#ask me if i'm okay go ahead

[rosetta-stoned-bitch]

the fact that taylor not only announced an album called the tortured poets department on grammys which btw resembles the name of group chat in which joe alwyn was in but also dragged a known zionist lana del rey on stage after winning aoty and talked about how she impacted young artists during an ongoing genocide is just not sitting right to me. like, there's already so much hate against joe alwyn who has done nothing but stay silent after all the death threats, god only knows how much it will increase after her new album.

also, the fact that the term poets will be associated with her album rather than dead poets society is just not disappointing

Honestly, I've never cared about Grammys. And while I used to be a swiftie (ik, bleurghhh, everyone makes mistakes at 19, mine just happened to be a white billionaire instead of a boy 🤢), it is now difficult to care about her enough to even hate her.

But the fact that she chooses to stay silent I'm the face of genocide, with allllll this affluence that she's acquired over the years and with no threat to her actual career (let's be fr, who's gonna fire her? She works for herself ffs). And then she brings on stage an actual zionist supporter.... There really is no hope for this punk rock billionaire, at this point I feel bad for her exes.

[poisonedfate]

literally in distress over my job rejecting my availability

[klinefelterrible]

ALSO IF YOU'RE STEALING DOWNLOADING BOOK ONLY TO READ IT, YOU'RE NOT STEALING

The government steals from you, your employer steals from you, you're not a bank robber but you earned to read that sci-fi book that costs $20 and we're talking used paperback in Kolorado on amazon

DOWNLOAD THE FUCK ALL

Spoke to a gen z person the other night and apparently the young folks don't know about the very legal sites from which you can access public domain media (including Dracula, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and other Victorian gothic horror stories)?

Like this young person didn't even know about goddamn Gutenberg which is a SHAME. I linked to it and they went "aw yiss time to do a theft" and I was like "I mean yo ho ho and all that, sure, but. you know gutenberg is entirely legal, right?"

Anyway I'm gonna put this in a few Choice Tags (sorry dracula fans I DID mention it though so it's fair game) and then put some Cool Links in a reblog so this post will still show UP in said tags lmao.

[deathofacupid]

r/ HOW TO BABY-TRAP YOUR FRIENDS-WITH-BENEFITS ROOMMATE!

I'M A BAD MAN, I DO WHAT I CAN! — if you were to ask them, it's not their fault. it's not their fault you're practically a goddess, ethereal, really. the thing is, though, you didn't do relationships, just didn't have a reason to. you'd always preferred the no-strings-attached, the clean simplicity. ah, well, they'll give you a reason.

★ satoru gojo, suguru geto, kento nanami, choso kamo, toji fushiguro, ryomen sukuna.

warnings — well, báby-trápping. obsessive, pathetic, yearning men. pórn following, barely, a plot. áfab!reader. óverstimulatión, dégrading, dúmbification, sqúirting, breedíng. age gaps. chóking, óral (m/f receiving). fíngeríng. dóm!characters. nón-con/dúb-con. use of alćohol. unprótected séx. lying, manipulation. out-of-character, i guess. ...not toji abandoning megumi, just to go off and have another kid. 3.5k+ words!

(呪術廻戦) : note — concept based off of @indiewritesxoxo's work (luv u bae <33), divider credits to @cafekitsune.

★ SATORU GOJO

"oh, c'mon," he coos, a pout framing his lips, but his eyes tell a different story. "jus' wanna feel you. i promise i'll pull out." satoru's hovering above you, tapping his slick, throbbing tip against your clit, sending a jolt of electricity through your core.

"satoru, no," you say, trying to keep your voice steady, but the heat radiating off him is making your resolve crumble. he's right there, so close, and your body is screaming for him.

"baby, i promise," satoru pleads. he pleads. he's pleading. are you supposed to just, like, say no?

you tug your bottom lip between your teeth, arms still wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer. he lowers himself, capturing your mouth in a deep, wet kiss, his tongue exploring your depths with a possessive urgency.

"you have to. you can't cum inside, okay?" you warn, giving in, though your voice is thick with desire. he was clearly adamant about this, refusing to budge. if this was going to go down his way, you'd rather it happen quick.

"yeah, yeah," satoru says, waving you off dismissively, his attention already focused on the prize. the second you give him the go-ahead, he's lining himself up between your thighs, his cock throbbing at your entrance. slowly, deliberately, he pushes himself inside, groaning as he stretches you.

you moan, digging your nails into his back, the sharp sting a welcome sensation. no matter how many times you fuck him, you won't ever get used to his size. satoru fills you completely, the snugness of your wet cunt a tight, hot embrace.

"y— you take me s'good, pretty thing." his voice is gravelly and low, as he looses himself to your wet heat.

the pace increases, his thrusts becoming deeper and harder, each stroke a raw, animalistic possession. you cry out, squeezing your eyes shut, your body arching beneath him.

satoru can feel himself getting closer, can feel the way his abdomen tightens, the telltale signs of his release. you can feel him getting closer too, with the way his thrusts grow shaky, and lose their rhythm.

"ngh, wait," you whimper, it's a lazy thought, on the tip of your tongue, but with the way he's got you all dumbed-down, you can't find the strength to push them out.

"shh," he grunts, pressing sloppy kisses to the side of your neck. "s'fine, just — fuck, we'll get you a plan-b, or s— some shit."

you protest weakly, but it's lost in the wave of pleasure washing over you. it's not like you could do more if you wanted (do you even want to?), because you're climaxing first, convulsing around his cock, sucking him in. he follows soon after, thick ropes of cum flooding you, filling you completely.

and, if he was "getting" you that plan-b tomorrow, anyways, he might as well fuck his seed in deeper, right?

★ SUGURU GETO

the tang of cheap vodka clings to you, the bitterness sharp on his tongue. friday night. finally, a chance to unwind.

"not drinking?" you slur, the buzz already softening the edges of the world for you.

"i did," he breathes, his teeth dragging a wet, sucking trail up the side of your neck. he knows the mark he's leaving will bloom into a dark bruise by morning.

you try to form a coherent question, but the insistent throb between your legs steals your focus, a desperate, undeniable ache for him.

and he has drunk. enough to dull the edges of his conscience, a low hum of justification thrumming beneath his skin. you're practically melting into the couch, head lolling, lips slack and damp, a familiar, flushed heat creeping up your chest. suguru isn't inebriated like you are, but… he's something like that.

so, he isn't doing anything wrong, right?

no, of course not.

you moan, a needy sound that vibrates against his chest, your hands fisting in his shirt, tugging him closer. "f— fuck, just put it in already, suguru, please," you whimper, the words thick with desire and drink. his fingers slide down, parting the wet folds of your vulva, one thumb pressing insistently against your swollen clit.

suguru chuckles, "since you're begging so nicely." the slick, engorged head of his cock, dark red and leaking pre-cum, nudges against your slick entrance, catching on the delicate hood. he isn't in the mood for foreplay, not really. he wants to be buried inside you, now.

besides, it's not like you need it.

with a deliberate slide, he pushes into your tight heat. you gasp, a surprised sound that tightens your grip on him.

your wet cunt clenches around his length, milking him with each involuntary spasm. a guttural groan tears from his throat. your hands tangle in his hair, nails lightly scraping his scalp in that way he fucking loves.

"oh, fuck, princess," he bites out, his voice thick with lust. "easy, you're gonna swallow me whole."

"i— i'm trying," you whimper, your body arching slightly as you try to accommodate the sheer size of him stretching you open.

suguru pauses, giving you a scant second to adjust, his selfishness overriding any real concern for your comfort. he wants you stretched, tight, around his cock.

slowly, he withdraws, not quite all the way, the sudden coolness making you whimper, before thrusting back in, deeper this time. "goddamn, so fucking tight."

you're stretched taut, every muscle in your body clenching around him. his pace quickens, his hips slamming against yours with a wet, smacking sound.

"sugu!" you cry out, your voice raw and breathy. shit, he thinks, his cock throbbing harder, you sound like a fucking angel when you say my name like that.

like it's the only word left in your drunken vocabulary. and with his cock filling you so completely, blurring the edges of your already drunken mind, it probably is.

you cum first, a shuddering wave that rips through your body, your back arching off the couch. moans, wet and desperate, spill from your parted lips — his favorite sound in the world.

he's right behind you, the frantic clenching of your muscles pushing him closer to the edge. he knows he should pull out, the thought flickers through his mind, a habitual safety measure.

but he doesn't.

his orgasm rips through him, a violent shudder that locks his jaw. he comes, deep and hot, his thick, white seed flooding your insides, painting the walls of your cunt.

you're too far gone, too lost in the aftershocks of your own climax and the lingering haze of alcohol, to register the subtle change, the lack of resistance.

and if you aren't saying anything, his mind reasons, why should he?

★ KENTO NANAMI

"shit, darling, you're so tight f'me," kento groans, bucking his hips into you. his breath hitches, a sheen of sweat coating his skin. blonde hair is plastered to his forehead, and he's covered in sticky lipgloss from your mouth.

but, fuck, he's never looked so good.

your eyes hit the back of your head, tears trailing down your cheeks, and he kisses them away.

his pace is cruel, heavy balls hitting your ass, with every thrust. "k— ken," you whimper, stretching out his name. he doesn't miss, not even a goddamn millimeter, that thick, insistent head slamming directly into your sweet spot with every vicious grind of his hips.

kento's on the edge of sanity. this is pure, unadulterated bliss. this is how it's meant to be – your slick heat engulfing him completely, no flimsy rubber barrier between.

he wants to bury himself so deep he hits bone, to feel those tight, wet walls clench and spasm around his cock until he fucking explodes. and the knowledge that he's the only son of a bitch who can make you come undone like this?

it's a goddamn aphrodisiac.

you're stretched wide, impaled, filled so completely it feels like you might tear. your slick little cunt is working overtime, desperately trying to accommodate his thick length and the violent force of his thrusts. his slams are sloppy, given an impending release.

"do you— do you even know what you do to me?" he asks, and you think it's rhetorical. not that you could in answer, save for anything but nonsensical babbles.

he's surprised he's even made it this long, raw in you, without cumming already. you're like a little toy for kento, utterly helpless and deliciously broken beneath him, and the sight of it — your flushed skin, your parted lips, the way your body bucks and trembles — sends a fresh wave of white-hot lust surging through him.

beautiful, that would be his choice word. gorgeous. heavenly. a taste of gold, honey-sweet on his tongue. and, that taste? incredibly deep, to the point where the world itself lost richness.

"please, ah, please," you whine, unsure, yourself, what you're asking for. less? more? either way, he doesn't give you much of a choice, his thick, throbbing cock continuing its relentless, brutal assault on your soaked, aching pussy.

he grips the headboard so hard his knuckles are stark white, the old wood groaning and splintering under his white-knuckled grip. oh, fucking christ.

what have you done to him? how in the goddamn hell is he ever going to go back to vanilla, wrapped-up sex after this primal, skin-on-skin connection?

"c— cum inside," you moan, wrapping your legs around his waist.

his heart stops, he swears it. he wasn't expecting you to say that, not at all. he's driving his cock into you with a brutal, bone-jarring speed that he knows will leave you deliciously sore and gloriously immobile for days. "fuck, yeah? you want that?"

"yeah, yeah, i'm— i'm on the pill," you gasp, the words a breathless, desperate affirmation.

and, well, who is he to deny the love of his life? you were on a pill, after all. it just wasn't what you thought it was. on the bright side, his switcheroo left you with a good intake of vitamin d.

★ CHOSO KAMO

choso's not thinking about it, not really. not when you're riding him like this, your wet heat gripping him, squeezing him dry. especially not when he feels you clench around his cock, those little spasms that make his vision blur.

he'd tried the nice way, the pathetic puppy-dog eyes. begged you to just skip the rubber this once. but you were firm, always so fucking responsible. "condom, choso." like it was a goddamn negotiation.

so, if you trace it back, this isn't on him. those pinprick holes in the wrapper of the condom? definitely not him. nope, not a chance.

he's not thinking about it because in his head, it's already done. it's a family, right? that's the end goal. just you and him, and a couple of little ones running around. twins.

he pictures it sometimes, a little girl with your stubborn streak, a boy with his quiet intensity. he'd love them both, messy and loud and his.

his family. the thought slams into him as you grind down, your slick folds rubbing against him. he's not even fully inside his head anymore, just the raw, animal urge.

you'd be a fucking incredible mother, he knows it. the way you care for that stupid houseplant, the way you fuss over him when he's got a headache.

choso's breath hitches, his fingers digging into the slick skin of your waist, holding on for dear life. your tits bounce with each ride, nipples hard and pink, your head thrown back, a guttural moan escaping your throat.

nothing. nothing beats this. "fuck," he grunts, eyes rolling back in his head. he's lost track of time, of everything but the wet friction, the desperate clench of your muscles. "don't fucking stop," he begs, his voice thick and rough.

"'m not gonna," you pant, your hips bucking against his rhythm.

choso grips your thighs tighter, like if he loosens his hold, you'll vanish. "shit… i think… fuck, i'm close."

"cho— oh, god, me too!" just as your orgasm hits, that tight, shuddering squeeze, he flips you over, his heavy body looming above you.

he keeps fucking you, driving deep as your cries turn into whimpers, your body convulsing around his cock. you're slick with sweat and tears, overstimulated, trying to push him off, but he just keeps pounding.

tears spill down your temples, soaking into the pillow. another sob rips from your throat. good. more wetness. more of him going in. you feel another knot building. works for him, he'll plant his seed deep, twice the load now.

he already loves you. this is his clumsy, fucked-up way of showing it. of making you his. you'll understand, someday.

★ TOJI FUSHIGURO

"there aren't any left," toji shrugs, gesturing with a lazy flick of his wrist towards the empty drawer.

"what the fuck do you mean, 'none left'?" you ask, your brow furrowing. "i swear i just bought a new box!"

he clicks his tongue, a familiar sound of his nonchalance. "gone. nada. zip."

"no, but— there can't be none. what about your wallet? you used to carry a bunch around everywhere, right?"

"don't need to anymore, do i? got you now, ma," he grins, a flash of something predatory in his eyes, followed by a low chuckle that rumbles in his chest.

"look at that. slut reformed," you scoff, though a hint of a smile plays on your lips. "well, then, go take a cold shower."

"what?" he groans, the sound laced with genuine displeasure. "c'mon, just let me—"

"absolutely fucking not. there's no way in hell i'm letting you hit it raw."

"it's just sex, though," he argues, a petulant edge to his voice.

"yeah, sure, 'just sex' — unprotected — that'll leave you knee-deep in diapers," you mutter, rolling your eyes.

"wouldn't be the worst thing," he mumbles, the words a low rumble just beneath your ear.

"what'd you say?" you ask, shifting on his lap, your position suddenly more precarious. his hands tighten on your waist, anchoring you there.

"nothin'. doll, i'll make it worth your goddamn while," he says, his voice dropping to a husky drawl that sends a shiver down your spine.

"no," you say, a weak protest as you try to squirm away, the heat suddenly rising between your thighs. "i'm serious, toji."

"i'm dead serious, too, sweetheart. i know you're soaked for me," he teases, his fingers digging slightly into your hips, a possessive and undeniably tantalizing move.

"toji," you whine, your voice losing some of its firmness, "go get condoms, and then—"

"tch. ain't got the patience for that shit right now."

"there's a gas station, like, a block away, if your dick's about to explode."

"or, you just sit back, spread those pretty legs, and let the pill do its damn job."

"no. it's not one-hundred percent, you idiot."

"for fuck's sake," he grumbles, the playful tone vanishing as he suddenly flips you over with strength, pinning your wrists above your head against the mattress.

"toji!" you gasp, a mix of surprise and a thrill you don't want to admit. "foul play, you bastard. foul game."

his thick head nudges against your slick folds, a wet, insistent pressure that makes you suck in a sharp breath. "don't think your pretty little head too much about it," he growls, his voice full with lust.

he shoves into you, a raw, stretching sensation that makes you cry out. "fucking… ahhh," he groans, the lone sound primal.

"s— shit!" you cry, your hips bucking involuntarily as you try to accommodate his size. the sheets twist beneath you as you writhe, the initial discomfort quickly morphing into a desperate, needy ache. coherent thoughts dissolve, replaced by the overwhelming sensation of him filling you completely.

he feels thicker, rougher, more. every thrust is deeper, more insistent, and the friction ignites a fire in your core. when he finally comes, it's a guttural sound ripped from his throat, his body shuddering against yours as he spills his seed deep inside.

as for the full box of condoms, he'll just make sure he takes out the trash, before you get to it.

★ RYOMEN SUKUNA

funny as fuck, he thinks, watching the way your breath hitches, how your eyes are already glazed over with lust and exhaustion. he hasn't even started yet, and you're practically begging. a slow, cruel smile spreads across his face as he takes in the flushed heat creeping up your neck. his own cock throbs, anticipating the tight squeeze.

"you look good like that," he informs you, his voice a low, gravelly purr, his gaze raking over your exposed skin. "all undone for me."

"'kuna," you whine again, a desperate sound that barely forms a word. you lift your hips off the bed, a small, frantic movement that screams for release.

he's right there, the hard ridge of his cock pressing against your slick walls, but he remains frustratingly still, savoring your desperation.

he reaches out, his knuckles grazing your damp cheek, a possessive, almost taunting touch. he watches the way your pupils dilate, the frantic pulse in your throat. he enjoys this, the power he holds in this moment.

finally, with a sigh that sounds almost bored, he decides to grant your silent plea. he braces his hands on either side of your head and thrusts into you, a deep, forceful slide that makes you gasp.

you're so tight, so wet, and for a fleeting second, the intensity of your grip makes him think he might just lose it right there.

"shit, brat," he grits out, his breath hot against your ear. "can feel you milking me already. fucking needy, aren't you?" he pauses, letting you writhe beneath him. "beg for it."

"i— please, 'kuna… fuck…" your words are broken, barely coherent.

his hand drops lower, his fingers splaying across your throat, his thumb pressing just hard enough to restrict your breathing, a subtle reminder of his control.

his other hand clamps possessively onto your breast, his thumb and forefinger pinching your nipple through the thin fabric, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from you. your head thrashes against the pillow, a choked sound rising in your throat, a mixture of pain and pleasure.

with each deliberate, grinding thrust into your slick cunt, he feels the knot in his gut tighten, the edge drawing closer. he can feel you too, the frantic clenching of your inner muscles mirroring his own rising tension. your nails dig into his shoulders, your body arching with each deep stroke.

just as his senses overload, just as his control threatens to shatter, he pulls out with a harsh sound, the slick head of his cock glistening in the dim light.

he snatches the condom, ripping it off with a swift, almost violent motion. your eyes fly open, confusion and a flicker of protest in their depths. but before you can utter a word, he slams back into you, burying himself even deeper, raw and unprotected.

he feels the shudder rip through his body, his jaw clenching as he orgasms. he's cumming, hot and thick, flooding your insides, marking you in a way that goes beyond the physical.

he feels the desperate contractions of your own climax still gripping him, a final, exquisite torture.

he collapses against you, his weight heavy, his breath ragged. he can feel the slick warmth of his seed mingling with your own wetness. he doesn't say a word, doesn't need to.

the act itself is his declaration. you're his now, in a way you can't deny. and there's not a goddamn thing you can do about it.

❛ all works belong to deathofacupid, do not steal/plagiarize/repost. ❜

[marvelstoriesepic]

Different, this time

Pairing: Fuck buddy!Bucky x Reader

Summary: After the hospital visit and the doctor’s diagnosis, Bucky is plagued with guilt. He won’t touch you again until he is absolutely sure that you’re okay. Once you manage to reassure him, you both discover what it truly means to make love, rather than just fucking with suppressed feelings. And it’s overwhelming in the best way.

Word Count: 10.3k

Warnings: (18+) explicit sexual content, mdni; sickly sweet smut; oral (f receiving); fingering; soft aftercare; mentions of physical pain during sex (past); mentions of cervical bruising; slight mentions of medical scenes; panic attacks (graphic and mentioned); guilt; emotional distress; crying; themes of healing and emotional vulnerability; sad!Bucky; panicked!Bucky; sweetheart!Bucky; lots and lots of worried!Bucky

Author’s Note: Help, I might have ruined myself for any other real man with this. Y’all, this is my first time writing smut, so please be kind!! But I'm not gonna lie, I genuinely loved writing this. Soo I guess, this won’t be the last time you'll have me sharing some smut!! To make things clear, this is the second part to In too deep!! Btw, I was a bit nervous about whether I’d be able to get back into writing longer fics so smoothly, after the 2k drabble challenge, but I’d say I’ve managed lmao. I hope you enjoy ♡

Part One

Masterlist

The car is too quiet.

Outside, the streetlights flicker as if they’re forgetting how to glow.

You are in the passenger seat, watching the world blur past in smudges of gold and grey, your hands folded in your lap, afraid of what they might do if left unsupervised.

The car makes a soft and steady sound beneath you but everything inside feels tight. Too tight.

Like a breath, you haven’t taken.

Bucky hasn’t said a word since you left the hospital.

His knuckles are white on the steering wheel. White like fear. White like bone. White like guilt.

You glance over at him.

He’s staring straight ahead, eyes fixed, unmoving. His jaw is locked so tightly it looks like pain. There is a muscle twitching beneath the skin. Just beneath the hinge of his jaw, like something trying to break free.

The dashboard casts its pale light against his side profile. The soft stutter of passing streetlamps blink shadows across his hardened face.

You try to speak softly. “Bucky-”

“You sure you’re okay?” he interrupts, fast. Too fast. His voice is low but cracked, words splintering on their way out.

You nod before you realize he’s not looking. “Yes,” you say, slower. “I’m sure.” He’s asked about fifteen times in the last twenty minutes. But you think it actually should be you asking him.

The doctor told you that it was a cervical contusion in that although soft but clipped and clinical tone. Said that the bleeding would stop, that the pain would ease, that you were going to be fine - physically.

And the way Bucky flinched after that suggested he was perhaps doing worse than you.

He’s asked a few questions, asked how to treat it, asked what you might need, asked what he can do, but his voice was rough and close to giving out. He sat beside you in that too-white room, hands clenched in his lap, jaw locked as though he could grind down the guilt if he just kept his teeth pressed hard enough. He kept looking at your legs, at the blanket they gave you, as though he was waiting for the blood to start flowing again. As though he’d never trust your body not to break under him.

He listened when your doctor explained that it was moderate, but healing and there would be no lasting damage. You should just give it time and be gentle.

But Bucky didn’t hear healing.

He only heard damage.

He hadn’t said anything after that anymore. Just nodded, once. Swallowed hard. Signed the papers with a hand that shook so violently you had to cover it with yours.

You watch him now, his breath thinning.

“Buck,” you ease softly. “I’m okay. She said it’s healing, alright? I’ll be fine.”

Bucky shakes his head once. Sharp. A slice through the silence. “She said it could’ve been worse. That it could’ve-” He swallows loud, and doesn’t finish the sentence.

“But it’s not,” you remind him gently, almost wanting to reach out but not knowing if he needs that right now.

But Bucky doesn’t answer.

Then, you do reach for his arm, tenderly. Fingers brushing over his sleeve. But he flinches. Not from you. From himself. From the memory.

“Buck-”

“I should’ve noticed,” he snaps, and his voice breaks. Just a little. A fracture, clean through. “You said yes. You always say yes, and I- I should’ve seen it- I should’ve fucking known-”

His foot slips heavier on the gas.

The lane lines start to blur.

“Bucky,” you say again, firmer.

But he doesn’t answer.

His eyes dart from the windshield to the mirrors, unfocused. His shoulders have hiked up around his ears. His left hand twitches, his right one follows, tapping the wheel with restless, erratic beats.

His breathing is shallow. Too fast.

You can feel the swell of something too big inside him, pressing against his ribs, rising like floodwater. His grip on the wheel has gone rigid, too stiff for control. His shoulders are locking up.

“Bucky-”

His chest heaves harshly.

He blinks - once, twice - too slow.

His jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle fluttering beneath his skin. His breath is sharp, teeth grinding as he sucks in through his nose and lets it out in gasps through his mouth.

“I hurt you,” he croaks, voice undone, shredded. “I fucking hurt you- I was inside you- I didn’t even see-”

The wheel jerks. Just for a second. Enough to drift too close to the lane line.

You shoot forward in your seat. Alarm ringing in your ears.

“I-” he gasps, blinking fast. “Y/n, I can’t- I can’t- I didn’t mean- I didn’t mean to-”

Reaching over to grab the wheel, you wrap your hands about Bucky’s, forcing it steady.

“Okay, okay, I got it. I’ve got you, baby. But we have to pull over.”

Bucky is trembling now. Hands frozen. Breath ragged. A bead of sweat rolls down the side of his face, catching the glow of a red traffic light.

You guide the car gently to the side, one hand over his as you steer, the other flicking on the hazards, keeping your voice and your movements calm for the sake of Bucky’s rising panic attack even as your heart thunders in your chest.

Bucky brakes too hard and too fast, the tires stuttering on the asphalt as though they are afraid of where he’ll go if they don’t stop him. The moment the engine falls quiet, the silence screams.

And Bucky falls apart.

His head drops forward. Hands over his eyes. Whole body shaking.

He’s still in the driver’s seat but he’s not in his body. His breathing is wild. His chest is heaving in sharp and panicked pulls and you realize he’s trying to get in air but can’t. His left hand is rashly fumbling for the door handle to keep himself tethered.

“Bucky,” you whisper, already unbuckling your seat belt. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m here.”

But he doesn’t hear you. He is stuck in some dark, echoing place inside himself and it won’t let him out.

Without hesitation, you move over the console and climb into his lap, settling gently on his thighs, facing him, your knees pressed into the edges of the seat.

Your hands come to his face, cradling it carefully - thumbs brushing over the hollow beneath his eyes, the flushed heat of his cheeks. His skin is clammy, cold.

He still can’t breathe.

You press your forehead to his. Anchor him.

His eyes squeeze together tightly.

“Hey, hey. Look at me, Buck. It’s okay. I’m okay.”

He shakes his head, choking out words you can’t make out because they all end up in a sob.

“James,” you start, and this time your voice is different. This is the sound you make when you’re scared and concerned and you need him to come back. “James. Breathe with me. You’re here with me. We’re okay.”

He shakes his head again, but it’s jerky, frantic.

“I hurt you,” he whimpers. “I hurt you. I should’ve known. I should’ve stopped-”

“No, no. Stop. Listen to me,” you whisper, voice low, brushing his tear-damp hair back from his face. “You checked in on me and I told you I was okay. I said I was fine. You trusted me, Bucky. That’s not your fault.”

He’s still trembling. Still trying to outrun the guilt in his lungs.

But you don’t move. You stroke his hair back, kiss his temples, his forehead, his nose.

His eyes finally meet yours. They are wide and wet and red, brimming with horror. He looks as though he wants to disappear inside himself.

You keep hold of his face, brushing tears away so tenderly. “It was my body. My voice. You didn’t know, and I didn’t tell you. That’s not on you. You never hurt me on purpose. I need you to hear that, Bucky.”

His chest heaves once, twice, then breaks apart with a cry. He pulls you closer, buries his face in your neck. His arms wrap around you like a man drowning.

“I’m sorry,” he sniffs again and again. “I’m so sorry.”

You close your eyes and run your fingers through his hair, slow and grounding.

“I know,” you whisper back. “I know you are. But you don’t have to be. I just need you here with me. Right now. Just breathe, Buck.”

And you guide him through it. Deep breathes. In and out. He follows.

And you hold him. As though he’s the one who’s breakable now.

****

You’ve never known silence like this.

Not the kind that’s empty. Not the kind that comes after slamming doors and burnt-out candles and sharp things unsaid. No, this silence is soft. Living. It seeps into your lungs and expands with each inhale, as though it wants to make space for something new.

Bucky is in the kitchen, stirring a spoon through a mug of tea as though it’s the most important thing in the world.

You’re sitting on his couch, knees tucked to your chest, wrapped in one of his henleys that hangs too big on you in all the right places. It’s quiet in your head for the first time in what feels like weeks.

The sky outside has folded into a kind of blue that feels more like velvet than color. The windows are cracked open, the summer breeze floating in, lazy and gold-edged, breathing over your skin like a whisper of someone who never learned to shout.

You’ve been here since late afternoon.

And everything smells like home at his place. Like Bucky. Cedar and cotton and chamomile. There’s a ticking of the wall clock he always pretends not to hate. Next to you lay the neatly folded blanket Bucky always pulls onto your lap when the AC kicks in too high.

Bucky brings you the tea like he always does and doesn’t let go of the mug until he’s sure your fingers are steady around it.

Then he sits down beside you, careful and close. His arm brushes yours and then he pulls back as though even that was too much. His eyes search yours. They always do now. As if he’s checking the weather behind your gaze before he says anything.

“You feelin’ okay?” he asks, voice rough. He probably hasn’t spoken all day before you came over.

You nod, and it’s mostly true. “I’m okay,” you say softly. “I promise.”

The TV is playing something you’re only half-watching, some indie movie with subtitles and sad music.

Bucky lets his arm drape behind your shoulders, over the back of the couch and you hear his fingers tracing the stitches in the seam of the couch. His gaze drifts to the TV but you know he’s not really watching. His eyes flick across the screen but his mind is somewhere else still. You don’t have to guess where.

That weight, that guilt, hasn’t let up.

And it’s not just the incident itself - it’s the panic he spiraled into afterward, the way you had to calm him down when you were the one who had been in pain. That’s what sits the heaviest on him, you think. That you comforted him, wrapped your arms around his trembling frame, and whispered soothing reassurances while your body was still in fresh pain.

You watch the line of his profile, the glimmer of the screen painting shadows beneath his cheekbone. He hasn’t shaved in a few days, and there is a softness in his eyes that wasn’t there when you were only fuck buddies.

You’ve talked a lot. About everything. The incident. The aftermath. Your relationship. About what it all means and what it doesn’t, about what you both want and what you both fear. The hard words are behind you now, sorted and softened. And you’re not just his maybe anymore. You’re his. Official. Quietly, fully.

And still, he treats you as though you might not be. As though you’re a snowflake he caught in his hands and he’s afraid to close his fingers.

He’s still scared. Scared of doing something wrong. Scared of missing something again. Scared of hurting you again. You feel it in the way he touches you now - fingertips like feathers on your skin, always asking with and without words if you’re okay. Always watching, always listening.

He treats you like glass now. But glass that’s already cracked.

And you’ve tried to tell him again and again that you’re fine.

But Bucky has always been hard on himself. Especially when it comes to you and your well-being.

His fingers brush your shin slightly and the contact strikes, heat blooming low in your stomach.

You shift closer and Bucky’s attention snaps to you. He watches you move, his gaze dropping briefly to your lips and then darting back up, catching himself. You’re not sure if it’s nerves or habit, that reflex to hesitate.

But he’s been hesitating for weeks.

Weeks of healing. Weeks of slow walks and softer kisses and quieter touches.

You haven’t had sex since.

You wanted to. You were ready. But Bucky wanted to wait. To be sure. To be careful. To do it right this time.

And you let him. You let him wrap you in all that caution and care. Let him fuss and hover and bring you your favorite snacks, let him hold you through the night without reaching for anything more than the sound of your breathing against his chest. You let him because it’s what he needed.

But you are fine now.

Your body doesn’t ache anymore. You’ve healed. Fully. You know this because you’ve checked. Alone. With your fingers and your breath and the soft test of space. And you’ve told him, more than once. But Bucky is stubborn with his guilt, protective.

So you’ve waited. Because you love him.

But you notice the way Bucky keeps glancing at you, his eyes catching on your thighs, the shape of your mouth, the way his shirt hangs loose on your frame every time you wear it.

You notice it right now.

Moving your feet, you place them right on Bucky’s lap and feel the shift in his thigh muscle beneath you. The way his hand on your shin stills, the way the hand behind your shoulders drifts closer, then stops, fingers curling as though they’ve touched a flame.

“Movie’s boring,” you murmur, leaning your head on his shoulder, voice lazy with comfort.

He chuckles, a little breathless, a little nervous, low in his chest. “Didn’t even know what it was.”

His eyes catch yours. He’s looking at you as though you’ve said something profound.

Your hand slips up to cup his cheek, your thumb sweeping gently across the faint stubble there. His eyes flutter shut for a moment, as though your touch still startles him, still humbles him.

“Hi,” you whisper.

He swallows. Opens his eyes. Immediately, they drop to your mouth. Then back to your eyes. And again.

“Hi,” he breathes.

You lean in first.

The kiss is gentle. Familiar. Something well-loved.

He tastes of cinnamon and hesitation. He kisses you with a kind of slowness that seems almost like another apology, another question if you’re okay.

His hand finds your waist, the other brushes the back of your neck, and they hold you so carefully you want to cry. You press closer. Push into the kiss. Let it deepen.

And for a moment, with a soft groan, he lets go.

His grip tightens. His mouth opens. His body leans into yours, chest brushing chest, thighs pressing close.

His mouth moves with yours as though it remembers exactly where it left off. Deep. Thoughtful.

You sigh against him. The movie flickers behind your closed eyelids.

Your name escapes him in a breath, his hands tighten a fraction, shaking slightly. His breath stutters, the kiss deepens, and suddenly he’s pulling away.

His brows are furrowed and he looks at you slightly panting. “What are you doing?” he asks, cautious, worried.

You blink, lips swollen, a little dazed. You answer with a small, amused tilt of your head. “I’m kissing my boyfriend.”

He flushes visibly, face burning red, but he doesn’t smile, and that line between his brows doesn’t ease. His jaw flexes. “I just- I know we’ve talked,” he starts, voice hushed, breathy. “And you say you’re okay, but I just don’t wanna rush this. You know? I don’t want to push you. Or hurt you. Or do this just because I’m-”

He shifts slightly, adjusting himself. The movement reveals the hardening outline of him in his sweatpants.

“I’m not rushing, Buck. We-”

“I am though. I didn’t mean to- but it got kinda- fast, and-” He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. His voice is tight now. “I just need to be sure, doll. I need to know you’re okay. Completely.”

You press your forehead to his, arms slipping around his neck. Your voice is a soft brush. “I am okay. Really. It’s been weeks, Bucky. Everything’s healed. The doctor said it. I said it. And I’m telling you again.”

He swallows. You feel it. That pulse in his throat working hard to steady itself. He looks at you, hard. Searching. Maybe trying to see inside you.

“I just… I don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything.” A rough tremor runs through his voice.

“I don’t,” you ease quickly, shaking your head. “I want this, Bucky. And I’ve been listening to my body. I’m okay.” Leaning down, you kiss his jaw, just below his ear. He shivers. “And I trust you.”

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. His voice is thick, strained. “Still. I don’t wanna rush you. Not if there’s even a part of you that’s unsure. I mean- hell, what if- what if something hurts again? I couldn’t-”

You stop him gently with a hand to his chest. “Then we stop. Just like that. And we talk. Just like we’ve been doing.”

He stares at you for a moment. And you can see how words pool behind his eyes but don’t make it to his lips.

“Okay,” he whispers then, voice coarse. “Okay. Just… don’t want you to ever feel like you have to fix me by doing this. Don’t wanna take something from you just because I’ve got issues.”

“Hey.” You shake your head, fingers in his hair now. “That’s not what this is. I want this. I want you.”

He groans, quiet and exposed, tilting his head back against the cushion. His hands grip your hips. He’s flushed, already half-hard against your thigh and visibly trying to hide it.

You smirk a little. “Let me help with that.”

His eyes widen. “Doll-”

“I feel fine, baby,” you repeat, patient, but smiling. “I promise.”

“I’m not gonna let you do something just for me.” A rasp in his voice makes his words sound slightly scratchy.

You tilt your head. “Then maybe it’s for me. Ever think of that?”

He groans softly, hands squeezing you. “I’m trying to do the right thing-”

“Then let me show you I’m okay,” you state warmly.

His eyes close. A beat. Two. Three. He breathes out, slow.

You grin, your hands tracing circles over his chest. “I’m healed. I’m ready. You’re my boyfriend. What’s the problem here?”

He laughs something broken, something between admiration and disbelief. Then he sighs, eyes soft.

“You’re really okay?”

“I am.”

Pressing a tender kiss to your temple, he whispers into your ear, voice gravel. “We’ll go slow, yeah? Real slow. And you tell me if anything hurts, or if you’re uncomfortable.”

You nod immediately and brush his cheek lovingly and soothingly at the pain that’s still lingering in the corners of his voice. “I promise.”

****

He doesn’t rush.

He doesn’t dare.

Bucky lays you down as though you’re something he’s never been allowed to hold before - as if someone plucked the stars from the sky, wrapped them in silk, and gave them to him with a whispered don’t drop this.

It’s not rushed. It’s not eager. It’s not even lustful, not exactly.

It’s love. In slow motion. In devotion. In the way he arranges your body like a painting.

The cotton sheets are warm beneath you. Bucky kneels beside you, hovering, breathing slow and tight through his nose.

His hand cups your face. And he’s looking at you as though you are light. A glowing and living thing that he’s afraid to reach for too fast, he’s afraid of casting shadows on.

His gaze is soft and dark and unblinking. You can feel how full it is, how heavy. And it warms you. Like honey across your skin. Like sunrise slowly coming alive.

You smile up at him. “Bucky.” His name sounds like an invitation. Open. Safe. As though it belongs between your lips.

“I’m here,” he says, hardly a whisper. “You sure?” he asks, his voice low. Throaty. Careful. His thumb strokes your cheek as though it’s still asking.

You nod. But it’s not enough, so you pull him closer. Whisper against his mouth. “I want you.” A breath. “I trust you.”

He exhales all at once, and it comes out as a shiver.

After a pause, he leans down, kisses your forehead first. Then the top of your nose. Then, back to your mouth - and it’s gentle. It’s so gentle. As though he’s practicing reverence. Reminding himself you’re real.

“Tell me everything,” he murmurs. His hand on your cheek, your waist, your thigh. “I wanna know what feels good. What doesn’t. I want to hear every sound you make. I want to see your face every second. I wanna be right here with you, baby. Every second. You don’t gotta be quiet with me. Not ever.”

You nod, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. Because this is love in a language that isn’t words.

And he’s fluent in it. Fluent in you.

His fingers slide up the hem of the shirt you’re wearing - his shirt. And he pauses again.

“Can I take this off?” His voice is low. Strained. Still asking. Still making space.

You nod again. “Please.”

He swallows. You feel the tremble in his hands as he lifts the fabric slowly, cautiously, peeling away something important. He watches your face the whole time. Checks for flinches. For hesitation. For any sign that you might change your mind.

You lift your arms for him, and he helps you out of it without ever breaking eye contact.

And suddenly your chest is bare.

And Bucky hasn’t looked away from your face.

You almost laugh. Maybe you even almost cry. He’s so careful. As though he genuinely wants to memorize your expression with every inch of skin he reveals.

Only after a beat - when you don’t hide, don’t shift away - do his eyes begin to travel downward.

You watch him watching you. And it’s not hunger you see. It’s awe.

He seems to see you in full color and it makes your skin prickle with pleasurable heat.

His fingers trail down your sides, featherlight. Your ribs. Your hips. He touches you as though he’s learning you all over again.

Then his thumb glides up to brush the underside of your breast. You feel him exhale through his nose, shaky.

“God,” he whispers, rolling the words out with care. “You’re so beautiful.”

You don’t say anything. Just reach up, tangle your fingers in his hair. Pull him down to kiss you again, slow and long and open.

And he melts.

He moves over you, between your legs, still careful, still holding most of his weight off you. And he takes his time kissing you, your lips, until his mouth follows the path of his hands. Trailing across your collarbone, down to the softest parts of you. Every kiss is a question. Every breath against your skin is a vow.

When he reaches your stomach, he pauses again. Resting his forehead there like a man at prayer.

He takes another shaky breath and you soothe your hands over his dark locks, treading your fingers into his hair. Your thumb traces the back of his neck, bringing him back to the present.

He exhales. It sounds like surrender. “You gotta know how much I love you, baby.”

You do. You’ve known it since that day those few weeks ago. You know it by the way he moves. By the way he treats you. By the way he touches you. By the way he doesn’t rush.

“I love you too, Buck,” you whisper sweetly and his breath is broken against your skin.

He presses a kiss to your hipbone. Then lower.

His hands are back at your thighs now - sliding under, lifting gently. He kisses the inside of your knee, then the soft skin just above it, his breath trembling.

“You’ll tell me if anything doesn’t feel right,” he says, looking up but not taking his lips off your skin.

“I will,” you promise, getting breathless already.

“And if you want to stop-”

“I’ll tell you,” you assure him, softly, firmly.

He nods.

Then he leans forward and lays a kiss over your pubic bone. So worshipful. So loving.

You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until his fingers ghost over the waistband of your underwear - and stop there.

“Still okay?” he breathes, so quiet, it almost doesn’t make it out of his mouth. But it carries so much. Every syllable wrapped in worry, wrapped in memory. He’s still afraid something will crack open inside you if he touches the wrong place, the wrong way.

You nod.

But that’s not enough.

“Say it,” he whispers, and there’s a tremor in his voice again. “I need to hear you say it.”

You reach for him. Take his face in your hands, thumbs brushing over the apples of his cheeks. His skin is warm, flushed. His eyes are already glassy.

“I’m okay, baby,” you whisper, your voice soft but sure. “I want you to do this.”

With a pained exhaled sound and fluttering lashes, he nods and goes to kiss your thigh again. Then the dip of your hip. Then right beside the soft curve of your center. You feel the warm puff of his breath against the fabric and it makes your hips twitch.

And then he hooks his fingers beneath the waistband of your panties and pulls them down. Slowly. Unwrapping something too precious to tear.

He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t let his gaze wander greedily. He watches your face, every second of it - watching for hesitation, for discomfort, for pain. But all you give him is anticipation.

When the fabric slips down your thighs, past your knees, and finally off the ends of your toes, he sets it aside so carefully it almost makes you laugh. As though it’s something important.

Then he settles between your legs again. And he just looks.

He drinks in the sight of you, as though he’s parched. As though you’re the first drop of water he’s seen in weeks. His tongue darts out, barely wetting his lips. His hands spread your thighs wider, gently. Tenderly. As though he’s parting pages in a sacred text.

“You’re so-” he swallows. “Jesus, you’re-”

But he doesn’t finish.

He lowers his mouth to you instead.

The first kiss between your legs is featherlight. Half a breath. But it makes your whole body arch, your breath stutter.

Bucky groans softly into you - a sound of both restraint and desperate, helpless desire.

“Sorry,” you pant, chest rising too fast. “I didn’t-”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” he rasps, voice dark with awe. “God, that was- do it again.”

And you do. You can’t help it.

He licks you again - slower this time. Broader. Firmer. His lips move with practice, but not routine. There’s nothing careless about the way he touches you. Every movement is deliberate. As though he’s re-learning you. Learning how you feel like being his. Utterly and completely. Studying the way your body blooms beneath his mouth.

And he keeps checking in.

He doesn’t ask again with words. He does it with his eyes, every time he lifts his gaze to yours. He does it with his hand, the way he curls his fingers around your hip but doesn’t grip, the way he strokes his thumb along your skin in circles, grounding you. The way he takes hold of your hand with his other, encouraging you to squeeze him in your pleasure.

You moan. Soft and breathy.

And Bucky’s whole body reacts - you can see it in the way his hips shift against the mattress, the way he groans into you as though your pleasure is his own.

And he’s holding himself back, still. You can see it in the tight line of his shoulders, the way his hand shakes a little as it holds your thighs open. He’s painfully hard. You can feel the heat of it, see the outline pressing into the sheets, but he doesn’t move to relieve it.

Because this moment is for you.

This is your healing, your pleasure, your gift.

And god, does he worship you.

He takes his time.

He kisses you between licks, soft and open-mouthed, as though he can’t decide whether he wants to devour you or just memorize you. His tongue moves in slow, perfect circles. Then strokes up. Down. Gentle flicks, patient and watchful. Never too much, never too fast.

He listens. Learns.

Every time your breath catches, every time your hips twitch and your fingers tighten against his hand and the sheets, he adjusts. Builds on it. Builds you.

“Tell me what feels good,” he breathes against you.

“Everything,” you gasp, struggling to take in air.

“Yeah?” He kisses your clit once, then again, light and tender. “Right here?”

You nod, too dizzy to speak, sighing softly.

He hums into you. “So good, baby. You’re doing so good.”

Your hands reach down, weaving through his hair and he groans when you pull just slightly.

He’s hard and leaking and untouched, but he still doesn’t seem to care. You’re shaking beneath his mouth and that’s all he needs.

“Bucky,” you whimper, high and trembling. “I’m- close-”

“I’ve got you,” he utters, fingers tightening just slightly on your hips. “I’ve got you, baby. Let go for me.”

And you do. You let yourself fall.

Gasping, shaking, your thighs clenching around his head and Bucky holds you through it. He stays there, mouth softening against you, kissing you through every aftershock. You don’t see him watching you. Slowing his movements. Letting you come down in your own time.

And when he finally comes up, his lips are wet and his eyes wild with wonder.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod. Voice gone. Words gone. Heart full.

And all he does is smile. The softest smile in the world.

You continue trembling when he climbs up your body again.

His hands frame your ribs, then your face, then your hair - as if he can’t decide which part of you he wants to hold first. His mouth is damp from you. His pupils are blown. But even with the flush of his skin, the pulse in his throat, the strain pressing hard against his boxers - he doesn’t rush.

He doesn’t even reach for himself yet.

He’s just looking at you. As though you’re art. His. And he’s still trying to build sense around that.

You lift a hand to his face. Trace his cheekbone, his brow, and he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering.

“Your turn,” you whisper.

Uncertainty flashes through his eyes. “Only if you’re sure. We can stop here, baby.”

You smile warmly. “I’m aching for you, Barnes. Can’t leave me hanging here.”

His throat bobs. His cheeks burn deeper, as though you’ve spoken something too tender, too vulnerable.

But he nods.

And slowly, Bucky rises to his knees.

His fingers go to the hem of his shirt and you watch the fabric lift over his stomach, up his ribs, his chest, and then finally over his head.

And it never gets easier seeing him like this.

He’s stunning.

He is solid and sculptured and beautiful. His shoulders broad and corded with muscle, his waist lean, his skin golden in the soft bedroom light.

And still, he looks at you as if you are the masterpiece.

He hisses softly, when he frees himself out of his boxers, hard and heavy and flushed dark at the tip. He’s leaking, aching, but even now he doesn’t let that take over.

He braces above you, forehead pressed to yours, one hand sliding down to cup your face again.

“You’ll tell me,” he insists lowly, “if anything feels wrong.”

“I promise,” you respond quietly.

“And you’re sure you’re-”

“I feel perfect,” you interrupt gently. “Because of you.”

His breath hitches. You feel his body tense.

And still, he hesitates. He glances down your body, past your hot skin and the slick heat still dripping between your thighs. His fingers hover just below your navel.

“Let me- just one-” he murmurs, already sliding a hand between your legs. “Just want to make sure-”

But the moment his fingers glide through your folds, and he feels how wet you still are from his mouth, he lets out a deep, strangled groan.

His gaze jerks up to yours. Wide. Disbelieving.

“Oh,” you tease softly. “Surprised?”

He reddens deeply. Face and neck and chest. Even the tips of his ears turn pink. He twitches against your thigh.

“You really didn’t know what you were doing to me?” you whisper.

His eyes dart away for half a second - bashful. Then back to yours.

He leans in. Presses his lips to your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth. A trail of kisses.

“I just wanted to take care of you,” he breathes thickly. “Didn’t even think about- fuck, baby.”

You giggle softly, stroking the back of his neck. He groans again, burying his face in your neck and staying there for a few heartbeats, clinging to you.

But his hand stays between your legs. He doesn’t dive in. Just lingers. “Still have to make sure, yeah, baby?” he whispers into your skin.

You nod, soft. “Okay.”

And then he moves. Slowly. Carefully. He pulls his head back and his eyes fall between your legs. Then back to watch you. Watch your mouth, your eye, your breath.

His fingers dip lower, about to touch you in a way that means everything. You see his throat work around a swallow.

He sinks one finger in, soothingly and dragging it out. His other hand braces beside your hip as though he needs the ground. He stops at the first knuckle.

Watching your face. Searching. Always looking for a sign of pain.

You sigh, your mouth parting on a soft moan. Not from discomfort.

From relief. From the feel of him.

Bucky’s gaze flares.

“Okay?” he whispers.

You nod. “Yeah,” you breathe out.

He pushes in a little deeper. Then again. Until the full length of his finger is buried inside you.

You whimper. Arch, just slightly. His name slips out.

And Bucky stills. Blinks. As though the sound alone managed to take his breath away.

“Oh, fuck,” he exhales in a sigh. His gaze is so focused on you. He is all you can think about.

You bite your lip, watching him with stars in your eyes.

His fingers curl a little inside you and your breath catches again, back arching. And that has him groaning under his breath, leaning forward as though he just needs to be closer, deeper.

He kisses your cheek. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth.

And with his eyes on yours, he gently and ever so cautiously slips in another finger beside the first. This time even slower.

Your body shifts to accommodate him and he feels it. Feels the way you welcome him, wrap around him. How warm you are. How soft.

His breathing stutters.

You moan again.

And still, he stops. Right at the knuckle. Eyes locked on yours.

“You okay?” he rasps, halfway there to lose his voice.

“Yes,” you manage to get out, voice almost pleading. “More, Bucky, please-”

And he gives you more. Goes deeper. Until both fingers are sheathed inside you and he’s filling you just enough to make your toes curl, just enough for his name to fall off your tongue again in a way that almost leaves Bucky gasping.

He watches you. He doesn’t blink.

He curls his fingers gently, once, and when your hips lift off the mattress just a little, when your mouth falls open and your eyes flutter shut in pleasure, he groans again. Buries his face in your shoulder. Just like before.

“Jesus Christ,” he exclaims roughly.

You stroke the back of his neck.

His hands still inside you, as though he needs a second to breathe.

And after a few shaky breaths, he starts moving again. Fingers stroking that spot deep inside you, slow and perfect and gentle. His lips brush your shoulder. Your collarbone. He kisses your heart, trying to memorize how it beats.

And even though you feel his swollen member against your thigh, red and ready, he doesn’t move to use it.

Because you’re not ready until he is sure you are.

Not just wet. Not just eager. Ready.

So he watches you. Watches every moan. Every gasp. Every quiver of your thighs, every arch of your spine.

Until you fall apart on his fingers.

And it’s the way you come undone under the gentlest version of his touch, that truly seems to make him need you.

He slides his fingers out slowly after he guides you through your high, like an apology, like a thank you.

And meets your eyes. They are full. His voice is low when he speaks. Hoarse.

“Okay,” he starts. “Okay. I’m gonna start slow.”

You nod, biting your lip.

And he reaches down to line himself up.

There is a pause. A beat of stillness.

You feel the head of him pressing just barely against you. His breath catches. Your breath catches.

His eyes snap to yours. “Tell me if-”

“I will,” you promise, eagerness in your tone. “Just get in, honey.”

He pushes in. The stretch is slow. So, so slow.

You feel every inch of him, and he feels it, too. His mouth falls open, eyes wide, as though the sensation shocks him. As though it’s different now to be inside you, to be with you like this, now that you wholly belong to each other.

He groans - soft, drawn-out. The sound is being dragged from deep in his chest.

You clench instinctively, and he curses under his breath, forehead dropping to yours, eyes staying on you.

“Shit, baby- fuck-”

You hold onto his shoulders. His waist. Anything you can reach. You’re both shaking.

But he doesn’t push in all the way. Not yet. He pauses halfway in, breathing ragged, eyes continuing to search your face.

You talk before he can ask. “You can keep going.”

“Promise me.”

You kiss him. Sweet and slow and sure.

“I promise.”

And so he moves - just a little more - and the moan that rips out of him is wounded, as though pleasure hurts. As though being this close to you is almost too much.

But he doesn’t let himself close his eyes. Doesn’t let them move away from your face.

And when he’s finally seated fully inside you, his hips flush against yours, you both just breathe.

Still. Connected.

He doesn’t move at first. Just holds himself there - deep inside you. Anchoring himself to the moment, to your body, to the fact that you’re okay. That you want this. That you’re here.

And he’s trying not to cry.

You can see it in the way his lashes flutter, in the glassy sheen on his cheeks that catches the light.

His forehead leans against yours, breath hot over your mouth.

“Sweetheart,” he whispers. One word. As though it contains a hundred.

“It’s okay,” you whisper back. “You’re okay.”

His eyes stay open. You don’t think he’s blinked since he pushed in.

They are pinned to yours like if he looks away for even a second something might go wrong. He’s watching your eyes for any sign of pain. And you know he won’t close his own until he knows you’re safe.

“I can feel how hard you’re holding back,” you start quietly, gently, fingers brushing the sweat-damp strands from his forehead. “You can move, Buck.”

He doesn’t. His throat bobs. Jaw flexing.

“God,” he breathes. “You feel so good- too good- but I don’t want to- fuck, baby, I don’t want to hurt you again-”

“You won’t. You say it firmly, but still with a sweet voice. Your thumb strokes the dimple in his chin. “You didn’t before. It wasn’t your fault. And it’s not going to happen again.”

He breathes in as though your words might soothe something broken in him. But still, he doesn’t move. Not until you speak again.

“I need you, Bucky.”

And something in him crumbles. Slowly, painstakingly, he pulls his hips back just an inch, then slides forward again, keeping his eyes on yours the whole time. He’s watching, reading, studying every twitch of your mouth, your brows, every flutter of your lashes, every breath you take.

“Is that-” he breathes, “-was that okay?”

You nod, voice thick. “Yes. Yes, Buck, it’s perfect.”

And he moves again.

Tiny, tender thrusts. Gentle. Devoted.

It’s not even about pleasure, it’s about closeness. About the feeling of him. The heat of his skin. The tremble in his arms as he holds himself up above you. The way he groans, low and broken, every time he slides a little deeper.

His eyes won’t leave you.

Not even when his lashes are heavy with heat and he has to force them to stay open. Not even when his mouth opens and he exhales a shaky, stuttering breath that tells you he’s feeling everything. But he fights to keep them open. To see you.

You run your fingers through his hair, trying to get him to let go. “I feel good, baby. I’m okay.”

But he just shakes his head. Leans down and kisses you. Slow. Melting. Deep.

“I want to watch you feel good,” he says huskily. “Need it. Need to make sure.”

And then he thrusts a little deeper.

It’s so painfully careful but still enough to steal your breath. You gasp, clutching his shoulders, hips rising to meet his.

His eyes roll back. His whole body shudders. “Fuck,” he groans. “Don’t do that. God, sweetheart, you’re ruining me.”

You smile through the moan that slips past your lips. “That’s kind of the point.”

He laughs, a real and broken little laugh, but it cracks at the edges. He is overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by you.

He rocks into you again. A little deeper. A little more sure. Still slow, still soft - but he’s feeling it now, letting his hips follow the rhythm you’re building together.

You cling to him.

He is panting. Tiny tremors running through his arms. His left hand slides beneath your back, holding your closer, lifting your chest to his so your hearts are touching - so he can feel every beat of you against him.

His voice is low and trembling. “Tell me again,” he pleads, strained. “Please, tell me it’s okay-”

“It’s better than okay,” you gasp, nails dragging down his back. “I’m perfect. You’re perfect. Don’t stop.”

He kisses you. Desperate now. His rhythm falters for a second, too lost in the way your mouth tastes.

Then he pulls back, just far enough to look at you. His gaze is devastated. Open. Admiring.

“I love you,” he sighs.

And your heart bursts.

You take his face in your hands, voice breaking with feeling.

“I love you too.”

And it happens slowly. Then all at once.

He watches you fall apart as though he’s never seen anything more beautiful. As though your pleasure is a sunrise he never thought he’d survive long enough to see. As though every sigh, every gasp, every whisper of his name is another stitch holding his broken heart together.

You feel him shaking. Hear him whisper things he doesn’t seem to know he’s saying. “Shit, baby, look at you- so perfect- so good- fuck, baby-”

One of his hands grips beneath your thigh, thumb stroking soothing circles into your skin. The other tangles in your hair, holding your forehead to his as though he needs the connection to stay whole.

He’s watching your face as if it’s a map. Tracing every change in expression, every whimper and moan, every flicker of ecstasy that breaks across your features.

And you can feel it building. Low and hot, coiling tight in your belly. Your body trembling, hips lifting to meet his in soft, desperate little movements. Your breaths coming fast, faster. His name spilling from your mouth, making him shudder.

“Buck- Bucky- I’m- don’t stop.”

He falters. Just once. Just enough for him to whisper. “You’re close.”

You nod, gasping.

And that’s all it takes for him to shift slightly. Just enough to hit the angle he knows drives you insane. He leans in, nose brushing your cheek, lips at your ear. “Let go for me, my sweetheart. Please. I’ve got you. Always got you.”

And your whole body locks around him, your voice breaking into something wild and soft, pleasure cursing through your veins, hot and blinding and complete.

You come with his name on your tongue.

His eyes snap shut.

That’s all it takes.

He gasps, chokes on a breath, and then he’s gone - spilling into you with a groan that sounds like heartbreak and heaven all at once. His whole body arches, hands gripping you tight, holding on for dear life, burying himself in you. As though he wants to pour every ounce of his love into you and never come back.

His mouth meets your shoulder, kissing your skin as though he has all the time in the world.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “I’ve never- fuck- never felt anything like that.”

Neither have you.

Because this wasn’t just fucking. This wasn’t the kind of sex you’ve been having for so long.

This was something else.

This was love, laid bare. No games. No fear. No walls. Just skin and breath and heartbeats and truth.

He stays inside you. Doesn’t dare move. Not yet.

His face is tucked into your neck, breath hot and trembling.

You card your fingers through his hair, kissing the shell of his ear, the slope of his shoulder. “You okay?”

He nods. A slow, solemn little nod. Then pulls back just enough to look at you.

And the look in his eyes is too much.

As though he’s never going to recover from this. He doesn’t want to.

He brushes his fingers down your cheek and kisses you leisurely.

“I love you,” he says again, still searching for air. “More than anything.”

You whisper it back. Because you do.

Bucky keeps hovering above you even though he already brought you home. The way he presses his lips to your temple and cradles your jaw in his palm as though you’re the last delicate thing in the world.

You breathe him in. He breathes you in. His forehead rests against yours, sticky with sweat, the kind of closeness that makes time irrelevant.

“You okay?” he whispers quietly. His voice cracks right down the middle.

You nod, throat too tight for words, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t take the nod as final. His eyes scan your face as though he is trying to read between the lines of skin and breath and silence.

“I’m serious, doll,” he murmurs, a little firmer now. “You tell me if something feels off. Anything. If you’re sore, or-” he pauses, swallows a cough, “or if it hurt. Even just a little.”

Your hand finds the curve of his jaw, thumb brushing over the edge of his cheekbone, damp with sweat and tenderness. “I’m okay,” you reassure him sweetly. “I promise, baby. I feel good.”

His brows twitch. He wants to believe you.

“I mean it,” you add, lips brushing against his. “I feel more than good. I feel amazing.”

That finally does something to him. His shoulders drop. His hands tremble a little less. But even still, his gaze keeps drifting downward - to where your bodies meet, joined in the slowest, softest way you ever have. Searching for signs of pain that your mouth hasn’t admitted yet.

And then, quietly, with a softness you’re still surprised at - he slides out of you and down the bed. Down your body.

You blink. “Buck?”

“I just wanna check,” he says, already reaching for a soft towel. “Not tryna be weird, just-” his throat bobs. “Just need to know you didn’t start bleeding again.”

You open your mouth, not able to say anything.

Taking hold of your hand, he kisses the back of it before continuing. Every movement is careful, tender, hands working as though he’s handling silk. He wipes you down with warm water, his brow furrowed with a worry so profound it makes your chest ache. He doesn’t rush, not once. His eyes move up to yours every few seconds, silently asking for consent all over again.

“Still okay?” he inquires quietly as he folds the towel, already looking like he wants to run a warm bath and wrap you in a blanket of cloud and honey and safety.

“Still okay,” you nod, voice thick with emotion.

“Good.” He exhales for the first time in what feels like minutes. “Good. You tell me the second that changes. I mean it. I’ll pull the moon out of the damn sky if it hurts you again.”

You smile watery. He kisses your thigh.

And then he lifts you, scoops you into his arms with a care that feels so incredibly intimate. Carrying you to the bathroom, he is holding you so close that your heart forgets what it’s like to feel anything but safe.

With a kiss to your shoulder and your forehead, he sets you down on the edge of the tub.

He draws the bath. He adds your favorite bubbles. Lavender and eucalyptus steam curling through the air, filled with comfort.

He tests the temperature and while it fills, he kneels between your legs, rests his cheek on your thigh, and places more kisses into the bend of your knee, your hip, your ribs.

“D’you feel it?” he asks then, quietly. Almost nervous. Voice low and hoarse.

You run your fingers through his hair. He melts under your touch.

You think you know what he’s talking about.

Because all those times you slept with each other before, it was fast, frantic, bodies tangled and pressed into stolen hours, trying to pretend it didn’t matter.

It never felt like being held in a way that spoke louder than words. Never felt like being chosen in the silence after the fact. Never felt like someone saying I love you without needing to say it.

But tonight, it did.

“Yeah,” you answer, just as silent. “It never felt like that before.”

He lifts his head. Eyes soft. “That a good thing?”

“A very good thing,” you answer, almost teasingly, grinning.

And Bucky’s smile comes wide and real. His hands move up and down your shins. He leans in. Kisses your knee. Eyes on yours.

And when he guides you into the water, hands warm at your waist, his eyes track you constantly, scanning your face, your body. Watching. Worry never leaving, but love, too - love stretched wide across every inch of his face.

He joins you once you’re settled, pulling you into his lap, your back to his chest, water lapping around your waists. His arms wind around you, tightening comfortably, his heartbeat thudding against your back.

He kisses your shoulder. Rests his head in the crook of your neck.

The bath water cradles you as though it knows how hard your body worked tonight, how loved it was, how careful the man at your side has been, every moment before and after.

Your knees are tucked to your chest, curled in his lap, spine pressed to his sternum. His arms are heavy around your waist, long fingers spread wide and warm beneath the surface of the water. One palm pressed flat over your stomach, the other stroking a gentle line up and down your thigh, so painstaking, as though he never wants to stop touching you. He holds you as though you are his heart made tangible.

You breathe together. Quiet. Slow.

The ache between your legs is not painful. It’s soft. A memory of something beautiful.

You feel Bucky’s heartbeat thump against your spine. He kisses your neck. Again and again.

Then - so quiet, so gentle, almost afraid - he asks again. “Are you still okay?”

And it shouldn’t be much. It’s just a check-in. One of a hundred he’s made tonight. The softness in his voice, the worry gathered beneath his breath - it should feel comforting.

But instead, your chest caves in.

Your throat locks up.

You blink once, twice, and suddenly you can’t see. Everything blurs.

Because he means it. He really, truly means it.

Because he loves you. So goddamn much. And he’s holding you as if you matter more than air and he touches you as if you are a living poem and you can still feel him inside you, loving you - and your heart can’t hold all of it. It’s too much. It spills over.

Because he’s been so careful. His hands were so tender and his mouth so full of praise and his eyes tracked you the way the earth tracks the sun. Because even now, when it’s over, when the candle he lit up before getting into the tub flickers low, and the air smells of eucalyptus and his thighs are soaked through with warm water, he still won’t stop caring.

And it hits you. All of it. Everything. The past weeks. The pain. The panic when you tried to scrub away the evidence alone in the very same bathroom you’re in right now and bolt out of his apartment. The way he broke through the door just to get to you, how he wiped you off with hands that trembled but never once let you go.

The guilt he carried. The way he flinched for days when you touched him back. The softness he offered even when he had none for himself.

And now this.

This perfect, intimate thing you just shared. This feeling of being held in a way no one ever held you before. It’s all too much. The bath, his arms, the way he holds your ribcage as though he’s matching your breath. The most amazing sex you’ve ever had. The way he whispered into your shoulder as he moved inside you with so much care.

You want to answer him. Want to tell him you’re okay. But nothing comes out.

You can only inhale sharply, the sound catching in your throat.

And Bucky stills. Goes completely stiff.

You don’t speak. You can’t. Your overflowing heart won’t let you.

Bucky shifts behind you. “Baby?” His voice is quiet. But not calm. Never calm, when it comes to your silence.

And you stay silent. Turning your head away.

His arms tighten and you feel him trying to look around at your face. “Hey, hey. Honey. What’s wrong? What’s wrong? Are you- did I- did something hurt again? Are you hurting? Something feel wrong?”

You shake your head, but his voice is shaking harder.

“Sweetheart, look at me,” he croaks in a whisper, his fingers coming to cup your jaw, about to tilt your head, but you don’t want him to see the tears forming, don’t want him to panic. He is frantic, not sure what he’s afraid of more - your pain or your silence. “C’mon, baby, please talk to me. I- did I do something? Did I hurt you and you didn’t wanna say? Are you bleedin’?”

You can feel him check the water for any signs of red and you hate yourself for not getting your voice out of your throat. But the only thing coming up is a choked breath.

“Talk to me.” He talks fast, swallowing words, swallowing breaths. “Please, baby. You have to tell me. You’re scaring me.”

He can’t see you like this. Not with your face turned away, not with your chest shaking in silence. So he moves, carefully but with uncoordinated and frantic hands, guiding you to turn in his arms until you’re straddling him in the water, your body trembling with the force of emotion you hadn’t braced yourself for.

You try to speak, but all that comes out is a wet hiccup of a breath and a soft, unsteady sob - not from pain, not from fear, just from everything. Your chest stings with it. Tears fall. Two, three, falling down your cheeks.

And Bucky panics. “No, baby, no, please don’t cry. Fuck, I don’t-”

He’s sitting up straighter now, water sloshing around you both, almost lapping over the tub. His face crumbles. His hands scramble, checking your sides, your arms, trying to study every inch of you, to figure out what’s wrong here, where it hurts, what he missed.

“Shit, shit, I knew it! Baby I knew we should’ve waited. I shouldn’t have- fuck- I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry- please talk to me-”

“No,” you finally manage, voice cracking, catching his hands and trying to squeeze the quiver out of them. “No, no, Bucky- I’m okay, I’m okay.”

But his eyes are wide, a glossy sheen already there and you would like to kick yourself. The guilt is already spinning in those pretty blue depths, the fear and dread all bubbling and building and ready to crescendo into another panic attack.

You press your forehead to his. You breathe in, slow. You breathe out. Your hands move to cup his cheeks. “It’s not that,” you breathe, and your voice is wet and cracked and soaked in love. “It’s not- Baby, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

His breath is uneven, hectic. He doesn’t blink.

You kiss his lips. A soft, barely-there brush. “I’m just overwhelmed.”

His brow furrows. His hands pull you closer to his chest, but his eyes stay locked on yours.

“I’m okay,” you whisper. “I’m not in pain. I promise. It’s just-” You break off with another hiccup of a laugh-sob. “You’re being so wonderful. And it’s been so much. In the best way.”

Bucky stills. Eyes blinking fast, jaw tight with the restraint of a man trying not to fall apart.

You pull back to look at him clearly. “I just-” you try to laugh, but it’s mostly just a breath shivering on the edge of something enormous. “I love you. So much. And it just- hit me. How much. I’ve never felt like this before. And it was just a lot, all at once.”

Bucky stares at you as though you split the earth open beneath him.

And then his hands are everywhere. On your cheeks. On your back. In your hair. Holding your face, trying to keep you in this moment with him. As though this is the most important moment in his life.

“God.” He chokes on a breath, and his lips land on your forehead, your nose, your eyelids, kissing your tears away. “You- you’re crying because you love me?”

You nod against him, laugh through your tears.

He exhales and his whole body sags with it.

“Shit,” he breathes, voice wavering. “You’re gonna kill me, baby.”

He presses you even tighter into his chest, cradling the back of your head. “Fuck, you scared me. I thought I hurt you again. I thought- thought I messed it all up again.”

“You didn’t,” you whisper, shaking your head. “You didn’t. Not even close.”

He is breathing harder than before, but the panic is softening now, bleeding out into the warmth of your body against his.

“I just love you so much,” you repeat, voice just a small breath. “And I didn’t expect it to feel like this. This… intense.”

He nods against you. Kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then your wet lashes. “Yeah,” he exhales and there is a sheen to his voice, as though it passed through his own unspilled tears on the way out. “I know what you mean.”

You bury yourself against him, cheek to his chest, and his arms curl tight around your back. He rocks you just slightly, water lapping quietly against the porcelain, even now wanting to soothe you, hold you through it, make sense of all the things your tears said before your voice could.

His touch never stops. Always checking. Always there. One hand rubbing soft circles into your hip. The other brushing your damp hair back behind your ear.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” you apologize eventually, brushing your nose against his cheek.

His laugh is soft and shattered, something frail, but there’s relief in it. Adoration. “Don’t apologize, sweetheart. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

You tilt your face up. Find his lips. It’s not a kiss that needs anything. It’s not even a kiss that asks. It’s just gentle. Soothing. Comforting. Sweet. Home.

“I’m more than okay,” you whisper softly.

And his eyes are shining.

He presses a kiss into your hair, then another. Then three more in a row because he can’t help himself. And he tells you he loves you, because he can’t help himself.

And he doesn’t let go. Not for a long time.

He won’t let you move. Not until the water cools. Not until the stars settle outside the bathroom window.

He won’t let you reach for a cloth or dry yourself off or even think about standing without him.

He refuses to let you go through one more thing alone.

“To love at all is to be vulnerable.”

- C. S. Lewis

[abbotjack]

God I hate to be that person but ughhhhhh I love that jack fic where they find out reader is pregnant and I'm CRAVING a second part to that (if you're u to of course). Like, how it'd be during her pregnancy, him being sweet but also worried and protective. Omg I need more soft jack w a baby on the way!!!!!

The Camouflage Onesie

part two of he begins to notice (read this first!)

content warnings: pregnancy, medical references, nausea/morning sickness, sexual content (explicit but consensual), body image changes, hormonal shifts, domestic intimacy, emotional vulnerability, labor and delivery scene, emotionally intense partner support, and high emotional/physical dependency within a marriage. yeah. pregnancy

word count : 5,735

WEEK 5

The test turned positive on a Sunday. By Monday morning, the entire medicine cabinet had been rearranged like it was a trauma cart.

Your moisturizer had been nudged over to make room for prescription-grade prenatals, a bottle of magnesium, a DHA complex, and—of all things—two individually labeled pill sorters with day-of-the-week dividers. One pink. One clear. Yours and Jack's, apparently.

You found him in the kitchen at 6:42 a.m., already in scrubs. He was calmly cutting the crusts off toast while listening to NPR and making a second cup of coffee for himself.

When he turned, he gave you a long once-over—not in a critical way, but diagnostic. Like he was scanning you for vitals only he could see.

“You’re flushed,” he said. “And your pupils are dilated. You feel dizzy yet?”

You furrowed your brow. “No?”

“Good. You’re hydrating better than I thought.”

You blinked. “Jack, I haven’t even said good morning.”

He walked over and handed you a glass of room-temp water. “I’m loving you with medically sourced precision.”

You stared at the glass. “This isn’t cold.”

“Cold water upsets your stomach. Lukewarm helps with early bloat.”

“Jack.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”

He tilted his head. “I’ve watched septic patients stabilize faster than accountants facing a positive Clearblue. I know exactly what this is.”

You pressed your hands to your face and groaned. “You’re not going to hover this much every week, are you?”

Jack leaned down, brushing a kiss over your shoulder. “No. Some weeks I’ll hover more.”

“I made your appointment already,” he said, voice casual. “Friday. Dr. Patel. 3:40.”

You blinked. “You didn’t even ask me.”

“She owes me a favor,” Jack said. “Got her niece into ortho during the peak of the shortage last year. Trust me—she’ll take care of you.”

You frowned, stunned. “How did you even pull that off so fast?”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Sweetheart. I’m an ER doctor. I have connections. I can get my wife seen before the week’s out.”

Your eyes welled up suddenly—caught off guard by how steady he was, how sure. You were still half-floating in disbelief. Jack was already ten steps ahead, clearing the path.

WEEK 6

You learned very quickly that pregnancy was a full-time job—and Jack approached it with quiet precision.

The first time you dry-heaved over the kitchen sink, he didn’t rush in with a solution. He didn’t lecture or hover. He just stepped into the room, leaned against the counter, and waited until you looked up.

“Still thinking about that leftover pasta?” he asked softly.

You made a face. “Don’t say the word pasta.”

He crossed the kitchen, wordless, and pulled open a drawer. Out came a wrapped ginger chew. Then he disappeared down the hall.

When he returned, he had your cardigan in one hand and a bottle of lemon water in the other.

You blinked at him. “What are you doing?”

Jack handed you the water first. “You always run cold when you’re nauseous. But I know you’ll refuse a blanket if you’re flushed.”

You stared.

He draped the cardigan over your shoulders.

“You okay?”

You nodded slowly. “I think so.”

“Okay,” he said. “Let me know when you want toast.”

You half-laughed, half-cried, wiping your eyes on your sleeve. “You don’t have to be this gentle every second.”

Jack leaned in. “I’m not being gentle. I’m being exact. There’s a difference.”

Later that night, you sat curled up on the couch, still wrapped in the cardigan, while Jack quietly swapped your usual diffuser oil with something new.

“Peppermint,” he said when you asked. “Helps with queasiness.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And the bin next to the couch?”

“Let’s call it contingency planning.”

You smirked. “You’re really building systems around me, huh?”

Jack looked at you—soft, certain. “No. I’m building them for you.”

He moved across the room and brushed your hair back off your forehead, thumb pausing at your temple like he could smooth out whatever discomfort lingered there.

“You’re not the patient,” he murmured. “You’re the constant. And I’m going to do whatever it takes to keep the ground steady under your feet.”

You didn’t have a clever reply.

You just pulled him onto the couch beside you and tucked yourself into his chest—grateful beyond words that this was who you got to build a life with.

WEEK 9

Jack was folding laundry on the bed when you walked into the room barefoot, carrying a bowl of cereal and wearing his old college sweatshirt.

You caught his glance. “What?”

He shook his head, smiled a little. “Just thinking you wear my clothes better than I ever did.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. He set a towel down. Reached for your bowl as you sat on the edge of the bed.

“I got it,” you said.

“I know,” he murmured, holding it anyway while you shifted the pillow behind your back. Once you were settled, he handed it back.

You took a bite, then glanced at the basket of half-folded laundry.

“You know that’s mostly my stuff, right?”

Jack looked at the pile. “It’s ours. Who else is gonna fold your seven thousand pairs of fuzzy socks?”

You laughed into your spoon.

He leaned against the dresser and just looked at you for a second. Not in a way that made you self-conscious—just soft. Familiar.

“You’re quieter this week,” he said.

You shrugged. “I’m tired.”

He nodded. “Want to go somewhere this weekend? Just us?”

“Like where?”

“Nowhere big. Just—out of the house. We could rent a cabin. Lay around. Sleep until noon. Let you pretend I’m not watching you nap like it’s my full-time job.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You do that now?”

“Not always. Just when you start snoring like a golden retriever pup.”

“Jack.”

He grinned, walked over, and kissed your temple.

“Alright, no trips. But at least let me cook something tonight. Something warm.”

You sighed. “You already do too much.”

He looked at you seriously then, crouched a little so you were eye-level.

“I don’t keep score,” he said. “I’m your husband. You’re growing our kid. If all I have to do is make dinner and fold socks, I’m getting off easy.”

WEEK 14

By week fourteen, the second trimester hit like an exhale.

You weren’t queasy every morning anymore. Your appetite returned. You could brush your teeth without gagging. And Jack, for the first time in weeks, actually relaxed enough to sit through an entire episode of something without checking on you mid-scene.

You were curled on the couch together—your head in his lap—when he slid his hand beneath your shirt and rested it on the soft curve of your stomach.

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re subtle.”

“I’m consistent.”

You snorted. “You’re clingy.”

His thumb brushed just under your ribs. “I’m memorizing.”

You shifted slightly, tucking your feet closer. “You already know everything about me.”

Jack looked down at you, the corners of his mouth twitching. “I know the before. This part? This is new.”

He went quiet, and you could feel the shift in him—something deeper, more reverent than before.

“I’ve seen pregnancy before,” he said. “But I’ve never… watched it happen to someone I come home to.”

You turned your head to look up at him. “You okay?”

Jack nodded slowly. “I just keep thinking… you’re building someone I haven’t met yet. And I already know I’d give my life for them.”

Your throat tightened. You reached for his hand where it rested on your stomach, lacing your fingers through his.

“We’re doing okay, right?”

Jack bent down, kissed your forehead. “You’re doing better than okay.”

You smiled. “We’re a good team.”

“The best,” he said. “Even if you keep stealing all the pillows.”

You laughed. “You sleep like a corpse. You don’t need them.”

He grinned. “You’re getting cocky now that the nausea’s eased.”

“You’ll miss her when she’s gone.”

“No, I’ll just be glad to have you back.”

You rolled your eyes. “You have me.”

Jack kissed you again. Longer this time.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I do.”

WEEK 15

It started with the baby books.

Not the ones you bought. The ones Jack picked up—three of them, stacked neatly on the nightstand one morning after a grocery run you hadn’t joined him on.

You noticed them after your shower. He was still in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher, humming something that definitely wasn’t in tune. But the titles made you pause.

“‘What to Expect for Dads,’” you read aloud, holding the top one up when he walked in. “You going soft on me?”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Hardly. Just figured if you’re doing the building, I can at least read the manual.”

You smirked, flipping through a page. “You’re the manual.”

“I’m the triage guy. I don’t have maternal instincts. I have protocols.”

You leaned back against the headboard. “You’re being humble, but you’re gonna ace this.”

He shrugged, crossing the room to sit on the edge of the bed. “I just want to know what’s coming. I’ve done newborn shifts. I’ve handed babies to people shaking so hard they could barely hold them. But this? This isn’t a shift. This is us.”

You touched his arm. “You’ve already done more than I can even keep track of.”

Jack looked at you for a long moment. Then placed his hand over yours. “I don’t want to just be useful. I want to be good. For both of you.”

You didn’t know what to say.

So you leaned forward and kissed him—gentle, deep. His hand slid to your stomach as naturally as breathing.

You pulled back just enough to whisper, “You already are.”

That night, when he thought you were asleep, he cracked open the book again.

And stayed up past midnight reading about swaddling, latch cues, and the difference between Braxton Hicks and the real thing.

WEEK 16

Jack stood in the doorway of your office for almost a full minute before saying anything.

You looked up from your laptop, eyebrows raised. “What?”

He didn’t move. Just scanned the room—your desk, the bookshelf, the little armchair in the corner that you never actually used.

Then, finally: “Is our house big enough for this?”

You blinked. “For what?”

He gestured vaguely toward your belly, then the room. “All of it. A baby. Crib. Noise. Diapers. More laundry. Less sleep.”

You smiled gently. “I thought we were turning this room into the nursery.”

“We are,” he said quickly. “I just… I keep running scenarios in my head. And this place felt huge when it was just us.”

You closed your laptop. “Jack.”

He looked at you.

“We’ll figure it out. We already are.”

He crossed the room, leaned against your desk. “I’m not trying to panic.”

“I know.”

“I just keep thinking about how everything’s going to change. I want to make sure we still feel like us once it does.”

You stood and wrapped your arms around his waist, head resting against his chest. “We will. You think too far ahead sometimes.”

“That’s my job,” he murmured.

“And mine is reminding you that it’s okay to not solve everything all at once.”

He kissed the top of your head. “I know. I just want it to be enough.”

WEEK 19

Jack was unusually quiet on the drive to the anatomy scan.

Not anxious. Just focused in a way that told you his brain had been working overtime since the moment he woke up. His hand rested on your thigh at every red light, thumb tracing small circles against the fabric of your leggings.

“You good?” you asked, turning down the radio.

He glanced over, nodded once. “Just running through the checklist in my head.”

You smiled gently. “You’re not at work, babe.”

“I know. But I’ve never seen one of these as a husband.”

You reached over and laced your fingers through his. “You don’t have to be perfect today. You just have to be here.”

He gave you a look. “I am here. That’s the problem. I’m so here I can’t think about anything else.”

The waiting room was dim, quiet, and smelled vaguely like lemon disinfectant. Jack sat beside you, legs spread in his usual posture, one hand on your knee. His thumb tapped once. Then again. Then stopped.

The tech was warm, professional. She dimmed the lights. Asked if you wanted to know the sex. You said yes before Jack could answer.

You held your breath as the screen lit up in shades of blue and gray.

“Everything’s looking healthy,” the tech said. “Strong spine, great heartbeat, long legs.”

Jack tightened his grip on your hand.

“And it looks like you’re having a girl.”

You exhaled all at once. Then laughed. Or maybe cried. It blurred together.

Jack didn’t say anything right away. Just stared at the monitor, jaw tense, eyes glassy.

You turned to look at him. “Jack.”

He blinked. “Yeah.”

“You okay?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah, I just—” He swallowed. “She’s real.”

The rest of the appointment was a haze—measurements, murmurs of “good growth,” the gentle swipe of gel off your stomach. Jack didn’t let go of your hand the entire time.

That night, you came out of the bathroom in an old t-shirt and found him standing at the dresser, staring down at something small in his hand.

You stepped closer. “What’s that?”

He held it up without looking—one of the newborn onesies you’d bought weeks ago in a moment of cautious optimism. Light yellow. Soft cotton.

“You think she’ll fit in this?” he asked.

You smiled. “They’re tiny, Jack. That’s kind of the whole point.”

He nodded but didn’t move.

You wrapped your arms around him from behind. “You’re allowed to feel everything. It’s a big day.”

He turned, wrapped his arms around you carefully. “I think I was more afraid of not feeling it.”

You pressed your forehead to his. “You’re allowed to be happy.”

“I am,” he said, voice rough. “I just keep thinking about how I’m going to keep her safe. How I’m going to teach her to breathe through chaos. How I’ll probably mess it up a hundred times.”

“You’re not going to mess it up.”

He looked at you. “You really think that?”

“I married you, didn’t I?”

Jack smiled for real then. “You’ve always been the smarter one.”

You rolled your eyes. “But you’re the one who’s going to end up wrapped around her finger.”

He kissed your temple. “That part was inevitable.”

WEEK 25

Jack convinced you to finally start looking at houses.

You’d been reluctant—emotionally attached to the place you’d built your early marriage in, skeptical about change when everything in your life already felt like it was shifting—but Jack had waited. Quietly. Patiently.

And then one morning, while you were brushing your teeth, he leaned in behind you, kissed your shoulder, and said, “You deserve a bigger closet.”

That was how it started.

Now, you were standing in a half-empty living room with sun pouring through tall windows and a sold sign posted out front.

Jack had just gotten off the phone with your realtor. “It’s official,” he said, sliding his phone into his back pocket. “Inspection cleared. We close in three weeks.”

You blinked. “We really bought a house.”

He walked over, wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, rested his chin on your shoulder. “Correction: we bought your dream closet.”

You laughed. “You think you’re funny.”

“I know I am. Also, there’s a window bench in the nursery. You don’t even have to try to make it Pinterest-worthy.”

You leaned into him, eyes scanning the bare walls. “I can already picture her here.”

Jack pressed a kiss to your neck. “I already do. I see her trying to climb that windowsill. Leaving fingerprints on every square inch of the fridge. Falling asleep on the stairs with a book she couldn’t finish.”

Your throat tightened.

You turned in his arms. “You really love it?”

He looked at you seriously. “I love what it gives you. I love that it lets you breathe. And yeah—I love that it’s ours.”

Later that night, back in your current house, you sat on the floor with your laptop open, scrolling through registry links and bookmarking soft pink paint samples. Jack handed you a cup of tea, then lowered himself on the couch beside you with a quiet grunt.

“Is it weird that I already want to be moved?” you asked.

He shook his head. “No. It’s called nesting. I read about it in that chapter you skipped.”

You shot him a look. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m the one folding swaddles while you build spreadsheets. This is our love language.”

You leaned into him, content. “Yeah. I guess it is.”

WEEK 27

You’d been on your feet all day—organizing documents, boxing up odds and ends, making lists of what needed to be moved and what could be donated. Jack told you to slow down three separate times, each time gentler than the last.

But now, at 8:43 p.m., you were barefoot in the kitchen, half bent over a drawer of mismatched utensils, when he walked in, tossed a dish towel on the counter, and said, “Okay. That’s it.”

You looked up. “What?”

Jack didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. He crossed the room, took the spatula from your hand, and gently nudged you toward a chair. “Sit. Let me take over.”

You blinked at him. “I’m fine.”

“You’re stubborn.”

You folded your arms. “Same thing.”

Jack crouched in front of you, resting his forearms on your knees. “You’ve done enough today. Let me be the husband who makes you sit down and drink something cold while I finish sorting forks from tongs.”

You softened, your fingers drifting to his hair. “I know you’re right. I just feel useless when I’m not doing something.”

“You’re 27 weeks pregnant,” Jack said, voice warm. “You made a person and folded three boxes of bath towels. That’s two more miracles than anyone else managed today.”

You exhaled and leaned back.

Later, when you were curled on the couch with a glass of iced water and your feet propped on a pillow, Jack settled next to you and tugged a blanket over both of you.

“House is gonna feel real soon,” he said.

You nodded. “She’s going to be born there.”

Jack’s arm slid around your shoulders. “We’ll bring her home to that nursery. Hang that weird mobile you picked that I still don’t understand.”

“You said it was ‘avant-garde.’”

“I was being polite.”

You smiled, tired and full. “We’re really doing it, huh?”

“We are.”

You rested your head on his chest. Jack’s hand drifted instinctively to your belly, and stayed there.

“Hey,” you said after a minute. “Thanks for making me sit.”

Jack kissed the top of your head. “Thanks for letting me.”

WEEK 30

You caught him standing in the doorway of the nursery around 9:00 p.m., arms folded, shoulder braced against the frame like he was keeping watch.

The room was nearly done. Diapers in bins. Chair assembled. Books on shelves. But Jack wasn’t looking at any of that. He was staring at the window, like he was imagining the light that would come through it in the early mornings.

You leaned against the opposite side of the doorway, watching him.

“What’s going on in that head?” you asked.

He glanced over at you. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

Jack cracked half a smile but didn’t move. “I keep picturing her. Not just baby-her. Grown-up her.”

You walked toward him. “What version?”

He tilted his head. “Seventeen. Wants to borrow the car. Has someone texting her who I probably don’t like.”

You laughed. “You’re already dreading a boyfriend?”

“I’m already dreading anyone who gets to be in her world without knowing what it cost us to build it.”

That stopped you.

Jack finally looked at you then—really looked. “She’s not even born yet and I already know I’d lay down in traffic for her. And I know how fast people can break things they don’t understand.”

You rested your hands on his chest. “You’re not going to be scary.”

Jack raised an eyebrow.

“Well. You’ll look scary. Army vet. ER attending. Perpetual scowl. Built like you bench-press refrigerators for fun.”

He snorted. “Thanks.”

“But you’ll love her in a way no one will mistake for anything but devotion.”

Jack leaned down, pressed his forehead to yours.

“I’m not good at soft,” he murmured.

“You’re good at us,” you whispered. “That’s all she’ll need.”

He pulled you into his arms then, one hand resting flat against the curve of your belly. “She’s gonna hate me when I make her come home early.”

“She’s gonna roll her eyes when you insist on meeting everyone she ever texts.”

Jack grinned. “Damn right.”

You laughed into his shirt. “You’re so screwed.”

“I know.”

But he held you a little tighter. Didn’t say anything else. Just stood there in the dim nursery, one arm wrapped around the two of you, as if holding his whole world in place.

WEEK 32

You’d read the pregnancy forums. The blog posts. The articles with vaguely medical sources claiming the third trimester came with a spike in libido. You thought you’d be too sore, too tired. Too preoccupied.

What you hadn’t expected was the absolute onslaught.

It was like your body had one setting: Jack. Crave him. Need him. Get him here, now, fast.

He’d just gotten home from a late shift, dropped his keys in the bowl by the front door, and disappeared into the shower while you laid in bed attempting to not whine out loud. That resolve lasted six minutes.

When he walked into the bedroom, towel low around his hips, water dripping down his chest, you didn’t even mean to say it:

“I’m gonna die.”

Jack froze.

He crossed the room in seconds. “What is it? Where’s the pain?”

You were already on your back, one hand pressed to your belly, the other covering your eyes.

“Not pain,” you groaned. “Just hormones. God, Jack—this is insane.”

He crouched beside you. “You need to describe what’s happening.”

You peeked at him from under your hand. “I need you. I need you.”

Jack stilled. Blinked. Then dropped his forehead to your shoulder with a long exhale.

“Christ. You scared the hell out of me.”

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, laughing into your wrist. “I just—I’m desperate. I thought it would go away. It’s not going away.”

He lifted his head. Smiled. “Desperate, huh?”

“You’re not helping.”

“I think I am.”

Jack kissed your temple, then your cheek, then hovered over your lips. “You sure you’re good?”

You reached for him. “No. I’m feral.”

He didn’t waste another second.

What followed wasn’t frantic—it was focused. Jack stripped you with efficiency and reverence, lips brushing every newly sensitive part of you. Your belly. Your hips. Your breasts. He murmured to you the whole time—gentle things, grounding things.

“You’re beautiful like this,” he said, kissing the swell of your stomach. “You’ve been patient. Let me take care of you.”

“Please,” you whispered. “I feel insane.”

“I know. I’ve got you.”

He slid inside you slow, controlled, the way he always did when he wanted to make it last. But tonight, there was something more behind it—urgency without rush, intention without pressure.

You clawed at his shoulders, moaning into his neck. “Jack, Jack—”

“Right here.”

“I missed you today.”

“I missed you too. I always do.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, legs tightening around his waist. The angle shifted, and everything inside you splintered.

“Oh—God—don’t stop—”

Jack groaned, teeth catching your jawline. “You feel so good, sweetheart. So damn good.”

He guided you through it, one hand braced behind your head, the other cradling your hip like you’d break without it. When you came, it was with his name on your lips and tears at the corners of your eyes.

He followed seconds later, low and deep and steady, body shaking over yours.

Afterward, he didn’t move. Just curled around you, one arm anchored under your shoulders, the other stroking your belly in long, soothing sweeps.

“Still dying?” he asked eventually.

You huffed a laugh. “Little bit.”

Jack smiled into your shoulder. “Guess I’ll keep checking your vitals.”

He pulled back just enough to kiss your chest, then your stomach, whispering something you couldn’t hear but felt down to your bones.

When you shifted against him, needy again already, he looked up with a low laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Jack,” you breathed, “I’m not done.”

And Jack—predictable, capable, ready-for-anything Jack—just grinned.

“I never am with you.”

The second round was slower. Deeper. You rode his thigh first, panting against his neck, clinging to his shoulders while he whispered filth in your ear—soft, low things no one else would ever hear from him. He touched you like he already knew exactly what you’d need next week, next month, next year.

And when you collapsed against him again, trembling and sore and finally, finally full in every sense of the word—he kissed your forehead and said, “You’re everything.”

“I love you,” you whispered.

Jack tucked your hair behind your ear and kissed your cheek.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

WEEK 35

The third trimester had turned your body into a full-time performance art piece. You were a living exhibit on discomfort, hydration, Braxton Hicks, and the high-stakes negotiation of shoe-tying. You’d stopped fighting the afternoon naps, started rotating three stretchy outfits on a loop, and made peace with the fact that gravity was no longer your friend.

Jack had adjusted too.

Without comment, he now drove you to every appointment. Without asking, he refilled your water before bed. Without blinking, he gave up half his side of the bathroom counter for the ever-expanding line of belly oils, cooling balms, and half-used jars of snacks.

But tonight?

Tonight he came home to find you crying at the kitchen table over a broken zipper on the diaper bag.

“Sweetheart.”

You looked up, cheeks blotchy. “It broke. It broke, Jack. And it was the only one I liked.”

“Hey, hey—breathe.”

You sniffled. “It had compartments. It had mesh.”

Jack took the bag gently from your hands, and examined the zipper like it was a patient in trauma.

“Looks jammed,” he said. “Not broken.”

You stared at him. “You don’t know that.”

He looked up. “I do.”

He walked over to the toolbox without fanfare, and returned two minutes later with a small pair of pliers. Thirty seconds after that, the zipper slid closed like nothing had happened.

You burst into tears again.

Jack set the bag down and pulled you into his arms. “Hormones?”

You nodded into his chest. “I love you so much.”

He smiled against your hair. “You want to take a bath?”

You sniffed. “Will you sit on the floor with me?”

“I’ll bring the towel and everything.”

Which is how twenty minutes later you were in the tub, steam curling around the mirror, your swollen belly just breaching the surface, while Jack sat on the floor, reading your baby book aloud like it was scripture.

“She’s the size of a honeydew,” he said, tapping the page. “Still gaining half a pound a week. Lungs developing. Rapid brain growth.”

You hummed. “She’s been moving a lot today.”

He smiled, reached over, and rested a palm over your belly. “She likes the sound of your voice.”

“She likes pizza. She tolerates me.”

Jack leaned over and kissed your temple. “She already loves you.”

You sighed, settling deeper into the water. “She’s going to love you more.”

Jack’s voice went quiet. “That’s not possible.”

You looked over.

He was watching you like he was memorizing the moment. Like he knew it wouldn’t last forever and wanted to hold every second of it.

“She’s got the best of you already,” he murmured.

You shook your head. “You’re the one who’s been steady through everything. She’s gonna know that.”

He kissed your hand. “She’s gonna know we did it together.”

And you believed him.

Even through the tears, the discomfort, the slow shuffle from couch to fridge to bed—you believed him.

WEEK 36

Jack came home with a basket.

Not from the store. Not from a delivery service. From the hospital. Carried under one arm like it was made of glass.

You were on the couch, half-watching a cooking show, half-rubbing the spot where the baby had been kicking for the last ten minutes straight. Jack came in, dropped his keys, and didn’t say anything at first.

He just set the basket on the coffee table and said, “Robby made me promise I wouldn’t forget to give this to you tonight.”

You blinked. “What?”

Jack gestured toward it. “It’s from the ER.”

Inside: a soft blanket. A framed photo of the team crowded around a whiteboard that read “Baby Abbot ETA: T-minus 4 weeks.” A pair of hand-knitted booties labeled “Perlah Originals.” A stack of index cards, each one handwritten—Dana’s in looping cursive, Collins’s in all caps, Princess’s with hearts dotting the i’s. Robby’s simply read: Your kid already has better taste in music than Jack. Congrats.

You turned one of the index cards over, reading Dana’s note about how you were going to be the kind of mom who made her daughter feel safe and loved in the same breath.

“I didn’t know they even noticed me,” you whispered.

Jack rubbed slow circles against your bump. “They notice what matters to me.”

You looked at him.

He shrugged. “You’re my wife. You’re not just around. You’re part of everything.”

The baby kicked again. Hard enough to make you gasp.

Jack smiled, leaned in, and kissed the place she’d just moved. “She agrees.”

WEEK 38

You’d read about nesting, but you thought it would look more like baking muffins at midnight—not following Jack from room to room like his gravitational pull physically outweighed yours.

He didn’t seem to mind. He’d brush his hand down your back every time you passed, help you off the couch like you were recovering from surgery, and kiss your temple every time he walked by.

By Thursday, the baby bag was packed and parked by the front door. You’d zipped it, unzipped it, and re-packed it twice just to check. And when Jack got home that evening, he nodded at it, then set something down beside it with a quiet thunk.

You glanced over. “What’s that?”

“My go-bag,” he said simply.

You raised an eyebrow.

Jack nudged it with the toe of his boot. “Army-issued. Carried this thing through two deployments and six different states. Thought it’d be fitting to bring it into the delivery room.”

You blinked. “You packed already?”

He nodded, unzipped the top, and tilted the bag open for you to see: a clean shirt, a hand towel, a toothbrush, a few protein bars, and a worn, dog-eared paperback you recognized instantly.

“That one?” you said, surprised. “You always said you hated it.”

“I did,” he admitted, zipping the bag shut again. “But it’s your favorite. I read your notes in the margins when I miss you on long shifts.”

You crossed the room and leaned into him. “You’re something else.”

WEEK 40

You woke up at 2:57 a.m. with a tight, rolling wave of pressure low in your spine. It wrapped around your middle like a band and didn’t let go.

Jack was already shifting beside you. Years in the Army meant he didn’t sleep deeply—not when he was home, not when you were pregnant.

“You okay?” he asked, groggy but alert.

You exhaled shakily. “It’s time.”

He sat up immediately. “How far apart?”

“Six minutes.”

“Let’s move.”

By the time you got in the car, the contractions were coming faster—steadier. Jack didn’t speed, but he gripped the steering wheel like the world depended on it.

You were wheeled in through the ER doors—because of course you were going into labor at the hospital where Jack worked. Princess met you at triage with a knowing smile.

“She’s in three,” Princess said. “Perlah’s setting it up now.”

You were halfway into the room when Jack froze.

He turned to Collins at the desk. “Patel?”

“Stuck behind a pileup on 376,” Collins said. “She’s trying to reroute.”

Jack muttered something under his breath and scanned the monitors. “Where’s Robby?”

“Down in trauma. He’s finishing up a round.”

Jack didn’t wait. He left you in Princess’s care and went straight for the trauma bay.

Robby was wiping his hands on a towel when Jack stepped in. Hoodie half-zipped. Scrubs wrinkled. Wide awake.

“She’s in labor?”

“She’s in active labor,” Jack said. “And Patel’s not gonna make it, but—”

“You want me in the room,” Robby finished.

“I need you in the room.”

Robby dropped the towel. “Done.”

When Robby stepped into your room, you exhaled like someone had lifted a weight off your chest.

“Hey, doc,” you muttered through a contraction.

“You’re in good hands,” Robby said, glancing between you and Jack. “You’ve got half the ER out there whispering about it.”

“Tell them if they bring me chocolate, they can stay,” you joked.

Perlah dimmed the lights. Princess wiped sweat from your forehead. Robby took your vitals himself and kept your eyes steady with his.

Hours blurred together. Jack never left your side.

“You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

“You’re doing perfect.”

“She’s almost here.”

Then everything started to move faster. Robby gave a nod to Princess and Perlah.

“One more push,” he said. “You’ve got this.”

Jack leaned close, his forehead against yours. “Come on, sweetheart. Right here. You’ve got her.”

And then—

A cry. Loud. Full. Brand new.

“She’s here,” Robby said quietly.

Jack didn’t move at first. Just watched. His eyes were wet. His hand covered his mouth.

Princess handed her to you, swaddled and squirming. Jack kissed your forehead and brushed a tear off your cheek.

“She’s perfect,” he whispered. “You did it.”

Later, after they’d cleaned up and the room was quiet, you watched Jack walk over to the bassinet. He held up a camouflage onesie.

“Oh my God,” you said. “Seriously?”

He looked over, completely straight-faced. “This is important.”

“You’re impossible.”

He kissed you once, then again. And held her like he’d waited his whole life.

[digitaldaydreamm]

we need more rafe and bsf reader content pls☹️☹️

unspoken claim

rafe x childhood friend!reader

| summary | you just got dropped off from a totally casual hangout with a guy, but you didn’t tell rafe—because, well, he’s not your boyfriend… right?

warnings: possessive, overprotective, “he’s not even your boyfriend but acts like it” energy

a/n: i'm baaaaack, did you miss me? 🤭

part 2 | masterlist | taglist

⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°

You barely notice the tension in the air until the car slows to a stop in your driveway.

“So, this is you?” the guy—Noah or Nathan or whatever—asks from the driver’s seat, drumming his fingers nervously against the wheel.

You nod, giving a polite smile as you unbuckle your seatbelt. “Yeah… thanks for driving.”

“It was fun,” he says, then hesitates. “So… who’s that?”

Your stomach dips the second you follow his gaze. There, sitting on your porch steps with his elbows on his knees, brows furrowed, is Rafe. His truck’s parked all jacked up in the driveway like he’d swung it in with no care for lines or curbs.

He’s not even looking at you. Just staring dead ahead, jaw tight, tongue pushing against his cheek like he’s trying real hard not to lose it already.

“Oh, uh,” you say quickly, fumbling with the door handle, “that’s just Rafe. He’s my—he’s basically my best friend.”

The words feel stupid as soon as they leave your mouth.

The guy raises his brows. “He looks… pissed.”

You force a laugh and open the door. “He always looks like that. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

You don’t wait for a reply.

The second your shoes hit the driveway, it’s like the energy shifts—hard. Rafe’s eyes finally meet yours, sharp and cold and unreadable. He stands up slow, all six feet and something of him, broad and angry and radiating that you’re in trouble silence.

You swallow. “Hey…”

He doesn’t respond. Just nods toward the car still idling behind you. “That him?”

You glance back, awkward. “Rafe—”

“S'that him?” he repeats, firmer now, like he’s two seconds away from walking up and yanking the guy out through the window.

“Yes,” you snap, suddenly annoyed. “Not that it’s your business.”

He scoffs, stepping closer until you’re practically backed into your own front door. “Not my business?” he laughs bitterly, eyes flicking down to your outfit—casual but cute, the kind of thing you only wear when you’re trying. “You went out with some random asshole, didn’t tell me where you were going, didn’t answer your phone—nah, you’re right, not my business at all.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh my god, Rafe, it wasn’t a date.”

He gets in your face then, low and intense, voice full of venomous sarcasm. “Ohhh, right. Not a date. Just you, dressed like that, giggling in some guy’s passenger seat, letting him drop you off like he’s doing you a fucking favor. Real casual.”

“You’re overreacting.”

“And you’re outta your fuckin’ mind if you think I’m just gonna sit back and watch you get played by some dude who probably asked you out on Snapchat.”

You shove his chest lightly. “Jesus, Rafe, chill.”

He catches your wrist, holding it—not hard, but firm. “You forget who the fuck’s always been here, kid?”

Your heart skips. That damn nickname.

“You think he gives a shit about you?” Rafe sneers. “You think he knows how you take your coffee? That you can’t sleep with the closet door open? That you cry during vet commercials when the dog dies?”

You try to pull your hand back, but he doesn’t let go.

“He doesn’t know shit about you,” he growls. “But I do. And I always fucking have.”

Your voice is small. “So what, Rafe? You jealous?”

His jaw ticks.

And then, suddenly, he lets go of your wrist, takes a step back, and rips his phone out of his back pocket. “Nah,” he mutters, turning away and heading back down the porch steps.

He turns, takes two steps off the porch, then throws a look over his shoulder with that unhinged kind of calm.

“Is that the little fucker you’ve been giggling on your phone with?” he spits. “That the reason you’ve been ignoring me like some bratty fuckin’ teenager?”

You blink. “I haven’t—”

“Save it,” he snaps. “You think I don’t notice when you switch tabs the second I walk in? When your phone’s flipped face-down every time I show up? You think I’m fucking stupid?”

“Rafe—”

“Don’t,” he cuts in sharply, marching to his truck, fury practically vibrating off him. “Next time he drops you off, tell him to stop halfway up the block—unless he wants me waiting at the curb.”

You cross your arms. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re lucky I didn’t pull him outta the car,” he says, climbing into his truck like he didn’t just full-on stalk your casual hangout and threaten a guy with only eye contact and attitude. “Next time you’re bored, call me. Don’t go playing games with little boys who don’t know what the fuck to do with you.”

You stare at him.

Then he slams the door, starts the engine with a roar, and peels out like he’s doing it for dramatic effect—like the growl of the tires is part of the statement.

You’re left in the silence, heart hammering.

Not his girlfriend. Not his problem. And yet...

(you still haven’t blocked your location on Find My Friends.) (and he still shows up.)

[mariasont]

A Puddle in Running Shoes A.H.

summary: your boyfriend finds out you have a praise kink and is having way too much fun with that information

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x fem!reader

warnings: some suggestive content, hotch being a menace, reader having a praise kink, end suggests something may happen but nothing explicit in this one folks im getting my libido under control swear, also count how many times r refers to hotch's face as stupid im crying

wc: 1.9k

You hated running. No, correction, loathed it. Detested it. Despised it with every fiber of your being. If there was a stronger word, one that captured the burning, irrational rage you felt whenever someone suggested going for a jog, Spencer might have known it, but you couldn't bring yourself to care enough to ask. Simply put, running was not your thing.

But when Aaron, your boyfriend and somehow the most persistent man alive, asked you to join you on a run, you couldn't exactly say no. He didn't beg, Aaron Hotchner did not beg, but his version of asking, that soft it'd mean a lot to me paired with an encouraging smile, was close enough to begging in your book. Besides, you figured there'd be some sort of reward when you got back home. Aaron was good at those.

So here you were, contributing absolutely nothing to your marathon-obsessed, fitness-loving FBI boyfriend's training. Sweat coated every inch of your body, your legs felt like lead, and your lungs burned with every ragged breath you managed to suck in. The sun blazed overhead, making you feel more like a roasting chicken than a willing participant in this so-called fun activity.

Aaron, on the other hand, looked like he'd stepped out of a fitness ad, shirt clinging to him in ways that felt outright scandalous. Even the sweat on his face somehow made him look even more attractive.

He was at least ten paces ahead of you and every few steps, he'd glance over his shoulder, probably checking to make sure you hadn't spontaneously combusted or snuck off to find an air-conditioned cafe. Honestly, both were real possibilities.

Aaron's pace slowed until he was running beside you, throwing you a smile so unfairly handsome it made your legs feel weaker than they already did.

"How are you feeling?" The question felt retorical, anyone, profiler or not, was sure to be able to read you like an open book right now. "Still alive, or do I need to start figuring out the best way to carry you home without breaking any traffic laws?"

"I think I'm alive," you managed between gasps, wiping sweat from your brow. "But if carrying me is on the table, I'm not above playing dead to make that happen."

"Not necessary, I'd carry you anyway, if only to reward you for keeping up this long. You're doing great."

You foot caught a crack in the pavement, nearly hurling yourself into it, but Aaron's hand was there quicker keeping you upright as you tried to ignore the terrifying way your body had reacted to his compliment.

"Okay you can't just say stuff like that while I'm trying to run," you blurted out, avoiding his gaze. "You're trying to kill me, I swear."

You planted your hands on your hips, still trying to catch your breath, secretly relieved to have a break, even if it almost involved a face-first meeting with the sidewalk.

"Stuff like what?" He tugged at your ponytail and you swatted his hand.

"Nothing," you said way too quickly, shaking your head like you could physically toss what you said aside. "Forget I said anything. Let's just... keep running."

You quickly realized your mistake as soon as you started jogging again. You would never willingly suggest to keep running. Unfortunately, Aaron was actively aware of this, moving to come up beside you. You didn't need to look at him to know he had the stupidest smirk on his face.

He didn't say anything at first, to your immediate relief, just kept jogging beside you. The silence stretched on, his calm breathing only seeming to make your wheezing sound worse.

"You're breathing too shallow," he said after a moment, his tone completely casual like he wasn't even winded. "Try to take deeper breaths, match them to your strides. It'll make it easier."

You glanced towards him out of the corner of your eye before attempting his suggestion. You had no intention of letting him know that it worked. His ego was far too substantial for that.

"See? You're a natural," he said, shooting you a sidelong glance. "Atta girl."

Your brain flatlined and you almost tripped over your feet again, every rational thought replaced by static. What was wrong with you? You vaguely remembered reading somewhere that people with unresolved daddy issues were prone to developing praise kinks. Was that what this was? Whatever the reason, hearing Aaron talk like that shouldn't make you feel all gooey inside, but here you were, a puddle in running shoes.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, yup, fine!"

You stared at the ground so intensely, it was a miracle you didn't bore a hole into the pavement. Your voice had betrayed you, far too shaky and way too rushed, and you knew Aaron was probably filing away every bit of your reaction.

"Hey," he said softly, his hand brushing against the back of your neck as he spoke. "Stop staring at the ground. You'll run better if you keep your head up, it'll open your chest so you can breathe easier."

His hand lingered for a second too long than what your body could handle, leaving you completely flustered and fighting every urge to do exactly the opposite of what he said.

"There you go," he murmured, a small, approving smile tugging at his lips. "That's good, honey. Just like that."

His voice, his god forsaken voice, was like lightning to your system, and not in a good way. Or maybe it was a good way, which was the problem. It was bad enough to hearing it out here, on the jogging trail, but your brain decided to replay it in an entirely different inappropriate context: one that involved you, him, and a bed.

Your face burned, and you couldn't tell if it was from the exertion, or the very real possibility that your body was too receptive to those words. And now, not only were you fighting for every breath, but you were trying to figure out if the dampness between your legs was entirely from sweat. Surely it was sweat. Right? Gods, you hoped it was sweat.

You stopped so suddenly that Aaron jogged a few steps ahead before he realized you were not longer beside him.

"Okay, I'm calling it. I'm done. Can we please go home now?"

He jogged back to you, an easy smile on his face, and placed his hands on your shoulders as he reached you.

"Alright, we can be done," he teased, thumbs brushing lightly over your collarbones. "You survived, and you did great. I'm proud of you."

He leaned down then, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips that made the ache in your body a little easier to ignore.

When he pulled away, you barely managed to keep standing.

Aaron let out a low laugh, his hands squeezing your shoulders. "Alright. What's going on? What's wrong with you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," you said over your shoulder, practically power walking towards the car.

Aaron's laugh deepened and you ignored the funny feeling curling in your chest.

"Sweetheart," he said, gently tugging your elbow to slow you down. "Come on, talk to me."

"There's nothing to talk about, I'm fine!" You avoided his eyes as you tugged your elbow free. "I'm just tired, and, uh, need a shower."

A cold shower, your brain screamed, but you shoved the thought down.

"I know, I know you're tired," he said, lips curving into a smile, "but that's because you actually pushed yourself. I'm proud of you for sticking with it."

You were pretty convinced you were you were about to go up in flames. Your obituary would read death by too many unnecessary compliments. When your heart inevitably gave out, Aaron would have to explain to Rossi and the others how his dumb smile and sweet words had resulted in second degree manslaughter.

But then you saw it, the smirk. The one that said he absolutely knew what he was doing.

"Oh my gosh, you know!" You groaned and threw your hands in the air. "You know, and you're enjoying this!"

Spinning away from him, you stormed to the car, and slammed the door like it might shield you from his stupidly smug face.

You barely had time to exhale before the passenger door swung open, revealing Aaron, casually leaning against the car.

"You know," he said lightly, his tone far too casual for your liking, "slamming car doors isn't a great habit. You could hurt yourself."

"And you know," you snapped back, pointing at him, "torturing your girlfriend isn't a great habit either!"

He leaned in slowly, his fingers brushing against your shoulder as he grabbed your seatbelt. As he clicked it into place, his face lingered close to yours.

"I wasn't trying to torture you, baby. Just wanted to give you the chance to admit it, that you liked it."

Before you could muster a reply, Aaron's hand slid up to cradle your face, his thumb moving along your cheek. He leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was so deep, leaving you no choice but to sink into it, even as the faint remnants of your annoyance tried to surface.

By the time he pulled back, you felt like you were under his spell. Then, without another word, he shut your door and headed to the driver's side.

"That's not fair," you muttered, crossing your arms and pouting as you stared out the window.

Aaron's hand found the back of your neck as he backed out of the parking spot, rubbing gently into smooth circles.

"I don't mean to be unfair," he said with a small smile. "I just needed to hear it, because sometimes people don't even realize what they need until they say it out loud. And I wanted to make sure I didn't misread anything, though I'm rarely wrong, as you know."

"Trust me, you remind me every chance you get." Your tone was dry, but you were well aware that the twitch in your lip was giving you away.

"Alright, smartass," he said, chuckling as his fingers pressed a little firmer into your neck. "Now tell me, how does it make you feel when I say those things to you?"

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. "I don't know, okay? I just... like it! Do I have to explain it?"

"You don't have to explain it if you don't want to," he said, "but I'd like to know what it is you like so much."

Aaron's hand moved from your neck to your hand, his fingers sliding between each of yours while his eyes stayed glued to the road, a thing that only came from months of familiar motions.

You let out a long breath. "I don't know. I just like hearing it. It makes me feel good. Special, I guess."

"You are special, sweetheart." His eyes flicked to you before returning to the road. "You're my best girl."

Your stomach flipped violently. You shifted again, trying to disguise the way your thighs pressed together tightly as your face burned hotter than ever. The debate earlier in your head was officially over, absolutely not just sweat, you thought miserably.

Aaron let out a soft chuckle, fingers brushing over your knuckles. "Something I said?"

You swatted his shoulder, your glare losing all its bite thanks to the flush all over your body. "You're enjoying this way too much."

"I can't help it," he murmured, voice dipping just enough to get you on edge. "But don't worry, I'll take care of my best girl once we're home."

You slumped in your seat, muttering something unintelligible that made Aaron chuckle again. And even though you wouldn't admit it, you found yourself smiling, already dreading and anticipating whatever he had planned when you got home.

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[blackandwhitecircus]

(Those are my tags from an earlier reblog)

I REBLOGGED THIS THIS MORNING AND THEN

TO. DAY.

WAS FILMED FOR A "MEET THE STAFF" TIKTOK THAT IS GOING TO INCLUDE MY PRONOUNS AND WHEN I CASUALLY REMINDED MY BOSS THAT I AM THE ONLY PERSON ON STAFF WITH FUNKY PRONOUNS SHE GOT SO APOLOGETIC ABOUT NOT HAVING THOUGHT OF THAT AND CLEARLY HADN'T THOUGHT OF THE FACT THAT THIS WILL OUT ME AND MAY WELL LEAD TO HARASSMENT LIKE BE SO FOR REAL RIGHT NOW

i think one of the most frustrating things about the “share pronouns in a circle” phenomenon, as someone who teaches, is it has been so entrenched in the “canon” of the “progressive toolkit” that when you reject it for very good reasons, you recieve pushback for not giving space for pronoun sharing, so you just end up doing it anyways. and it really ignores the way it makes a spectacle if there are only a handful of trans people in the room, or even worse, only one

[pastempomat]

i love you btw. i think about you often and always hope you're doing well

god this made me cry <33 thank you so much dear, it means a lot to know you're here for me

[whisperofwonder]

Continuation of this

fem!reader x Kuroo Tetsurou

You smile at your reflection in the mirror as your maid of honor tucks one wayward strand of hair back into your updo. In less than an hour, you'll be walking down the aisle. You wonder what Tetsurou's face will look like when he sees you. You wonder if he'll cry. He'd insisted he wouldn't, but, well.

"You look so gorgeous!" One of your bridesmaids breathes, and truthfully, you'd have to agree with her. The hair dresser and makeup artist have worked their magic, and you'd found the absolute perfect dress. Now, all that's left is to wait until the ceremony begins.

Your friends' fawning over you is interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Yes?" Your maid of honor moves to stand by the closed door, hand hovering over the handle.

"Babe," The voice belongs to none other than your soon-to-be husband, and you instinctively cross your arms over your front, even though the door is still firmly closed. He can't see you before the wedding!

"I need you to tie my tie!" You resist the urge to roll your eyes.

"You know how to tie a tie," You call back carefully. "Just do it yourself!"

"But you always tie my tie." His voice is the next thing to a whine.

You sigh. "Where's Kenma?" Surely his best man didn't allow this. You wonder how he managed to slip away.

"Kenma is 'sick of my shit'," He intones, and you can practically hear the words in Kenma's voice. You sympathize. "Baby. My love. Please." He's begging now, and you can't help it. You start to soften.

Your maid of honor is looking at you with wide eyes, slashing her hand across her throat in a clear gesture: NO. You love her for that, but still.

"You'll close your eyes?" You ask in your sternest voice. "You can't see me, you know! It's bad luck."

"Yes, I'll close my eyes! Promise."

"Close them TIGHT," You insist, making sure he understands the gravity of the situation.

"They're tight," He promises. "Open the door already."

You nod. Your maid of honor hesitates for a few moments, but slowly swings the door open with a shake of her head.

There he is. Tetsurou. Your fiancé. In less than an hour, your husband. You feel your heart begin to swell in your chest. He wears a suit every day, but he looks especially handsome in this one. The tie in question is draped loosely around his neck.

"Babe?" He has his eyes squeezed shut, that much is obvious. As an added measure, your maid of honor pulls him inside and moves behind him, pressing her fingers across his eyes.

"Go ahead," She sighs. You reach for the tie, carefully straightening it around his neck. You reach for his collar, making sure it's turned up all the way around, and you watch as a smile begins to tug at his lips.

"I'm so excited," He murmurs as you work. "Can't wait to see you." The fingers covering his eyes tighten.

"Me too," You can't help the smile that's stealing across your own face. "I can't wait."

You begin making the knot, enjoying the dopey grin that's now completely filled his face. "There you go," You finally say, giving the knot a pat. "Perfect." Like always, you tug on the tie, just a little. Tilting your chin up, you lean into his kiss, savoring the feeling of it.

"I love you so much," He murmurs as he pulls away. "Thank you."

"I love you too, Tetsu." You take a step back, just drinking him in. "I'll see you soon."

He opens his mouth, but before he can drag the moment out any longer, your maid of honor steps in. "Okay, lovebirds, that's enough." She pulls him back. "Get back to wherever you're supposed to be. I'll kill you if you mess this up," She threatens sweetly.

"Yes ma'am," He murmurs as she shoves him back through the door, slamming it shut nearly in his face.

"You two make me sick," She sighs. The mushy smile on her face doesn't match her words at all. "Come here, let me touch up your lipstick."

[thecherrypittttttt]

I CAN SEE YOU; dr jack abbot x chief res!reader

words: 3,200+

content warnings: jealous abbot, fluffy, YEARNING, lil bit smutty

notes: based off of this banger

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

He was everywhere. Or at least it felt like it.

His shoulder brushing against hers as they lifted a patient from gurney to bed. His rough but warm fingertips skimming her own soft, manicured ones as they swapped shift notes. Every hallway she was entering, he seemed to be exiting - their bodies just barely grazing each other as they passed by. In the ambulance bay, outside the family room, the break room, at the nurses station.

He was everywhere in that damn ED. And now he was here too - at her usual hot yoga class.

Jack already felt like a fool for being there. His therapist had been telling him for years to try yoga and for years he had been rolling his eyes at the suggestion.

Typically, he was pretty good about listening to his therapist but what could yoga teach him about focus and presence that years in combat and emergency medicine hadn't already?

That was until she showed up.

Jack can still remember the exact thought he had the first time he saw her, 'Thank god she is not on the night shift.'

Her confidence, her beauty, the way her hips swayed when she walked, her brain, her laugh reverberating through the ED, how calm she was under pressure, her smart ass comments that made him crack a smile even on the worst of shifts - would all cause him a lot more trouble than they already did if she was with him on the night shift.

The first year of her residency was fine. He barely saw her and when he did, he told himself that he was just proud of a competent student who had a bright future ahead.

The second year of her residency, he had to admit to himself that he had a crush. A crush that he could never ever act upon - it was inappropriate on so many different levels - but a crush none the less. He was her boss, her teacher, at least 12 years her senior and he respected her far too much to let his own selfish wants get in the way of the career she had worked so hard for.

This third year was absolutely fucking killing him. He thought he had finally gotten a handle on his crush. That admiring her from afar was the closest he’d ever get to having her. And he was okay with that. Until Shen and his wife had a baby and Shen asked her to swap shifts with him.

In true Shen fashion, he didn't even mention it to Jack. Jack just choked on his coffee when she walked through the door and told him the news. When he asked why she'd agreed, she just shrugged and said, "If I'm not going to have a life outside of this place, I guess Shen can."

It has only been a month of her on the night shift and Jack already feels insane. Which is how he found himself at the closest yoga studio to the hospital. He was desperate to regain his previous level of focus so when his therapist suggested yoga again, he listened for once in his life.

Once he saw her, Jack probably had about a 5 second window to escape the studio without being caught. But he missed it because he was too busy drooling over how her skin tight powder blue leggings complimented the swell of her ass.

"Dr Abbot?"

Too late now. She unrolled her mat next to his, because of course the only spot left in the class was next to him, and then she just looked at him with a shadow of a smirk on her face.

"What is so funny?"

"Nothing. I just never would have pegged you as a hot yoga guy."

"I'm not."

She just raised her eyebrows in question.

"My therapist suggested it."

"Therapy and yoga? Next you're going to tell me you have a Nobel Peace Prize or something."

Jack's lips couldn't help but mold into the smallest smirk. He was so happy this room was dark. "No...just a purple heart. Only had to give them my leg to get it.”

The laugh she let out earned them a couple glares but Jack could care less about disturbing the quiet of the yoga studio when she was looking at him like that.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

She felt almost nervous as she trekked up to the roof. Their shift had sucked - plain and simple. It felt as if everyone coded in some capacity. One of the many they could not save was a veteran and Dr Abbot had just gotten through telling the family.

Probably why he was getting chicken wings and beer DoorDashed to the roof of the hospital.

She opened the door with her hip, both hands being occupied by Dr Abbot's delivery.

"What are you doing here?"

"You know they only pay residents so much - I had to pick up a side gig." Dr Abbot's was too distracted from the long day to realize she was making a joke.

His face falls into what reads as surprise and then sympathy. Like he's been an attending for so long that he forgot the abysmal wages residents make.

"I'm kidding! Your dasher took his job title a little too seriously and dropped this off with me in the ambulance bay and told me to get it to the 'guy who is always on the roof.'"

"You didn't have to come all the way up here."

"I wanted to check on you."

"I would have come down to get it. I have legs."

"You have leg. Singular. Not plural."

Jack let out a genuine laugh that he didn't even know he was capable of after the day they had had.

"Have you ever considered stand up?"

"Have you ever considered standing on the safe side of the safety railing? Just a thought."

"I like the view from here." He was staring right at her.

Ironically enough Jack had started going to yoga to distract himself from her and it has done the complete opposite. If anything, the friendship they have struck up has made him more bold. They have a routine - they work, they go to yoga, they get a tea and then Jack drives her home. And they yap the entire time.

Oh yeah, she's started calling him Jack now. So much so, he doesn't blush anymore when she does it. But she is blushing now.

Her cheeks are burning red. She is hoping to blame it on wind burn or something. Is Jack finally flirting with her? Ever since they ran into each other at yoga, class by class, she has gotten him to relax around her. She gets more Jack and less Dr Abbot. But still, it feels like he's restraining some piece of himself from her.

She noticed last week, when she mentioned her rapidly approaching residency graduation, he seemed different. At first he seemed surprised, almost like he forgot there even was a residency graduation. Then relieved like the concept of her no longer being a resident was exactly what he needed to make any kind of move. Or so she hoped.

She turns, his food and beer in hand, sits against the wall of the hospital and cracks open a beer. What is she doing? She doesn't even like beer. But she likes Jack. And is trying really hard to not imagine the muscles she sees under his shirt at yoga being used to press her against the wall she's sitting against.

"Hey - that's mine."

"Get over here then, Abbot."

He takes off of his jacket on his walk over and she allows herself only a second of imaging it on her bedroom floor. The feeling of Jack placing it around her shoulders and plopping himself next to her brings her out of her head.

"You don't have to-" She starts.

"You’re cold." He gently tugs her hair out from under his jacket and she wants to absolutely melt at the brief sensation of his touch on the back of her neck. She has to stop herself from whimpering. She tells herself to get a grip.

She just holds up her beer, "Consider this my delivery fee."

Jack clinks his beer against hers, "Cheers...to being a yoga guy."

Her bright eyes blow to the size of saucers, her jaw drops, and she's laughing as she knocks her shoulder against his, "I knew it!"

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

Jack is in trouble. He now has an unlimited monthly yoga membership to the studio closest to the hospital even though he only ever goes with her after their shared shifts. He thinks he may be falling in love. Fast. And even worse, he is starting to allow himself to think that maybe she is too.

He thinks maybe it was always there for both of them but something about this impending residency graduation has given them both the freedom they needed to explore it. Not that anything has actually even happened.

She felt stupid. She was close to getting herself a neurology consult for the way she was thinking. Nothing had ever actually even happened between her and Jack. But having to go from experiencing his quiet confidence and intellect and calm teaching at work to his sweaty muscles and heavy breathing at yoga had her brain running absolutely wild.

He probably sees her as nothing but his favorite resident and she is practically falling in love with him. And that isn't a hyperbole.

The night was slow in the ED. Noone dared to say that out loud though. Especially since it was still earlier - barely 9 PM. Some of the day shift was even still there - opting to work their mandated monthly double shift on a slow night.

They were both at the nurse's station - always in each other's orbit. Jack was charting and she was recommending a jeweler to Bridget. She had found him when looking for someone to make a custom dog tag necklace that was meant to be a replica of the kind her dad wore when he was in the Army. When he died, they were never able to recover his actual tags.

Jack's phone went off and he stepped away for a moment before returning. He pointed at her before tucking his phone back in his pocket, "Gloria says we have a VIP patient en route from PPG Paints Arena. Connor Matthews from the Penguins. And he has specifically requested you."

If she didn't know any better, she could've sworn Jack's jaw twitched.

The murmurs began real quick. Why was the star of the Pittsburgh Penguins requesting her? She hated that Connor was coming in but she sort of loved that Abbot could potentially be jealous.

Princess cut straight to the point, "How do you know him?"

"We grew up together. He played hockey with my brothers."

Connor was being ushered in, still in his jersey and ice pack resting on his forehead, as she walked over to him.

Jack watched out of the corner of his eye, hoping he was looking like an attentive attending rather than just plain jealous. He pretended to be charting but he was straining to hear every part of the conversation.

"I texted you."

"I know."

"I called you."

She grits her teeth as she repeats herself, "I know. I also know that you could have gotten stitches from the team doctor so why the dramatic visit?"

"I think you know why."

"Connor, I don't know how many times I have to tell you this-"

"I know! I just can't help myself."

"Well start." She deadpans, flashing her light pen way too close to his eyes. Maybe not the most professional thing in the world but he deserved it for wasting her time like this.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"Checking for a concussion."

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"Mateo, can you please take him over to a room and stitch him up?"

"I requested you."

"And I request that you stop wasting my time at my job that you disrespected then and you are disrespecting right now."

"I didn't mean to."

She ignores him. She gets one more quip in before Mateo is wheeling Connor away. "Oh, Connor, I almost forgot - are there any 21 year olds we need to call to let them know you're okay?"

She hears a muffled laugh behind her. She turns to see Jack, elbows on the counter of the nurses station, pretending to be engrossed in his charting. She goes to plop down in the seat in front of him.

"Eavesdropping is impolite, you know?"

"I don't know what you are talking about"

"My standup career, remember?"

Jack grins at her, his eyes soft and then he does the unimaginable. He winks at her. Like he is acknowledging he got caught listening in on her conversation with Connor. She almost falls out of her chair. He seems perfectly fine, walking around the nurses station to grab one of the tablets.

"Didn't know your boyfriend was a hockey super star." He speaks up from behind her.

"Ex boyfriend."

She feels his breath on the back of her neck before she hears him. His tone is low and almost sensual, "Good." is all he says before he's walking away.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

She doesn't know who is squeezing her harder - Dana or Collins. The moment she stepped into the bar they were running over, squeezing the living shit out of her and whispering 'Congratulations' into her ear.

"Congratulations on what?" She laughed.

"Graduating residency!"

It was tradition, every summer when the residents graduated, the attendings took the team out to celebrate on their tab. Legend has it, there used to be a graduation ceremony with speeches and presents and an open bar. But due to budget cuts, Abbot and Robby had to take matters into their own hands - and credit cards.

"Oh and Robby has a surprise for you." Collins added.

"Oh no. If it's anything like the surprise he gave you last year then I decline! She is so damn cute though." Robby and Collins won't actually admit that their baby girl was conceived on this same night last year but the rest of the pitt crew have decided to make it canon.

"Before I hand you this drink, I need you to sign this. If you want, obviously" Robby interrupts - the world's largest grin on his face.

"Sign wha-" The realization dawns on her mid sentence. It's her offer letter to become an attending at the pitt.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. Absolutely sparkling, shining letter of recommendation from Dr Jack Abbot, by the way. He never writes those. Almost gave Gloria a heart attack with that one.” Robby winks at her as he hands her a pen.

She signs. They cheer. They hug. They cry a little bit. Happy tears - at the idea they now get to spend more time together rather than one of them getting shipped off to a different city for a new job.

She can’t remember the last time she was this happy. And a lot of it has to do with someone who isn’t even here yet. She spots him walking in and her feet are carrying her over to him before her brain can tell her to stop.

A smile appears on Jack’s face when he sees her. She’s not in scrubs or workout clothes - although she looks just as beautiful in those.

She’s in a white sundress and sandals. Her hair wavy and her cheeks tinged pink and laden with freckles. He noticed hers come out more in the summer time, just like his.

They’ve never really hugged before but she’s throwing her arms around his neck to hug him hello and his arms wrap around her waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He’s so close he can smell her lip gloss and he wants to kiss it off of her more than anything.

He settles for, “I heard I have a new colleague.”

“Aren’t you lucky?”

“Very.”

Then she’s pulled over to chat with her fellow residents. Abbot over by Robby and some of the other attendings.

Drink after drink, people start to fall off. She joins Collins and Dana and eventually the boys make their way over as well. Everyone is making bets on who is going to go home with who.

Santos goes home with Garcia. Easy money. Same for Victoria and Mateo. Langdon goes home alone and sober - thank goodness. Dana’s husband picks her up and Collins and Robby have to go relieve their baby sitter.

Robby sets his half finished beer in front of her, “Here, finish my beer. Don’t wanna waste it.”

She grimaces and Collins cackles, “Robby, you know she hates beer!”

Then they were gone. Jack wore the world’s cockiest smirk on his face and they were alone.

“So did you hate beer that day on the roof too?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

The bar is shutting down so Jack pays the tab and they make their way out into the sticky, summer air.

“Come on - I’ll drive you home.”

They’re walking so close their hands brush about five times on the short walk to the car.

She turns to Jack before he can open her passenger side door but he was one step ahead of her. He’s practically an inch away from her as he speaks.

“You know there used to be an actual graduation ceremony for the residents. With presents. So I got you something.”

“You didn’t have to-“

Jack just places the small box in her hands. He takes her purse so she has free hands to tug the ribbon and open the present.

She gasps - her dad’s dog tags. Presumably, the real ones. She can’t even form words, “How did you even-“

“Called in a couple favors.”

A couple of tears fall because this is the absolute nicest, most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for her. Jack is hesitant in his reach but the loving look in her eyes spurs him on. His hand cradles her cheek, wipes away her tears.

“Jack-“

“Yeah.” His voice is clipped, out of breath, expectant - hanging off her every word.

She nods her head, almost to encourage herself, before looking back up to him, “I’m going to have to get a new job if I am totally reading this wrong but I think I’m in love with you.”

“Thank fucking goodness.” And then he’s grabbing the box out of her hands, placing it and her purse on the hood of the car before his hands are on her. Kissing her with every ounce of pent up longing from the past three years.

She’s pressed against the passenger seat of his car, her hands in his hair and his cupping her face.

Eventually, his forehead falls to hers as he whispers against her lips, his hands resting on her waist. “I love you.”

“I’ve pictured this so many times.”

“You won’t believe the things that I’ve seen in my head. Wait until you see half the things that haven’t happened yet.”

“Well then why don’t you show me, Jack.”

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

He’d already pulled an orgasm from her using his thigh - had her pressed against his front door.

“God, you’re fucking perfect. I can’t believe I get to se you like this.” All she can do is let out a low moan in response.

Her body felt like it was on fire. Since they’d moved into the bed he’d made her finish on his fingers and now was eating her like she was his last meal.

She tugged at his curls, finally, after imaging it so many times. He groaned into her, inserting another finger and sending her over the edge.

“Oh - Jack! Oh my god-“

“There she is - my good girl.”

He’s insatiable and who is she kidding - so is she. He’s kissing up her body, pinning her hands above her head.

“Jack, I need to feel you. Please.”

His hand lightly wrapped around her neck. He whispered in her ear, “God, I love you.” And then he’s kissing her forehead and sliding into her all at once.

“Holy shit - you’re so fucking tight. So fucking perfect.”

“I love you.”

“Say it again.”

“I love you.”

Neither of them last much longer. She’s on orgasm #4 and he’s on #2 (she’s been waiting for years - she couldn’t not suck him off the first chance she had).

“I’ve never orgasmed that many times before.”

“Pretty good for an old man, huh?”

“All that yoga must be paying off.”

They laugh - all that yoga is paying off far more than either of them could have ever imagined.

[pastelaspirations]

Reblogging because this looks so soft and cute and it looks like the personification of chocolate and caramel. Making me think it's christmas time even though it's literally almost summer

Did Error dropped the hot coffee on Ink's head? Yeah. He regrets? Maybe not u-u

[forever-rogue]

Trouble

AN | Hello, I'm here to fix it. It never happened. Joel is back in Jackson. Enjoy����

Pairing | Joel Miller x Fem!Reader 

Warnings | Canon typical injury

Word Count | 2.6k

Masterlist | Joel, Main 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You were covered in dirt, blood, and gunk but none of that mattered in the moment. What mattered was that no matter how bruised and worn down you felt, you were alive. You had survived, Jackson had survived…everything would be okay.

Dragging yourself up off the ground, you spotted Tommy and Maria up ahead. A sigh of relief escaped your lips as you slowly made your way towards them, helping any stragglers along your way. It was going to take a while to recover from this disaster, but at least you knew things would get better. And, if anything, you now had more knowledge on the enemy and their…abilities for lack of a better word.

Brushing some blood and dirt off your face, you spotted Ellie getting off her horse just up ahead. Thank fuck.

They were all okay. Everything was fine. Ellie, Jesse, Dina, and Joel were back. 

You ran as fast as you could which, given the state you were in wasn't very fast, ready to make your way to them. It was more of a limping skip as you made your way over.

“Tommy! Ellie!” You shouted over the wind, waving your arm to get their attention. When they heard you and finally turned around, you were met with a sea of grim faces. Your stomach dropped; they should be happy. If not happy, at least not so grim. Right? When you finally got to them, you realized that you didn’t see Joel. You immediately knew something was very wrong, “where's Joel?”

Ellie opened and closed her mouth a few times, fresh tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Where's Joel?” you asked again, swallowing the lump in your throat. You turned to Tommy and saw that the look on his face mirrored the one on Ellie's. In fact, no one looked happy, “Tommy. Where's Joel?”

“Listen-” 

“Where is he!?” You demand again, tears welling up in your own eyes. Tommy put his hand on your shoulder and held onto it firmly, “T-Tommy. Where is he?”

“He's at Kat's,” he finally said, his own voice shaking as he tried to keep it together, “he's…he's not doing well.”

You choked out a sob before turning on your heel and running towards Kat's house. Your own body was screaming in pain but none of that mattered in the moment. All you could think about was getting to Joel. That was the only thing that mattered. 

You burst through the front door of the house, lungs on fire as you headed towards the stairs. You took a moment to catch your breath, clutching the stitch in your side, “Kat? Kat!”

You started up the stairs, Kat meeting you at the top with a grim expression on her face. She was a kind, older woman that always had a way of making you feel better no matter the circumstances. She was a good doctor.

She took your face in her hands before sighing softly and pulling you in for a hug. You clutched onto her tightly, fearful for what she was going to say to you. When you pulled apart, she brushed some dirt off your clothes, “I'm going to have a look at you next.”

“There's other people that need your help more than I do,” you insisted, “where's Joel? I-I need to see him. Please.”

“Look,” she gave your hand a squeeze, “he's lucky to be alive. I hate to say that, I do. But he's lucky Ellie and Jesse found him when they did.”

“What happened?” You were reeling from her words; the idea of losing Joel was unbearable, “tell me. Please.”

“Seems like some people he made enemies of a long time back found him,” she sighed, “and they had some sort of vendetta against him.”

You couldn't wait any longer and gently pushed past her and into the room where you knew he'd be. As soon as you opened the door, you stopped in your tracks when you found him on the bed. You let out a shaky breath as you dropped to your knees by his side, “oh my god. Joel.”

“He can't hear you,” Kat followed in after you, grim look on her face, “he's out. He's gonna be out for a while.”

“What did they do to him?” His face was bruised and there were remnants of dried blood all over him. He looked so pale that it made your stomach drop. It took you a moment of notice that his leg was completely bandaged up.

“Shot in the side, his leg was broken badly. Ellie said…there was a girl beating him with a golf club before resorting to using her fists. He's got some broken ribs and lost a lot of blood. He's going to be a while before he's up and able to get, let alone get around.”

“But he'll-”

“There's no swelling in his brain and his lungs sound clear. He's past the absolute worst but he's not out of the woods just yet,” you hated that she wouldn't just confirm that he'd make it, “but its Joel. You know he's not going to give up fighting.”

“What can I do?” You asked, voice cracking as tears blurred your vision, “anything. Whatever it takes.”

“There's not much you can do right now. Its just going to take time,” she whispered, “take care of yourself. And the others. Things will be alright.”

“Will they?” You plopped onto the ground and reached for his hand; it was cold and stiff, “I can't…I can't lose him. I just can't.”

“We'll do everything we can do,” she promised, “we just have to be patient.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“Here,” Tommy's voice pulled you of your stupor as he walked in and held a hot cup of tea out to you, “our mama used to say that there wasn't anything a cup of tea couldn't fix.”

“Thanks,” you clutched the warm mug in your cold, tired hands as you stared at the golden liquid. You stretched, your body tired and aching from the stiff wooden chair that had basically become your second home. You'd been camped out by his side, refusing to move unless absolutely necessary. You’d cleaned him up as best as you could but he still looked so…fragile. Broken.

“You can leave you know,” he said as you looked at him incredulously, “you can rest and take time for yourself. You ain't going to be helping anyone by not making sure you're okay.”

“I don't want to leave him,” you sighed, looking Joel over. It had been almost two weeks, and while he seemed to be healing, he still wasn't up and conscious, “what if he wakes up and I'm not here? O-or something happens?”

Tommy let out a low sigh as he looked forlornly at his older brother, “I keep thinking the same thing. But you know if anything happens, someone will get you right away.”

“Yeah,” you sipped the warm liquid and closed your eyes for a moment. You knew this was just hard for him and Ellie, “what happened to her? The girl?”

“She got away,” he gritted his teeth, “for now. We'll find her.”

“I keep thinking I want to go out there and kill her myself,” you whispered, reaching over and gently brushing a rogue lock of hair out of Joel's face, “that I want her to suffer as much as he did, or worse.”

“But…”

“Nothing excuses what she did,” you whispered, “but I can't imagine doing that to another living being. It makes us no better than them. But at the time I don't know if I care about that.”

“Its hard,” he agreed.

“It is,” you took his hand in yours, “I don't know what to do. For now, I just want him to be okay.”

“He's a stubborn old fool. He's not going to leave us that easily.”

“Promise?” Your voice was quiet and you weren't even sure you'd intended for him to hear it. Tommy nodded as offered him a small smile in return, “you better hurry up and get better soon, old man. Can't believe I'm saying this, but I miss your grumpy old face.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Time seemed slower than it ever did before as you remained by Joel's side. A few more days had passed and as much as you wanted to remain hopeful, you had to admit it was hard to. While his pallor returned and the dark bruising faded to green and yellow, he hadn't woken up. You never thought you could miss someone so much when they were right next to you. 

“You know,” you had moved onto the bed, laying on the edge to be close to him without hurting him further, “I remember when we first met after I got here. It was kind of like this then too, except I wasn't hurt as bad. One of the first things you said to me was that you knew I was going to be a pain in your ass. Turns out you were right, but I could say the same about you.”

The room was silent, filled only with the combined sounds of your soft breathing. You tentatively reached out a hand and traced your fingertips along his side, barely a ghost of a touch.

“I miss you, you know,” you continued, “I always miss you when you're gone, even if its only a few hours, but this is so much worse. Its like you're right here but a million miles away. I want you to come back to me soon. We're all waiting for you. Ellie misses you so much too. She saved you, you know. She never hated you, which I think you know deep down. She loves you, you'll always be her Joel. I love you. So much.”

You laid there until you fell asleep, only moonlight filtering in. You weren't sure how much long your heart could handle this.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It was going on three weeks and you were still a wreck as much as the first day. You were growing impatient and tired and angry, and a million other emotions.

“You know I hate to ask you to leave but can you give Maria a hand with some stuff at the stables?” You looked at Tommy and glanced at Joel before nodding. He hadn't woken up yet, and at this you weren't sure when he would. It was probably fine to be gone for a few hours.

“Of course,” you stood up, giving Joel one last look before heading out. You'd be back soon enough.

It was a few hours of some back breaking labor that you were finally able to take a moment to breathe. There was still so much left to do to rebuild Jackson, and as reluctant as you had been to leave Joel, you were happy for the work that had taken all of your attention.

You heard your name being shouted from the distance and looked over to Benji running towards you with Tommy running after him. You exchanged a look with Maria and bent down to scoop him up in your arms.

“Hey kiddo, what's got you so excited?” 

“Uncle Joel,” he started simply, a big gap toothed smile on his face. Your heart stopped for a moment as you looked over to Tommy, who had managed to catch up.

“Tommy?” You tried to keep the excitement out of your face, “is he…?”

“He's awake,” he confirmed, “just woke up.”

“Oh my god,” you gently set him down and ran off without another word. You figured they'd understand.

You burst into the house and ran upstairs and into his room, chest heaving from the exertion. Kat raised an eyebrow at you but there was a smile pulling on the corners of her mouth, “just in time.”

“Joel?” Kat stepped out of the way and slipped out of the room to give the two of you some privacy.

And there he was; still looking worse for the wear but sat up in the bed and fully conscious. It might have been the most beautiful sight you had ever seen.

“Hey trouble,” his voice was dry and raspy but hearing him immediately brought tears to your eyes.

“Joel,” you took a few tentative steps towards him, part of you refusing to believe this was real. He moved his hand to reach out for you, “you're…you're…I thought I was going to lose you.”

“You can't get rid of me that easily,” his laugh turned into a cough and you handed him the glass of water that was by his bedside.

“Take it easy old man,” you joked through your tears, finally happy ones, as you sat next to him on the bed, “don't need you to hurt yourself now.”

He smiled at you, putting his hand on top of yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze, “you were here. The whole time.”

“Where else would I be?” You sniffled as he reached up and wiped your tears away. You put your hand on top of his and held it gently against your cheek.

“Preferably out living life,” he stroked his thumb over your skin, “not worrying about me.”

You studied him, taking in the brown eyes you'd missed so much. He was definitely far from recovered but he was here and he was alive. That was enough for now.

You gently took his hand off your face and took his face in your hands. You frowned at the bruising that was lingering but you knew it'd be gone soon enough. Before you could stop yourself, you leaned in and pressed your lips against his, kissing him as softly and tenderly as possible. With a relieved sigh, you touched your forehead against his, “I don't think I could ever stay away.”

“You know I'm never going to leave you,” he whispered as you nodded.

“I love you,” you promised, “even if you are a stubborn grump.”

“I love you too, trouble,” he shifted over gently before patting the same next to him, “c'mere.”

“I don't want to hurt you,” he scoffed and you kicked off your boots before getting into the bed next to him, slowly to make sure you didn't cause him any pain. You laid down and rested your head on his good leg, letting out a slow, deep breath. Joel started gently playing your hair, causing tingles to shoot through your entire body. You hadn't realized how much you missed his touch, “you should lie down too. You need the rest.”

“So do you,” he insisted, grinning as you yawned, “you've been here the whole time watching me, let me take care of you.”

“Only if you lie down with me and we both stay here for a while,” you insisted, turning your face to look up at him.

“I suppose,” he shifted with a grimace but was able to get himself comfortable next to you, draping an arm around your waist and pulling you against him, “you alright?”

“Better than I have been in weeks,” you turned so you were facing him, “I was scared that we'd never get to do this again. That I'd never see you again. That you would be gone…”

“Oh trouble,” he whispered, “that's never going to happen. Okay?”

“Okay,” you agreed, “I'm going to hold you to that, Miller.”

“I'd expect nothing less, trouble.”

[ohisms]

✱˚｡⋆ ↪ 𝐀 𝐘𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐄 .    (  a collection of  mixed action prompts.   adjust phrasing as desired.   potentially mature content within.  )

[ 1. ] sender steps between receiver and an aggressive stranger, voice low and steady: "walk. away."

[ 2. ] sender teaches receiver self-defense, hands firm on their hips as they adjust their stance.

[ 3. ] sender presses their forehead to receiver's, voice breaking as they murmur, "i don't know how to fix this, but i'm not leaving."

[ 4. ] sender shoves receiver out of the way of a projectile.

[ 5. ] sender combs their fingers through receiver's hair in the aftermath of a traumatic event, whispering words of comfort.

[ 6. ] sender whispers, “i’ve thought about this all day,” before pinning receiver against a wall for a searing kiss.

[ 7. ] sender wipes away the receiver’s falling tears with their thumb and whispers, “i’m here."

[ 8. ] sender patches up receiver's wounds, hands trembling as they whisper, "you can't keep doing this to me."

[ 9. ] sender shoves receiver into a hiding spot, hissing, "stay here or i’ll kill you myself."

[ 10. ] sender finds receiver drunk at a party, sighing. "let’s get you home."

[ 11. ] sender is discovered sleepwalking by receiver.

[ 12. ] sender steals receiver’s weapon and presses it to their own chest, daring: “go ahead. prove me right.”

[ 13. ] sender ‘accidentally’ flashes receiver while changing, purring, "see something you like?"

[ 14. ] sender whispers, "you’ll ruin me," before biting receiver’s lip hard enough to draw blood.

[ 15. ] sender takes over while receiver is giving themselves stitches, promising to handle it.

[ 16. ] sender frantically grips receiver by the shoulders, "don't you dare close your eyes."

[ 17. ] sender fixes receiver’s crooked [ tie / jewelry ], teasing, "nervous?"

[ 18. ] sender shakes receiver out of a nightmare, comforting them in the aftermath. "same nightmare again?"

[ 19. ] sender brings hot tea and medication to a [ hungover / ill ] receiver.

[ 20. ] sender invites receiver to dance with them, insisting, "what? this song's perfect."

[ 21. ] sender leaves a single rose on receiver’s windshield with a note: "you’re being followed. smile."

[ 22. ] sender pins receiver’s wrists during a sparring match, grinning, "yield."

[ 23. ] sender playfully steals something from receiver, initiating a chase. "come and get it, then."

[ 24. ] sender drapes a blanket over receiver, accidentally waking them. "sorry, go back to sleep."

[ 25. ] receiver returns home only to find sender already there. "finally."

[ 26. ] after a pleasant night out together, sender asks: "can i kiss you goodnight?"

[ 27. ] sender wipes the blood from receiver's face, murmuring, "let's get you cleaned up."

[ 28. ] sender shoves receiver against a vending machine to dodge security, breathless. "act natural."

[ 29. ] sender wakes receiver in the throes of a nightmare, reassuring them, "it's okay, it's not real."

[ 30. ] sender purposefully antagonizes receiver, hurling insults; "what are you gonna do about it?"

[drewsephrry]

Love Island: Episode 1 - Welcome to the Villa

series masterlist

pairings: rafe cameron x reader

words: 7.1k

warnings: sexual innuendos, cuss words, alcohol consumption

The sun rises over the sparkling villa, casting a golden glow across the shimmering pool. The soft hum of waves crashing in the distance mixes with the faint chirping of birds, setting the stage for a summer of romance and surprises. Lush greenery surrounds the villa, its vibrant colors reflecting the energy of the Islanders who have just arrived.

Y/N stands among the other girls, a mixture of nervousness and anticipation tightening her chest. Her fingers fidget with the ring on her hand, a tell-tale sign of her anxiety. She glances at the others, their faces lighting up as Ariana Madix approaches.

“Welcome, girls, to Love Island! I hope you're all excited!” Ariana exclaims, her positive energy contagious. The group erupts in giggles and excited squeals, but Y/N remains reserved, her smile small yet sincere.

“Okay, so things are a little different this year…” Ariana's voice cuts through the chatter. The girls exchange looks of confusion and curiosity. Y/N shifts on her feet, her mind racing. Different could mean anything.

“Elaborate!” Sarah yells as the girls chuckle and even Ariana joins.

“You all thought that you'd be stepping forward for the boys that you fancy the most, yeah? However, this is Love Island and you never know what to expect.” The girls wait in anticipation. “For the first time ever we asked the public to play cupid and pick the boy they thought you should couple up with.”

The girls all are shocked as they look at each other. Y/N’s heart sinks and soars simultaneously. A mix of relief and dread washes over her. No pressure to choose, but what if the public got it wrong?

“Oh my god! He's gonna be short, gonna have no tattoos, ugly.” Kiara says, crossing the lines between humor and honesty. The girls chuckle at her reaction.

“How are you feeling? Is this a good thing? The decision is out of your hands, it's up to the public so, are you not happy?” Ariana asks, the girls giggle.

“I can't see any good in this. This is like the worst situation for me. I'm shitting it.” Cleo exclaims with Kiara nodding, agreeing with her.

“How are you feeling about this twist, Y/N?” Ariana’s voice breaks her thoughts and she blinks glancing around.

“Yeah, no, I don't know. It would probably be nerve-wracking for the boys to choose among these gorgeous girls.” She says pointing at the girls beside her, as they all giggle. Maddy shoves her playfully.

“You too, hon.” Maddy adds and Y/N shakes her head, smiling.

“But I guess it's a good thing. I don't know. We're just gonna have to wait and see.” Y/N smirks and Ariana nods, as she reads her card.

“Are you ready to meet our first boy? I am so excited, I can't wait any longer. Please meet JJ.” She introduces as JJ emerges from the villa.

JJ walks out with his flirty attitude, charming all of the girls, including Ariana before she announces that the public has paired him up with Maddy. Y/N claps along with the others as he rushes to Maddy, giving her a side hug. They seem happy, as she smiles and looks ahead to the presenter.

“Are you happy with this decision? JJ, how about you? You good to give things a go?” Ariana asks and JJ nods, his hand finding a place on Maddy’s waist.

“I'm happy. Yeah, definitely.” He replies.

“You got no choice!” Maddy teases and he chuckles nodding.

“True, true.”

Ariana smiles and looks down at her cards again, before moving ahead.

“Okay, 4 single girls left, are you ready to meet our next boy?” She asks and the girls nod “Here is Rafe!”

The nerves in Y/N’s stomach double as Ariana introduces the next boy. The name barely registers before he emerges. He has buzzed hair, piercing cerulean eyes that glint under the sunlight, as they scan the line of girls. Y/N feels her breath catch. His toned physique is impossible to ignore, but it is the sharp yet boyish smile tugging at his lips that sends her pulse racing.

“Hello and welcome to Love Island, Rafe!” Ariana greets him as Rafe nods.

“Hi, thank you.” He responds smoothly as he looks at the girls standing in front of him. His eyes linger a fraction longer on Y/N. She looks down, suddenly hyper-aware of herself. He then turns back to Ariana who has asked him a question.

“Sorry?” He asks and Ariana chuckles.

“I asked if you like our villa? But I guess you got distracted by our beautiful single ladies!” Ariana teases and Rafe's grin widens.

“Yeah, yeah. Umm…it's unreal” He answers.

“You happy to stay here for a while?” She asks and he nods.

“Yeah, I hope so anyway.” He replies, cheekily and the girls giggle.

“What about these ladies in front of you?” Ariana asks, looking straight at Y/N. “Is there someone who caught your eye already?” Y/N widens her eyes and hides her face in her hands. Rafe chuckles, looking down before looking up at her.

“They're all absolutely stunning but yeah…one did.” His voice drops slightly, but the microphone catches his confession. Y/N freezes, her cheeks heating. The other girls gasp and giggle, nudging her teasingly.

“It's time to get coupled up.” Ariana announces, before explaining to Rafe about this year's change in rules. Rafe nods and seems hopeful for the result.

“Okay, Rafe, the girl you're coupling up with is…Y/N. Go on over.” When Ariana reveals that the public has paired him with Y/N, her heart thuds loudly in her ears. She tries to steady her breath as Rafe approaches, his confident stride softening when he reaches her.

“Hey, you alright?” He asks, his voice low, almost intimate, as he opens his arms.

“Yeah, you?” Y/N replies, her voice barely above a whisper. She steps into his embrace happily, his warmth enveloping her. Rafe nods and moves to stand behind her. His hand is hovering over her waist.

“Is this okay?” He asks, meeting her gaze before she nods. His touch settles lightly on her waist. A jolt of electricity seems to spark between them and they both stiffen for a moment, glancing at each other as if to confirm what they feel. Y/N smiles shyly, her heart racing.

“Rafe, how are you feeling? I saw a bit of a smile while you were walking over there. Did the public choose wisely?” Ariana teases and he chuckles, nodding.

“Yeah, definitely. I'm a happy man. 100%.” He admits, grinning widely. His words are sure and his tone is light but genuine.

“Y/N, he's 100% happy, what about you?” Ariana asks and Y/N turns her attention back to her.

“Yeah, he's cute. I'm happy.” Y/N nervously answers, her voice falters slightly under everyone’s gaze, but her smile doesn’t waver. Rafe chuckles, looking down at her with a glimmer of amusement and something softer.

“Good.” He murmurs just for her to hear, his hand tightening ever so slightly at her waist.

“And there we have it! Our second couple!” Ariana announces as everyone cheers and applauds. Y/N feels Rafe’s presence at her side like an anchor. His confidence is magnetic, but it is the way he subtly checked on her, making sure she was comfortable, that stays with her. Maybe the public got it right after all.

The coupling ceremony continues. The public pairs Topper with Sarah, John B with Cleo and Pope with Kiara.

“That's it! Now, we have our gorgeous 5 couples!” Ariana announces, introducing each one, her energy lighting up the group.

“So you're now gonna spend time as couples. Doing challenges together. Sharing a bed together. Living together. How does that sound?” Ariana asks and the group erupts in cheers, Topper hollering loudly as Sarah chuckles beside him.

“In eight weeks time, the public will be voting for their favorite couple.” Ariana continues, her tone teasing yet firm. “And that couple stands to win a massive prize of 100,000 dollars. But remember guys, this is Love Island and the path to true love never runs smooth.” She pauses to let her words sink in.

“I'm gonna leave you to get to know each other and I will see you very soon. Have fun.” Ariana walks off, leaving the Islanders buzzing with anticipation. They cluster together, conversations breaking out as everyone starts introducing themselves. Y/N finds herself standing with Rafe.

“How you feeling?” He asks, his voice deep and husky, cutting through the chatter.

“Good. Kinda nervous. But…it's okay. I'll be okay. You? What about you?” She replies, meeting his gaze, fidgeting nervously with a ring on her finger. Rafe smirks, his posture relaxing.

“No, yeah. Same. I'm shitting my pants, if I'm being honest.” He admits, earning a laugh from her.

“So what…what did you say you do?” She asks, adjusting her bikini top. Rafe watches her carefully. He hesitates for a moment, scratching the back of his neck.

“Uh, I am a business owner. We do development and construction…stuff.” He winces inwardly, annoyed at how clumsy his words sound but he couldn't help himself getting nervous in front of her. Y/N nods and smiles playfully.

“Okay, mr. Businessman!” She teases, her tone light and inviting. Rafe chuckles, her easygoing attitude calming his nerves. For the first time that morning, he feels himself relax. Y/N shifts her weight as she leans slightly closer to Rafe.

“Development and construction, huh? So, what does that mean exactly? Like…building houses and stuff?” She asks. Rafe nods, his confidence slowly returning under her curious gaze.

“Yeah, houses, commercial spaces, renovations. Pretty much anything you can think of. My family’s been in the business for a while, but I’m trying to carve out my own thing.” He explains and she nods.

“Impressive.” Y/N says, her eyes sparkling with genuine interest. “I mean, that’s no small feat. Sounds like you’ve got a good head on your shoulders.” She says and he shrugs, a faint blush creeping onto his cheeks.

“I try. What about you?” He asks, his eyes lighting up with genuine curiosity.

“I’m a baker.” She says with a proud smile. His brows lift, impressed.

“A baker? That’s amazing. How did you get into that?” He crosses his arms, his biceps flexing slightly and Y/N swallows, trying not to stare.

“Well…I’ve always loved baking.” She begins, her tone soft with nostalgia. “When I was little, my dad and I would spend weekends experimenting with recipes and making sweets for the family. It became our thing and I just fell in love with it.” She smiles at the memory, her expression warm.

“That’s incredible.” Rafe replies, his admiration evident. “It’s rare to see someone doing something they’re so passionate about. Not everyone gets that chance.”

“I know.” She says with a nod. “I’m really lucky.”

Before Rafe can respond, Sarah appears, cutting through the moment.

“Hey, want to take a tour of the villa?” She asks, Y/N glances up at Rafe, giving him the chance to answer first. He seems surprised but quickly nods.

“Yeah, sure.” He replies as Sarah leads the way and the trio heads toward the kitchen. Y/N’s eyes light up as she takes in the massive counters, mixers and gleaming appliances.

“You think you’ll show off your baking skills here, Y/N?” Sarah teases, nudging her.

“Maybe.” Y/N replies with a chuckle. “I wouldn’t mind.”

Rafe notices the sparkle in her eye as she talks about baking and before he realizes it, a wide grin spreads across his face. He’s so caught up in watching her that he misses most of their conversation.

“You okay?” Y/N’s voice pulls him from his daze, her expression tinged with concern.

“Yeah, yeah.” He says, clearing his throat and trying to play it cool.

The tour moves to the bedroom. The expansive space is lined with huge closets covered by mirrors, beds side by side and across from each other with personalized plaques. Sarah immediately finds her bed and claims it with a dramatic jump, making both Rafe and Y/N laugh. Her laughter stirs something deep inside Rafe, a longing he hadn’t expected. Y/N walks down the carpeted aisle, scanning the plaques until she spots her name.

“Here we are!” She exclaims, pointing to a bed with a bright yellow blanket. Rafe follows her and stands close, glancing at her plaque.

“Which side do you prefer?” He asks and she shrugs. “Doesn’t matter to me. But fair warning…” She says, a mischievous grin forming, “I sleep like a starfish.”

“Oh yeah?” Rafe chuckles.

“Sometimes upside down.” She adds with a laugh, earning a loud laugh from him in return.

“Good to know.” He teases. “We’ll figure it out.” Their conversation is interrupted as Sarah leads them upstairs to the bathroom and makeup room. Sarah squeals at the sight of the luxurious setup, while Y/N pauses to glance at her reflection in the mirror.

“Looking good.” Rafe murmurs as he passes behind her, heading to the balcony. Y/N’s breath hitches at his voice, and she catches herself staring as he walks away.

“You’re staring.” Sarah teases in a singsong voice.

“Shut up.” Y/N mutters, brushing past her to step out onto the balcony.

“Wow!” She breathes, taking in the stunning view.

“Right? It’s unreal.” Rafe says, leaning closer.

“I can’t believe we’re staying here all summer.” She admits, sitting on a bench. Rafe joins her, nodding.

“Yeah, pretty surreal. Great house, great view…” He glances at her with a playful smirk. “Great company, too.” “Can’t argue with that.” She grins, bumping his arm lightly. Their eyes lock and the air between them grows heavy with unspoken tension. Rafe’s gaze flickers to her lips and she unconsciously wets them with her tongue. He starts to lean in but right then, the door bursts open. Topper, Kiara and John B spill onto the balcony.

“Whoa, this view is insane!” Topper exclaims, oblivious to the moment he’s just shattered. Rafe exhales in frustration, earning a soft giggle from Y/N.

“Maybe later.” She whispers, standing and joining the girls back inside. Rafe stays behind, stunned, watching her walk away. It hasn’t even been an hour, but he already knows he can’t stay away from her for long.

The day passes quickly as the islanders get to know one another. The girls instantly click and are soon upstairs, getting ready for the evening’s first party.

“So, what did you think of the boys?” Sarah asks, running a flat iron through her hair.

“They’re very good-looking.” Maddy replies, carefully applying her mascara. Kiara and Cleo nod in agreement before turning to Y/N, who is focused on curling her hair.

“And you, Y/N?” Sarah teases, nudging her playfully. “What do you think about Rafe?” Y/N giggles, wrapping another strand of hair around the curling wand.

“The boys seem nice, fun to be around. Rafe…yeah.” She begins, pausing briefly. “He seems really sweet.”

“And very fit!” Maddy adds, prompting laughter from the group.

“That too.” Y/N agrees with a grin.

“Would you say he’s your type?” Maddy presses, her curiosity evident as Y/N nods slowly.

“He…he’s different from what I usually go for, for sure.” She reveals making the girls exchange curious glances.

“What do you mean? Different how?” Cleo asks, watching as Y/N finishes curling her last strand.

“Well, all my exes have had darker features, darker skin. I don’t mind the change, though,” Y/N admits with a small smile. “But he’s different in terms of vibe, energy…all of that. We’ve only had a couple of chats, but he made it feel so easy, like we already knew each other. I really liked that.” The girls collectively swoon.

“It’s that soulmate energy.” Cleo jokes. “Like Bluetooth syncing or something!” Her comment earns a round of laughter.

“In all seriousness, it’s great that you already feel comfortable with him,” Maddy says, nodding. “And to have good banter on the first day? That’s rare.”

The girls agree, soon transitioning to sharing how they spent their day with the boys.

“JJ asked me my bra size! Like…dude, we just met!” She exclaims, making everyone laugh.

Later, they head downstairs, all dressed to impress. Y/N wears a matching top and skirt set paired with sleek black heels. As they enter the kitchen, the boys cheer and whistle, clearly appreciating the girls’ efforts.

“Here you go.” Rafe steps forward, offering Y/N a glass of champagne with a warm smile.

“Thanks.” She replies, taking it as she leans against the counter. JJ raises his glass for a toast.

“To Love Island! To the hottest cast ever! And to finding love and friends!” JJ announces, his energy contagious. The group laughs, clinking their glasses together. Rafe turns to Y/N, raising his glass to her specifically. She chuckles, gently tapping her glass to his before taking a sip.

After some time spent chatting, JJ claps his hands to grab everyone’s attention.

“Alright, how about a game of truth or dare to break the ice? Let’s get comfortable around here.” He suggests with a grin. The boys immediately agree, their enthusiasm contagious, while the girls exchange looks before Sarah shrugs.

“Why the heck not?” She says, prompting the others to nod in agreement, before heading to the firepit. JJ holds up two small boxes labeled “Truth” and “Dare” and heads over to John B, who’s sitting on the edge of the firepit’s rounded seating.

“Alright, John B, you’re up first. Truth or dare?” JJ prompts, shaking the boxes. John B reaches for the truth box, earning boos from Kiara. He chuckles as he unfolds the slip of paper.

“‘Have you ever been to the mile-high club?’” He reads aloud, his face lighting up with amusement. The girls burst into laughter while Rafe elbows him teasingly.

“No, I haven’t.” John B admits. “But I wouldn’t mind.” He shoots a cheeky glance at the girls and Cleo rolls her eyes giggling. Passing the boxes to Rafe, John B grins.

“Your turn, Rafe. Truth or dare?” He asks as Rafe smirks, nodding toward the dare box. John B holds it out, and Rafe picks a slip, unfolding it carefully.

“‘Kiss the islander you find most attractive.’” He reads, prompting whistles and cheers from the group.

“So me, obviously!” JJ jokes, earning another round of laughter. Rolling his eyes playfully, Rafe stands up without hesitation. His eyes land on Y/N and he walks toward her, heart pounding. Leaning down, he meets her wide-eyed gaze.

“Is this okay?” He asks softly. Y/N swallows hard, her cheeks flushing. She nods, her lashes fluttering shut as he leans in. Their lips meet in a gentle kiss and Rafe’s senses are overwhelmed. Her lips are soft, sweet like vanilla, with a hint of champagne from earlier. Time seems to stop and when he pulls back, he’s left breathless. Y/N opens her eyes slowly, her chest rising and falling. She smiles shyly and Rafe returns it with a soft nod before heading back to his seat. He notices her licking her lips and glancing down as Kiara teases her.

The game continues, but Rafe can’t stop sneaking glances at Y/N, his mind replaying the kiss over and over. It’s only day one, but he knows he’s already hooked.

When it’s Y/N’s turn, Pope hands her the boxes and Maddy elbows her playfully. She hesitates for a moment before reaching toward the truth box, only to change her mind and choose dare instead. The boys cheer as she picks up the slip, her cheeks turning crimson.

“Oh no.” She mutters, drawing everyone’s attention.

“What is it?” Sarah asks eagerly.

“Come on, spill!” JJ demands and Y/N groans, reading aloud

“‘Reenact your favorite sex position with an islander of your choice.’”

The girls gasp while the boys erupt into laughter, their excitement palpable. John B claps Rafe on the back, a knowing grin on his face. Rafe tries to keep a neutral expression, but his mind races. Part of him hopes she’ll choose him, though the thought of her picking someone else stirs a pang of jealousy. When Y/N stands and adjusts her skirt, his breath catches. She walks straight toward him and his pulse quickens.

“Is this okay?” She asks softly, standing between his legs. He nods quickly, his voice caught in his throat. Y/N straddles his lap, pretending to ride him. The girls giggle and the boys holler, their cheers echoing around them. Rafe freezes, his mind blank as he takes in her closeness. Y/N notices his dumbfounded expression and stops abruptly.

“Too far?” She whispers.

“No, no…just, damn.” Rafe shakes his head and replies. She laughs softly, her smile radiant as she climbs off his lap, adjusting her skirt before returning to her seat. Rafe’s cheeks burn as John B and Topper waste no time teasing him.

“Someone’s got a boner!” Topper yells, earning an elbow from Rafe.

The game continues, filled with laughter, wild dares and revealing truths. Topper does the worm, Pope eats a spoonful of mayo and Maddy shares her craziest sex story. But no matter how much fun unfolds, Rafe’s focus keeps drifting back to Y/N and the moments they just shared.

As the game ends, the islanders begin to drift away from the fire pit, eager to chat and unwind. Sarah, Kiara and Cleo head off together, with Topper and Pope trailing behind. John B pulls Maddy toward the daybed, while JJ makes his way to the kitchen for a snack. This leaves Y/N and Rafe alone by the firepit.

“Hey, um…” Rafe begins, glancing at her as she stands by the fire, rubbing her hands for warmth. He moves closer, standing beside her.

“You having fun?” He asks, his voice soft. Y/N looks up at him and smiles warmly.

“Yeah, I am. You?”

“Yeah, yeah.” He replies, nodding, his lips curling into a small smile. Y/N hesitates before speaking again, her voice tinged with guilt.

“Oh my god, about earlier, I'm so sorry. I took it too far with the whole position thing. If I made you uncomfortable-”

“You didn't.” He interrupts firmly, his tone reassuring.

“You sure?” She presses, searching his face. “You seemed…I don't know.” Rafe chuckles softly, shaking his head.

“I was just surprised. But…” He looks her in the eyes, a playful smirk forming. "I enjoyed it." Y/N's brows shoot up in surprise.

“Oh, yeah?” She teases, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Good to know.” She adds, her voice light but her gaze steady. The air between them shifts, an undeniable tension settling in. Their chemistry crackles, their banter flowing naturally despite their nervous energy. Y/N's eyes flicker to Rafe's lips and he notices, instinctively licking them.

“You know.” He says, his voice dropping. “You're a really good kisser.”

“You think so?” She asks, her pulse quickening, palms growing clammy.

“Know so.” He replies, his confidence unwavering. “And I wouldn't mind sharing another.” He reveals, as Y/N's breath catches at his words, her heart racing. She meets his intense blue gaze, taking a moment.

“I wouldn't mind either.” She whispers. Rafe raises his brows slightly in surprise before quickly scanning the villa. Everyone seems occupied, leaving them unnoticed. Stepping closer, he positions himself in front of her, shielding her from view. His hand gently rests on her waist, while the other cups her cheek, tilting her face toward his.

“Tell me to stop.” He murmurs, his breath warm against her skin.

“I don't want you to.” She whispers back, her voice steady despite the butterflies in her stomach. That's all Rafe needs to hear. He leans in, his lips meeting hers in a passionate kiss. Y/N recovers quickly, her arms wrapping around his shoulders as he deepens the kiss. It's full of promise, desire and something neither of them fully understands yet but feels deeply.

“Oy, oy, easy there!” JJ's voice cuts through, approaching the daybed with a cheeky grin. Y/N pulls back with a laugh, her cheeks flushed, while Rafe turns to shoot JJ a middle finger. Y/N grabs his arm, pushing it down with a playful shake of her head. Then, unable to resist, she pulls him back for another peck, which quickly turns into another...and another.

When they finally part, both are breathless, their laughter mixing softly. Y/N raises her hand, gently wiping the smudged lip gloss from Rafe's lips.

“Oh, yeah, do your thing.” Rafe murmurs, his eyes fixed on her. He takes in her flushed cheeks, the way her lashes flutter and the delicate touch of her fingers brushing his skin. For a moment, the world fades away, leaving only the two of them and the spark that's becoming impossible to ignore.

“You...you okay?” He asks, his voice uncertain but filled with a need for reassurance. He wants to know the kiss meant something to you, that it wasn’t just a fleeting moment. That even after one day, he’s claimed you in some unspoken way.

“Yeah. You? Was...was it okay?” You ask softly, your brows knitting with concern as you search his face for an answer.

“It was perfect.” He admits, his voice steady and sincere. A smile tugs at your lips and he can’t help but mirror it, pulling you into his arms. His hands trail lightly over your arms, noticing the faint goosebumps there.

“I like getting to know you already.” You murmur, half-teasing but entirely honest.

“Yeah, me too.” Rafe replies, a low chuckle escaping his throat. “That's...that's definitely an interesting way to get to know someone.” You laugh softly, the sound warm and light, before the two of you begin walking back toward the group. As soon as you rejoin the others, the teasing begins, playful and relentless. You roll your eyes, face flushing as you hide behind your hands, but Rafe only watches you, his gaze lingering. Admiring.

For him, there’s no teasing in the world that could ruin this moment.

It’s finally time for the couples to head to bed. The girls gather upstairs in the makeup room, taking off their makeup, slipping into pajamas and chatting as they wind down.

“Okay, Y/N.” Kiara says with a smirk. “Spill!”

“Yeah, don’t leave us hanging like that.” Maddy adds eagerly. Y/N stammers, her cheeks flushing as she searches for the right words.

“Guys, give her a second to breathe.” Sarah says, grabbing the bottle of micellar water.

“I…it just happened.” Y/N finally manages.

“How was it?” Kiara presses, leaning closer.

“Did he use tongue?” Maddy teases.

“Ew!” Cleo exclaims, wrinkling her nose. The girls dissolve into laughter.

“Okay, okay, relax!” Y/N starts, shaking her head. “We just…we had a moment. He wanted to kiss me and I wanted to kiss him. And…it was probably the best kiss I’ve ever had.”

The girls all let out a synchronized “aww,” making Y/N laugh nervously.

“I told you, it’s that Bluetooth connection.” Cleo chimes in, earning another round of giggles.

One by one, the girls head downstairs to the bedroom. John B and JJ are being their usual goofy selves, jumping from bed to bed. Pope and Topper are deep in conversation and Rafe is sitting at the edge of the bed, quietly watching everyone with a soft smile.

Y/N is the last to enter and all eyes fall on her as she steps into the room. Her cheeks heat up under the attention, but she quickly makes her way to the bed. Rafe stands the moment he sees her, scratching the back of his neck.

“I…uh…wasn’t sure which side you wanted.” He says awkwardly. She waves it off with a small smile.

“I told you, I don’t mind.” She replies.

“Right.” He mumbles, clearing his throat. “Okay.” He moves to the right side of the bed. “This okay?” She nods, still smiling as she sets her water bottle and phone on the bedside table. Rafe watches her, mesmerized. She’s wearing an oversized hoodie, one he wishes was his and tiny shorts that barely peek out from under the hem. Her hair is in loose braids, framing her face in a way that makes his heart race. Sliding under the covers, she glances up at him.

“Aren’t you getting in?” She asks and he blinks, realizing he’s still standing.

“Right! Yeah. Yes.” He quickly climbs into bed, keeping a safe distance so she feels comfortable. The lights go out and the room is filled with quiet laughter as Topper and Sarah cuddle boldly, earning a loud holler from JJ. Maddy smacks him playfully, pulling him closer to her. The teasing dies down and soon the room grows quiet. Y/N shifts under the covers, trying not to disturb anyone as she struggles to get comfortable.

“Hey, you okay?” Rafe’s voice is soft in the dark and she turns to face him.

“Sorry.” She whispers. “I’m just not used to sleeping anywhere but my own bed.” He nods in understanding.

“Yeah, I get that.” A pause. “Do…do you wanna come closer?” Her eyes widen slightly.

“I-” “You don’t have to.” He quickly adds. “It’s the first night. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” She hesitates before inching closer, her leg lightly brushing his.

“Is…is this okay?” She asks quietly.

“It’s perfect.” He murmurs. She relaxes, settling into the space beside him. Her arm finds its way around him, her knee brushing against his thigh. Rafe’s heart pounds at the contact and he focuses on keeping his breathing steady.

“Good night.” She whispers, her eyes fluttering shut.

“Good night.” He replies, his voice barely audible. Within moments, she drifts to sleep, her body softening against his. Rafe glances down at her, a gentle smile tugging at his lips as he wraps an arm around her shoulders. Her arm instinctively tightens around his torso, making his breath catch.

Looking around the room, he sees that everyone else is already asleep. He sighs, turning his gaze to the ceiling, wondering how it’s possible to feel so much for someone he met only hours ago.

The next morning, the bedroom lights flicker on, rousing everyone from their slumber. Groans and stretches echo around the room as Y/N blinks her eyes open, realizing her head was resting on Rafe’s chest. She pulls away quickly, her face flushing.

“Sorry.” She murmurs groggily while Rafe gives her a sleepy smile, his voice low and husky.

“It’s fine.” He whispers. Y/N sighs, tugging the covers over her head.

“I don’t wanna get up.” She groans and Rafe chuckles softly, yanking the covers away.

“Come on, sleepyhead.” He teases as a small smile tugs at her lips as she sits up, rubbing her eyes. Around the room, people start asking about each other's sleep.

“What about you, Y/N?” Maddy asks and Pope smirks. “You two cuddled last night, didn’t you?” He asks teasingly. Y/N’s cheeks turn crimson.

“I slept well.” She says quickly, then hesitates. “And… yeah, we did.” Topper, from his bed, grins and leans over to give Rafe a high-five. Rafe rolls his eyes but smirks, reaching out to connect hands. Y/N shakes her head at their antics, amused despite herself. She throws the covers off and stands up as the rest of the girls follow suit, heading upstairs to start the day. As Y/N walks away, Rafe couldn’t help but watch her, his gaze lingering.

“Man, you’re whipped already.” Topper jokes.

“Shut up.” Rafe mutters, though a small grin tugs at his lips as he gets out of bed to get ready.

Not long after, the boys gather outside for a morning workout, while the girls, now dressed in bikinis, fill the kitchen with chatter as they make coffee. Rafe works out until thirst gets the better of him. He heads to the kitchen to grab a water bottle, his eyes naturally drawn to the lively scene there.

That’s where Rafe spots Y/N, standing by the counter in a tiny bikini that perfectly highlights her silhouette. She’s in her element, flipping pancakes with ease, barely acknowledging whatever JJ is saying to her or noticing Rafe’s presence. His gaze lingers as she stacks the golden pancakes on a plate. When she finally looks up, her eyes meet his.

“Oh, hey!” She says, smiling warmly.

“Hey.” Rafe replies, a small smile tugging at his lips. His skin glistens with sweat from his workout, the sun highlighting his sun kissed complexion and making his blue eyes sparkle.

“You want some? They’re sugar-free, for all you gym rats.” She teases playfully, making him chuckle and nod.

“Yeah, I’d love some.” He says and he starts to move behind the counter, but she stops him, pressing the end of the spatula lightly against his chest.

“Go sit down. I’ve got this.” She exclaims as Rafe raises a questioning brow.

“You sure? I can-” “I insist.” She cuts him off firmly. With a slight shake of his head and a grin, he backs away, taking a seat on one of the stools. Y/N stacks pancakes onto two plates, adding a dollop of yogurt, a handful of berries and a drizzle of honey. Once she’s satisfied, she carries the plates over, placing one in front of him before settling beside him.

“Here you go. I…I didn't know if this is how you wanted them. Fuck, I should’ve asked.” She mutters, scolding herself. Rafe glances at the plate, then back at her.

“Actually, just like this.” He reveals with a faint grin and she narrows her eyes playfully.

“You don’t have to lie to make me feel better.” She says.

“I’m not lying.” He replies quickly, shaking his head. “Seriously, you can ask my family or any of my friends, this is exactly how I make them too.” Y/N’s eyes widen, and Rafe can’t help but feel stunned. It’s such a small, silly thing, but it means something to him. He wonders why he hadn’t met her sooner.

They both mirror a smile before she starts to dig into her pancakes, she strikes up small talk with him, her laughter and easygoing nature making it impossible for him to look away.

Breakfast flies by and the islanders soon head to their first challenge, designed to help them get to know each other better. The setup resembles an airport, complete with a metal detector and a luggage carousel at the center. The game is simple: the girls read cards with spicy truths about the boys and try to guess which one the secret belongs to. Once they’ve guessed, they "scan" the boy and seal it with a kiss. The boy then walks through the metal detector to reveal if the guess was correct. Afterward, the roles reverse and the boys guess about the girls. The team with the most correct answers wins.

Sarah goes first, picking up her card.

“‘This boy’s first time happened in the back of his dad’s van.’” She reads out loud. “Hope dad wasn’t there.” She adds smirking as the girls laugh and exchange guesses, while Sarah studies the boys. Her eyes land on John B, who’s nervously scratching the back of his neck.

“You! You look guilty!” She declares, pointing at him. Laughing, John B takes her hand and they step to the center. Sarah cups his face and pulls him into a soft kiss. John B’s hands settle on her waist, letting her take the lead as the kiss deepens. The other girls cheer excitedly. When they break apart, both are flushed and Sarah playfully pushes John B toward the metal detector. He steps through and it blinks green. She guessed correctly.

“And no, my dad wasn’t there.” John B jokes. “But thanks for that mental image I’ll never unsee.” The group bursts into laughter and Sarah sends him a cheeky wink before returning to the girls.

The game continues until it’s Kiara’s turn. She steps forward, grabs a card and reads it aloud.

“‘This boy drunk-dialed a celebrity and hooked up with her.’” Gasps fill the room.

“What? That’s insane!” Kiara exclaims, scanning the boys’ faces for clues. After a moment, she points to Rafe. “You seem like the type to drunk-dial someone.” She drags him to the middle and they share a brief, soft kiss. He steps through the detector, but it flashes red. As everyone murmurs, JJ steps forward, grinning.

“Yeah, that was me.” He admits.

“What? Spill the details!” Maddy presses and JJ scratches the back of his neck, chuckling.

“There was this woman, an actress, can’t name her, obviously, who was taking surfing lessons from me. One night, I got totally wasted, called her and well…we ended up on my boat.” The room erupts in shock, the boys teasing him for more details, but JJ keeps the name to himself, basking in the attention.

Finally, it’s Y/N’s turn. She steps forward, picks up a card and reads.

“‘This boy accidentally sent a dirty picture to a colleague.’” She gulps and laughs nervously. “Oh no, that’s…unfortunate.”

After a moment of deliberation, she points to Rafe.

“I’m going with you.” She says, unsure but willing to take the chance. Rafe’s breath catches as Y/N takes his hand and pulls him to the center. Their eyes meet, lingering, before she stands on her tiptoes to kiss him. The kiss is soft but charged, with an unspoken intensity that sets it apart. Rafe’s hands settle on her waist, pulling her closer.

When they finally part, Rafe takes a moment to collect himself before stepping under the detector. It blinks green. Y/N grins as the girls cheer, but her gaze stays locked on his.

“What kind of dirty picture?” She asks, raising a curious brow and Rafe smirks.

“You know the kind.” His teasing tone earns a round of laughter and screams from the group, while Y/N fights a blush, unable to look away from him.

Now it’s the guys’ turn. JJ steps up first, grabbing a card and reading it aloud.

“‘This girl has had a threesome with her best friend and her boyfriend.’” He pauses dramatically, then smirks. “Oh, spicy!” His eyes sweep over the girls before he steps in front of Y/N, extending his hand.

“Come on, sweets.” He says with a playful grin. Y/N hesitates for a moment but takes his hand, letting him lead her to the center. Rafe watches, trying to keep his expression neutral as JJ cups Y/N’s face and pulls her in for a messy, passionate kiss. Despite himself, Rafe’s jaw tightens and he looks away briefly. When the kiss ends, Y/N wipes her lips with a small smile and steps under the detector, which flashes red. As the islanders try to figure out who it was, Kiara steps forward, rolling her eyes.

“Okay, fine! It was one time and I’m not even friends with her anymore.” She admits.

“Did the threesome have anything to do with that?” Maddy teases, raising an eyebrow.

“What? No! She was just a two-faced bitch.” Kiara shoots back, making everyone laugh. Y/N chuckles softly as she takes her spot again.

Finally, it’s Rafe’s turn. He picks up a card and reads it, a sly smile spreading across his face.

“‘This girl had a sex dream about a superhero.’” He glances at the girls, his gaze landing on Y/N, who suddenly seems very interested in her nails. Rafe chuckles.

“Come on, Y/N.”

She looks up, cheeks flushing and takes his outstretched hand. He leads her to the middle, his hand settling on her waist. Tilting her chin up with his finger, he leans in for a kiss. It starts soft, almost tentative, but quickly deepens as he pulls her closer. Her arms wrap around his shoulders and Rafe, unable to resist, lifts her off the ground, continuing the kiss until he gently sets her back down.

When they finally pull away, both of them are breathless, laughing quietly as Y/N steps under the detector, which flashes green. Rafe’s smirk widens as Topper chimes in.

“Care to tell us which superhero it was?” He asks and everyone starts begging her to spill and Y/N groans, her face burning.

“It was…Captain America.” She reveals as the girls nod knowingly, while the guys gape in shock.

“I had a Marvel phase, okay? And…I’m sorry if Chris Evans ever hears about this.” She adds, making everyone laugh.

With the game wrapped up, the girls victorious, the islanders head back to the villa, the tension between Y/N and Rafe lingering in the air.

The girls head straight upstairs to the makeup room to get ready for the night.

“So… Captain America?” Maddy teases as she works on her hair. Y/N rolls her eyes, sifting through the racks of outfits.

“Don’t even start.” She warns, though her lips twitch with a smile.

“I don’t blame you.” Sarah chimes in, applying lip gloss.

“He’s hot!” Cleo agrees enthusiastically.

The girls laugh and chat as they get ready, rehashing the challenge and the scandalous truths that were revealed. By the time they head downstairs, they’re glammed up and dressed to impress.

The boys, also cleaned up in their best outfits, let out whistles and cheers as the girls enter the bedroom. Rafe can’t take his eyes off Y/N, especially the short dress that hugs her in all the right places. She moves through the corridor toward him, but her heel catches and she stumbles. Rafe reacts instantly, grabbing her waist to steady her. Her hands press against his chest as she regains her balance.

“You okay?” He asks, his voice low and concerned.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks.” She murmurs, meeting his gaze briefly before standing upright. His hands linger on her waist, reluctant to let go.

“Aw, looks like you’ve got your own superhero!” Maddy teases as she walks by, grinning. Y/N chuckles softly, stepping back and rolling her eyes.

“Thanks again.” She says before following Maddy and the other girls. Rafe stays rooted to the spot, watching her walk away. Topper claps him on the back.

“Dude, you’re staring again. Chill.”

“Fuck.” Rafe blinks, muttering under his breath, before he trails behind the group as they head to the kitchen.

Later, Y/N, Maddy and Sarah lounge on the daybed with JJ and John B. The vibe is relaxed, laughter flowing easily among them. Rafe approaches, his hands in his pockets.

“Mind if I join?” He asks. The guys scoot over to make space, but his eyes are fixed on Y/N.

“Of course.” She says with a small smile, shifting slightly to make room.

“You having a good time?” She asks, taking a sip of water from her bottle.

“Yeah. It’s good. All good.” Rafe replies, his voice a bit strained.

The conversation resumes, light and playful, but Rafe seems distracted. Finally, he clears his throat, his expression unusually serious.

“I’m sorry, but I have to bring this up.” He says, breaking into the chatter. Everyone looks at him curiously.

“What are you talking about?” Maddy asks. Rafe glances at Y/N, his lips twitching into a smirk.

“Captain America? Really?”

The group erupts into laughter as Y/N groans, hiding her face in her hands.

“You’re never letting this go, are you?” She asks, her voice muffled.

“Never.” Sarah chimes in, wrapping an arm around Y/N. “This is too good.” Y/N sighs dramatically.

“Fine. Yes, I had a Marvel phase. And yes, Chris Evans is ridiculously hot. So is Steve Rogers. And yes, I’d happily let him save me from a burning building and then kiss me and…is that so bad?”

Everyone laughs, but before Y/N can join in, she notices movement in the distance. A figure appears, walking down the villa’s flower-adorned corridor, the click of heels echoing against the floor.

“Where’s my warm welcome?” A sultry voice calls out. All heads turn and Y/N’s eyes widen in shock.

“Shit.” She mutters under her breath. A hot new bombshell just entered the villa.

to be continued…

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A/N: this was long and i hope you enjoyed it, i have so much planned for this series and i am so excited and so happy you all have shown it so much love already!! likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated!! 🩵