instantly spread through his body like a fever.

You pulled back and watched him for a moment, his eyes still shut as he slowly exhaled with a rough groan and a soft ‘fuck,’ under his breath. Bob opened them again, noticing you resting against the railing coyly. “It’s even stronger coming from you…” he said. “I wanna try on you.” You nodded and stood up straighter, closed your eyes and felt the heat from Bob as he got closer, it was practically radiating from him. He inhaled, leaned in, breathed out as he placed his lips against yours.

You froze in shock, thinking he overshot his distance, but then he started kissing you.

And you started kissing back.

He pressed you against the railing with his hips and you groaned as he ground his body against yours, moaning against your smoke kissed skin and dropping his cigarette as he inhaled you instead, yours still gripped tightly between your fingers. Your hand found his hair as his own found your ass and tightly squeezed it. “Bob…” you mewed. “This balcony has enough secrets.”

He smirked “One more wouldn’t hurt it.” He crashed his mouth against yours again, his other hand unbuttoning your jeans and harshly pulling down your zip. You gasped and pulled back feeling his three fingers press against your clothed core. You watched him, his eyes never leaving yours either, they silently asked you, they silently begged.

You nodded.

Bob skilfully pulled back your underwear and ran one finger up your slit. “God…” slipped from your lips and you took a drag from the cigarette, holding it in as he teased you, the feeling almost causing you to short-circuit already from the smoke and him fingering you. You exhaled deeply, he watched as your head fell back beyond the balcony railing and added another finger. “Fuck!”

He proudly smiled, you shared the cigarette with him and he moaned while taking a quick inhale, the nicotine not even coming close to what you were making him feel. He loosely held it between his lips, his fingers between your folds. You held onto his shoulders as he continued “Shit, I didn’t think you’d be able to get any more fucking beautiful, I’m being proven wrong.” You moaned loudly at his words. The cigarette was burning out, whereas he was just getting started. You took it from his lips and drew from the last few burning embers. “If that’s the way your lips wrap around the end of a cigarette, I bet they’d look just as good wrapped around my cock.”

You went wide eyed at his words, suddenly seeing a new side to Bob. You smiled and removed the cigarette from your mouth, your body leaning in at his touch. You kissed him, he responded by thrusting two fingers into your pussy. You gasped, clutching onto him tighter. “Fuck, Bob!” Your legs almost giving way.

“That’s it, Y/N. Such a good girl.” He felt his lungs filling with a new vapour saying those words to you. “You’re my good girl, aren’t you?” You nodded, your lips tightly pressed together to prevent a pathetic whimper leaving your lips. “Say it.” He demanded.

“I-I’m a good girl, you-your good girl.” You finally said, a smile forming all over your face when you did.

Bob lowly chuckled, your moans so loud it silenced the sounds of New York below. He pulled his fingers from you, you were almost winded at the sudden loss of him. He brought them to his mouth, his tongue lapping up the slick and shiny remains of you on him. He groaned in delight as his eyelids fluttered close “Fuck, you taste just as addictive as nicotine.”

A cold gust of wind enveloped you both, a chill running down your spine as you kissed each other. “As much as I love mild voyeurism,” Bob let out an amused snort. “I think we should take this to a bed…” you suggestively said and Bob grabbed your hand, running you both down the hall to his room.

He threw you on the bed, feverishly kissing you and started unwrapping you like a kid at Christmas, or like he was getting into a pack of smokes for the first time.

He couldn’t wait.

You were just as eager, your fingers clawing at his t-shirt and jeans. You both stripped each other down to your underwear, lips never leaving each other for more than a second. You used your strength and pushed him down on the sheets, your body slipping further down and your fingers slipping into the waistband of his boxers. You could already see just how eager he was.

You couldn’t wait to show him just how good your lips would look around his cock. You pulled them down, jaw dropping at the sheer size and sight of him. “After this I know I’m gonna need a cigarette…” Bob laughed, a hint of shyness peaking through. You winked, tossing his boxers to the side and wrapping your lips around the pre-cum soaked tip of his cock, Bob already thrusting towards you at the feeling of you on him. “So eager…” you teased, your tongue swirling around his length, Bob almost mewing for you to take all of him.

His eyes squeezed shut. “Fuck, can you blame me? Feels like I’m dreaming again.” They suddenly opened, admitting too much. He looked down to you, a deadly smile on your face.

“What were your dreams like?” You asked, barely giving him anytime to respond before saying “Like this?” Your mouth wrapped around the entirety of his cock. Bob let out a shuddering groan, his head fell back as his hands found your own and gripped onto your hair for dear life. He felt you smile as your head rhythmically bobbed up and down.

“Fuck, fuck! Shit, don’t stop,” he breathlessly begged, “Such a good girl for me,” he bit out “Such a good girl,” Bob’s voice was strained as he sunk deeper into his bed, your mouth sunk deeper down on his cock. His lips let out a string of swears, his knuckles turning white from the grip he had on you and his other hand frantically trying to grip onto his sheets. “Sh-SHIT! I’m gonna fuck-“ he yelped, almost crying in sheer pleasure. He sat up a little, watching you taking him in. Bob’s thoughts were beyond right- you were a million times more gorgeous than he could have ever imagined with your lips around him. He watched you, your eyes glossy, soft little chokes leaving your mouth as you gagged on him sending a vibration of pure pleasure through him. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum, Y/N.” He exhaled just as deep as a lungful of smoke. His bad habit suddenly having great outcomes.

You continued, pulling away momentarily. “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you smirked and started sucking on him again, your tongue giving him sweet kitten licks, driving him to a new heights- not even passing a joint on the beach by the crashing waves got him this high.

His jaw hung open, the warmth from your mouth setting his whole body alight. “Shit- I wanna cum inside you,” he quickly blurted out “Wanna fucking cum inside you,” he gritted out, spitting with the drool pooling in his mouth at the thought.

You pulled back with a smile on your glistening lips and a raised brow. “Well why didn’t you say, Robert…” your tone was an almost taunting one. You moved towards him again, quickly making light work of your underwear and tossing your bra and underwear to the far corners of Bob’s room. He softly gasped seeing you for the first time in all your glory.

“You’re so goddamn pretty.” His hands roamed over you, squeezing your tits. “I’m gonna need a cigarette after having you,” he giggled, repeating your own words from earlier and you bit down on your lip before lowering yourself onto his cock. Bob held you tighter, feeling your pussy around his cock, how warm and wet and tight it was. “Fuck…” he drawled out, his head sinking into his sheets with pleasure.

His hands gripped onto your sides as you rocked your hips back and forth, moans leaving your throat as you bent down to kiss him, your tongues clashing and battling for dominance. “God, Bob! Fuck!” You groaned, your forehead resting against his now as both of you gazed into each other’s eyes.

He harshly spanked your ass and you yelped in delight and surprise. “Keep riding my cock, doing so fucking good. Such good girl,” his voice was as rough as the hand he spanked you with yet again. “I need this pussy, I need you.“ You moaned at his words as your pace quickened, eager to please him. “I’ll never get enough of you. Never mind a cigarette, I want a hit of you. I always want a hit like this. Fucking better than any smoke I’ve ever had.” He spanked you again, the tightening bubble of pleasure in you finally bursting.

You came, screaming into his sheets, the muffled sound would keep your secret. Bob would be hearing them echo for a week. His fingers sunk into you as he soon came shortly after, spilling out into your pussy and seeping out between your two bodies.

You collapsed onto him, you both desperately catching your breaths and wiping away the beads of sweat scattered on your foreheads. The sound of your heartbeats and gasps of lungfuls of air filled his room as opposed to the screams and moans from moments ago.

Bob pressed slow, lazy kisses across your cheek and lips. “Fuck, are you gonna be my next bad habit?” You asked with a hazy giggle.

He smirked “Think I knew you were already mine.” He admitted, tracing his fingers over your bare shoulder. You softly smiled, pressing a kiss to his lips before moving from him with a small groan leaving both your mouths.

You spent the rest of the night together, disappearing back to your room before the sunrise and before anyone woke up.

But not before sneaking back to the balcony together, sharing a cigarette and a half dozen kisses with Bob on the balcony.

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zstartrixxx · 20 hours ago

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𝐏𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝑨 𝑴𝑶𝑵𝑺𝑻𝑬𝑹. (𝒀𝑶𝑼'𝑽𝑬 𝑺𝑬𝑬𝑵 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑩𝑼𝑻𝑪𝑯𝑬𝑹)

²⁰⁰⁰ˢꜝʳᵉᵐᵐᶦᶜᵏ ˣ ᶠᵉᵐꜝʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓: 𝐘𝐄𝐒 | 𝐍𝐎

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: On a night of apparent peace, you answer the door of the rented house to a stranger who swears up and down that he also leased the very same property... It's not what you're imagining. 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: TO CELEBRATE OUR 200 BILLION FOLLOWERS IN STYLE (kskskskskksks now seriously: tkysm for the 200 followers, it's been a little over a month since i created this blog with face, heart and courage to post my fanfics without any grand expectations, so everything that's happening is fucked up :)

i’m humbly offering this fic that i affectionately call a 'FUN-FANFICTION'—funnier, silly and way more chaotic than my usual smut-heavy or over-the-top dramatic plots. think of it as your post-chill pill after a long day!!! to everyone reading this: thank you for your time, your love, and for being here. i adore you as much as i adore jackie's chars. <3 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: +18 ADULT CONTENT. vampirism & gore (bite and blood), smut: oral (m!receive) and unproteced penetration, a lil' bite of monsterfucker; weirdo!remmick (he's a really freaky here idk :) lmk if i forget smt ;) 𝐖𝐂: 3.5k for whoever is going to read it, a great read! <3 likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated :)

𝖱𝖤𝖬𝖬𝖨𝖢𝖪 𝖯𝖫𝖠𝖸𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳 | 𝖬𝖠𝖲𝖳𝖤𝖱𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳

"i wanna to watch the way, you creep across the night sky. you slowly enter, because you know my room; and then you crawl your knees off and then you shake my tomb..." (you've seen the butcher, deftones).

"A monster cannot be loved...

I always believed this with the same fervor as my faith in the saints and gods that surrounded me since childhood, when my parents took me on morning walks to the cemetery to honor those who came before me - from whom all wisdom originated. My great-grandmother's imposing marble mausoleum, with a winged guardian angel crushing a serpent's head, was my favorite place to be. That was a long time ago. My life changed when—"

A noise snapped you out of your trance.

You were surprised—you weren't expecting anyone at that house. You looked at your laptop clock: it was past nine in the evening. You raised your eyes to the window in front of you, facing the neighbor's house, the glass speckled with raindrops. The noise continued—someone was frantically twisting the doorknob, almost desperately, then stopping for a few seconds, making you think you were finally alone again—only for the noises to return, now more intense: fists pounding against the door, a deep voice in the background shouting "Hey!", completely breaking your concentration. You rolled your eyes, slamming your laptop shut, walking the short distance between the kitchen and living room, grabbing your fluffy white robe thrown over the back of the couch, to peer suspiciously through the peephole, trying to see who could be there at this hour on an ordinary Wednesday night in the middle of the rain.

A shadow passed by, obstructing your view. With no light on the porch, the faint glow from the quiet street only revealed outlines and shadows. With your palms flat against the door, you were startled by another violent shake, the deep, affected voice invading through the door crack:

"Hey! Open up! Let me in... Shit!"

You frowned, one hand on the metal doorknob and the other on the key, wondering if it was wise to open it for whoever was outside. You couldn't take another loud knock, long and insistent, turning the key in the lock with a click, twisting the knob, opening the door to find a drenched man just inches away from you. Holding onto the security chain that limited your field of vision, the man's face lit up with relief, arms crossed, raindrops falling from his brown almost black hair as he peered into the house with those dark blue eyes:

"Miss, sorry for the hour, but there must have been a mistake..."

"What mistake?" you asked, genuinely curious, looking him up and down: casual clothes, a black hoodie with the hood down, navy blue jeans, scuffed sneakers, and beside him a military-green camping backpack with what looked like a string instrument case leaning against it. You stared at him again, even more intrigued by the strange visitor, who was rubbing his hands together:

"Look, I don't want to sound weird or anything, miss, but this must be a mix-up! I rented this place for a few days to stay for a couple weeks, but when I got here, I couldn't find the key anywhere and, well... Now seeing you here, I think we've got a problem."

"Are you sure it's this house?" you asked, raising an eyebrow. He widened his eyes, nodding - pulling a worn leather wallet from his pants pocket, fishing out a crumpled piece of paper from between a wad of crumpled bills, extending his slightly trembling hand to you, likely from the cold. Behind him, the rain intensified, splashing onto the poor guy and onto you; the stranger pulled up his hood, casting his striking features into noisy darkness. You shrugged, taking the paper between your fingers, stepping back to smooth it out and read its contents under the indoor light, aloud:

"Blah-blah-blah... Temporary tenant Remmick... Blah-blah-blah, Zero-Six Street... Hmm, authorized stay from today until... Granted permission to occupy hereby..." You looked up at him, startled. The stranger—or rather, Remmick—raised his eyebrows at you:

"Believe me now?"

"Okay, fine... But what do we do?"

"Look, I don't want to be pessimistic, but this town is one of those weird ones where taxis only run at certain times and specific places, and the cabbie who dropped me off said I either walk back or find somewhere to stay... And with this rain, it'd be pretty shitty to leave me out here."

"Are you really sure you want to come in?"; Your voice came out dark, a glint passing through your eyes. An enigmatic little smile appeared at the corner of the man's lips as he lowered his hood again, putting on a pleading expression with puppy-dog eyes:

"Just one night, miss. Just so I don't catch a cold. One night—" He raised an index finger, flashing a convincing little smile: "—one night, and I promise I'll be a ghost to you. You won't even notice I'm here."

Your eyes shifted from him to the unrelenting rain behind him.

You glanced over your shoulder, where that empty house seemed to invite you to take in this poor guy, who wasn't to blame for his bad luck. In the end, you'd both come out ahead, right?

Convinced, you nodded affirmatively, unlatching the chain with a click. Before Remmick could enter, you stopped him once more, a hand extended, fingertips lightly brushing his chest, your eyes piercing into his, which gleamed with a hot-blue intensity as they locked onto you:

"Are you absolutely sure you want to come in?"

"Absolutely, miss. Don't ask me twice..." He shrugged as he stepped past you, carrying his things inside. Before closing the door, you took one last look at that street of houses with only a few lights on, a desolate place almost lost in that small town.

The night would be long.

Remmick didn't shut up for a single second. But it didn't bother you at all—quite the opposite. You were genuinely interested in what he had to say, the stories about failed gigs—while refilling another mug of cheap wine you'd found in the fridge—he told you about the time the band's car broke down in the middle of the highway:

"...I swear to God! There I was with the guys when boom!, the tire blew. We got out, in the middle of absolute nowhere, on one of those dirt roads connecting Nevada to California, you know? And the worst part..." He started laughing at the memory, the two of you sitting on the three-seater couch in the living room, the tube TV tuned to MTV, where nu-metal videos played. Remmick had showered, radiating warmth that smelled like chamomile and mint shampoo. He wore a simple black t-shirt that revealed a tattoo on his right inner bicep, gray sweatpants, barefoot—completely at ease, as if you were old friends reuniting after time apart.

He sipped his wine. You laughed:

"And the worst part was what?" Sitting beside him, you'd taken advantage of his shower time to change into your pajamas: an oversized band t-shirt, black cotton shorts, the robe still covering the more exposed areas. Even so, every now and then you caught a pair of ocean-blue eyes glancing at you, trying to catch a glimpse of skin through the robe's opening or your slightest movement. Remmick wiped a trickle of wine from his chin:

"The worst part was that we stopped right in front of one of those roadside motels. But not just any motel—one of those for couples, you know? And there must've been an orgy or something going on, because it was fucking awkward..."

You burst out laughing, trying to picture the scene.

Remmick joined in, his laugh open and booming, full-bodied. He was slightly drunk and an open book: in less than two music videos and two mugs of wine, he'd already told you why he was here, about trying to go on the road with his little band, but his day job got in the way—so he had to choose between the band or work. And there he was, about to play a series of shows that, according to him, would "change his whole career." He was excited, hopeful, his eyes gleaming as streaks of blood-yellow light reflected in his irises, his teeth glowing under the TV's anise-colored light during pauses, his black hair still shiny with dampness. He was too human to seem like a weirdo... Even if some of his stories sounded far-fetched.

Remmick finished shaking his shoulders, his laughter fading as he turned back to the TV, where the opening chords of Be Quiet and Drive (Far Away) began, Chino Moreno's face flashing on screen as the guitar riff exploded. Remmick started nodding his head slightly, humming along to the first lines. You smiled, half-admiring his spontaneity.

"Is this the kind of music you guys play?" you asked, drawing his attention back to you. Remmick grinned proudly, his eyes never losing their sparkle. He downed the rest of his wine in one gulp, setting the mug on the wooden coffee table cluttered with magazines and knickknacks:

"If I weren't so obvious and were more mysterious, it'd be cooler, huh...?"

"What do you mean?" You narrowed your eyes, mimicking his gesture, setting your own mug aside. Remmick glanced at it, commenting offhand:

"You haven't even touched your wine properly—scared of me?" He laughed, half-sarcastic, leaning back into the couch, his gaze heavy-lidded as you turned more toward him, knees pressed together, pointed in his direction. Your eyes traced the lines of his body—not muscular but defined, a subtle bulge between his legs making your throat go dry... Desire.

Remmick was fucking hot, and you were lucky this misfortune had happened with him.

His eyes were penetrating, and in that sepia light between pale yellow and steely blue, they were beautiful. His face was handsome, well-defined and masculine, his hair looked so soft—not to mention that prominent nose, large and slightly upturned, those full, kissable lips, and hands that, if they knew how to play an instrument, your mind concluded, would know how to touch anyone like no one else. And that desire burned through you—you were starved... for touch.

The man was still focused on the frenetic music, the singer's voice gently penetrating your ears. You answered him, your eyes never leaving his:

"It's not fear, it's just... thirst for something else."

"What... something?" he asked, his breath hitching slightly, watching you with curiosity. You pressed your lips together in a smile, stretching as you turned back to the TV, avoiding his gaze:

"A little something I'm not sure I should mention..." You played coy, wanting to provoke him. Remmick slowly adjusted himself on the couch, caught between curiosity and challenge, his lazy grin widening as he stared at you in that half-light from the kitchen lamp mixing with the TV's glow, replying in a teasing tone:

"You're a bold one, you know...? Don't even know me, don't know if I'm a potential serial killer." You laughed, disbelieving. Biting your lip, you shook your head:

"No, Remmick, I'm not afraid of you at all."

"Well, you should be!" he exclaimed, jumping up to stretch, yawning as he checked the digital clock in the kitchen: "Jesus, it's past midnight. Better hit the sack..." He shot you a look full of expectation: "...you too, 'I'm-Not-Afraid-Of-You-Remmick'!" He laughed mockingly, but with an air of suggestion: "Maybe I'll leave my door open... just in case I need something."

"Fine, Mr... 'You-Should-Be-Afraid-Of-Me'—" You made a face, matching his look, your smile widening further: "—maybe I'll come running under your covers, hide from the Boogeyman."

"Or from me..." He shrugged, already heading for the stairs leading to the bedrooms. You snorted a laugh, watching the next music video start. You threw a dangerous glance at the man already climbing the stairs, step by step, his eyes gleaming as his smile seemed to drip for you.

Calling you.

You looked away, keeping your eyes on the TV, pulsing and vibrating with the possibilities of this surprisingly eventful night. He flirted in a weird little way that got to you more than it should have.

Remmick did wait for you, awake in that narrow guest bed, between the closed window's sound of dripping rain and the noise of his own thoughts, hands resting on his chest as he lay in the dark room, thinking of you. Only a sliver of harsh yellow light came from the hallway through the slightly ajar door. Then he heard your footsteps, heavy, coming up the stairs—you'd taken about an hour to finally come up, whatever you'd been doing downstairs in complete silence—or maybe his thoughts were just too loud for him to notice.

Slowly, you stopped at his door, opening it with a soft creak that made him smirk, a small smile appearing on his lips as the warm light entered with you, leaving you both in that half-light where anything could be hidden. But he could still see your face, soft and relaxed, the way you wet your lips and shed your robe, revealing yourself completely naked to him. Remmick shuddered, his mouth watering with desire, already sitting up in bed as you slowly crawled toward him, across the sheets, the mattress springs squeaking, his heavy breathing louder than the rain outside. Then your voice came out, feline:

"You really waited for me, hmm? Really left your invitation open for me to come into your room..." You stopped in front of him, sitting on his knee, your hands beginning to trail up his shins to his knees. Remmick closed his eyes, lethargic, the wine's effect mixing with the arousal growing inside him. You laughed, climbing higher until you were face-to-face with him:

"Remmick, Remmick... What a pleasure to have you as my guest tonight!" you teased, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, his hands touching your skin, sending a shiver through him at the temperature contrast—maybe because you were naked in the cool air while he was in that furnace of a room—parting his lips and closing his eyes, asking for a kiss. But you didn't give him what he wanted. Instead, you licked him, laughing at the face he made, dragging yourself down his torso until you were between his legs:

"Will you let me suck you, Remmy?" The nickname came out casual, intimate, playful. The man didn't hesitate, nodding immediately. With a quick move, you were off the bed, pulling him toward you, kneeling, your sharp nails scratching at the waistband of his sweatpants, stripping him of both pants and white underwear, already wet with pre-cum, taking his soft, warm cock in your hands.

Never breaking eye contact, he eagerly pulled off his shirt in one motion, revealing a cross tattoo on the right side of his waist—a detail that made you even wetter—and you started low, sucking his balls with delight, watching him melt and moan, his hands gripping the mattress tightly as you licked from the base to the red, wet tip, begging for attention, thick and relatively large, stopping right at the head to ask:

"Is this how you like it, Remmy?" Then you took just the glans into your mouth, hearing him gasp heavily, your tongue swirling around it in circles. Remmick almost laughed from pleasure, nodding, one hand already buried in your hair guiding your movements, almost fucking your mouth with thrusts, which you opened and let him enjoy—because his pleasure was yours.

Laughing after he thrust deep, making you gag slightly, pulling back completely soaked and drooling over his cock, he said breathlessly:

"Fuck, woman, like this I'm gonna come too soon... What a magical little mouth!" He caressed your face with one hand as you stood up, pushing him back onto the bed:

"That's because you haven't seen anything yet, Remmy. Haven't seen anything."

He laughed, flirtatious, his hands already claiming your thighs as you, unhurried, positioned yourself over him, never breaking eye contact—Remmick was being very well served, groaning roughly:

"So fucking wet for me, holy shit," his face twisting in pleasure, eyebrows knitting together, lips parting in a broken smile, prominent canines showing. You laughed, grinding aggressively on top of him, grabbing his hands and pinning him down. He groaned beneath you: "So tight, shit, if you keep riding my cock like this I'm gonna come—"

"Then come, Remmy—" Desire was blinding you, your dominant hand going to his throat, watching his Adam's apple rise and fall, his eyes closed, breathing fast, a trail of saliva escaping the corner of his lips.

"Fuck..." Roughly, he thrust up into your pussy. You bent over him, loosening your grip slightly, licking his neck, whispering suggestively:

"Can I suck you here, Remmy?"

"Shit, yes, do whatever you want to me... Just let me come..." he begged, his hands now free from your grip holding your waist, his mouth latching onto the exposed side of your neck, yours doing the same where the arteries pulsed. Remmick felt all his lust spill into harsh thrusts into your pussy, long spurts, while his teeth bit into you.

And yours did the same.

You moaned, strangled by pain and pleasure, blood welling from the bite, flooding your mouth; Remmick let out a guttural cry, eyes closed, feeling that burning frenzy of orgasm, his mouth slack, tasting something... metallic, rancid-sweet, then back to the pungent tang of copper. When he opened his eyes, you were above him, your hands pinning his shoulders to the mattress, your mouth full of blood. Horror crossed his face as the burning intensified, throbbing.

It felt like blades plunging into his skin, deep, lacerating, metallic. Blood, the nauseating smell of it, sticky, and panic filling him as he thrashed beneath you—still inside you—as you laughed, mouth dripping with his blood, staining him further.

"What the fuck!? What kind of monster are you!?" he managed to choke out, trying to break free from your grip, which was stronger than his. When he looked at you again, in that yellow-blue light, the plastic warmth from the hallway mixing with the night's darkness, the rain outside growing heavier, seeming to drown out his screams:

"Well, I did ask you twice if you wanted to come in—" you whispered, putting on an innocent face, bending over his chewed jugular, which gushed bright red blood onto the white sheets and his pale skin, licking up that delicious liquor, spiced with his fear and pleasure: "—and twice you said you did. And you let me suck you, Remmy... Suck you! Oh, poor little thing..." You straightened up again as his eyes lost focus, dull at the edges, lips darkening, his convulsions becoming more random and spaced out.

You knew exactly what you were doing.

Remmick was dying as beautifully as he came, that much was certain. His flavor was rich and exquisite on your palate, sharpened by the fear that had shocked him, diluted in intense orgasm. Simply divine.

Monster.

Could a monster be worthy of love?

"Can a monster be loved?" The question was almost rhetorical.

The unhappy little laugh came from deep in your throat, hoarse and almost dry. In the background, a song played on the convertible's radio, wind whipping across your cold faces, sunglasses on despite the night, sharp smiles, your claw-like nails tapping the car door as Remmick drove, humming along to the lyrics:

"Pleased to meet you... Hope you guess my name, oh, yeah! But what's puzzling you... Is the nature of my game, oh, yeah!" He glanced at you over his sunglasses, his blue eyes glinting in that scarlet light just for you. He wore a leather jacket, corpse-pale hands on the wheel, a sly smile, while you admired the creature you'd created that night full of surprises. Remmick began to speak, his voice calm, his expression contemplative:

"Once, I was seduced by a monster, who punished me severely with the pain of death... But after taking what she craved—my blood and my pleasure—she offered me the greatest gift anyone could accept in this miserable life. Even if the hatred for death poorly announced catches up with us, darling, yes, I believe we can love... In our own way. We're punished by our desires, but whatever... In the end, it was worth giving you what you wanted."

"Blood?" you guessed, throwing a look past him, across that huge bridge full of cars, your suitcases and his guitar case in the backseat. Remmick gave a sly, self-satisfied smile, carefully adjusting his leather jacket sleeves, his hair blowing in the wind, exuding sex and bloody fury on this night that, for the two of you, was only beginning:

"No."

He stated, giving you a look, finally removing his sunglasses, revealing himself to you once more, fangs inviting:

"Eternity with a companion."

In the background, the radio's volume gradually rose...

"Tell me, baby, what's my name? Tell me, honey, can you guess my name?"

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒: as you've probably noticed, i got drunk on references to the ultimate classics—interview with the vampire—which is why this fic plays fast and loose with the movie's canon. that said: I LOVED writing this because there's something delicious about imagining a human, fragile remmick who—poor bastard—gets wrecked by his own desires.

#[★] zstartrixxx #remmick #remmick fanfic #remmick x reader #remmick x you #remmick smut #remmick imagine #remmick sinners #jack o'connell #jack o'connell fanfic #[⋆♱⋆] zstar fanfics #[🦇] zstar jack o'connell #Spotify

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k1ttyjwon · 2 days ago

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☪︎ 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐂𝐊 | Yang Jungwon +18 (coming soon!)

ˎˊ˗ 𝗣𝗥𝗘𝗩𝗜𝗘𝗪

✩ pairing: human jungwon × vampire fem!reader

✩ synopsis

your life had always seemed perfect—devoted parents, loyal friends, a future as bright as any young adult could hope for. but everything shattered the night something found you in a shadowed alley of your quiet hometown. from that moment on, the life you knew was gone.

years after vanishing from the place you once called home, news reached you: your parents were dead. deep down, you knew it wasn’t natural. the marks left behind—the kind only fangs could make—haunted your thoughts. and so, you returned.

what awaited you was a town both familiar and strange. ghosts of forgotten memories stirred, faces once youthful now worn by time. and among them stood jungwon—a gentle, enigmatic soul who had cared for your parents in their final days. in his presence, something long buried begins to awaken. perhaps, through him, the happiness you once lost could be found again.

✩ content tags: vampire au, blood, violence, dark themes, death, romance, drama, sexual content, mystery, love at first sight (one-sided), slow burn (reader doesn't accept her feelings at first), down bad jungwon, kinda grumpy × sunshine, fluff, happy ending.

✩ smut warnings: virginity loss (both), p in v, unprotected sex (pls don't!), switch jungwon but mostly sub, switch reader but mostly dom, multiple sex scenes, soft sex (once lol), oral sex (both), dirty talk, rough sex, multiple orgasms, squirting, creampie, mirror sex, throat fucking, overstimulation, multiple sex positions (missionary, riding, doggy, reverse cowgirl, 69, etc.) i think that is all. after the first time they fuck like rabbits, so yeah... nasty sh*t.

✩ taglist: @povjin @nevyxx @loverbyfate @forwinterstars @yazmike @meowwons @aggarwaldrishti @mariegibeau @dokidokirst

a/n: omgg i'm so excited for this story, i know i said i was going to post the preview last weekend but in my defense today is monday so i'm only one day late :)) this is my first time posting a fic on tumblr, and in english (my first language is spanish) so i hope it's decent enough, i don't know yet if i'll post just one long part or several shorter parts. the posting date will probably be at the end of the month. if you want to be on the taglist comment and i'll add you :)

#enhypen #enhypen smut #jungwon #jungwon smut #enhypen x reader #jungwon x reader #enhypen fic #enhypen jungwon #yang jungwon

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warpdrive-witch · 3 days ago

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It Worked (22/23)

CW: Childbirth.

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Pairing: Agatha x Rio x Reader Summary: like a prayer—hands shaking, mouth falling open in a breathless, reverent sob.“Please, my Love,”

A Breath From Becoming

The wind rushed ahead of you as the front door swung open, curling into the house like it was announcing your arrival. You crossed the threshold slowly, your hand still pressed low over your belly as Agatha stepped in behind you and reached instinctively to close the door, her palm guiding it shut with a soft click. And just like that, the outside world vanished.

No more university tile beneath your feet. No fluorescent lights. No committee waiting for you to speak. Only the hush of home—the kind of hush that hummed with memory. The hallway smelled faintly of lemon balm, lavender, and the low warmth of wood and old books. You paused there a moment, breath heavy, eyes fluttering shut as the silence folded itself around your shoulders like a shawl. The weight in your hips made itself known again—low, pulsing, deep. You exhaled slowly. Carefully. Like you were afraid to wake something sleeping.

Agatha moved past you, quiet and watchful, setting your bag on the entryway bench. Rio brushed her fingertips over your back as she stepped into the kitchen, her keys already dropped into the dish by the door. Their movements were soft. Practiced. But tense, like even they could feel the way the house had stilled.

You stepped forward, bare feet sinking into the rug just past the doorway, the cool weave catching beneath your toes. The air in the house felt heavier now, warmer than outside, tinged with the scent of lemon balm and something faintly sweet, like old cedar and skin-warmed cotton. Rio’s hand found the small of your back as you moved down the hall. “Let’s get you into something more comfortable,” she said softly, already veering toward the bedroom like she knew exactly what your body was begging for before you could say it.

The bedroom welcomed you like a held breath. The lights were off, but the storm had dimmed the windows anyway. Everything inside was still—the comforter half-tossed from the morning, the soft folds of the curtains shifting slightly from the cracked window. You moved toward the dresser, but Rio was already crouching by the laundry basket, pulling out a pair of soft shorts. “Here,” she murmured, rising again to help you.

You braced yourself against the bed frame as she gently peeled the waistband of your slacks down your thighs, careful not to jostle you too fast. Her touch was gentle, reverent. She pressed a kiss to your hip before helping you step out of them, folding the fabric over one arm. You reached back and unclasped your bra with a frustrated grunt, shoving it down and off like it had offended you just by existing. Your skin sighed at the release, your shoulders falling half an inch in relief.

Then your hand reached for the shirt. Agatha’s. The one she’d worn last night. Still soft with the imprint of her sleep, with the memory of her warmth pressed into the seams. You gathered it slowly, almost reverently, the fabric cool beneath your fingertips. It smelled like her—like lilac and something older, something quieter. A scent you’d come to think of as home.

You pulled it over your head inch by inch, careful with your breath, careful with your body. The cotton caught slightly on your damp shoulders, clinging for a heartbeat before falling low around your belly in a loose, familiar sweep. It barely reached your thighs now—everything about your body had shifted. The curve of your abdomen stole the shape of the fabric, made it hers.

And just as the shirt settled, another contraction. You didn’t cry out. You didn’t panic. You breathed. Your hand shot out to the edge of the bed, gripping the comforter in tight, white-knuckled silence. Your knees bent slightly, instinctively. The pressure spread through your pelvis like heat blooming from stone—low, wide, steady. It pulled through you in a wave, curling into the base of your spine, cresting just behind your hips.

Your jaw clenched. Your eyelids fluttered closed. You swayed. Not wildly, not from fear—but from something deeper. Something older than you. The body’s slow dance with time and arrival. Rio stepped in behind you without needing to be asked. Her palm pressed firm and low against your back, right where the ache had bloomed—right where you needed her most. The warmth of her skin seeped into you through the cotton, steadying the sway, guiding it. You didn’t speak. She didn’t ask.

You breathed. And when it passed—when the worst of the pull began to ease—you felt your fingers loosen on the blanket. Your spine released notch by notch, the curve of your back finding something like softness again. You exhaled, not loud—but deep, long, necessary. A letting-go kind of breath. The contraction ebbed, its ghost still braided through your hips like the final tremor of a storm disappearing underground.

Your lashes were damp now. Your breath uneven. But the world came back in pieces. The hush of the room. The creak of floorboards. The soft exhale of the air vent. The heat of a hand still anchored against your lower back.

Rio hadn’t moved. Her palm was steady as a vow, cupping the weight of you, thumb curved to the slope of your spine. She didn’t rush. Didn’t fill the air with questions. Her eyes were already there, on you—not hunting for signs of distress, but watching with reverence. With something wordless. You turned toward her.

And kissed her. Not quickly. Not hungrily. But truly. The kiss was not a question. It was not a flare of passion meant to distract or seduce. It was something older than both. Something holy. The kind of kiss that pressed the air still, that folded time at the edges. The kind that whispered: Thank you. I love you. Holy shit, this is happening.

When your lips parted, your foreheads stayed together. You didn’t move. Her hands slid instinctively to your waist, thumbs grazing the round sides of your belly like she was trying to memorize her. Her nose brushed yours. Her breath caught. She smiled. Small. Soft. Full of everything. Her eyes shimmered, glassy with the pressure of something she hadn’t said yet, might never find words for. And still, she stayed.

You laced your fingers through hers. One last squeeze. Then you stepped past her. Your feet were bare against the hardwood, the weight of your body pulling down with each careful step. The hem of Agatha’s sleep shirt swayed around your thighs, still warm from the heat of your body, clinging slightly with each movement. Your hips rolled instinctively now, as if the baby had taken control of gravity. As if your bones were beginning to open. This wasn’t just pacing anymore. This was ritual. This was survival. The scent met you halfway down the hall—herbal, gentle, familiar. Chamomile and lemon balm, honey warmed by steam. You turned the corner, drawn toward it like tide to shore.

And there she was. Agatha. Lit in the low glow of the kitchen light, one hand wrapped around a mug, the other stirring slow circles of honey. Her sleeves were pushed up to her elbows, forearms flexed, hair loose from the rain. A few strands curled against her temple, still damp from the walk back. The windows behind her shivered as the wind pressed against them, soft groans of glass echoing through the frame.

She hadn’t heard you yet. But you smiled anyway. That small, lopsided smile—crooked with awe, tiredness, and something like wonder. The one that somehow always rose, even now, even like this. She looked up. And when your eyes met, it hit her. Not as panic. Not as fear. But something cellular. The tension in her shoulders didn’t vanish, but it shifted—like her whole body was saying there you are,andI’ve got you.

She moved before you could take another step, slipping around the counter like a tide breaking over a dock. Her hand found your cheek, fingertips featherlight but unshakable, like she was grounding herself through the touch.

You leaned into her. Not just from exhaustion—but from instinct. From muscle memory. From love. The kind of leaning that wasn’t about weight but about belonging. Your cheek pressed into the curve of her shoulder, your breath catching where her collarbone rose to meet you. Agatha didn’t pull back. She adjusted around you like the earth itself might shift to cradle you better. No startle. No question. Just presence. Her arms were a quiet circle around your frame, one hand steady against the small of your back, the other still carrying the warmth of the mug she’d set down moments ago.

Behind you, Rio’s voice floated through the kitchen’s hush, low and sure. “Do you want tea, babe? Or… anything else that might help?”

You didn’t lift your head. Couldn’t, just yet. The world still felt like it was unfolding in pieces, and this—this quiet hold—was the only thing keeping you from slipping through the cracks. “Maybe just water,” you murmured, the words leaving you on a breath, so soft they barely reached the air. “Right now.”

You felt Agatha nod more than you saw it. Her chin brushed the top of your head. Then, after a second—after you let yourself breathe in the citrus and honey on her skin—you added, “I had another one. Before I came out… in the bedroom.”

That got her attention. Not with alarm. Not even surprise. But with a stillness that said she was listening. Fully. Her hand, still resting at your back, shifted slightly as she reached into her pocket. You could feel the movement more than see it—the brush of her knuckles near your hip, the weight of her coat swinging open.

She pulled out her phone and tapped the screen. The light washed up her face in a soft, silvery glow. “Okay,” she said quietly, almost to herself. Her brow furrowed as she studied the list. You could feel her thumb hovering before the soft click of contact confirmed it. Another contraction, noted. A beat of silence. Then, she said it. Gently. “They’re getting closer.”

But she didn’t press the words between you like a warning. She didn’t rush or brace or make a plan. She let the sentence hang there, open-ended, like a truth that had always been coming. She didn’t say it aloud—not right away. Just let it settle in the space between her breath and yours, that invisible thread that always hummed between you when things got quiet. When things got real. Her hands found you again. Not like a startle. Not like a reaction. But like a promise. Slow, warm, deliberate, she moved one hand up your arm in soft, sweeping passes. Her thumb brushed over your sleeve—the sleeve of her sleep shirt, which now clung to your skin in places where sweat had begun to gather. She didn’t comment on it. Didn’t flinch. Just kept moving, the way someone rocks a newborn even after they’ve fallen asleep. Rhythm. Safety. Touch without weight.

Not to comfort. Not to fix. Just to be. Her fingers glided down the slope of your arm, pausing at your elbow before tracing gently back up again. That repetitive motion—the whisper of skin through fabric, the faint scent of lemon balm and something else herbal still clinging to her—lulled you deeper into the moment. The cotton was damp at your lower back, your body still echoing the contraction from earlier. You could feel your muscles twitch there, residual and slow. But her touch wasn’t overbearing. She didn’t try to hold you still or upright. She didn’t crowd. It was presence. Constant. Faithful. The same way she’d always been.

You exhaled slowly, feeling your body release a fraction of tension. Your arms stayed at your sides, one foot braced against the floor like the room might tilt. Like gravity itself had a heartbeat now, and it was pacing in time with yours. It already had.

Something in the air had shifted—so quietly you’d almost missed it—but Agatha felt it, too. You knew she did. Knew it in the way her body stilled with yours, the way her breath synced without trying. Her hand lingered now just beneath your shoulder, her palm wide, grounding. Like she could absorb the weight of everything—your body, your fear, the inevitability inching closer—with that one silent, sacred touch.

------

A few hours later, the storm was no longer a suggestion.

Rain lashed the windows in uneven bursts, smearing the glass in quicksilver sheets. Outside, the sky had turned to bruised slate, and distant thunder rolled like something ancient waking in the deep. The wind hummed low against the house, a sound you could feel more than hear—like breath along the ribs of the walls. Light flickered on the hardwood floor in brief, haunting flashes. Midday, but the world had dimmed.

And your body—your body had shifted too. You were bent now over the edge of the kitchen table, elbows braced wide, one hand gripping the edge so tightly your knuckles had gone pale. The other cupped your belly, fingers splayed like a question and an answer all at once. Your forehead rested against your forearm. Eyes closed. Breathing shallow. Focused.

The contraction moved through you like molten stone—low and grinding, pushing deep into your pelvis with all the force of something real. No longer preparatory. No longer theoretical. This was her. This was progress. Each wave wasn’t just a marker of time now—it was a gate swinging open.

Your shirt clung to the small of your back, soaked through with sweat that had beaded along your spine and hairline. Strands of your hair stuck to your cheeks, curling where they met damp skin. The cotton was dark where it met heat, molded to every breath, every tremble.

Agatha stood just beside you, one hand pressed gently between your shoulder blades. Her touch wasn’t heavy—just enough to remind you that you weren’t alone. Her voice followed a beat later, soft and sure, like music timed to your breath. “Breathe, sweetheart. That’s it. You’re doing so good.” You tried to nod, but didn’t manage it. Not yet. You inhaled through your nose, slow, dragging the air into the tightest part of your lungs. Exhaled through your mouth in a shaking stream.

The pain didn’t vanish. But it moved. It changed shape. It made room. From the corner of the room, Rio’s voice came like a thread pulled through velvet. “How long was that one?” Agatha shifted slightly, her free hand pulling her phone from her pocket. Her fingers moved quick and practiced across the screen. “Just over a minute,” she murmured. Then, more firmly: “Close to five minutes apart now.”

You managed a sound that might’ve been a laugh—crooked and winded, snagging somewhere in your throat. Or maybe it was just breath shaped like humor. Either way, it came out with the barest curve of your lips, your body still folded over the edge of the table like a prayer unfinished. “She’s timing it with the thunder,” you said, voice low and dry, the words stitched with something between wonder and disbelief.

And right on cue, the sky answered you. Thunder cracked open above the house like a divine exhale—loud, guttural, the sound of something ancient splitting wide in the heavens. The windows shuddered in their frames. A fork of light flashed against the walls, pale and momentary, bathing the kitchen in a glow that seemed to hold its breath.

Agatha let out a quiet laugh behind you—not a full one, but the kind that tugged at the corner of her mouth and softened her whole chest. “Making an entrance,” she murmured as her fingers began to glide gently down your spine, tracing the line of your vertebrae like a familiar road. “Just like her Mommy.”

The way she said it—low, teasing, reverent—made something catch deep in your chest. Not pain. Not contraction. Just a bloom of knowing. A flare of love so strong it felt cellular.

Rio’s footsteps entered the moment like a rhythm returning—bare, deliberate, each step padded against the hardwood. You didn’t need to look to feel her. The heat of her body announced her before her hand ever reached you.

She said nothing at first. Just set a glass of water down within arm’s reach—close enough to take, but not forced into your hand. Then her fingers brushed your hair back from your face, slow and featherlight, tucking the damp strands behind your ear. Her touch lingered at your temple for a breath longer than necessary.

Then softly, in that voice she only ever used for you— “Do you want to sit? Or keep standing through the next one?” The question didn’t rush you. It waited. You didn’t answer right away. Not because you didn’t hear her. But because your body was already moving toward something deeper than words. The contraction had passed, yes—but its shadow still pulsed through your thighs, your hips, your breath. And beneath that shadow, something else had begun to rise. Not pain. Not fear. Momentum. A sacred shift. The kind you could feel in your bones. It was happening. Agatha behind you, her hand still warm against your spine. Rio beside you, one palm hovering just above your belly now, not quite touching—waiting for you to invite it.

They didn’t ask again. They didn’t fill the silence with encouragement or instruction or worry. They just stayed. One as your root. The other as your flame. The rain battered harder against the glass, wind pressing like breath against the seams of the house. Thunder rolled again, low and distant, and you felt your body begin to unfurl. Slowly, trembling, you straightened from the table. Not all the way. Not fast.

The power flickered. A blink. A breath. The overhead lights dimmed, then surged, then dimmed again—until, with a soft, final sigh, they went out. The kitchen dropped into shadow. The low hum of the refrigerator vanished. The faint classical music playing from the small kitchen radio cut off mid-note.

For a second, the whole house held its breath. A stillness fell that felt almost too quiet, as though the walls themselves were bracing.

Rio stepped toward the window just as the silence settled, brow furrowing as her gaze swept up. The sky outside had darkened to near-night, streaked with threads of silver rain. Wind curled around the corners of the house, rattling the glass with restless fingers. “That storm came in faster than they said—” she began, but her words stopped short the moment her eyes landed on you.

You were standing, yes—but only just. One hand was pressed hard against the underside of your belly, your spine curled forward, your breath coming fast and shallow through parted lips.

“It’s fine,” you started—but the next contraction crashed into you like a freight train, no warning this time, no mercy. The pain was sharp and deep and all-consuming, blooming hot and full across your lower body.

Your knees buckled. But Agatha was there. She surged forward, arms wrapping around you before gravity could claim you. One arm caught beneath your ribs, the other curled protectively behind your back as she guided you to lean into her, anchoring you like roots in the storm. Her breath was close to your ear, steady and soft.

Rio moved without hesitation, her hands pressing firm and familiar against your lower back, adjusting for the shift in your weight, grounding you from behind. The room glowed now in fragments—lamplight flickering from the far corner, two thick candles already lit on the windowsill from earlier in the day. Their flames trembled with each breath of wind that crept through the house’s bones.

Agatha’s mouth was at your temple. Rio’s hand pressed flat at the base of your spine. “We need to text Ezra,” Agatha whispered, not in panic but in motion, already reaching toward the phone that no longer buzzed in her pocket.

“We need to go,” Rio said at the same time, voice tight with urgency, her gaze flicking to the storm outside.

“We need—”

“We need to breathe,” you said.

And the words left you on a laugh—trembling, sharp, half-wild. A sound stretched thin between panic and surrender. You weren’t sure if you were laughing or crying or somewhere in between. But you meant it. Every word. Every syllable forged in sweat and thunder.

Outside, the sky split again. And the storm broke. Rain slammed against the roof like a wave breaking across a ship’s hull, wind howling through the trees beyond the house. The windows shook, thunder following close behind. The world outside turned soft and furious and holy. And inside the house, you stood—barely—between them. Agatha’s arms still around you like a ring of warmth and iron. Rio’s hand still pressed to the small of your back, the weight of it more grounding than gravity. The storm hadn’t made them falter. Not once. And that knowledge settled under your ribs like breath finally drawn.

The silence after the thunder was almost sacred. You tilted your head back, pressing your forehead to Agatha’s collarbone for just a moment, your chest rising and falling against hers. “Okay,” you whispered, though you weren’t sure who it was for. Yourself. Your daughter. The storm.

“I’ve got you, you’re so strong” she whispered. Agatha’s lips settled against your skin like a promise, her arms still wrapped around you, holding your weight with more than muscle. Her cheek rested just beneath your shoulder blade, breath slow and synced to yours, as if she could will you through it by sheer presence alone. You nodded or tried to. Your body didn’t move much, but the yes lived in you. In the way your chest lifted against her. In the way your grip on Rio’s fingers tightened.

And then—like some cruel reminder—the storm answered. You’d never liked storms. Not as a child, not now. Something about the uncertainty of them always curled beneath your skin like a whisper you couldn’t shake. The way the wind could shift direction without warning. The way lightning lit up a room for a second too long, revealing everything in stark relief—too honest, too exposed.

Even now, still held in Agatha’s arms, that same fear echoed in you. Not loud. Not screaming. But there. The rumble of thunder rolled low across the sky like a warning bell in the bones. It didn’t crash; it moved—vibrating through the floorboards, crawling into your knees, threading its way up your spine until it nested just behind your ribs.

The next contraction didn’t wait. It didn’t build gradually like the last few. It slammed through you like a breaker rolling in from the deep, cresting high and hot and immediate. Your knees buckled again—this time not from shock, but sheer force—and Agatha caught you without hesitation, her arms wrapping tighter, her hand at the base of your skull.

“You’re okay.” Her voice was right there in your ear, threading through the pain. It bent you forward like your body already knew to bow to it, your hands white-knuckled where they gripped the edge of her body. Your breath caught in your throat. Your belly clenched. Your thighs began to shake. “It’s just a storm,” Rio said softly behind you.

Her palm moved in slow, deliberate circles across your lower back, pressing firm where your muscles had knotted tight. Over and over, her hand chased the heat. Grounded your breath. Matched your tension with steadiness. “Just a storm, baby. You’re safe.” The words landed in pieces. Not fully heard, but felt—like warmth in the cold. You let out a sound. A low, raw thing. Not quite a cry. Not quite a word. Just air forced through fear.

It cracked out of you without shape—just pressure and pain pushing hard against the edge of your resolve. Your jaw clenched. Your knees buckled. Agatha tightened her hold just in time, catching you like she always did. Your breath was ragged now—no rhythm, just gasps caught in your throat as your hands reached for anything. You found Rio. Her shirt. Her shoulder. Something. Your fingers curled into fabric, anchoring there.

“Breathe,” she said again, steady but breathless. “Just like that. Let it happen.”

You did. You had to. You let the pain move through you. Let it tear open something you hadn’t known was still closed. Your mouth opened but no sound came, your brow pressing hard into Agatha’s shoulder as your hips rocked forward with the force of it. You felt your whole body shift around the contraction—your spine arching, your thighs shaking.

Time narrowed. It passed. Again. But this time, you stayed collapsed in their arms, too spent to straighten, your breath sobbing against Agatha’s neck. You felt Rio’s palm flatten across your back again. Her other hand found your wrist and wrapped around it, thumb stroking once. Just once. It was enough. “You’re okay,” Agatha whispered into your hair, her lips barely moving. “We’re here. We’re with you. Let it come. We’ve got you.”

The storm wailed against the windows. The candles flickered. The lights hadn’t come back on. Outside, rain tapped steadily against the windows—soft and rhythmic, like a clock ticking down. You were still in Agatha’s arms, chest heaving, limbs trembling from the last contraction. Her hands stayed gentle, but there was no mistaking the strength beneath them—her whole body wrapped around yours like she could absorb the pain, slow the storm, stop time itself.

“You’re everything,” she whispered again, her breath warm against your temple. You nodded—or something like it. A gesture more breath than motion. Another breath. Another pause. Another warning bell.

You stepped back slowly, peeling yourself from her body with effort, like your muscles didn’t quite want to separate. Her hands lingered for a beat—one sliding down your arm, the other brushing your waist—then fell away, letting you find your balance. That moment held. Rio stood beside you, solid and unwavering. She hadn't left your side. Not once.

The storm flashed again, lightning lighting her profile in a brief silver burn. Another breath. Another pause. Another warning bell. “I think we should go,” Rio said quietly, her voice like a tide pulling toward shore. Not loud. Not sharp. But impossible to ignore. The softness hadn’t left—but now it was threaded with iron. “Now. Before the roads get worse.” You didn’t respond at first. You couldn’t.

Another contraction slammed into you—hard, fast, deep. It folded you in on yourself, your body bowing under the weight of it before your brain could even register. Your hand flew to the couch for balance, your breath slicing out in jagged bursts. Your teeth clenched. You tried not to cry out. Just breathe. Just breathe.

Agatha moved instantly,“Ezra said the hospital hasn’t lost anything yet,” she said gently. “She’s still on standby for us.”

You nodded once, barely. You knew the plan. You’d written it with them. But still—God. The thought of leaving now, inthis—in a body that felt like it was unraveling by the minute, with the wind outside shrieking like something ancient come home.

It made your throat tighten. Your hands shake. The room felt suspended again. Three of you in the storm’s lamplight. Rain like breath against the glass. Candle shadows dancing up the walls. The smell of eucalyptus oil and sweat, thick in the air. The sacred hush of rising fear and rising purpose. Agatha reached for your hand. “It’s time.”

You hesitated. The thunder cracked overhead—deep and bone-shaking—and you flinched. “In this?” you whispered, voice thin, almost breaking. “What if we get stuck?”

Rio didn’t flinch. She was already moving—already reaching out to make sure you looked at her. Steady. Unshakable. “We’re not staying here,” she said. “Not with how fast she’s moving.” Agatha’s voice followed, low but filled with steel. “We’re not risking you. Or her.”

You stood between them, one hand braced on the table, the other curled tight into Rio’s. The storm was closing in around the house like a fist—lightning stuttering across the windows, thunder dragging low across the floorboards like chains being pulled through the dark. The air felt different now. Charged. Alive. As if the world outside was keeping time with the one unraveling inside your body.

Then came the flash. Blinding.

A bolt of lightning split the sky just beyond the living room window, flooding the room in a harsh, electric white. For one breathless second, everything stopped—the walls, the candlelight, your lungs. Then the thunder landed like a hammer. Violent. Immediate. It cracked overhead, so loud and so sudden it didn’t just shake the glass—it shook you.

You flinched—jumped—your whole body recoiling instinctively, a cry nearly catching in your throat. Rio’s arm shot around your waist before you could wobble a step. Her hold was firm, instinctual, like muscle memory. Like gravity. You felt her pulse against your spine—fast, but steady. She leaned in, her voice low and sure even as the storm howled behind her. “That’s it,” she said, and it wasn’t a suggestion. “We’re calling.” The words rang clear, cutting through the thunder, the tension, the ache still humming through your lower back.

Before she could move. Before Agatha could reach for the phone. Before your lips could even form a reply, you felt it. Pop. A strange, tight shift deep in your belly. Low and sudden. A sensation that didn’t hurt—not exactly—but startled you all the same. Like something had given way. Like the seal between now and next had been broken.

Then came the warmth. A rush. Immediate. Spilling low and fast, soaking through the inner curve of your thighs before your brain could catch up to the sensation. You froze, breath locked in your chest, eyes wide as the heat kept coming—unstoppable, real, holy. You heard the sound of a wet pat as it hit the floor beneath you. Not dramatic. Not cinematic. Just… true. A rhythm of liquid against wood. The kind of sound that carried finality in its hush. The kind that said there’s no going back. Your hands trembled. The hem of Agatha’s shirt clung to your legs, boxers growing darker by the second. Your feet were wet now. Everything was wet.

The room went still. Agatha had gone perfectly quiet, her hands now hovering slightly, like she didn’t want to move too fast and shatter the moment. Like reverence had wrapped itself around her wrists. Rio's hand was still on your spine. Her thumb was still pressed to your ribs.

All three of you stopped breathing. You looked down. The water pooled around your feet in a glistening crescent, like moonlight spilled on hardwood. It was still spreading—slow, sure, certain. Your vision blurred slightly from the adrenaline spike. Your chest rose and fell too quickly. Your heart felt like it was slamming against the inside of your ribs.

You looked up. First to Agatha. Her lips parted. Her eyes glassy, glowing with something you couldn’t name. Then to Rio. And suddenly you smiled. The kind of smile that cracked you open a little. The kind that held awe and absurdity in equal measure. You shook your head once, dazed, and the words came without thinking—gentle and breathless, like a laugh trying to be born. “Of course she would listen to her Mamí.”

Rio stared at you like she was seeing God for the first time. Her mouth parted, then closed again, her throat bobbing as she tried to swallow the wave of emotion rising fast behind her ribs. Her eyes were full now, swimming with light. One laugh escaped her—a single, stunned sound—and then she kissed your temple without even thinking, her hand tightening on your back like she might never let go. Agatha’s hand found yours again, and she squeezed.

You squeezed back.

And for a moment—just a moment—you all stood suspended in that hush. The puddle still warm beneath your feet, your body still echoing the last contraction, the weight of the storm pressing against the windows like a second heartbeat. But the next wave didn’t come right away. Just quiet. Just the slow creak of floorboards beneath shifting feet. The day was fading, finally, slipping into the cool edge of a spring evening. Candlelight flickered against the walls, casting soft halos across familiar faces.

You let out a breath and glanced down again at the mess. At your soaked socks. At the cling of Agatha’s sleep shirt now plastered to your thighs and belly like a second skin. Then you looked up—really looked at them—and noticed it for the first time:

They hadn’t changed either. Agatha’s blouse, once neatly tucked and buttoned under a blazer, was now wrinkled and half-open, the sleeves shoved to her elbows. Rio still wore her dress pants and undershirt from earlier, but the collar was stretched, soaked from sweat and tension. They had peeled off their layers hours ago, when everything had first started to shift, but they hadn’t gotten past that.

“I want to clean up a little,” you said softly, your voice hoarse from breath and quiet pain. “You both should, too.”

Agatha blinked, as if only now becoming aware of her own body. Rio raised an eyebrow, then looked down at herself, finally taking in the state she was in—soaked shirt, wrinkled waistband, curls frizzed and clinging to her neck. Her mouth curved, the corner lifting in something between a grin and a grimace.

“We’ve been at this for hours,” you added, rubbing your hand gently over the swell of your belly, your skin still buzzing from the intensity of everything. “And I’m not meeting our daughter like this. No way.”

Agatha opened her mouth—likely to argue, to suggest there wasn’t time—but then paused. She looked around: the slick puddle beneath your feet, the sheen of sweat on your collarbones, the shadows moving on the wall with each flicker of candlelight. The storm pressed steadily against the windows, rain sliding down the glass like clockwork.

She dragged a hand through her hair, blowing out a shaky breath. Her eyes flicked down to her own rumpled blouse, the sleeves shoved to her elbows, buttons uneven where she’d rolled them up in a rush.

The three of you moved together—slowly, carefully—out of the candlelit living room and into the hall. The storm trailed behind you in soft percussion, each footstep syncopated to the rain. You leaned into Rio as you walked, one hand clutching the edge of her shirt, the other braced around your belly as another faint pulse stirred low in your hips. Not a full contraction. Just a whisper of the next one building. Agatha stayed just behind, one hand hovering near your back, ready if you faltered.

The bedroom welcomed you like a deep exhale—dim, warm, lived-in. The scent of books and candle wax clung to the corners. Soft shadows pooled across the floor where light bled through the curtain seams. The bed was turned down now, towels stacked at its edge. A quiet kind of readiness waited here. Like even the walls knew what was coming.

You paused in the doorway, blinking against the weight behind your eyes, your fingers still curled tight in Rio’s. Agatha moved ahead, stepping toward the dresser where the clothes had been laid out days ago. She pulled open the top drawer without thinking, eyes scanning for something—anything—until she stopped cold. Her brows pinched, mouth parting slightly as her gaze locked on the carefully folded stack of T-shirts, hoodies, joggers, and soft socks.

And then—quietly, to herself, like a thought that slipped out too fast to catch—“What the fuck do you wear when your wife’s in labor and you’re about to meet your daughter?”

You stopped mid-step. Turned toward her. And stared.

Then—laughing felt impossible until it wasn’t—you let out a breathy, disbelieving little laugh that tumbled up through the exhaustion. Light. Human. A moment of ridiculous clarity in a room made of nerves and sweat and stormlight.

Rio snorted beside you, her grip tightening on your hand. She turned toward Agatha, her face already cracking into a grin. “Oh my God, Aggie,” she said, shaking her head.

Agatha froze.

One hand still hovering over the drawer, the other mid-reach for a T-shirt. She didn’t even look at either of you at first—just winced and tilted her head up like she was bracing for divine judgment.

“Shit.” She turned slowly. Her voice was half-wince, half-wonder as she blinked between you. “You both heard that?”

You nodded, smiling through the ache in your body, your arm wrapped instinctively under your belly now, bracing for the next surge. “Every word.”

Agatha groaned and rubbed the back of her neck. “I meant to just think it.”

Rio chuckled and dropped the hospital bag on the floor beside the bed. “Then you’ve really lost the internal monologue, babe.”

“Clearly,” Agatha muttered. You were damp, sore, and breathless—but in that moment, with your wives stumbling through laughter and holy terror, the world felt as ready as it ever would.

You pointed toward the pile of sweatpants stacked at the foot of the bed. “There. Help me change before the next one hits.”

Without missing a beat, Rio moved to support you, her hand sliding beneath your elbow, the other brushing gently against your lower back. Her touch was grounding, as if she could feel the tremble in your thighs before you even registered it. Agatha moved ahead of you, unfolding the thick towel she’d carried in and laying it across the edge of the bed with practiced hands. She fluffed it once, smoothing it out in slow, sweeping motions like she was making a sacred space—not just a surface.

Rio helped you lower down, guiding your hips until you were seated, legs parted just enough for balance, your weight sinking into the soft layers beneath you. The towel caught the dampness, warm beneath your thighs. You leaned forward, bracing yourself with one arm against the bedframe, the other curled beneath your belly, protective and aching. Your clothes clung to you, heavy and humid.

Agatha knelt beside you, fingers already undoing the wet waistband of your underwear. She moved gently, her eyes flicking up once to check your face, then returning to her task. Her hands worked carefully, reverently—as if even in this, even in the mess and the sweat and the soaked cotton, she couldn’t help but handle you like something sacred.

She peeled the garments down your legs, her breath steady, her presence quiet. There was no embarrassment. No hesitation. Just care. Rio brought the warm cloth. She knelt between your legs now, the bowl of water just to her side, steam still curling into the air. She wrung the rag out once—soft, thick, still steaming—then pressed it gently between your thighs. You inhaled sharply, not from pain, but from the jolt of relief.

It wasn’t just warmth. It was tenderness. A balm. A reminder that you were still here—in your body, even as it changed shape around you. “It’s okay,” Rio murmured. “Just breathe, baby. You’re doing so good.”

Her voice was barely more than a hum, and her touch was just as soft. She cleaned you in slow, steady strokes—up the inside of your thighs, across your belly where your shirt had once clung, between your legs with care and reverence. You closed your eyes for a moment, just to feel it. To be held in this moment. Not rushing. Not panicking. Just prepared.

Agatha stood then, eyes sweeping the room again. You could see it in her face—that quiet, furious need to do something. “I’m gonna clean up the living room,” she said, already backing toward the door. “I won’t be long.” You nodded faintly, watching her silhouette disappear into the hallway, her cardigan trailing behind her like a second shadow.

Then Rio helped you step into the joggers. She held them open and steady, and you lifted one leg, then the other—slow, cautious, your belly shifting forward with the effort. She pulled the waistband up over your hips with gentle hands, smoothing them into place. Then came the shirt—an oversized, soft cotton thing that smelled like her. Like home.

She pulled it over your head, guiding your arms through the sleeves as you breathed through another cramp tightening low in your back. “There we go,” Rio whispered. “Almost done.” Outside, the rain pounded harder. It lashed against the window like a heartbeat out of rhythm. The storm had thickened again, its edges gone soft and relentless, smearing light across the glass and muting the sound of everything else. But here, in the hush of your bedroom, time had slowed.

Rio pulled the shirt down over your belly with careful hands, her fingers grazing the curve of you like she didn’t want to let go. It was one of her oldest cotton shirts—soft from a hundred washes, loose in the shoulders, clinging gently at the hem. The collar slipped wide across your collarbone, and you breathed easier inside it, as if it belonged to this moment. To you.

The door creaked open just as she was smoothing the fabric over your hips. Agatha stepped back into the room, the faintest smile ghosting her lips as she caught the scene: you perched on the towel-covered bed, cradled in Rio’s attention, dressed now in softness and scent and care. She stood still for half a second, her eyes warming, her chest rising with something deep and reverent—then she moved.

Without ceremony, Agatha peeled off her blouse. It dropped to the floor without a sound. Then her pants. Socks. She didn’t speak. Just moved with practiced grace—barefoot, bare-skinned, candlelight painting pale gold across her body like she was a statue built from storms. She grabbed a pair of her own sweats from the dresser. Then a college T-shirt—soft navy cotton with her department’s name faded across the chest, the sleeves loose at her shoulders. She threw them on in quick movements, her breath hitching faintly as she ran both hands through her hair to reset herself. Then she crossed the room and sat beside you, her thigh brushing yours.

She said nothing. Just rested her hand gently over your knee. Rio turned to kiss your cheek. “I’ll be right back, baby.” You watched her move across the room—fluid, fast, familiar. She pulled a pair of sweats from her drawer and a shirt from the back of the chair—black, soft, cracked lettering from her college basketball team stretched across the front. She tugged it over her head in one motion, then rolled the waistband of her pants once, just like she always did.

It was them. In every way. Uncomplicated. Sure. The rhythm of their movements syncing to yours. Rio knelt in front of you again once she’d finished, her hands brushing your knees softly. “Hey,” she said, voice quiet but sure, “you can change again once we get to the clinic, okay? Don’t worry about this stuff feeling heavy. We just need you warm and steady to get there.” You nodded slowly, your breath catching slightly as another wave stirred deep in your hips—not a full contraction, but the warning rumble of the next.

It took a few moments to steady yourself on your feet again, but you weren’t alone. Rio braced you beneath one arm, the other wrapped around your waist, her body warm and solid against your side. Agatha moved ahead, collecting the hospital bags without a word, her movements swift and practiced. One bag slung over her shoulder; the other suitcase handle looped around her wrist. She paused only once, to double-check the zipper and glance back at you like she was memorizing something about this moment. Then she turned and disappeared down the hall.

Rio tugged a jacket from the hook on the back of the door and threw it over her shoulders, not bothering to zip it. Her fingers found yours as she crouched, helping you step carefully into your sandals. You watched her move, her touch gentle, deliberate, even now. Even as the contractions crept closer together. Even as the storm pounded against the house.

Your breath was shallow, but steady. The space between one wave and the next had narrowed. You paused in the threshold, one hand braced against the doorframe, the other resting low against your belly, where the pressure had become constant now, more hum than wave. The storm was still building beyond the glass, but it was the silence behind you that caught you first. The hush of the living room. The warm pockets of candlelight that now glowed a small ember from being blown out. The imprint of everything that had just happened pressed deep into the fibers of the floor, into the folds of the couch cushions, into the very fabric of the foundation.

You stood still, wrapped in Rio’s jacket, the oversized shirt soft and warm on your skin. Blankets clutched in one hand. Your body still trembled slightly from the last contraction. And it hit you. The next time you walked back into this house… you’d be carrying her. Your daughter. The air punched from your lungs in a slow, stunned breath. Your hand pressed to your belly—protective, reverent, anchoring. “This is it,” you whispered. The words came out thinner than you meant. A thread. A truth unraveling. The room stilled behind you. Even the storm seemed to hold its breath. Rio reached you first and cupped the back of your head, her palm warm against your scalp, fingers sliding gently into your damp hair. Her body moved close without pressing—no urgency, just knowing. She bent, kissed your temple, and rested there for a moment longer than necessary. The way she used to when you cried in your office. The way she did the first time you ever said I love you.

“I know,” she whispered. “I know.”

Her voice wasn’t breaking, but it carried weight. You looked around slowly, the full gravity of the moment beginning to bloom under your ribs.

“Everything’s going to be different,” you said, voice catching now. “When we come back…”

Rio met your eyes. “You won’t be walking in alone. We’ll be holding her.”

Agatha stepped forward then, her hands settling firmly on your hips, her chin pressing against your shoulder from behind. You felt her heartbeat through the fabric, steady and close. “We’ll bring her home together,” she murmured. “All three of us.”

You let your head tip slightly against Agatha’s. You didn’t realize tears had gathered at your lashes until one slipped free, rolling warm down your cheek and vanishing into the corner of your mouth. “She’s going to live here,” you whispered, in awe more than fear. “Right here. Her little feet. Her little hands. In this room.”

Agatha met your eyes. Her forehead rested gently against yours now, her breath brushing your cheek, her hands cupping either side of your face like you might float away if she didn’t hold you there a moment longer. She smiled, but her eyes were shining.

“Want to go meet our daughter?” she asked.

The words landed low in your chest—soft, steady, unshakable. Your breath hitched. Your whole body pulsed with the weight of that question. Not can you. Not are you ready.Just want to.Like love asking love. You nodded.

Tears blurred the candlelight behind her as you whispered, “Yeah. Let’s go meet our girl.” For a moment, all three of you stood there in the doorway—suspended in something sacred, something that felt too big for language. Then the door opened. And the storm met you.

Even with the garage just steps away—even with the walls meant to shelter you—the wind howled in like it had been waiting at the threshold. It curled instantly around your legs, dragging cold air beneath the hem of Rio’s jacket. Rain rode the wind sideways, sharp and sudden, slicing through the space like it belonged there. It plastered Agatha’s shirt to her back in a heartbeat, tangled her hair in soaked strands against her neck.

The storm didn’t wait politely outside. It rushed in, wild and electric and alive.

Thunder cracked above like the sky itself was being split open.

But still—no one hesitated. You moved as one. Your wives flanking you like anchors as you crossed the narrow entryway into the garage, the storm surging around your ankles like waves at your heels. The air tasted like ozone, like something about to happen. Your footing wobbled once, but Rio caught your elbow instantly. Agatha’s hand pressed against the small of your back.

Together. The door shut behind you, but the storm still pressed in. Even inside the garage, it found you—rain blown sideways through the narrow seam beneath the door, wind howling through the frame like it was trying to follow. The moment the three of you stepped over the threshold, the motion-activated light flickered on overhead. A pale halo spread across the concrete floor, casting long shadows and catching the gleam of the waiting car.

Steam curled from your skin in the sudden temperature change, rising like breath from the base of your neck. The air smelled of damp concrete and engine oil, edged with the eucalyptus rising from Rio’s soaked shirt and the lavender still clinging to the pulse points of Agatha’s wrists. The scent wrapped around you in strange harmony—comfort and momentum. Safety and change.

They moved quickly, but carefully.

Rio opened the passenger door, shoulders braced as the wind tugged her curls loose again. Agatha laid the towels across the seat with practiced hands, layering them in a nest of soft cotton as you leaned against the side of the car. Your body ached from the inside out—your knees unsteady, hips heavy, your belly tight with the whisper of the next contraction beginning to rise.

“Okay, baby, right here,” Rio said, breathless but calm. Her hands slid under your arms, strong and warm. “We’ve got you.”

You lowered into the seat slowly, drawing in a shaky breath as you shifted one hand to the doorframe for balance, the other still cradling the underside of your belly. The contraction hadn’t fully crested yet, but it was building—tight and wide across your pelvis like a fault line warming to life. Agatha bent beside you again, her knees pressing into the concrete as she spread the blankets over your lap, tucking the edges around your legs with hands that moved steadily—even though her breath was trembling. Her eyes lifted to meet yours. There was so much in them. Wonder. Terror. Devotion. You’re still here, they said. She’s still coming.

Rio rounded the car, her soaked shoes squeaking against the garage floor. She slid into the driver’s seat, yanked the seatbelt across her chest with one swift motion, adjusted the mirrors with sharp movements. She glanced at you, just once, and it was enough.

Not fear. Focus. Agatha climbed in behind Rio, the back door clicking softly as she settled into the seat behind you. She leaned slightly forward, one hand bracing against your shoulder now, her fingers curled just in reach, her breath brushing the back of your neck.

The doors closed. The engine turned.

The sound of the storm shifted—louder now, but contained. Like it had been sealed outside the moment.

Rain blurred across the windshield in waves, and the wipers hissed and swiped in sharp rhythm, barely keeping pace. The garage door rolled up in a growl of gears and thunderlight spilled across the driveway.

The car drove into the night.

Streetlights bled across wet pavement in golden lines. Water shimmered beneath the tires. Trees bowed in the wind as you passed, their limbs like arms reaching for the roof. The storm moved with you now—inside you, beside you. Its rhythm syncing with your breath, your heartbeat, the rising ache pressing deeper into your spine.

“We’ll be there in ten,” Rio murmured. Her hands stayed steady on the wheel, her voice low but certain as she glanced at you. “You’re doing so good, baby.”

You tried to nod. Tried to find words. It rolled through you like thunder echoing through stone. Hard. It seized through your pelvis like a rising tide cracking a levee, rolling up through your spine with brutal grace. You arched forward with a moan—low, guttural, real. The sound cracked from your chest like lightning tearing through silence. Primal. Unapologetic. True.

Your hand flew out, reaching for anything. Rio caught it instantly. Her fingers curled tight around yours, grounding you in that bolt of pain. Agatha moved up and pressed her hand to your arm—steady, firm—moving closer until her chest brushed the back of the seat. “We’re almost there, love,” she said softly, her voice close to your ear, a thread of calm through chaos. “almost there.”

--------------------------

The car rolled to a stop beneath the covered drive, rain cascading down the sloped roof in steady curtains. Dr. Ezra was already waiting. She stood beneath the awning in a slate-blue rain jacket, hood up, hair damp where a few curls had slipped free. Her posture was easy, unfazed by the wind curling through the parking lot. Her other hand was raised in a wave, calm and steady even as the wind pressed against her legs.

Rio brought the car to a stop in front of the door. The windshield was a blur of water and wipers and electric sky, but you could see Ezra clearly now—tall, grounded, utterly still. She wasn’t rushing. She wasn’t afraid. Just waiting. Agatha was out of the car before it had even fully stopped. She opened your door with both hands, bracing against the gust of wind that tried to pull it back, her breath rising in quick clouds as she reached for you. “You with me?” she asked softly, ducking her head inside the car.

You nodded, eyes locking onto hers. Another contraction coiled low in your belly—not a crest, not yet, but close. You winced slightly as your fingers found hers. “Yup,” you whispered, voice uneven.

She helped you out of the seat, your legs trembling slightly as they found solid ground. The rain caught you immediately—soft but persistent, slipping beneath your collar, dampening the cotton of your shirt. Ezra was already moving forward her free hand reaching for Agatha’s shoulder in greeting. She said gently, her voice cutting through the rain with practiced ease. “Let’s get ya’ll outta the storm.”

The door opened ahead of you. And Rio was there. She appeared at your side before you could call for her—soaked again from moving the car, jacket dripping, curls clinging to her cheeks. She didn’t say a word. She just took your hand and squeezed, steadying you between her and Agatha as the three of you crossed the threshold together.

The difference was immediate. The moment your foot crossed the doorway, the storm softened behind you. Inside, it was warm. Dim. Safe. Warmth wrapped around your skin like a blanket. No fluorescent lights. No echoing footsteps. Just soft amber lamps tucked into corners, woven rugs lining the hallway, and the faint scent of vanilla and something herbal lingering in the air. The hum of quiet music drifted from a back room—low and melodic, like something older than pain. The walls were lined with framed artwork and shelves of folded linens.

Dr. Ezra led the way, guiding you with practiced ease. You could feel the steadiness of her steps—the kind born of decades in this work, but more than that… of love. Of history. Of family. She didn’t have to ask how far apart your contractions were. She already knew.

“This way,” she murmured, leading you down the hallway. “The room’s all ready.” The door swung open and warmth met you instantly—not just heat, but a kind of welcome. A hush. A breath at the end of a long descent. It wrapped around your shoulders as you stepped inside, one cautious foot after the other, the storm closing behind you like a chapter.

The room glowed with golden lamplight that spilled like honey across the floor, pooling over polished wood. The bed sat low and wide beneath a bank of softly curtained windows. No harsh fluorescents. No machines blinking like eyes. Only stillness. Only sanctuary.

The air smelled of vanilla and cedar, like comfort aged with time. The windows were streaked with rain, but the storm felt far away now, like it had been left behind at the edge of the property line. Or maybe just at the door. You stood in the threshold, unable to move for a moment. You just looked.

This is where she’ll be born. This is where I become something new.

Your chest tightened. Not with fear—but with awe. With the holy weight of knowing you’d made it here. Agatha passed you silently, jacket halfway off, curls damp and wild at her neck. She moved with purpose—toward the side table, toward the stack of towels, toward anything that might need doing. Her eyes scanned the room like she was checking it for harm, like she’d tear it apart with her hands if anything in it dared threaten you.

Rio followed, slower. Her hands moved up to her buttons, then to her sleeves, but her eyes never left you. She didn’t blink. Didn’t speak. Her mouth was parted slightly, her chest rising and falling like she’d been holding her breath since the car ride, and was only just now remembering to let it go.

It rose. Without warning. Without mercy. The contraction gripped low—so low—in your belly, and pulled upward like a riptide. Like a thread being yanked tight from the inside. It coiled through your hips, your spine, your ribs. Your knees bent instinctively, and your hand shot out, groping for the nearest surface.

The bedframe met you like an anchor. You folded forward, the moan torn from you before you could stop it—low and raw, your lips parted, your breath catching hard. It wasn’t pain, not exactly—it was power. Too big to hold. Too much to name.

The air in the room thickened. Everything slowed. Your forehead pressed to your arm, your spine curving with the force of it. You couldn’t count the seconds. Couldn’t think past the burn. Your body had narrowed to sensation, breath, and the weight pressing down from within.

Behind you, Rio’s jacket hit the floor with a wet thud. She was there a heartbeat later, crouching beside you, one hand reaching for your elbow, the other sliding to the base of your back, pressing firm where the pressure was sharpest.

Agatha moved just as fast—her hand settling between your shoulder blades, the weight of her grounding you instantly. She didn’t ask what was happening. She didn’t need to. Her breath matched yours, close and steady, like she'd always known this rhythm would be written into the bones of the night. “Breathe through it, baby,” Rio murmured, her lips close to your temple now, voice low and sure. “Just ride it out.”

You nodded, but barely. Your whole body trembled. The wave still crested. But you didn’t fall. You moved through it. The wave began to recede—slowly, stubbornly—as if it didn’t want to let you go just yet. Your breath came in stuttering pulls, your body still trembling with the echo of it. For a moment, you stayed folded, your forehead pressed to the crook of your arm, the air thick in your lungs, the floor beneath you too far away to matter.

Then—inch by inch—you straightened back up. Your knees wobbled. Your arms trembled. But you rose. Rio’s hands followed you without hesitation, one steadying your elbow, the other bracing your back. She didn’t say anything this time. She just breathed with you.

Dr. Ezra hadn’t moved far. She waited just to the side, calm as the candlelight. She didn’t rush you. Didn’t fill the silence. Just stood there, gloves in hand, eyes gentle beneath the curve of her hood. “You made it just in time,” she said softly, stepping closer now as you caught your breath. “Let’s get you settled, sweetheart.”

You nodded once. Agatha eased in behind you, wordless, her hands moving to the hem of Rio’s jacket still clinging to your shoulders. She peeled it down slowly, tugging it off with reverence more than speed. Her fingers skimmed your arms as she worked, still soaked from the rain but warm all the same. “Is it okay if I check you?” Ezra asked quietly, her voice low but sure, anchored in the calm that only years and love could forge.

You nodded, this time without pause.

Yes. You needed to know.

The air still clung to you—vanilla, rain-soaked fabric, the faintest tinge of antiseptic beneath it all—but it wasn’t cold. It wasn’t sterile. It was lived-in. Trusted. Rio was already crouching beside you, her hands sure as they slipped beneath the waistband of your joggers, easing them down your hips with practiced care. The cotton dragged slightly where your skin was damp, and her touch lingered at your thigh for just a second longer, grounding you.

No rush. No tension. Just care. “Let’s get you on the bed,” Ezra murmured, already turning down the linens, her hands familiar with every fold, every motion with the kind of muscle memory born from years of work and devotion. “You’ll be more comfortable there for this part.”

The bed wasn’t hard or cold—it was structured, yes, but dressed in clean layers that held warmth, not distance. Low and wide beneath its layers of worn, clean cotton. The corners were tucked neatly, the pillow firm beneath a soft cotton case. You climbed onto it with their help, your limbs slow and shaking, the ache in your hips making each shift feel seismic. Rio supported your back. Agatha offered her hands. Together, they brought you down into the center of that space.

Your legs were trembling again, your belly drawn tight. But the bed held you. And so did they.

For one breathless moment, you allowed yourself to melt. You didn’t have to hold yourself upright anymore. Not now. Not with them beside you. The sheets were warm against your skin, and the light above you was soft, casting no harsh edges. It was all meant for this.

Ezra snapped on a pair of gloves—the familiar sound of latex stretching, quick and precise. She moved to the foot of the bed and knelt beside it, her knee braced on the mattress, the pads of her fingers already preparing with gentleness and precision. “Just a little pressure, okay?”

You nodded. Braced. She moved quickly, professional and smooth, but the sensation still made your body jolt. Your hips flinched. A small, guttural sound slipped past your lips before you could catch it, half moan, half gasp. Not pain exactly, but the echo of pressure that ran deep. Your knuckles clenched tighter into the sheets. Or maybe into Agatha’s hand. It was hard to tell anymore—your world had narrowed to bodies, breath, and sound.

“I know,” Agatha whispered. She was beside you now, closer than breath, brushing her knuckles softly against your temple. “I know, sweetheart. Almost there.”

The moment was brief. Ezra pulled back, her gloves already crumpling in her hand, “Eight centimeters,” she said, her voice laced with steady awe. Not surprised. Not alarmed. Just... knowing. “You’re so close.”

You blinked. Once. Then again. Eight. You looked to Rio, who had risen again beside the bed. Her gaze met yours—steady, shining. Her eyes said everything: pride, readiness, that fierce, protective love that had never wavered. Agatha let out the breath she’d been holding.

Ezra rose slowly, her knees easing from the floor, gloves already half-peeled from her fingers as she stepped away toward the sink tucked along the wall. The hush of running water filled the space, rhythmic and clean. You stayed still, your hips sinking deeper into the mattress as you blinked up at the ceiling, trying to catch your breath. Rio shifted beside you, already leaning in, her voice low and warm at your ear. “What do you want to wear, baby? We packed a few things—remember?”

You turned your head toward the suitcase in the corner, the soft gray one with the hand-stitched initials and the tiny rainbow tag. You nodded toward it, breath still shaky. “The robe.” Your voice was hoarse but certain.

Agatha was already moving before you finished the sentence. She crossed the room quickly, opening the suitcase and pulling out the birthing robe with practiced hands—the plum colored, silky-soft fabric, the one they’d given you only a few days ago. She brought it over, holding it against her chest for a moment like it was something sacred, before she passed it into Rio’s waiting hands.

Ezra returned as they helped you sit up, her presence calm and professional—but still unmistakably Ezra. Not just a doctor. Not just an expert. Family. She wheeled over the Doppler with one hand and smiled, eyes landing on you gently. “The good news is that you’re doing fantastic.”

The small device was cool against your skin, but the moment it found its rhythm, the sound it pulled into the room was immediate, all-encompassing: Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. The baby’s heartbeat—loud and strong. A perfect pattern. You felt your own eyes flutter closed as the tension in your shoulders eased. That sound. God, that sound. It was the same one you’d fallen asleep to some nights, phone speaker pressed to your belly, Rio’s hand resting on top. The same sound Agatha once said felt like lightning caught in a jar.

Ezra clicked the Doppler off and set it aside. Her smile was still soft, but her posture shifted— “The bad news,” Ezra said gently, the soft lilt of her voice carrying a weight that made the room still, “is that the anesthesiologist is stuck in the storm.”

The words didn’t drop like a stone—they spread like a ripple. You felt them first in your shoulders, then your gut, then your jaw where your teeth barely touched. She wasn’t dramatic. She didn’t try to cushion it with lies. That wasn’t her way. “I know we talked epidural,” she continued, stepping just a little closer, her gaze never leaving yours. “He’s trying to make it in, but I need you to prepare in case he doesn’t.” No thunder followed her words. No cinematic crack of lightning. Just breath. The hum of the room. The faint tap of rain whispering against the glass like a metronome counting down.

Ezra’s hand reached for yours—not professionally, not distantly, but like someone who had held this kind of fear before. Who had walked beside it and said: We go together anyway. “We have gas if you want it,” she added, quieter now, “and I’ll keep you looped in every step of the way. But I didn’t want any surprises. Not today. Not here. Not in this room.” The silence that followed wasn’t ominous. It wasn’t filled with dread. It was filled with truth.

You nodded once, slowly. And the way it moved through you felt like exhaling through stone. The tension didn’t vanish. It simply shifted. Settled. Like warm water into a vessel already near full. It didn’t spill. It didn’t break. It just was. You swallowed, the air around you suddenly thicker, warmer. And when you spoke, your voice emerged from someplace deeper than fear. “Is she okay?” Your voice cracked slightly. You met Ezra’s eyes like you were looking through her—into something much bigger than the room.

Ezra didn’t blink. Didn’t hesitate. She moved without ceremony, without pause—just reached for your hand where it rested near the edge of the mattress, fingers trembling slightly from the effort of holding everything in. She squeezed—firm, present. Like an anchor tossed into stormwater. “You’re healthy,” she said, her voice low and steady, grounding you like weight on the chest in the best way. “She is healthy.”

And then she turned—not away from you, but with you—her gaze shifting to where Rio stood by your side, chest rising too fast, and to where Agatha hovered just behind, one hand still resting on your shoulder like she could take some of it for you.

Ezra’s face softened. The sister in her, the friend in her, standing shoulder to shoulder with the physician. “Both of your girls are fine.” A pause. Then, gently but surely: “Your wife is doing beautifully. The baby’s strong. The only change we’re making today is the epidural.” Finally, she looked back at you again. “Everything else?” she said, her voice soft as rain on windows. A flash of reverence passed across her face—not clinical, not detached. “You’ve already got it, Mama.”

Ezra gave your hand one last squeeze, then let go slowly—like she was anchoring the moment before letting it drift. She straightened but didn’t step away just yet. Her tone shifted slightly, settling into something both professional and familiar, the cadence of someone who had done this many times and still never forgot the miracle of it. “Let the contractions do their thing, alright?” she said gently. “You’re doing so well. Every sound, every shift, every breath—it’s your body moving forward, not away.”

She looked around the room briefly, scanning like a sculptor appraising space. “I want to make sure you’ve got plenty of room to move—walk, lean, sit, sway. Don’t lock yourself into one position. We’ll work with your body, not against it.”

You nodded, slow and steady, your hand already drifting toward Rio’s again. Ezra stepped back then, giving you space but not retreating. “I’ll be in and out, just nearby,” she added, already pulling her gloves off again and tossing them into the bin. “Unless it’s time to check or you need something. When things start shifting closer, I’ll be right here.”

She didn’t linger after that—no long speeches, no false promises. Just a warm glance toward Agatha, a soft touch to Rio’s shoulder in passing, and then she slipped quietly through the doorway, the light from the hallway briefly cutting a line across the room before the door eased shut again. You were left in the hush of soft lamplight, the smell of rain and vanilla, the beat of your daughter’s heartbeat still echoing faintly in your chest. The sound had faded from the Doppler, but it lingered in your ribs like memory. Like a promise. Like the breath you hadn’t fully taken until now.

Agatha hadn’t moved far—she stood beside the bed, eyes fixed on you, her expression unreadable for a heartbeat. Then it shifted. Not to fear. Not to urgency. But to wonder. She looked at you like she was seeing something ancient and holy unfold in real time. Like your body had become a scripture she didn’t dare interrupt. Her lips parted, but no words came. Her breath caught instead, and she reached for you—slow, steady. She didn’t speak—not yet. She just leaned in, her frame folding down beside yours, her breath brushing the side of your face. Then came the kiss. Pressed to your temple like a seal, a vow, something almost ceremonial. So slow. So sure. It made your eyes flutter closed with the weight of it. Not heavy—but whole. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask for reassurance or offer it. The kind that witnessed you. You exhaled—shaky, stunned. Half disbelief. Half quiet joy.

Agatha’s kiss still lingered on your temple, a hush across your skin. And then Rio was in front of you. She moved with a kind of quiet determination—nothing rushed, nothing sharp. Just presence. The storm might’ve raged outside, but Rio was all stillness as she knelt down again, her curls still damp from the run in, her shirt clinging in places where the rain had caught her.

Her hand found yours. Warm. Solid. Anchoring. Her eyes swept across your face like she was checking the map of a place she knew by heart—searching not for fear, but for the shape of your strength. “Tan fuerte, mi amor,” she murmured, voice low and reverent. “Eres increíble.”

The words landed softer than the contraction that was already beginning to stir again—low and quiet and distant, but coming. You felt it like a tide far out, gathering itself. Rio’s thumb moved in a slow arc across the back of your hand. “Ready to change, hermosa?” she asked, her voice a hush inside the hush. A murmur under thunder.

You nodded, the movement barely more than a breath. But it was all she needed. Your fingers found the hem of your shirt, soaked through from the storm and clinging at your lower back. Slowly, carefully, you peeled it up over your belly. It caught once at your ribs, but Rio’s hands were already there—guiding, steady, warm. The fabric lifted away with a whisper, leaving you bare to the quiet air, your skin damp and flushed, your body working harder now than it ever had before.

There was no shame in it. No shyness. You weren’t thinking about covering. You were thinking about breath. About effort. About the next crest coming up over the horizon. Rio eased the robe around your shoulders, sliding your arms through with the kind of reverence that made your throat tighten. It draped low over your body, open but cradling, loose against your hips. As the fabric settled—

The next contraction rolled in. No warning this time. No mercy. It wasn’t a sharp strike—it was a pull, low and ancient, like something inside you was tightening on its own axis. Your jaw clenched as your spine bowed, and your hand reached, searching—

Rio was already there. You gripped her hand as she stood, your body leaning into hers from where you sat on the edge of the bed. Your forehead brushed against her hip, breath caught in your throat, the contraction pressing deep into your pelvis. Rio didn’t speak. She just stood tall, her free hand on your shoulder, fingers threading lightly into your damp hair, grounding you through the surge. When it passed, your body sagged, your knees open, your ribs fluttering with shallow breath.

And that’s when the door eased open again. “Hey, sweetheart,” she said gently, setting a small monitor on the rolling tray beside her. The straps folded neatly over her hand. “I’ve got the continuous Doppler here. We’ll get it wrapped around your belly so we can keep an eye on both your heartbeat and the baby’s.”

Her voice was light, almost conversational, but there was a steadiness beneath it. She wasn’t rushing you. She wasn’t nervous. “Just an extra layer of safety,” she added, as she reached for the bottle of gel. “It frees you up a bit too—I won’t have to interrupt you every few minutes to check. You just get to labor. I’ll keep watch.”

You nodded. Still catching your breath, still half-melted into Rio’s side, your hand resting low on the swell of your belly. Ezra moved with the kind of ease that made your body trust her before your mind had time to question it. She smoothed the gel across your lower abdomen, the cool slickness jolting your senses, and then she fastened the Doppler monitor gently into place—snug, not tight, the belt wrapping across your skin like a reminder that someone else was listening now too.

Steady. Strong. Your daughter’s heartbeat filled the room in rhythmic pulses. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Not just a sound. A presence. It filled your ribs. It curled behind your eyes. It centered you. Ezra smiled, her fingers adjusting the sensor slightly before letting it be. “Perfect,” she murmured. “She’s a champ.” Rio kissed your crown, her lips soft against your hairline, her fingers still wrapped tightly in yours.

The Doppler hummed steady between you all—your daughter’s heartbeat a quiet metronome in the lamplit room. The storm still murmured through the windowpanes, but here, in this space carved out by trust and breath and rhythm, it felt impossibly far away.

You leaned into Rio’s side, the robe wrapped loosely around you, your belly warm beneath the band. Then you spoke—voice low, dry at the edges, but still yours. “Both of you should change,” you said, glancing between them. “You’re soaked.” Agatha blinked like she’d only just realized it—her sleeves still clinging to her arms, the hem of her sweats damp at the ankles. Rio looked down at her hoodie, water-darkened across the chest. Both of them nodded, almost in sync, sheepish and grateful.

Dr. Ezra chuckled softly, already halfway to the door. “If you need me, just yell,” she said, smiling as she pulled it open. “You’ve got time. Just keep breathing.” And with that, she stepped out, the door clicking closed behind her. The room stilled again.

Agatha peeled her sweatshirt up and off in one smooth motion, her undershirt clinging slightly as she moved toward the spare bag in the corner. Rio tugged at the hem of her hoodie beside her, winking at you as she pulled it over her head, her curls springing loose in the low light. You watched them through a haze of breath and steady heartbeat, your body still for the moment, the robe soft against your shoulders, the Doppler’s rhythm echoing quietly in the background. Agatha gathered her hair and twisted it high, securing it with a band from around her wrist, her fingers quick, practiced. Rio mirrored her beside the bed, sweeping her damp curls into a loose bun with a soft exhale through her nose. No one said it aloud. But the shift was real. This wasn’t waiting anymore. This was preparing. You sat at the edge of the bed, hands resting on your thighs, the weight of your belly grounding you in the moment.

--------

Two hours later, the world had narrowed. To breath. To pressure. To pain and the hands that held you through it.

You were deep in the thick of it now—your body swaying in rhythm, your voice no longer your own but something lower, older, elemental. The contractions came like tides: rolling in hard, curling under your spine, pulling your breath from your lungs with no apology. They were longer now. Closer. No more easy breaks. No more rest without weight.

Rio was behind you on the floor, knees braced wide, her arms wrapped firm around your waist as you rocked forward on the birthing ball. She’d draped a warm towel over it earlier, the cloth soft against your thighs, the heat a steady anchor where the cold air met sweat. Her hands pressed into your lower back with each contraction—rhythmic, grounding, counting your breath out loud in time with your exhales.

“That’s it, baby. In through your nose… good. Good. You’ve got this. Right here. One more… just like that…”

Her voice was low and unshakable. She didn’t let go, not even once. Agatha crouched in front of you, holding a cool cloth to your brow, her other hand gently massaging your thigh. Between contractions, she brought the water bottle to your lips, whispering your name like a litany, like prayer. When your eyes met hers, even in the blur, you found her steady—eyes shining but focused, her hair tied back in a knot, sleeves rolled to her elbows.

You moaned low, long, and guttural as another wave mounted. Sweat gathered behind your knees. Your fingers clutched the edges of Rio’s forearms, holding on tight as the pressure climbed and climbed and climbed—

Outside, the storm still rattled the world.

----------

Contractions had come and gone, each one stronger than the last. Longer. Closer. There were no more clean edges between them now—just one low burn giving way to another, like the tide no longer receding.

You were swaying when it happened again. Standing, bent slightly at the hips, your weight shifting from foot to foot. Rio’s arms were draped low around your hips, her chest pressed against your back. The two of you moved like clockwork, like a pendulum wound by breath and heat and time. Her palms moved in deliberate circles along your lower back, right where it hurt most.

And it hurt. God, it hurt now. Your moan cracked out of your chest—long, low, torn straight from the marrow. You rocked forward, hands braced on your thighs, and she followed you through it, her lips near your ear. “That’s it,” she murmured, “One breath at a time, baby.”

Your knees buckled. Sweat rolled down your back, your shirt soaked straight through. Rio’s arms caught you before you slipped too far, her strength quiet, constant. Her body was the one stable thing in the room. A wall. A rhythm. A vow. Another wave climbed through your pelvis like fire pulling silk. “Lean on me,” she whispered, “I’ll bring you back.” You gripped her wrist with both hands, shaking through the center of it. Your forehead dropped to her shoulder. You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think.

“God—” the word rasped out of you. “That one—”

“I know,” Rio breathed. Her voice broke, soft but fierce. “You’re so strong. You’re doing this.”

And you were. But the ache was a living thing now—hot and constant, threading through your bones. It pushed against the edge of what you thought you could survive. And still, you breathed. You were barely aware of the rest of the room anymore.

Until you saw her. Agatha. Standing on the other side of the birthing suite like the ghost of herself, arms crossed tight over her chest. She hadn’t spoken in some time—hadn’t touched you. A single cloth sat folded and refolded in her hands, her knuckles white, her jaw trembling. But her eyes never left you.

She looked like a woman trying not to break open. You knew why. It wasn’t fear of labor. It wasn’t doubt. It was love. The kind of love that saw pain and wanted to take it from you. All of it. The kind of love that wanted to bear it in your place. But that wasn’t what you needed now. Another contraction bloomed low in your back. You bent forward instinctively, hands braced on your thighs, breath caught mid-exhale as the muscles in your belly seized. Your voice cracked through the burn. “Harkness,” you rasped, “look at me.”

She froze. The cloth stilled in her hands. You breathed in sharp through your nose, already bracing. The contraction was rising fast, you could feel it burning wide across your hips. “I need both of my wives,” you said, your voice shaking, “to help me bring our daughter into the world.”

Agatha opened her mouth—but nothing came out. Then the wave seized you again. Your spine bowed. A moan tore through your throat, raw and wild. Your hands gripped the bed rail so hard your knuckles ached. “So stop panicking—” you tried to say, but the pain rolled over the words, devouring them whole.

Rio chuckled softly, pressing her lips to your temple. “God, I love you.”

You blinked at her through salt and sweat. And then you looked back at Agatha. She crossed the room in two long strides, everything else melting from her face. Her spine unfolded as she came to your side, towel forgotten, jaw softening. There was no wall now. No distance. She reached for you. Not like a professor. Not like a caretaker. Just Agatha. “I’m here,” she whispered, one hand rising to cup your cheek. Her thumb stroked the tear she hadn’t asked about. “I’m sorry.”

You blinked at her, dazed, breathless, and managed a crooked smile. “Hi.” Her face cracked, her composure crumbling like salt in the rain. She leaned in and kissed your brow. Then your temple. Then the edge of your jaw. Each one slow, sacred, meant for no one else but you. “Hi, my love.”

Rio pressed her forehead to the back of your neck, her voice quiet with awe. “Better now.” And it was.

------

Your moans had long since turned to cries.

Raw. Guttural. No shape, no shame—just sound. Your body wasn’t asking anymore. It was demanding. Each contraction crawled up your spine like fire wrapped in thunder, and you could feel it now, the truth of it in your bones: she was close. Too close. And your body wasn’t waiting.

The sweat on your skin ran cold now, gathering in the hollow of your throat, behind your ears, between your fingers where you clenched Rio like a lifeline. You wept. Not from pain alone—but from everything. The pressure. The panic. The weight of every hour that had brought you here. It cracked out of you in a single sob, small and breathless.

Agatha was behind you again—her arms wrapped around your ribcage, her hands splayed flat against your belly, her face buried in your shoulder. Her voice was in your ear, soft and rhythmic, grounding you when your breath wouldn’t come. “Sweetheart, just breathe. That’s it. Breathe into me.”

Rio was in front of you, her forehead nearly touching yours, hand pressed firm and sure against your lower belly, trying to match the rhythm of your breath as you started to spiral. She could feel it too—how fast you were spinning up. Your muscles locking. Your gasps getting shorter.

“Hey—hey, baby—look at me.” You couldn’t. You gritted your teeth and cried out again, breath hitching as your hips rocked forward on instinct, searching for something to push against. The bed felt too small. The air too thick. The whole room too bright. You cried out, your hands shaking. “Oh—God—oh God, it’s too much, it’s—”

Rio whispered, kneeling beside you. “We’ve got you.”

“You’re safe,” Agatha murmured into your temple.

Then the door opened behind you. Ezra entered with a quiet steadiness that sliced through the panic like wind through still water.

Another contraction surged before she could speak. It wasn’t like the others. It pressed. Low and deep. It wasn’t a wave—it was a force. Like something ancient had taken hold inside you and would not be denied. Your hips lifted without asking, your heels digging into the mattress, and a cry ripped out of your throat, keening and wild.

Your body was opening. You weren’t riding contractions anymore. You were being taken.

Agatha’s grip tightened around you, her forehead dropping to your shoulder as your spine arched. Rio braced her hands on either side of your arm, eyes wide and reverent, breath coming with yours. And still—Ezra didn’t rush. She waited until the peak passed, until your hands relaxed just slightly in the sheets, until your breath came back in fragments.

Then: “Can I check you?” she asked softly.

Your head jerked in a shaky nod without hesitation. “Yes—yeah—please—”

You moved toward the bed on instinct, clambering up with Agatha and Rio helping you settle against the pillows. The sheets were warm beneath you. Rio moved with you, her arm supporting your back. You were on your side first, then shifted onto your back — but Ezra gently placed a hand on your thigh. “You don’t have to be on your back unless you want to be,” she said softly, her eyes meeting yours. “You can push in any position that feels right. Whatever’s most comfortable. Whatever feels strongest. We follow your lead.”

“This feels right,” you whispered. The weight. The stillness. The warmth of Rio’s arm cradled beneath your shoulders, and Agatha’s hand interlaced with yours. This felt possible.

Ezra crouched beside the bed, her voice low and soothing. “Take a breath for me. Let’s see where we are.” You did. You closed your eyes. Agatha kissed your fingers. Rio kissed your crown. And then Ezra looked up, smile soft and steady. “You’re fully dilated.” The world seemed to still. “You can push whenever you feel ready.”

Another contraction began to build — but this one was different. It wasn’t something that happened to you. It was something your body asked for. Urged for. And you nodded, breath catching. “Okay.”

------------

You were upright now — legs drawn up, belly taut and trembling. Your body was no longer your own, and yet it had never been more yours. You were a storm within a storm, crowned in sweat, crowned in breath, crowned in the silent scream of almost.

Agatha was behind you, cradling your upper body against her chest like you were something sacred. Her arms wrapped around your ribcage, her hands flat over your heart as if trying to anchor it to hers. Her knees framed your hips, steady as iron, breath matching yours like a prayer. Her body a second spine. Her voice a tether, her lips brushing your temple between pushes, whispering sacred things — “Almost there, my love… she’s so close… you’ve got her…”

The bed creaked softly beneath you with every tremor.

Rio crouched by your right side, sleeves rolled to her elbows, curls damp with sweat and rain. One of your legs rested in the crook of her arm, her other hand gripped yours tightly, fingers laced together like roots. Her thumb stroked your knuckles in rhythm— a pause, a vow, a grounding.

The contraction rose — hard and merciless. You screamed. It ripped through your body like the thunder outside, like the lightning inside your hips — a sound you couldn’t control, didn’t want to. It was your voice and something older, something wilder, pouring through you. Your body arched into it. Your thighs trembled.

Ezra glanced up from the foot of the bed, sleeves already rolled, gloves on, her expression calm and alight. She knelt between your knees, her voice the stillest thing in the room.

“You’re doing so good.”

“You’re safe.”

“Keep going just like that.”

Outside, the storm was unrelenting — rain tearing sideways at the windows, thunder rolling so loud it shook the glass — but the birthing suite remained its own world. A cocoon. Warm. Steady. Lit in soft golden lamplight that made the sheen on your skin glow.

Dr. Ezra’s voice wove through it all like a lifeline.

“You’re almost there.”

“I can’t—” you sobbed, panting hard, your jaw trembling, voice near-breaking. “I can’t do another—”

“You can,” Agatha whispered, her lips brushing your cheek, her voice cracked open with awe and ache. “You are.”

“We’re here,” Rio said fiercely, now kneeling beside you, her hand slipping under your left knee. “Push with us. We’ve got you.”

You nodded once, jaw clenched. A sob curled in your chest. Ezra met your eyes and gave the faintest nod. Whenever you're ready. You closed your eyes. You pushed.

The burn was like lightning — white-hot, splitting you from the inside out. Your head dropped back against Agatha’s shoulder. Her grip tightened. One hand slid beneath your thigh, helping you hold position. The other brushed hair from your cheek with reverence. The storm had raged outside for hours now, rain tearing at the windows like it wanted in. You again — but it wasn’t pain alone. It was becoming.

Rio stayed with you — her hand still locked in yours, the other pressing into your thigh with steady strength. Agatha kissed your temple between surges, voice tight with love. “Just breathe with me, baby. You’re doing so good.” And then— Rio’s breath caught. Her eyes flicked toward Ezra. “Is that—?” Ezra smiled, her eyes glinting in the glow. “She’s crowning.”

The pressure was blinding. Your hips lifted again. You moaned low and deep, the sound vibrating through your chest like the hum of earth, a sound that came from somewhere deeper than your lungs. Your body wanted to split and fly all at once.

Agatha’s arms wrapped tighter around you, her kisses peppering the shell of your ear, the slope of your cheek. “Yes, yes, yes—she’s almost here, love—she’s almost here—”

The next contraction surged. It wasn’t yours to command — it claimed you. You bore down with everything you had. You cried out, voice hoarse, back arched, every tendon in your body alight. The pain was holy. The strength was ancient.

Agatha didn’t flinch. She whispered, “That’s it. Let her come.” Another bolt of lightning seared the sky outside. A shudder ran through the room. “Of course she’d want to be born in the middle of a fucking storm,” you groaned.

Ezra chuckled softly, then steadied her voice with calm clarity. “Just a few more, and she’ll be here.”

You nodded. Not because it was easy. Not because you weren’t afraid. But because your daughter was almost here.

“That’s it,” Rio said, her voice thick, trembling, wrecked with wonder. “I see her, love. I see her. You’re doing it.”

Agatha’s arms locked around your shoulders, holding you upright, your spine flush to her chest. Her lips brushed your temple, her breath warm and shaking against your skin. “Yes, yes, yes—she’s almost here—my brave girl—”

The contraction surged again—unforgiving, absolute. It stole your breath and gave you something truer in return. You bore down, your voice cracking open as you roared through it—raw, not broken. A sound of claiming. A declaration. A door opening inside you that could never be shut again.

You gasped between the waves, your voice catching. “Rio—catch her”

Your hand reached blindly—shaking, slick with sweat and trembling muscle memory—and she caught it before the question even formed. Her fingers curled around yours, steady as bedrock. Your chest heaved. Your eyes met hers. You choked on the contraction, but forced the words through anyway — your voice wet with tears, with truth:

“Catch her. Bring your daughter into the world.” you said, voice trembling, wet with tears, soaked with truth.

Rio blinked, startled—but only for a second. You blinked through the haze. Nodded. “Okay.”

Ezra looked between you both and nodded, her face already soft with understanding. “Gloves are right there,” she said gently, motioning beside her. “I’ll guide your hands.”

Rio’s mouth parted—then she moved. A quiet, reverent rush. Her fingers were shaking as she pulled the gloves on, wiping the tears from her cheeks with the back of her wrist. “Are you sure?” she asked, voice a breath.

You nodded. “There’s no one else.”

“Okay,” she breathed. “Okay, I’ve got her. I’ve got you, baby.”

Ezra’s voice, low and sure: “Let’s do it. I’ve got you both.”

And then it all happened at once. Agatha pressed her mouth to your shoulder. “Push, love. When you’re ready.” You nodded, curling forward as the next wave crested. Fire seared through your hips. Weight bore down from the heavens.

You pushed. The sound that broke from you was ancient—a cry older than language. Your jaw clenched. Your body surged forward. Agatha held your weight from behind, hands strong across your belly. Rio stood now, right there between your legs, hands braced and ready, her face flushed, damp curls stuck to her forehead, eyes wide with a love so overwhelming it cracked her open. Ezra’s hand hovered over Rio’s, steadying her as your daughter crowned. “I see her,” Rio whispered — voice broken, trembling. “Oh my God, I see her.”

You cried out, voice hoarse, your whole body trembling. Agatha pressed her lips to your shoulder, whispering over and over: “That’s it, my love. That’s it. She’s coming.”

The fire was back — stretching, tearing, opening. Your body surged forward. Agatha whispered low, steady. Rio crouched at the edge of the bed, hands guided by Ezra, her eyes wide and wet with joy and awe.

“That’s it,” Ezra said calmly. “One more—just one—” You bore down again, the scream twisting from your chest as your body opened to meet your daughter. Rio cried. “You’re almost there. She’s right there, my love. You can do it.” The pain blurred into pressure. The pressure blurred into something else. There was motion — a rush, a weight, a gasp. The feeling of everything shifting. Like the sky opened inside your body.

The world cracked open.

And then—silence.

Not total. The storm still lashed the windows in sheets of sound. Wind moaned at the edges of the house like something ancient trying to get in. But inside the room, time went still. Agatha’s breath stuttered against your shoulder, warm and sharp. Rio’s hands moved between your legs with sacred precision, fingers sure but trembling. Ezra leaned in, ready. But the world held its breath.

Because for one suspended second, your daughter did not cry. She simply arrived. A stunned creature of heat and slickness, limbs curled tight, her body still folded like the secret she’d been for so long. Her skin shimmered wet in the low light, impossibly small, impossibly complete. Rio caught her like a prayer—hands shaking, mouth falling open in a breathless, reverent sob.

“Breathe, baby girl,” she whispered. No louder than a heartbeat. Not an order. A benediction.

And behind you—barely audible, barely spoken—Agatha’s voice surfaced, a thread pulled from the deepest part of her:

“Please, my love…”

Not directed. Not demanded. Just offered—like breath. Like instinct. Like a soul cracking open.

And then—

A cry.

Thin. Tremulous. Like the world was remembering how to echo. Then again—sharper this time, rising with force and fury, breaking open the silence with something primal and real. A cry that sliced through the space and claimed it.

Everyone exhaled. The room breathed again. Still gloved, still trembling, Rio stared at the daughter resting in her hands—tiny, slick with life, red-faced and wailing. Her breath caught in her throat, her lips parting as though the sheer realness of it had knocked the language out of her. Dr. Ezra smiled as she helped Rio, her voice quiet and sure, place the baby on your chest.

She landed with a weight that shattered you. A thump so soft it could have been missed—but it hit you like prophecy. Like the final answer to a question your body had been asking for months. Thunder. Salt. Heat. Love.

She was warm. Sticky. Screaming. And she was yours. She squirmed the moment she touched your skin—furious, alive, announcing herself in no uncertain terms. Her fists balled tight beneath her chin. Her legs kicked against your belly with startling force, like the storm outside hadn’t passed through her but had taken up residence in her bones. Thunder still lived in her tiny limbs.

And then that cry—sharp and holy—broke through the world like lightning through glass. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tentative. It was raw, declarative, full of rage and breath and something ancient. It rang through the room like a bell tolling for a new era. Your daughter had arrived, and she would not go unheard.

You couldn’t look away. Your whole body shook. “Hi, little sprout,” you choked out, the words wrecked with wonder. “I love you.” The tears came in waves, cresting faster than you could wipe them away. They traced down your cheeks as your arms folded around her instinctively—no hesitation, no doubt. Just pure, bone-deep knowing. She belonged here. With you. Against you. As if your body had only ever been waiting for this exact weight. This exact heat. This cry. This girl.

Ezra worked calmly beside you, already reaching for the flannel blanket folded on her tray, her hands sure and steady. She didn’t speak—just leaned in with practiced grace and began rubbing your daughter down in wide, rhythmic circles. The towel moved across that tiny back, those damp arms, the curled legs—coaxing breath to deepen, color to bloom. Every stroke of her hands was like a hymn being sung softly beneath the storm.

Ezra smiled softly, voice steady. “That’s it. Let her talk.”

Her mouth opened again, a furious little gasp sharpening into another full-throated wail. It split the air like lightning, piercing and high and absolutely, unmistakably hers. The sound rang through the room, through your bones, like something sacred had been summoned and could not be silenced. You sobbed, clutching her closer, your voice cracked and trembling. “Keep talking, little one,” you whispered. “Let it out. Let the whole world hear you.”

And she did. Another cry. Then another. Not just air anymore—but story. Command. Proof. Your arms tightened instinctively around her, your whole body curling protectively. Your breath came in shallow bursts, but for the first time since the final push—it came. Not because the pain had passed, but because her voice was here. Loud. Demanding. Alive.

“She’s okay,” you whispered again, more to yourself than anyone else, your eyes wide and wet as you looked down at her. “She’s okay. She’s really okay.”

Rio stood frozen near the end of the bed—gloves half-peeled, eyes locked on the tiny body screaming against your chest. Her hands had stilled mid-motion, one glove clutched tightly in her fingers, the other hanging loose. Her mouth parted, but for a moment, she didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink.

And then—her voice, low and reverent, like a psalm torn open. “That’s it,” she murmured, not looking away from the baby. “Tell us all about it, sweetheart.” The cry only grew louder. Sharper. Richer. Like she’d heard her Mamí’s voice and knew—knew—it was safe to scream.

The sound filled the room like it had always belonged there. Like she had been waiting her whole life to scream her way into yours. Her arms flailed wildly against your chest. Her fingers flexed and splayed like tiny spells cast on instinct. Her heels kicked hard in protest, pressing into your skin as if she were still trying to fight her way back into the world she came from—or stake her claim to this one.

Your heart thrashed behind your ribs, overwhelmed with awe. She wailed again—high and fierce and alive—as Ezra’s steady hands moved across her body, checking vitals with smooth, practiced grace. The cries didn’t fade. They rose. Stronger. Steadier. Louder.

Until they filled the corners of the room. Until they filled the hollow spaces inside each of you. It was music. It was proof. It was the sound you hadn’t even realized you were begging to hear. Even with her cheek pressed to your chest, curled into the familiar rhythm of your heartbeat—the same one she’d known from the beginning—this was what sealed her arrival.

Now, with the sound of her Mommy behind her and her Mamí just steps away, her cries surged. Her body moved more, her head shifting like she was searching—already seeking the voices who had summoned her into being.

The women who wanted her to scream her way into existence. Your gaze never left her. Her chest rose and fell fast against yours—fragile, certain. Her skin was damp with birth. Her mouth stretched wide in protest. Her whole form curled in on itself like a question just beginning to be answered.

You pressed your lips to her temple, voice barely audible above the storm of her. “Hi, my little love,” you whispered again, lower now. “Mama’s right here.”

Your voice cracked around the words, but you didn’t care. You couldn’t. They were the only ones that mattered. The only ones that tethered you to the moment. Your hand cradled the back of her head, fingers spread wide, reverent, barely daring to touch the fine, damp wisps of her hair. She was warm. So warm. So impossibly new and already familiar. And then, everything clicked back into place.

The haze—the floating, the distance—cleared like mist off glass. Your muscles, your bones, your skin—all of it returned to you in one aching, sacred sweep. Your breath caught and, without effort, found rhythm with hers. Your pulse slowed, no longer thundering in panic but moving in awe. You could feel it in your fingers. In your chest. In the impossible space between heartbeat and miracle.

It felt like every part of you had been flung to the corners of the universe to bring her into the world. And now, piece by piece, those fragments returned—settling into place with a kind of aching relief. You weren’t whole before. But you were now.

She kicked again, a sharp little foot pressing into your skin with enough force to make you gasp. Her cries climbed higher, cutting through the space between you and everything else. She was a storm inside a body no bigger than your forearm, and she wanted to be known.

Behind you, Agatha held you like you might vanish. You felt her before you heard her. Her body trembled against your spine, breath warm and uneven in the curve of your neck. One of her hands slid across your ribs, firm and grounding, while the other folded over yours, fingers wrapping around where you both cradled your daughter’s damp face. Her touch was reverent. Terrified. Anchoring.

You collapsed back into her fully—no hesitation, no restraint—your body giving in with the full weight of everything it had just endured. Hours of labor, of screaming, of gripping the edges of yourself and tearing them wide to let life through. It all poured out of you now, and Agatha caught it. Caught you. Her strength didn’t waver. She didn’t shift beneath your weight, didn’t flinch. She absorbed you like gravity—solid, sacred, inevitable. Like her arms had been made not just to hold you, but to wait for this exact moment. The one where you no longer had to be strong. Your body surrendering with the full, aching weight of what it had just done. Not just the hours of labor, not just the push, not just the tearing open—but the letting go. Of fear. Of control. Of everything you’d held clenched inside. You didn’t need to hold anything by yourself. Not your muscles. Not your breath. Not your grief or your awe or the years of tension you’d carved into your spine.

“She’s so…” you choked, the words catching in your throat before dissolving into a laugh that bled into tears. “She’s so loud and so small.”

Where Agatha held you up, Rio met you eye to eye. And behind you—just as your daughter let out another sharp, writhing cry—Agatha’s breath caught like it had snagged on a star. “She is…” she whispered, and then stopped. The words trembled against the edge of her lips, too full to land cleanly. “She is so perfect.”

A broken sound escaped her throat, low and cracked and holy. Her shoulders began to shake where they pressed to your back. Her arms tightened instinctively, wrapping around you, around the baby, around the space between everything that had just happened and everything that would come after. She buried her face in your neck, her lips warm and wet against your skin. You felt her tears before you heard them, falling soundless into the hollow of your throat. Her breath stuttered there, breaking into you like a vow that had no words—only closeness, only weight.

You sobbed again—half a sound, half a release—and that was all it took for Rio to move. She had stood frozen for what felt like forever, still, except for the rise and fall of her breath, eyes wide and glassy, watching the shift in you like someone witnessing resurrection. The way your head tilted, the way your shoulders softened, the way your fingers curled tighter around the baby’s back—it was like she felt it across the room. The way your eyes dropped to your daughter with clarity now, not just shock. The way your voice—cracked and raw—had said “Mama’s right here” like it was a vow written into your marrow.

Her hands flew to the gloves still clinging to her skin. She tore them off with jerky, urgent movements, her breath hitching in her throat. The latex snapped, the sound sharp and careless. The first glove hit the floor before the second was even fully free. She didn’t look down. Didn’t blink. Her chest rose too fast, heart sprinting toward the three of you. She climbed onto the bed without ceremony, like reverence and chaos could coexist. Her knee hit the mattress, then the other, one palm bracing as she pulled herself up beside you.

Her other hand reached across your shoulder, and then—finally—she touched her. Her palm trembled as it settled against the baby’s back, her fingers trailing with the kind of reverence usually reserved for sacred texts or shooting stars. She stroked once, then cupped the tiny cheek, her thumb tracing a perfect circle, like she could memorize her this way. Anchor her to the world through touch alone.

Rio didn’t speak. She hovered there, breathless, completely undone. Her mouth parted, but her breath broke on the edge of sound. Her eyes were soaked. Her hands never stopped moving, gentle and unsure, like she couldn’t figure out which of you to touch first—like her body had fractured into love too big to contain.

Then her hand moved to your face. “Hey,” she whispered—so soft, so stunned, like the word had never meant more. “Mi amor…” Her thumb brushed a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen, catching it with the tenderness of someone who had waited lifetimes to wipe it away. She kissed your temple. Then your cheek. Her lips were wet, and every touch held the weight of something sacred. “You did it,” she breathed. “Look at her. Look at our girl.”

Your daughter let out another cry, this one breaking on the end like a note held too long—and the three of you laughed softly through the tears. Ezra stepped in again, her calm undisturbed, stethoscope already ready. She lowered the disc to your daughter’s tiny chest and listened, her expression serene even over the cries.

“Heartbeat’s perfect,” Ezra said softly. “Breathing strong. She’s just letting us all know.”

You laughed — a soft, stunned thing that broke into a sob at the edges.

---------

Time had fractured into something non-linear—no ticking clocks, no sharp edges. Only breath. Only skin. Only the weight of her, impossibly real and impossibly small, pressed to your chest as the storm softened into rain beyond the window.

Ezra worked quietly at your side, tending to the aftermath with hands so practiced they barely seemed to move. The lighting was dim, golden, as if the entire world had agreed to hush.

And in that hush—you watched your daughter live.

Her cries had softened now, no longer frantic but insistent. Rhythmic. Her tiny fists curled near her mouth, her chest rising in sharp, fluttery gasps. The sound didn’t overwhelm the room. It filled it. It belonged.

Your body was still shaking.

The tremble of spent muscles, of aftershocks still rippling through your legs, through the hollow of your belly, through the place just beneath your ribs that had once held her. The echo of it all pulsed in your joints, in your breath, in the way your eyes couldn’t stop blinking like you were afraid to miss something.

And still—you held her.

Skin to skin. Your heartbeat under her cheek. Your soul tethered in full.

Agatha’s arms wrapped tightly around your shoulders from behind, her chest firm against your spine, her chin tucked into the curve of your neck. Her hands splayed across your collarbone like she could anchor you from the inside out. You were leaning fully into her now, every breath taken from the center of her strength.

Rio laid at your side, one hand resting on your thigh, the other gently stroking your daughter’s damp back. Agatha’s voice came low, reverent, cracked from crying.

“You did so good, baby. You were… God, you’re incredible.”

She was on your chest, slick and small, her cries a steady flutter against your skin. You held her like instinct—your arms curling protectively even as your body slumped with exhaustion. Your forehead pressed against her soft, damp head, breath hitching as tears slipped down the bridge of your nose.

Then Ezra stepped beside the bed. Her voice was low, calm, full of the space she always carried like light.

“May I clean her up a bit?” she asked gently. “—get her weight, check her over. Only when you’re ready.”

You hesitated. Your arms tightened.

Agatha kissed your temple instantly, like she felt it too. Like she knew.

You nodded—slow, aching—and turned your head toward her.

Ezra’s hands were reverent as she lifted your daughter—no longer as a doctor, but as someone who knew. Her movements were careful, never hurried. Like she understood what it meant to hold a life that had only just begun to breathe.

“Agatha… go with her. Go.”

She kissed your temple again. You felt her hesitate—just for a moment—but then she pulled away from behind you. The loss of her warmth made you sway slightly, but Rio steadied you with a hand at your shoulder.

“I love you,” Rio whispered, voice thick. “I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.” Her lips found your forehead, then your cheek. “You brought her into the world. You’re… God I love you..”

You heard Agatha’s breath, uneven, as she joined Ezra at the foot of the bed. She offered the scissors to Agatha, already clamped and pulsing faintly with the last thread of connection between you.

Agatha took them—hands suddenly less steady than they had been all night.

Ezra looked to you. You nodded again, slower. “Right between,” Ezra said softly. And Agatha did.

Her hand moved. Her jaw tightened. The cord snapped. Your daughter let out a sharper cry—just a heartbeat louder—before settling again. Agatha moved forward.. Her eyes shimmered. She handed the scissors back with a breath like a cracked violin string, then turned fully to your daughter, who was still crying, chest rising in soft, urgent little hiccups.

Ezra helped cradle her into a towel, supporting her head, and the two of them walked to the warming station just steps away. Ezra called out the weight a moment later. “Seven pounds even.” Rio’s hand curled tight around yours. You both watched—motionless, breathless.

Then you turned your head. Nodded again. Go. Rio didn’t hesitate once you nodded.

She brushed your cheek with her thumb—one last grounding touch—then moved quickly to the warming station, her shadow falling in line beside Agatha’s. Your daughter lay there beneath the soft, golden heat, still crying, still red-faced and new to the world. The halo of her arrival hadn’t faded—it hovered in the room like steam.

Ezra stood beside them, calm and sure, and handed Agatha a fresh cloth soaked in warm water. “She’s still adjusting to the cold,” she murmured. “Start gentle. Down the chest first, then the legs.”

Agatha’s hands trembled slightly. But she dipped the cloth and wiped—tender strokes over her daughter’s chest, her belly, her tiny legs. The baby shivered at the change, her little limbs curling, her mouth opening in protest. Her cries came sharp and startled, like the air itself was too loud.

Agatha’s voice cracked. “Mommy’s got you,” she whispered. “You’re okay, sweetheart. You’re safe. I’m right here.”

The water caught in the light—small ribbons of warmth curling from her skin, rising like breath into the hush of the room.

Ezra reached beside her and guided Rio’s hand next. “Back of her neck. Shoulders.” Rio took the cloth, slower than Agatha, but no less reverent. Her lips parted, breath shallow as she dabbed gently behind her daughter’s ears, across the folds of her arms, over the small round of her back.

Your daughter let out another cry—softer now, hiccupping and strong. Her tiny feet kicked against the towel beneath her, searching. “Mamí te tiene en sus manos,” Rio murmured. “I’m here.”

Agatha leaned in instinctively, one hand resting under their daughter’s head as Rio’s hand stayed curled protectively around her back. The two of them—side by side, steady and shaking—worked in quiet rhythm beneath the glow of the warming light. They didn’t need to speak. Their bodies said it for them. Ezra watched, quiet and warm-eyed, offering only gentle guidance when needed. Her hands moved with calm precision, but it was the way she stepped back—just slightly, allowing space for the three of them—that said the most.

She handed over the receiving blanket, the one Rio bought weeks ago. They wrapped her together. The pale cream blanket—patterned with soft blooms, little sprouts, and tiny butterflies stitched like dreams into the fabric—was lifted, tucked, and folded with sacred care. She vanished into its warmth like she belonged there. Like she always had.

They held her together — Agatha’s hand under her head, Rio’s hand across her back — and looked at her like you’d given them the stars. Like you had built them a new galaxy, and she was the center. And in that soft light—her face still wrinkled with effort, her fists still curled like stars just beginning to burn—Agatha and Rio looked down at her with an awe that bordered on grief. Like the beauty of it hurt. Like it was too big for breath.

Their daughter blinked slowly, the cries softening into wet sighs, her mouth still working around sound. Still finding it. Rio’s hand pressed against the blanket’s curve. Agatha’s hand stroked her cheek with a knuckle, careful not to overwhelm her.

She was so small. Wrapped tight, warm, barely more than a flutter of breath and blinking eyes in the blanket they’d chosen together. But in their arms—she was weight and wonder, thunder and prayer. Rio looked at Agatha. “Let’s get her to Mama.”

Your arms moved before your mind caught up. Reached out like breath, like instinct. There was no thought—only pull. Only knowing. Your body already lifting. Already calling for her. And they came. Agatha moved first, stepping softly to the side of the bed, her arms steady, her breath tight. Rio followed, guiding the blanket with one hand, their daughter cradled carefully between them. She was placed in your arms like an answer. Like something lost had been returned.

Curled against your chest once more, her body tucked into the valley between your breasts, her head settling beneath your chin with a soundless sigh. She didn’t cry this time. She didn’t wail. She simply… settled.

Rio draped the edge of the blanket over her back, smoothing it down with quiet reverence—her fingers brushing your collarbone, then your shoulder. As if grounding the moment in your skin.

The sound that left your body wasn’t a sob. It wasn’t relief. It was older. A sound made of marrow and dust and stars. A sound of something sacred being completed. It was the exhale of a gate unlocking. Of the last part of you returning home.

You held her. Still slick with tears. Still trembling. But steady now. Her breath was warm against your skin. Her tiny hand twitched near your sternum—reflexive, reaching. Her body settled like a weight you had carried in dreams for years, and only now were allowed to hold awake.

Your chin dipped toward your chest, your cheek brushing the top of her head as your arms tightened around her. You closed your eyes, and in that moment, everything else fell away. But theirs stayed on you.

They watched—held in the hush of something too large for language—as your body wrapped around this new life. As your arms curved. As your hands steadied. As your pulse moved in sync with hers.

You looked up once, unable to stop yourself—and caught Rios face just as it broke open—stripped bare of her usual composure, too full and too fragile to keep standing still. She tried to smile. But it wavered, cracked at the edges. She covered her mouth for a breath, blinked hard, and then turned into Agatha’s arms like gravity itself had pulled her there. She caught her instantly. No hesitation. Just arms and breath and body. Rio’s face pressed to her shoulder, and her body began to shake. Not loud. Not broken. Just... spilling over. The weight of it finally finding a place to land. Agatha held her close—hand cupping the back of her head, the other firm at her waist. Silent tears streaked down her face too, but she didn’t hide them. She just tucked Rio in tighter, rocking them both. She whispered something into her hair, you couldn’t hear, her own voice catching in her throat.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. The three of you had built a universe and watched it take its first breath. Agatha’s fingers curled in the fabric of Rio’s shirt, her forehead pressed into her shoulder. And then—together—they turned. Back to you. Their daughter. Their wife. The love on their faces—raw, unhidden, shattered with joy—made your throat ache. You smiled, your voice a low rasp: “Come here.”

And they did. No hesitation. No noise. Just the quiet sound of feet shifting over the floor and breath catching in the air between you. Your daughter lay nestled against your chest, her skin warm beneath the blanket Rio had draped with such care. Her tiny cheek rested just below your collarbone, soft and damp, rising and falling with the rhythm of your breath. Her body so small, so impossibly new—still damp with birth, still unfurling into the shape of the world.

She wasn’t crying anymore.

Just making those newborn sounds—the wet flutter of lips, the breathy almost-whimpers that sounded like memory itself. Like she was still trying to remember where she’d come from. Her knees were tucked in, fists curled under her chin. You traced soft, looping circles across the fragile curve of her back, your fingers memorizing her before you even understood what it meant to do so.

Rio lowered herself beside you first—her movements slow, reverent. Her arm tucked under your shoulders, her body curling toward yours like she was returning to center. Her forehead rested gently against yours, her breath catching on the inhale like she hadn’t realized she was still holding it.

Agatha moved just as quietly to the other side of the bed, climbing up beside you both. Her palm settled against your chest—fingers spread, warm and sure—just above where your daughter’s cheek rested. She was still watching you, her eyes rimmed red, her mouth parted like she might say something but couldn’t find words. Her touch didn’t press—it floated. Just enough to feel your heartbeat under her fingers.

The blanket shifted slightly as you turned the edge down, exposing your daughter’s small, perfect form. Her skin was flushed a dusky rose, soft as breath, still warm from the cradle of your body. Wisps of brown hair clung damp to her scalp in loose, curling spirals—already thickening in the light, already hers.

You tilted her gently, just enough so they could see—so you could all see her. And both of them leaned closer at once, breath caught in their throats. Her lips—delicate, bowed, unmistakably Agatha’s—parted in a silent sigh, as if she were trying to speak the air into something new. That little cupid’s bow, tender and pink, carried the same softness that had kissed your temple through the hardest hours.

Her nose—your slope, maybe, but Rio’s bridge. Familiar. A hybrid of history and home. Something in it made your chest ache, the way Rio’s used to when she laughed in the dark.

Her cheeks were already full, flushed from effort, the faintest touch of down still dusted across them. Her hands curled up beneath her chin like she was still dreaming her way out of the womb. Fingers the length of possibility. Her mouth opened once—not a cry. Just a breath. Like she was listening.

Like she already knew your voices. Already knew she was theirs, and yours, and home. You couldn’t stop staring. None of you could. She was impossibly small and entirely real—your daughter. A girl built from your blood, Agatha’s breath, Rio’s steadiness. The three of you made flesh. Agatha’s hand never left your chest. Rio’s fingers traced slow circles along your shoulder. The room felt paused in time—warm and flickering, still.

Rio’s voice came next, barely louder than the wind outside. A question laced in reverence, like she was asking the storm itself for permission. “Do you want to say it?”

You blinked. Your eyes fell back to your daughter—her little mouth moving soundlessly, her fingers curling like she was still dreaming her way into the world. You didn’t speak right away. You just leaned forward, your nose brushing hers, your breath catching as you whispered into the small hush between her cries: “Hi, baby girl.”

Another beat. Then, softer—like it had always been waiting on your tongue: “Hi, Raffi.” Agatha’s breath stuttered behind you. You felt it in your spine. Her forehead touched your shoulder just as her hand cupped your daughter’s head with aching care. “Hi, Raffi,” she echoed, voice trembling. “Welcome home, little sprout.”

Rio let out a shaky breath beside you. Her thumb brushed your cheek, her eyes locked on your daughter like she’d never seen anything more sacred. You nodded slowly, your voice hoarse but certain. “Ayla Raffaela Vidal Harkness.”

The name filled the air like something elemental. Not loud. Not shouted. But final. Whole. The kind of truth you don’t need to explain. Agatha kissed your temple, then leaned in and kissed Raffi’s crown, her lips barely touching the soft down of her daughter’s hair.

Rio whispered it again beside you, just to feel it shape her mouth, the sound trembling out of her like prayer: “Ayla Raffaela.” And then, smiling through tears: “Raffi.”

The baby stirred—her tiny body shifting like she recognized the name, like it landed somewhere just behind her ribs and started growing roots. You looked down, your voice almost gone, but somehow still sure. “Hi, Raffi,” you whispered again, brushing your lips across the top of her head. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

--------

Later, after the blood had been cleaned away and fresh linens had been drawn tight beneath your limbs. After Ezra had whispered kind things while checking your vitals. After someone had finally closed the window just enough to hush the wind’s edge. After the water had been sipped, after warm blankets had been draped across your shoulders, and the only sound left was breath—yours, theirs, hers — and the rain murmuring against the brick…

You shifted the blanket gently and held your daughter out to Rio. Your arms ached from the weight of her. Not because she was heavy—she wasn’t, not yet—but because something in your body understood she was never meant to be held alone. She was meant to be held by all of you.

Rio removed her shirt and took her like she’d done it a thousand times. Her hands were so steady. So soft. One cradled beneath Raffi’s bottom, the other curled beneath her delicate head, holding her close to the warmth of her chest. The baby’s face turned inward, nose tucked beside the slope of Rio’s collarbone, her breath making the smallest rise of fog over Rio’s skin.

Her skin was already deepening. That soft, golden undertone that would match Rio’s perfectly was blooming into color. Just the subtlest shift of pigment, but it made your throat tighten. That little girl belonged. She was the sum of every love that had carried her here. Agatha’s hand slid across Rio’s forearm, her palm curving to cover the tiny span of Raffi’s back. She leaned over her gently, as though afraid the sound of her breath might startle the moment away.

Then Rio began to murmur. Spanish came low and reverent from her mouth. Words filled with awe, tenderness, and a kind of magic only love could translate. You couldn’t catch all of it. But your body knew it. Your bones did. And your daughter?

She sighed. A big sigh — too big for such a tiny chest. It spilled out of her in one long, uneven exhale, her lips parting, her whole body shifting against Rio’s arm. It was one of those strangely ancient sounds — like she was already tired of the world, but glad to be in it. Like some piece of her had seen all this before, and had simply chosen to return.

All three of you froze.

The room was already quiet, light flickering in the humid stillness, but now it held its breath. Rio’s arms instinctively tightened, pulling your daughter closer as if to say I heard you, baby girl. I’m here. Agatha let out a breath of her own — but hers came shaped like a smile. Wide. Wordless. It cracked something open in the room that hadn’t been touched yet.

You laughed softly. A wet, joy-broken sound. The kind of laugh that only comes after pain and love collide and leave you breathless in their wake. Rio looked up at you — the corners of her eyes crinkled, her lashes damp, her mouth tilted in a crooked, exhausted grin. She was still rocking gently, like her body hadn’t quite let go of its rhythm from birth.

“It’s been a busy day, huh?” she whispered, voice hoarse with wonder. “First defending Mama’s dissertation… then greeting us in the middle of a storm.”

You nodded, overwhelmed, your lips parting but unable to speak just yet. Rio looked back down at Raffi and pressed a kiss to her head — soft and slow, her lips lingering against the fine damp hair, her breath catching in her throat. Then she passed her to Agatha, whose arms were already reaching, bare and open. She’d been holding you this whole time in her sports bra and sweatpants — skin warm against your spine, still damp with effort, still humming with awe. Now, her hands moved like an invocation.

Your daughter didn’t cry. She simply shifted — her tiny limbs stretching in that strange, newborn way, like her body was still trying to remember how to be separate, as if she wasn’t yet sure where she ended and Agatha began. Agatha took her like she was made of starlight and secrets. You saw it — the way her breath caught when Raffi settled against her chest. The way her shoulders folded forward, her body forming a roof over her child like a temple being sealed. Her fingertips moved instinctively, one hand on Raffi’s back, the other supporting her head, and then she looked down — and her whole face softened.

Every sharp edge. Every guarded line. Gone. Just this. Just a mother and her daughter. Your daughter. Your wives. Your family. You smiled, your body finally sinking into Rio’s side. The effort of everything — the labor, the pushing, the joy, the storm, the defense — all of it gave way to warmth. Rio’s arm curled around your shoulders, drawing you close, her fingers brushing softly along your collarbone. She didn’t need to say anything for you to feel it — the pride, the awe, the relief.

“I’d say it’s been a busy… I don’t even know what day it is anymore,” you murmured, your voice low and rough, your throat raw from hours of storm and screaming and love. Rio laughed, quiet and radiant. She kissed your temple, her lips brushing your skin like punctuation to a sentence only your bodies understood. Agatha cradled your daughter like a psalm — her eyes locked on Raffi’s face, her mouth parted in reverence, like she was reading something holy. And in the hush that followed — wrapped in blankets, in breath, in candlelight and heartbeat — you knew. Deep in your marrow, deeper than thought:

You had hung the moon and stars.And she? She was the galaxy.Rio’s voice came again, soft as cotton, low as a lullaby. Her hand brushed your cheek just as your head dropped to her shoulder.

“Rest, my love,” she whispered. “We got her. We’re right here.”

------

You slept like someone held in the arms of gods.

Curled beneath warm blankets, body softened at last into the contours of the sheets, your breath rose and fell with the same rhythm as the rain still tapping at the windows. Light flickered across your face, casting long shadows against the wall behind the bed. Your hair was damp with sweat and sleep. Your lips parted, a small exhale threading into the quiet.

Across the room, Agatha and Rio sat together on the couch, the baby nestled between them like the most fragile, perfect secret.

Agatha held her now—cradled in the crook of one arm, her fingers brushing slowly over the baby’s soft cheek, just beneath the edge of the receiving blanket. Her touch was light, reverent. Almost afraid to press too firmly, like any moment might break the dream. Raffi made a tiny sound, breath catching in her throat before falling back into silence. Her fingers curled against Agatha’s chest.

Rio leaned in, shoulder pressed to Agatha’s. Her hand rested just over Raffi’s foot beneath the blanket. The shape of her daughter’s body was barely visible beneath the soft cotton—only the rise of her chest, the faint angle of a knee, the dark smudge of her hair barely drying against her crown.

Neither woman spoke for a long time.

They just watched you sleep.

Agatha’s gaze drifted across the room, pulled by something quiet and gravitational. You were barely a shape beneath the layers of blankets now—your knees curled inward, one arm flung over the pillow as if reaching for something even in dreams. Your face was turned toward the wall, half in shadow, mouth slightly open, lashes damp and resting against your cheekbones like fallen wings. She didn’t speak. Just looked.

Her expression softened slowly. Then shimmered.

“She looks like her,” Agatha murmured, voice caught between reverence and disbelief. Like saying it aloud might make the truth hold.

Rio turned, eyes already on her. “She looks like all of us,” she said, but not to correct—just to expand. Her voice was low, reverent. A statement of fact braided with wonder.

Agatha nodded, slow and aching. Her thumb moved instinctively, tracing a slow, sacred line across Raffi’s temple where she lay curled in her arms. The baby stirred, not yet waking, lips pursing in a dream-like suckling motion. Her body was so impossibly small, so warm against Agatha’s chest it made her breath hitch.

Rio exhaled, a tremble buried inside it. “Do you remember the first time she walked through our office door?” Her eyes stayed on the baby’s hand—so tiny it barely wrapped around her finger. “Books in one arm. Coffee in the other. So goddamn sure she was going to flunk that theory class.”

Agatha let out the ghost of a laugh. “And you offered to tutor her, like the good professor you are.”

Rio smiled, her thumb now stroking the arch of Raffi’s foot through the blanket. “I just wanted to hear her talk,” she said. “I wanted to see if the fire in her eyes was real.”

Agatha tilted her head, her cheek brushing Rio’s hair as she spoke. “She nearly burned us alive,” she whispered. The words held no regret—only awe. “I was terrified of it. I’d never thought someone else could make me feel like you did. To want to be known like that.”

Rio turned, her cheek now resting against Agatha’s shoulder. There were no words for a moment. Only the soft, rhythmic sound of breathing and the lullaby hush of storm outside.

“And now look at her.”

They did. At you, tucked beneath the blankets, utterly still in the cradle of deep, earned sleep. Your face looked younger somehow. Unburdened. Like the pain had peeled something old away. They looked at her, the daughter born from that fire. From love. From labor. From lightning. Her fingers flexed against Agatha’s chest like she was still swimming through memory. Her mouth twitched. Her breath was steady. “I don’t think I believed we’d ever get here,” Rio said, barely louder than the rain at the window.

Agatha swallowed hard. Her eyes traced the curve of your sleeping body, the edge of your smile that lingered even in sleep. “I think we were always meant to.”

Raffi twisted in Agatha’s arms, face scrunching into a storm of newborn rage. Her mouth opened and the sound poured out—thin at first, but rising. Expanding. Another cry followed, louder, rawer. Her legs kicked beneath the blanket. Her arms jerked in that wild, perfect flail only new babies could manage.

Agatha reacted without thinking—swaying instinctively, whispering against her downy crown. “Shh, shh—little sprout, it’s alright—it’s okay—Mommy’s here—”

Rio leaned in, her hand smoothing over the baby’s belly. “You’re alright, mi amor—shh, Mamí’s got you—Mamí’s right here—”

But Raffi didn’t settle. Her cries only grew, carving space in the silence, wrapping around the walls like music with no end. You stirred at the sound, your lashes fluttering once—twice—and then you opened your eyes. No panic. No fear. Only the soft pull of a smile.

You knew that voice already. That cry. That tiny, indignant storm. Your body moved before your mind could catch up—your arms twitching beneath the blankets, readying without command.

“Bring me our girl.” A pause, eyes flickering from Raffi to Agatha, to Rio. A smile on your face as you watched the word settle around them

Rio stepped to your side, her presence grounding you before her hands even touched you. She kissed you softly—lips warm, reverent—then rested her forehead against yours for one breath, maybe two. You were upright now, back cushioned, exhaustion draped around your limbs like fog. But through it, something deeper moved. Something holy. “My love,” she whispered, brushing her knuckles over your cheek. “Can I?”

You nodded.

Her hand slipped beneath the edge of the robe — fingers grazing your shoulder first, then smoothing along your collarbone with the kind of tenderness that made you ache. She moved with care, never rushing, as if unveiling something sacred. The fabric parted under her hand, folding open across your chest like the page of a book not meant for the world, only for this room.

Agatha moved toward you with the gravity of a moon pulling the tide. Her arms curved protectively around Raffi, hands adjusting the blanket as she stepped closer. You could see her rocking her slightly, her voice low.

“I know, sweetie,” she murmured, her lips near Raffi’s temple.

Then she began to peel the blanket back. Raffi’s cries sharpened at once. The moment the cool air met her skin, she kicked harder—legs jerking in uneven bursts, arms flailing wide as if the world itself had betrayed her again. Her face twisted with protest, mouth open in a fresh wail, tiny body pulsing with panic and need.

Agatha only held her tighter. Not to hush her—but to let her know Mommy had her. She reached the edge of the bed just as Rio smoothed the robe fully aside, baring your chest to the moonlight and the quiet gravity of what came next. Rio met her in motion as she lowered her toward your chest. Your arms lifted instinctively, trembling but sure.

Raffi landed like breath returning, her body still red in places with the effort of arrival. Removed from the warmth of the pale cream blanket now, her body met yours with more fury than grace.

The moment she realized her tiny, warm body was placed on yours, her cries — newborn, urgent, breathy little hiccups of frustration — only grew louder. She squirmed against you, face wrinkling, her limbs flailing in confusion, her mouth opening wider as if the air itself had betrayed her. Her legs tucked under her in little spasms, knees curling close to your ribs as she pressed instinctively into you.

You pressed your lips to her damp curls. “It’s okay, baby girl. Mama’s right here.”

Her face wrinkled deeper with each movement. Her mouth opened in another wail, searching and hungry, her whole body squirming up your chest like she was trying to burrow through skin and bone, back into the world that had kept her safe.

Your voice cracked as you spoke again, eyes still locked on her. “You sound just like I dreamed you would.” She wailed again, her mouth wide, her body small and burning against yours.

A quiet knock. A door easing open. Ezra entered—soft, clean-scrubbed in fresh scrubs. Her smile was calm, fond, already reaching the corners of her eyes. “Someone sounds hungry,” she said warmly, eyes flicking from Raffi to you. “Do you want to try feeding her, Mama?”

You didn’t even blink. Just nodded. Slowly. Deeply. Your voice emerged like earth after rain—cracked open, raw and warm and rooted in something bottomless. Raffi’s face burrowed forward, searching, mouth opening in little gasps of instinct and confusion. She let out a short, sharp cry. Then another. Tiny arms flailing now. Growing more frustrated by the second.

You winced softly, adjusting your grip, your chest and body still sore. “It’s okay—I know this is new for me to sweetie—”

Ezra moved beside you before the sentence could fall apart. She didn’t speak right away. She didn’t need to. Her hands were sure, gentle. She crouched beside the bed, scanning Raffi’s face, your posture, your shaking arms. “Let’s try this,” she said softly, the kind of softness that came from years of witnessing this exact moment—the quiet edge between panic and miracle. “Support her head with this hand. Right there—yes, just like that. Tilt her, gently. Good. Now bring her a little closer… let her find you.”

With practiced calm, Ezra guided your hands, adjusting your hold, Her hands never replaced yours—only guided. Corrected, helped your body find the right shape to hold your daughter.

Your body reacted before your mind could name the feeling. A sound escaped your mouth—part sigh, part sob. Your head dropped back against the pillows, your jaw trembling. It wasn’t pain. It wasn’t ease. It was everything. A tightening and a softening all at once.

The moment her mouth found you, her cries cut off mid-breath, the silence sudden and absolute, Her body—so taut, so urgent—melted, settled with eerie precision, like she'd always known you. A small, almost startled sound left your throat—a cracked laugh wrapped around a sob—as you watched her latch, watched her settle. One leg tucked itself under, the other pressing lightly against your ribs. She began to feed. Her body moved with small syncopated swallows, breaths fluttering between each one like she was still stunned by her own ability to be held, to feed. Her jaw worked in tiny, perfect pulses. Her cheek brushed your skin, flushed and velvet-soft, damp with effort. One leg tucked itself under her belly. The other pressed against your ribs in a steady, unconscious push—just enough to remind you she was real.

You cupped the back of her head with one hand. The other wrapped around her back, your thumb tracing a slow line down the space between her shoulders, still stunned by the sheer reality of it, the way her whole being had found yours like gravity had drawn her there. She was so tiny against your chest, but she felt infinite.

Agatha’s hand rose to your cheek, her thumb catching a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. Rio’s fingers swept through your hair, combing it back from your temple in slow, circular strokes. You weren’t crying. Not yet. But you were close. Your eyes had gone wide, glassy, locked on the miracle pressed against your chest. The world had narrowed to the sound of Raffi’s breath. Her swallowing. Her becoming.

Ezra stayed just close enough, watching with her practiced calm. “She’s got a strong latch,” she murmured, pleased. “Let her take her time.” She didn’t ask to stay. She didn’t need to. Her presence wrapped around the edges of the room like a guardian spell—quiet, calm, eternal.

You only nodded, too full to trust your voice. One arm curled protectively around Raffi’s back. Your other hand was tucked beneath her thigh, holding her close, anchoring both of you to this sacred now. Time passed. Soft. Undisturbed. You whispered something, a nothing-phrase, against your daughter’s scalp. You kissed the crown of her head. Ran your thumb down the bridge of her nose.

You watched as she began to slow—her suckling losing rhythm, each pull softer than the last. Her mouth went slack around you, then stilled. Her body, once taut with effort, now grew limp in your arms—boneless, heavy with sleep. Her tiny fingers unfurled. Her legs stilled. The only sound was the faint, rhythmic breath puffing softly against your skin.

Carefully, you drew her back. She released you with a soft, almost reluctant sigh. Her lips remained parted, a fine sheen of milk clinging to the corner of her mouth. Her face—flushed, full, radiant with the exertion of new life—rested against your palm for a long moment, as if she didn’t want to go far.

Your arms ached—not from strain, but from the raw, spent glory of holding her through it. “Rio?” you murmured, voice hoarse from silence.

She was already in motion. She rose without hesitation, as if her body had only been waiting for that call—your voice, soft and worn, was all the invitation she needed. Her eyes found yours across the space between you, and for a moment, she didn’t speak. She just looked at you. At her. At what the three of you had created.

Her gaze shimmered, wide with awe. But beneath that shimmer was something steadier. Ancient. Fierce. You passed Raffi into her arms. Your hands brushed, a silent exchange stitched together by touch alone. Rio’s fingers moved with instinct she hadn’t known she’d earned. One hand slipped beneath Raffi’s bottom, the other curved gently at the nape of her neck, thumb cradling the fragile weight of her skull. There was no fumbling. No pause. Just an unspoken knowing, like her arms had memorized this shape in dreams.

She brought Raffi close—slowly, reverently—until her daughter’s small body met her chest. For a breath, Rio stilled. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. Her eyes fluttered shut. She leaned in and pressed her lips to Raffi’s forehead, letting them linger there as if to seal something sacred. “I’ve got you, mija,” she whispered, voice thick, threaded with something that shook.

She didn't just hold Raffi—she received her. Her body adjusted to the weight instinctively, spine curling just enough, her arms tightening in careful angles that made space for the fragile heat now pressed against her heart. Her head tilted slightly, cheek brushing against downy hair. One palm rose to steady the back of Raffi’s head. The other began to pat her tiny back—slow, steady, sure.

Raffi wriggled in protest. Her nose scrunched. She made a small, indignant mmph, then a louder one that rasped through the hush like a question. Like she wasn’t quite sure this step was necessary. Like she’d already done enough. “There we go,” Rio murmured, softer now, her voice a lullaby in motion. “Mamí’s got you.” The words landed like shelter. Raffi sighed again, the sound breaking at the edges before tapering into silence. Her small cheek came to rest flat against Rio’s chest, just over her heart. Her mouth worked once, then went still. Her fists relaxed against the fabric of Rio’s shirt, her breathing turning shallow and slow.

And Rio— She didn’t move. Didn’t speak again. Only held her like she’d waited her entire life for this weight. Her jaw trembled once, barely. Her chin dipped, and she pressed her cheek to the top of Raffi’s head, her arms curling tighter around the girl she would have caught in a storm, in a fire, in any world.

You didn’t look away. You watched Rio as if your heart were tethered to hers by invisible thread—as if by watching closely enough, you could memorize every breath that passed between her and the child in her arms. Then, beside you, the mattress dipped. Agatha sat quietly, legs drawn close, one arm curling behind your back as she nestled in beside you. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Her warmth met yours in a slow exhale, and you leaned into her without hesitation.

Your head found her shoulder. Her cheek rested against your crown. She kissed the top of your head—once, lingering. A kiss that didn’t ask anything of you. A kiss that just was. “I love you so much,” she whispered, voice barely more than breath. Her fingers curled gently over your hip, grounding you.

Then she kissed you again, slower this time, her lips brushing your temple, her words following in a reverent hush. “You are so amazing. Do you know that?” She let the silence bloom after that—full, unhurried, complete. The kind of silence that doesn’t need to be filled. The kind that says you did it, and we’re here, and this is ours now. You leaned into her more fully, letting your weight melt against her side, the ache in your body finally softening into something close to peace.

Raffi’s breath was the only sound now—light, sleepy puffs into the hollow of Rio’s collarbone. You closed your eyes, just for a moment, and let yourself rest there.

Agatha’s warmth pressed into your side, her arm wrapped around your back, her thumb brushing small, absent circles into your hip. You could feel her breathing. Could hear Raffi’s breath, softer still—those tiny, sleepy puffs against Rio’s collarbone. And Rio… Rio was humming something under her breath now. Wordless. Steady. It moved through the room like a lullaby only her daughter would ever fully understand.

You didn’t need to open your eyes to feel it: The shape of your family. Held in this room like a spell still casting. Like a vision you weren't supposed to see.

And for a few breaths…you let yourself disappear into it.

Just long enough for your body to loosen a little deeper into the pillows. Just long enough for your shoulders to stop bracing. For your chest to rise and fall without catching. Your body was still sore, still trembling slightly—but it was yours again. And in this moment, safe.

You shifted slightly. The muscles across your lower back twitched as you lifted your head from Agatha’s shoulder, and a soft sound escaped your throat—half sigh, half groan. Just enough to make your presence known again.

Ezra’s head turned instantly. “Hey,” she said, her voice gentle but alert. “You okay?”

You nodded. The smile that followed was small, crooked, but real. Ezra smiled back, watching you carefully. Then her gaze shifted to Agatha, her voice warm but commanding.

“We’re going to get you set up with some fluids soon and pain meds. I promise, all safe for you and won’t impact your milk,” she told you, then turned to Agatha with a look that brooked no argument. “And she gets whatever meal she wants. No questions asked.”

Agatha let out a soft laugh, brushing her knuckles against your knee. “Deal,” she said, her voice still low with awe. You smiled, “I’ve got a list.”

Ezra chuckled under her breath, then leaned back slightly on the ottoman. Her smile bloomed wider now, the air relaxing again around her. She clasped her hands loosely between her knees and tilted her head just enough to let the mischief through.

“So…” Ezra said, her voice cutting gently through the quiet, tilting her head with a spark of mischief behind the softness. “Have you three decided on a name for my niece?”

Agatha smiled—low and knowing.

Rio didn’t answer at first. She was still caught in the moment, her eyes on the baby in her arms. Raffi had nestled in closer, her breath fogging against the curve of Rio’s chest, her tiny body curled into a position of perfect trust. Her skin had already begun to take on a golden hue—so close to Rio’s own. Rio’s hand moved in slow circles against her back, hypnotic. When she finally looked up, her eyes were shimmering.

“We did, actually,” Rio said, her voice still wrapped in wonder.

Ezra’s face lit up—giddy and expectant. Her fingers curled together in her lap like she was bracing herself. “And what should I be calling my niece?”

You reached out, brushing your fingers across Agatha’s wrist. A silent cue. She leaned into you again, her lips brushing your cheek. Her hand slipped from your waist with a soft glide, pausing briefly before she stood. Her fingers lingered on your shoulder for a beat—then she crossed the room. No rush. Just purpose. She knelt beside the pale-pink gift bag tucked neatly into the side pocket of your overnight case—the one you’d hidden for weeks, waiting for this exact breath in time. When she turned back, the small bundle in hand, something flickered across her face. Joy. Awe. Something older than both.

She returned to Ezra and lowered the gift into her lap with both hands, a kind of offering. “Full name or what she’ll go by?” Rio asked softly, still rocking their daughter.

Ezra held the bag like it was sacred. “Full name,” she said, firm, eyes gleaming. “Give me the whole thing.”

Agatha’s voice didn’t waver. “Ayla Raffaela Vidal Harkness.”

Ezra’s face changed in an instant. Her eyes flew wide. Her mouth opened, stunned, before it even formed a word. “You didn’t,” she breathed, already half-laughing, half-crying.

Her hands dove into the bag, peeling back the soft tissue with fingers that were just beginning to tremble. And then she saw it—folded carefully inside. She pulled it free slowly, reverently. A onesie. Cream-colored cotton, impossibly tiny, soft as breath.

Across the chest, stitched in delicate lettering:

Raffaela 2.0

The Niece Edition

Ezra let out a sound—part laugh, part sob—that cracked the quiet wide open. Her hand flew to her mouth as tears welled and broke before she could stop them. “Jesus Christ, are you kidding me…” she whispered, voice barely holding. She didn’t finish.

She just pressed the onesie to her heart and looked—to Rio, to the baby in her arms, to you still tucked against Agatha’s side. Her eyes darted to each of you like she needed to confirm it was real. Like part of her still couldn’t believe she’d just been stitched into this story forever.

Agatha’s voice came again, low and sure. “She already carries all of us.” Her fingers curled gently around your wrist. “But she needed someone to remind her that this family is bigger than blood. That it includes every hand that helped carry us through.”

Ezra wiped her eyes, shaking her head like she was trying to stay upright inside something too big. She turned her gaze back to the baby in Rio’s arms.

“Hi, Raffaela,” she whispered, her voice warm with awe. “You’re gonna wreck us, aren’t you?”

Raffi let out a tiny, sleepy grunt in response—half sigh, half agreement. You swallowed, breath catching again. “Raffi for short,” you murmured, your voice hitching around the syllables like they’d been waiting your whole life to be spoken.

Raffi stirred gently in Rio’s arms, like she knew. Her face scrunched, then settled again, her breath fluttering against Rio’s shirt. Her little fingers curled into the fabric just over her collarbone, holding tight. Claiming it.

Agatha kissed your cheek again, slow and deliberate. You leaned into her like gravity.

Rio smiled through a tear that tracked silently down her cheek, glinting in the low light. She looked down at Raffi again, her voice low, full. “She’s already got you wrapped around her finger, huh?”

Ezra let out a quiet laugh, cracking at the edges again. Her hand stayed pressed over her heart, the tiny onesie still resting in her lap like something too precious to fold.

Then she looked over at you. “I’m gonna go grab your fluids and meds, okay?” she said gently. Her eyes were clear now, her smile steady. “You did beautifully, Mama. I’ll be right back.” You nodded, your throat thick. She stood, giving Raffi one last look, then disappeared into the hallway with the soundless certainty of someone who would always come when called.

And in her absence— You noticed it.

The quiet. The kind of quiet that only comes after. Beyond the windows, the last of the storm had faded. The rain had slowed to mist, the wind gone still. You could see the sheen of wet leaves, the faint glimmer of moonlight breaking through the clouds as if the sky itself had softened.

The storm had passed.

Inside, the hush remained. Raffi lay nestled in Rio’s arms, her face buried in the curve of her mother’s chest. Agatha was pressed against your side, her hand stroking your thigh through the sheet without rhythm—just presence. You leaned into her, your temple resting against her shoulder, and let your eyes close again.

You didn’t need to speak. You didn’t need to move. Everything you loved was here. And in the stillness that followed the storm, in the breath between arrival and tomorrow...

You rested.

------

Let's talk about her name! I always work for things that have meaning. Her initials are A&R, after Agatha and Rio. Raffi means both "Born of three" & "God has healed.” Ayla means “moonlight” What did you think?

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