#and how labels can shift

[battlekidx2]

“Do you like girls?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you like boys?”

“I don’t know. I think I like TV shows.”

I remember when I was in middle school all the other girls were talking about the guys they liked and I said I didn’t like anyone. I just wanted to do my own thing.

I didn’t really get why I would want to date anyone. I understood friendship, companionship— having someone to share my interests and mutually info dump to sounded cool— but I struggled to understand the appeal of spending every day and every night with someone else. Of holding hands and going on dates. 

This led to a lot of homophobic bullying and a few of them would act disgusted that I might be into them. Constantly acting like I was looking at their boobs and sexualizing them (I never made eye contact with anyone and would frequently look at the wall or space out while looking in their general direction). Or make a big show of not being interested and many other things.

I didn’t get this either. I didn’t know why I would be interested in any of them. They treated me poorly and I thought attraction was something people made up and simply just claimed to feel towards other people.

Just like I never understood celebrity crushes. You don’t know the person so how could you possibly know you liked them? And I never understood how people “chose” who they dated. Did they just choose whoever they liked hanging out with the most?

But any time I voiced this it was always met with worse and worse reactions. It led to isolation among peers and my family. My parents made it pretty clear I wasn’t who they wanted me to be. That I wasn’t normal.

I soon learned to fake it. Pretend I understood it.

The idea of not being attracted to anyone seemed like a foreign idea to most people I met. Even when I branched out and moved away, I met a few people in the lgbt community who couldn’t grasp it either and reacted poorly and it made me feel stupid. Like maybe I wasn’t just screwed up to people who fit in the neat little box society wants you to fit in, but to everyone else as well.

Maybe I was wrong. If it’s an impossibility even in this community that champions diversity and acceptance then can that really be my reality?

I kept trying to force it. To date, but every time I did I always felt that same skin crawling discomfort and it always petered out. It didn’t matter who it was or what gender. It always felt wrong. It was suffocating.

I don’t think there’s a movie that better portrays that all consuming, suffocating stagnation of feeling so out of place– knowing you’re out of place compared to those around you– and in response forcing yourself to fit what other people expect of you than I Saw the TV Glow.

Whenever I think back to growing up or whenever I return home that same feeling this movie is centered around always drenches my experiences.

And even now it’s hard to put into words when I talk to other people what I’ve felt when it comes to this aspect of my life.

That comment from Owen about knowing there’s nothing there when talking about romance and attraction, but being too afraid to look and knowing that his parents know something is wrong with him hit harder than any other scene from a movie I’ve watched this year.

It’s that absence of something that is at the heart of asexuality that makes me always question what I choose to identify as when I have to explain it to someone. Because for the most part my explanation boils down to (in broad oversimplified terms): I’ve never felt attraction, I’m more interested in watching a Spider-Man movie than I’ve ever been into even just the idea of dating, every time I’ve attempted to date it’s been uncomfortable and I’ve actively dodged anything beyond friendship while in the “relationship”.

And when I try to voice that to another person it always feels like those experiences don’t hold water. That’s describing the absence of something. There’s no real proof of the identity.

With being bi or gay or lesbian there’s something you can I don’t know—point to?— that can help you know your identity.

And that’s the fact that you’ve experienced attraction towards one or more people of one or more genders.

It’s defined not by the lack of something but the presence of an experience.

And so every time I try and explain it I end up feeling stupid. Like I just haven’t tried hard enough to find someone compatible. That I need to get back into the proverbial saddle and try again. I always in some way feel ashamed and backtrack as a result.

This is in no way to say that it’s harder or easier to be one identity or the another. Everyone’s experiences are different and everyone experiences are valid. This is just a struggle I’ve found that’s unique to asexuality that many people I’ve talked to have also experienced.

I haven’t felt that part of my experience be seen in media until I saw this movie. Maybe I’m latching onto what I can get or maybe that was an intrinsic part of the movie. That’s not important. What’s important is that it’s something I felt seen in even if it was literally just one scene.

This is my really long winded and roundabout way of saying that I really think this movie is going to stick with me much longer than any other thing I’ve seen this year.

Things can be hard to put into words and as a result I tend to keep things inside. I’m fairly certain I’m ace but it might turn out I’m on a different romantic spectrum then I thought or I fall somewhere different than I thought on the ace spectrum. I don’t know what I’ll discover in the future.

I’m likely not going to express my label out loud to anyone but a select few. I still can’t express this particular label out loud to many people. My family is definitely never going to hear it. A friend or two might.

It’s something I struggle with on a regular basis. I’m fine with identifying with the label in my head—in a lot of ways it makes me feel comfortable and happy— but any time I try to voice it the words die in my throat and I can’t help but feel ashamed. It’s easier to just tell people I don’t want to date right now. That there are all these factors in the way (finances, time, jobs, etc) than it is to try and explain what I’ve just rambled about above.

I know many people have felt and understood that experience and I hope people know they’re valid. You can express your identity with your full chest, shout it from the rooftops and let people know, or you can keep it to yourself, identifying as your label solely in your head. Both experiences are valid. And if your label changes at some point in your life that doesn’t make what you chose to identify as at this point any less valid too. People are always learning and growing. You can gain a new understanding of yourself as time move forward.

Sorry for the way too long ramble. This movie made me feel things.

[sophfandoms53]

Anyway shout out to Dewey who constantly looked like he was having the worst time of his fucking life in the pitches

Just an 11 year old pissed off at the world it seems😭

[idontmindifuforgetme]

Went from being totally lost as a teenager to finding solace in aesthetics and fitting urself into a template in my late teens and now I think I struck a healthy intermediate where I know who I am as a person generally but I’m also completely subscribed to the idea of evolving and would never deny trying something just bc it doesn’t fit the image of myself I crafted in my head

[schneiderenjoyer]

The reason the whole age discourse is confusing is that bluepoch keeps pulling shit like THIS.

[jrueships]

guess whos not going in at all this week, actually

[weirdbabs]

i think we should have more characters who are allowed to experiment with gender before deciding theyre actually cis. more cis plus characters if you will. my niece (12) learned what nb was from her siblings, as well as what furries were, and announced that she was nb, only they/them, this was what she wanted to be called now (she even wanted to change her name but her dad and step mom put their foot down on that and said if she had the name for a couple of years and still felt comfortable with it then they would start the process), and also her fursona was a dragon. idk if she still feels that way about her fursona, or if she still has one, but i know she kept the name and pronouns for a little over a year before deciding they didnt fit her and going back to she/her. its possible that shell change her mind later, but for right now shes cis+ and thats perfectly alright

[pagesofkenna]

i wanted to make a post about a thing but the more i think about it the more i want to say and it's just going to end up being a big ramble essay, so instead i'll just give the thesis statement, thusly:

as the #1 Ratgrinders Apologist (self-appointed), of course they're the final boss fight to the death. i expected nothing less and the people trying to make discourse about it are ignoring the entire context of this being a Dungeons and Dragons game

[pinkcadillaccas]

We need to stop making up random one sentence definitions for sexualities which always end up being wrong, exclusionary and transphobic. We have to return to manifestos.

[bandofchimeras]

the combative autist, the disabled spoonie, and the traditionalist Catholic kid in me are teeming up to counterpoint: while agreeing with the beautiful and life-changing core sentiment of this post (relational autonomy) can we bring up the fact that labels come largely from CONTRACTS? contracts are not BAD. contracts are forms of negotiation and a way to hold one another accountable. they are a social reality for managing resources, and building trust. They can be spiritual, emotional, they can be broken, but there are usually consequences or the reasons for breaking them must supercede the reasons they were formed.

a contract which can have an expiration date but are expected to be honored. having a wife is a contract. a boyfriend. even a friend. when it is mutual and you call someone your best friend and they do the same, you are telling eachother you will continue to be important to eachother until something changes drastically enough to break that bond.

even motherhood is a contract. fatherhood. there are roles and expectations you take on based on your actions, your relationships, and it would be really amazing if we could have more education about how these contracts work so young people don't go getting into them totally unawares. this concept of total autonomy is simply not the whole picture of how the world works.

demons, players, pimps, hookers, entreprenuers, gods, spirits, holy men, elders, kings, presidents, children - any and all of these characters can form a contract with you. you might not even know it. you can really really hurt OR/AND piss any of these characters off by breaking expectations, not upholding your end of the bargain, or you can really hurt or trap yourself in another entity's reality by lacking awareness of contracts.

part of the terror and courage of living autonomously is breaking contracts you never agreed to - nonconsensual contracts are p much the definition of oppression.

what i'm saying is why are we so against labels? if you understand they are a social convenience, a partial reality, and you have the power to break them BUT must deal with the consquences when you do....you're more savvy.

you simply cannot assume good faith from everyone and you also have to respect that agreements and being good on your word, honor, while out of style at the moment in the USA, is still extremely important in other parts of the world. that's the whole point of a label. loving, actions of love, taking care of another human being is HARD WORK. if you were doing whatever you felt like all the time you might not have the endurance to stick it through. to stay til the end. when someone has cancer, or your child has a rare congenital condition that requires a ton of medical care. or your lover contracts AIDS.

love is not just loving feelings and enjoyment, its also loving actions. follow through and care and honoring commitments. watch Angels across America, please. I also simply don't know if I or most people could ever be as nonchalant and unattached as OP idealistically prescribes. kinda feel like Aang from that one episode of ATLA when the monk is showing him the concept of total unattachment and he's like NO BUT KATARA and nopes out of the entire spiritual training course.

and yes I would love to hear from OP or other proponents of relationship anarchy about this point. bc I don't think our positions are opposed so much as counterpoints of the human experience of love. but I also grew up being told everytime I sinned I made the cross sink heavier into Jesus' shoulder so, open to lightening my perspective.

I do wish people would remember we still live in a world with martyrs. (look to Gaza).

Notes on: radical aloneness

Last fall, I presented a paper on relationship anarchy. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the term (or concept), it can loosely be understood as a style of interpersonal relationships that doesn’t prioritize or hierarchialize relationships with others based on what takes place within them, at least a priori. In short, there’s a uniqueness to each relationship which makes their translation between relationships difficult to gather––a kind of ineffability that gets lost or violated in the transition. So, for example, you may relate with someone in a way that tends to be more like friendship: perhaps you sometimes get together for coffee, talk about things that are going on with your life, go for walks, make dinner together sometimes, etc––but, sometimes you mess around, not too often, but sometimes. Then, you may have another relationship that is a bit more weighty––for one reason or another it’s got a trajectory that shoots out into the future, a place where you may see yourself growing vegetables and living together, sharing projects, intertwining intricately. And then, just to have more than two examples, you may have a friend that is more traditionally just a friend: you watch hockey together, talk about books you’ve been reading, get a drink, whatever. There’s a complex calculus taking place in all of these relationships, a shifting definition, murky waters, not only interrelationship but intrarelationship, as well––just because you fucked around last time doesn’t mean it’ll definitely happen this time, just because you didn’t hold one another last time doesn’t mean you won’t this time, etc. 

The point being is that, out of the gate, you can’t prioritize based on the activities that go on within the relationship––the only thing that can be said is that the relationships differ. Now, in lived experience, you may want to spend more time with the person who you see yourself growing vegetables with (this is one of the miserable aporias of existence: love seems infinite, but time isn’t…) but this isn’t because you have sex or because you don’t have sex, it isn’t because they’re “more than a friend” or whatever coarse terminology is hoisted upon it––it’s because that’s the way that relationship goes, its particular mode––you require more time with them for one reason or another: they ignite you, they unravel you beautifully, they support you unflinchingly, they catalyze splendid complexity and nuance. After I presented this paper, I spent some time with one of my former professors, a vibrant and shimmering man with a long philosophical history, but more importantly an insatiable thirst for life, gaiety, and joy––his continuing project being resolutely existential and affirmative. As we rode the bus late at night, he said to me something to the effect of: I absolutely loved your paper, why would we ever want people to be with us who don’t want to be with us? Why would we ever want to exercise power and control over loved ones, for that negates or corrodes love, rots it constitutionally. And then, in passing, right before I got on the bus I was transferring to without him, he said something to the effect of: what you need to be able to do relationship anarchy well is an incredible amount of radical aloneness. At the time, this comment slid right off me, it didn’t stick for an instant longer than hearing it and offering a surface response without thinking, “Yeah, you’re right, I think.” What does radical aloneness mean, anyway. To me, it’s some sort of commitment to your shit, what you’ve got going on, a wellness and health that supports engagements with others, comes to the rescue when you want to lash out and heave at others, take people down because of your own insecurities. One who has cultivated an abundant radical aloneness can let the other be because they’ve got their own projects and projections, their own vital flow. If the one they love wants to be with others for whatever reason, they can be upset and bothered, even jealous of course, but on the whole everything is okay, for they are fecundity. You only know you haven’t cultivated radical aloneness when it’s too late, when you need it, unfortunately. Radical aloneness shouldn’t be equated with the singular or the individual either––sometimes radical aloneness means that you have fostered relationships with others that support you and supplement you. Other times radical aloneness means being actually alone, but alone is of course always populated by others as well, even if you’re alone in space at a given time. Events of late have lead to reflect upon the ways that I create, sustain, and tend to my sense of radical aloneness. I think that, in other circles, this would be taken up as self-care, but this is unfortunate, I think. Radical aloneness can encompass what is broadly construed as self-care, sure, but sometimes radical aloneness means fleeing the self, evacuating the self’s rigid postures and habits, and setting out on unforeseen trails––instead of watching over the self, dismantling the self, letting the light shine in, opening up a window, cracking things up a bit. Maybe I’m being too fine with distinctions, but I think there’s a difference. Beyond that, I think that radical aloneness is the wellspring of being with others confidently and creatively: it is from this shimmering becoming that we can glow with others, connect with others in productive and dazzling ways. Radical aloneness as generative and combinatorial, experimental and stochastic, seeking to build and proliferate. Sometimes self-care is necessary to do this: sometimes you just need someone to make you an avocado sandwich, but an avocado sandwich isn’t going to propel you into radiance, just get you into the position where you can once again have the opportunity to luxuriate. Maybe in subsequent posts I can explore the ways in which I cultivate this radical aloneness, or perhaps the times when it would have been immensely useful to have access to. 

[fingertipsmp3]

First volunteering shift tomorrow 😵‍💫

[leclerc-hs]

romantic chocolates? - cl16

pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader summary: in which you and your best friend accidentally eat aphrodisiac chocolates OR you both get so fucking horny that you’re delirious warnings: SMUT SMUT SMUT, all smut. dirty talk, dry humping, slight breeding kink?, language, slightly mean charles!, NOT PROOFREAD (might be some typos lol) word count: ~2.8k author's note: this is a follow up to THIS anon request that i wrote for lando. here is a charles version :) hope you guys like!! sorry if you don't LOL. let me know what you think :))

ln4 cl16 mv1 op81 cs55 ◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤

You’re not sure when you stopped paying attention to the movie.

You remember falling into the couch cushions. You remember a few glasses of wine. Laughing, half-curled into a blanket. His hoodie. Your legs bare. Normal.

And then the chocolate.

Just a couple of fancy pieces neither of you bothered to read the label of. You tucked them into your purse after one of Charles’ sponsor events. 

It creeps in slowly.

First it’s pure heat. Not just on your skin, but beneath it. As if the blood in your veins was on fire. Curling behind your ribs, spreading deep into your belly and in between your legs. 

You’re flushed. Wearing his hoodie, legs bare and tucked together. 

You shift slightly, but throb as you feel the damp fabric of your panties rub against your clit. 

You freeze.

You can feel everything. The way your panties cling to you, soaked. How swollen you are. How your pussy clenches around nothing, over and over. Like it’s bracing for something it needs but doesn’t have.

You glance at Charles, but he hasn’t looked at you at all. In a while.

He’s sitting stiffly, forearms on his thighs, bent over. Breathing heavily. 

And then he shifts a little bit. It’s a small movement, but it has his hips twitching. And you can see the thick outline of his cock through the fabric of his sweats. Hard, heavy, and fucking throbbing. 

His breath hitches, a small groan pushing past his lips. Quiet. Like he didn’t even mean to do it,  but couldn’t not.

You bite your lip, pressing your thighs together tighter.

And he turns his head toward you, not all the way. Not meeting your eyes. Just looking in your direction.

“I’m fine,” He says, but his voice sounds wrong. Strained. Rough.

You don’t even speak before he’s talking again.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “This is so fucking bad. My skin feels like its on fucking fire.”

You catch his eye. Nodding. Agreeing.

And he groans, dropping his head into his hands. “I’m so sorry.”

You blink, a little confused. “What?”

“I can’t fucking stop,” he says. “Like I keep trying not to…I swear, but the thoughts..they just keep coming.”

You straighten your back, slightly tense.

“I’m trying to ignore it,” his voice is shaking now. “Trying to sit here and pretend like you’re just…you. My best fucking friend. But I’m so fucking hard I feel like I’m gonna pass out.”

You stare at him. His voice is wrecked. Like he’s in so much pain.

“It actually fucking hurts,” he runs a hand through his hair. “I haven’t even touched myself and I swear I’m about to come in my fucking pants like some pathetic virgin.”

Your breath hitches. Your core clenching.

“I shouldn’t be thinking about you like this. Not you.”

“Charles…”

“I keep picturing it,” He continues on. Unable to stop his admissions. “You. Spread out on this fucking couch. Panties pushed to the side. Pussy dripping while I hold your hips and fuck into you like I don’t give a shit what it means.”

Your thighs involuntarily squeeze together. And you’re aching.

He still doesn’t look at you. He falls back into the cushions, head back as he looks at the ceiling. There’s a damp spot on his sweats now.

“I want to fucking ruin you. And I shouldn’t….fuck, I shouldn’t be thinking this.” He grunts, like he’s angry. Frustrated.

You clench. Soaking.

“I want to grab you by the neck, bend you over the fucking couch and fuck you so hard that you cry.”

And you fucking whimper.

He laughs. It’s low and mean.

“You’d cry for it, wouldn’t you?” He says. “You’d sob right into the cushion while I split you open. Begging for more while I used your soaked cunt like it was fucking mine.”

His hips twitch, cock leaking so much that the wet spot on his sweats gets bigger.

“Can I touch myself?” He begs. Pleading. He looks at you now. His pupils blown wide. “Please…fuck, I need to.”

You gasp. A few moments pass and you’re nodding your head.

He doesn’t pull his sweats down all the way. Just slips his hand under the waistband, sinking his hand into the soaked fabric and fucking groaning. 

“Fuck,” He chokes. “M’fucking aching baby.”

The nickname makes your stomach clench as he tips his head back. Neck flushed red. He lets out a moan, hand stroking himself slowly under the fabric.

You can see the movements of his hand. His arm flexing with each pump, his hips shifting as he chases it.

“Bet your pussy’s a fucking mess right now,” He grunts. Sqeezing his cock just a little bit harder. “Warm and swollen. Clenching around nothing like it just wants to be fuckin’ filled.”

He fucks himself into his hand harder. Sweatpants dragging over his wrist.

And you can hear it. The wet sounds as he pumps himself.

“Gonna let me see it?” He huffs. “Gonna show me that sweet little pussy, yeah? Show me how bad you need it too?”

You whimpers. And his breath fucking hitches at the sound.

He turns his head, still resting against the cushions, and fucking groans. 

“You really just gonna sit there with that soaked little cunt like you don’t know what to do?”

And you swallow. Fucking hard. Panting. As your hand slips beneath the hem of the hoodie, fingers slipping down to your core.

“Fucking finally,” Charles grunts. 

You slip your fingers into your panties, and outright moan.

Charles moans almost immediately. Jaw slack at the sound of you.

Your panties are soaked. Slick drags against your fingertips instantly, clit so swollen that it throbs. 

“Touch your clit for me,” He pants. “Rub it slow. Wanna hear what you sound like when you’re trying not to come.”

You breathe in sharply. Dragging small, tight circles with your fingers shaking.

“Fuck, that’s it.” He fists himself harder, but slower. Like he wants to hold out for as long as possible. “Is it messy? Can you feel how fucking wet you are?”

You nod, eyes falling shut.

“Bet I’d slip in so easy.” He’s babbling. “Push those panties to the side and fuck you so deep.”

Your hips rock, and you rub harder. Panting now. 

Charles jerks himself faster, his stomach tensing. Watching you. Devouring you. But it’s not enough. His hips keep twitching like he needs more. 

“Fuck,” his voice cracks. “I can’t…fuck. I can’t take this anymore.”

And you barely register what’s happening before his hand’s around your wrist, dragging it from between your thighs. Gasping, as he pulls you into his lap. 

He sits back, legs spread, eyes wild, cock still trapped beneath his sweats. And he’s already grinding up into you. So fucking desperate. So fucking hard.

You moan the very second you settle on his cock. Panties dragging against him.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” He mutters, voice cracking. “I’m trying…fuck, I’m trying not to ruin you. But you keep rubbing that little pussy on me like you’re aching for it.”

You roll your hips again. Slow. Heavy. Torture.

And his hand slides beneath your panties this time and he fucking groans when he feels it.

“Fuck,” He cries. “You’d let me fuck you like this, yeah? No prep. No warning. Just bend you over this couch and shove it in.”

You moan so loud that it echoes in the room. Your body trembling as you straddle him, the pace of your hips increasing.

His fingers circle your clit, rubbing.

“Look at how messy you are,” He groans. “Dripping all over me like you want me to come in my pants.”

You’re both a mess.

Grinding into him like you’re trying to become one. His hands are gripping your hips, controlling your movements. Pushing you into him harder.

“Gonna come,” He’s voice is absolutely wrecked. “Gonna fucking come…fuck, baby I’m gonna…”

You whimper, fingers digging into his shoulders as you drop your head forward. It hits you at the same time.

You cry out, grinding down hard as your orgasm rips through you. Your heat gushing as you rut against the ridge of his cock. Soaking him.

And Charles is groaning loudly. Spilling into his boxers.

“Fuck…fuck. Oh…fuck,” he’s panting, shaking. “Came in my fucking pants like a pathetic virgin. My God.”

You’re both breathing heavy, the roll of your hips coming to a halt as he holds you against him.

Both panting. Both shaking.

But he’s still so fucking hard. Cock twitching and throbbing beneath you.

“Turn around.”

And you barely register the command before he’s pushing you off, and bending you right over the couch. It’s rough. Face pressed into the cushion, ass bare beneath the hoodie.

“Still so fucking hard,” He sounds angry. “Came in my fucking pants and it didn’t even help.”

You hear the drag of fabric being shoved down. His cock slapping against your ass as he lines up.

He bends you over the couch like he’s been waiting his entire fucking life for it. Sleep shorts and panties pushed halfway down your thighs. He doesn’t bother wasting the time to take them off. Just grabs your hips and shoves it in. 

And you scream.

“Fuck,” He pants. “Feels so fucking good. So fucking wet…gonna lose my fuckin’ mind over this cunt.”

You feel your legs start to shake.

“Could’ve been nice and slow,” His voice is low. “But now?”

You whimper, muffled by the press of your face into the cushions.

He thrusts with one deep, hard shove again.

Your cunt clenching around him instantly. Fucking soaked.

“Look at that,” He pants. “Took it all in one go. Like your slutty cunt’s been begging for me this entire time.”

You try to speak, but all that comes out is a breathy moan. 

And he grabs your hips harder, the pads of his finger tips squeezing, and starts fucking into you with no remorse.

“Y’like that?” He grunts. “You like getting your best friend’s cock shoved into you?”

You sob. “Yes, fuck…Charles.”

And his hand comes down on your ass. It’s loud and sharp.

“Can’t believe this,” He sounds frustrated. “Can’t believe I’m fucking my best friend. Bent over the fucking couch, dripping all over me.”

He thrusts harder. And you’re babbling. Moaning. Yelling his name out.

“Tell me,” he’s breathing heavy. “Tell me you like it. Tell me you like my cock inside you.”

“I do,” You cry out. “I do, don’t stop.”

His hips falter, stuttering at the weight of your words.

“Sound so fuckin’ hot when you moan like that.” The pace of his hips is increasing, like he can’t get to his orgasm fast enough. And he’s still fucking throbbing inside of you. “Been thinking about it all fuckin’ night. What you’d sound like when I finally shoved my cock inside of you.”

“Feels so good,” you gasp. “So full. Don’t want it to stop..fuck.” 

And you’re clenching so hard around him that you can feel him trembling. Breathing uneven.

“I’m gonna come,” You moan. “I’m gonna fuckin’ come again.”

And he leans forward, one hand slipping into your hair, gripping it, and dragging your back up just a little bit as he grinds his cock into you.

“Yeah?” He spits out. “Gonna soak my cock? Gonna come on your best friends dick like some pathetic whore?”

And you fucking do. Hard. Legs trembling, pussy clenching him so tight.

He babbles through it. Grinding into you with such a feverish pace, it has you screaming.

“Fuckin’ hell. Feels so fuckin good baby. Pussy’s so fuckin’ warm.”

And he slams into you one last time, hips jerking. Moaning absolute nonsense against the back of your neck.

You’re both breathing heavily. Collapsed over the back of the couch, his cock still buried deep in you. Panties stretched at your thighs.

And he starts moving again.

Pulls out with a slow drag that makes you feel empty. And you hate it. Whining. His come is sticky against your thighs, walls clenching.

His cock hangs heavy, flushed an angry red. Still leaking. Still fucking throbbing.

“On the floor.” He pants. “All fours.” 

And you do. It was almost pathetic how fast you moved. Like a bitch in heat.

And he thrusts back into you with a loud groan. 

“You feel like fucking heaven.” He chokes out. “Never gonna stop thinking about this.”

Your arms give out, face pressed flat to the floor as he pounds into you. It’s sharp and brutal.

“Charles..” You’re crying.

“I know,” he breathes softly. “I know, baby. C’mon. Give it to me again.”

And you yelp as it crashes over you. Milking him. Sucking him in deeper.

“Fuck, you’re squeezing me…fuck…fuck.fuck.”

His hips snap one more time and he comes again, with a loud moan. Filling you again. Cock twitching inside of you, still so hard it’s almost not real.

And he’s laughing. 

“Still so fucking hard.” He presses soft kisses to your spine. “Gonna fuck you so many times, you won’t remember where you even are.”

And his hips never stop moving. Even after he’s come, even after you collapsed into the carpet on the floor, his cock stays inside of you.

And he keeps fucking you. 

Deep and claiming.

Fingers bruising your hips, cock slipping in and out of you. 

“Y’gonna take it again. All of it.” He grunts. “Every drop.”

He cant stop. 

“Gonna make sure you’re dripping my come for hours. All over your thighs. All over the place.” 

And he grabs you by the hair, pulling you up just to whisper into your ear. Hotly. 

“Want you walking around tomorrow with my come still inside you.” And you fucking sob. 

-

The room is quiet now.

You’re curled up on the floor, a blanket beneath you now, limbs sore. And Charles is behind you, one arm on your waist. Chest pressed to your back as his lips graze the skin of your shoulder.

His hands trail all over your body, gentle and slow. 

And you can still feel his cock against you. Still aching.

“You okay?” He mutters against your skin. Peppering soft kisses against it.

You nod. His hand slips down between your thighs. And he groans when his fingers dip into your folds.

“Still leaking, yeah?” He whispers.

And you press back into him without thinking.

“Can’t stop thinking about your pussy.” His voice is rough. Wrecked. Hoarse. “Need to fuck you slow baby.”

Your breath falters. And you nod. 

He slips in easily. And you both groan softly into each other.

“Could stay here forever.” 

You shift slightly, giving him a better angle.

“Gonna milk me again?” He says. “Gonna take all my come, yeah? Until I have nothing left to give?”

You don’t answer. Just roll your hips back against him. 

He fucks into you slowly. Unhurried. Like he never wants to stop being inside of you like this.

And he’s quiet. For once.

His lips brush against your shoulder. “Think I’ve wanted you like this for a long time.”

And his thrusts are slow and deep.

“Started wondering too much. Didn’t want to ruin anything.”

You let out a soft whimper. His hand stretched across your stomach. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

“Feeling you like this,” He starts, choking on his words. “And it makes me think…maybe it was always you.”

And your chest aches at the words.

“I think I’ve always been yours.”

His hips halt. Still. Only for a second.

Processing your words.

And then he fucks into you harder. Not rough. Just more feverish. Like he wants to claim you for eternity.

“I love you,” he gasps. “Fuckin love you. Didn’t know what to do about it. Drove me fuckin’ crazy.”

You turn your head, catching his mouth in a sloppy kiss thats all tongue.

“I love you,” you whisper against his mouth.

And that’s all it takes.

He groans, spilling inside of you. His forehead pressed into your neck. Shaking.

You both settle in silence again. Just the sounds of you breathing and the TV heard.

He’s still inside you, chest pressed to your back, an arm curled around your waist. Both barely able to move. His cock finally softening.

“Seriously what the fuck was in that chocolate?”

You blink. And then you laugh. Loudly. Tears filling your eyes.

And Charles smiles against your shoulder.

“Wasn’t just the chocolate, you know that?” He says quietly. Peppering kisses.

“I know.”

His nose trails along your skin, nudging your neck. “We should buy more though.”

And you laugh. 

“Down."

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[mariasont]

Early seasons Spencer’s gf joining the team and quickly realizing just how used to Spencer she is bc the rest of the team’s reactions to him are so different from hers

Cinnamon Sticks - S.R

a/n: obsessed with the idea of baby spencie having a gf who just gets him while he's still an awkward, nerdy little genius! thanks for requesting bestie so sorry it took so long i am the worst LOL

masterlist

pairings: early!seasons!spencer reid x fem!reader

warnings: established relationship, secret relationship, relationship being exposed bc these two are just so in love

wc: 1.7k

Garcia burst into the bullpen like some sort of whirlwind that was practically painted in neon, her scarf fluttering behind her almost like a cape. She juggled a precariously full cup of coffee, while her phone teetered between ear and shoulder as if testing the limits of human dexterity.

"I swear to all that is holy, if my life doesn't slow down in the next five minutes —"

The sentence derailed as she misjudged her pace, the coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the cup. She stopped abruptly, but not quick enough to stop the scalding liquid from spilling over and searing her fingers.

"Oh, fantastic! Just what I needed!" she huffed, waving her hand like it might stop the sting.

She threw herself into the closest chair with a dejected sigh, slumping back and fixing the coffee cup with a murderous glare, like this was just another tally in a long line of grievances.

Your eyes darted up from your work, only for a moment, enough to confirm what you already knew. You hadn't been working here long, but it was long enough to recognize the phenomenon that was Garcia: a blur of movement and words, mid-rant before anyone had the chance to catch up. It was like clockwork really.

You risked a glance across the desk at Spencer, who was so absorbed in his notebook it was a wonder he even remembered to breathe. If Garcia's antics registered as white noise to anyone, it was him. But then, almost like he had a radar for being watched, he looked up, catching your gaze.

His eyebrows lifted into a subtle what can you do? expression, and you couldn't help but smile back.

That was the thing about Spencer. He had this uncanny knack for knowing exactly what you were thinking, almost as if he had a cheat sheet for your brain. And maybe he did, like his brain worked three times faster than everyone else's in the room (which, let's face it, it definitely did). But instead of that being intimidating, it was oddly reassuring.

"At this rate, I'm one bad email away from alphabetizing my entire pantry for stress relief."

Spencer's notebook hit the desk, and there it was, the shift you loved to look for. His shoulders drew back, face lighting up, the kind of thing that signaled his mini-lecture was incoming.

"Organizing your pantry is actually a practical stress management technique. By categorizing items, you create a structured environment that reduces decision fatigue. Its why people feel calmer in tidy spaces, it's psychological."

Morgan held up a hand. "Psychological, huh? Sounds like you’re just trying to justify your weird love affair with labels, pretty boy.”

“Don’t forget,” you added absently, flipping a page in your report, “it also saves time when you’re cooking. I think you called it practical efficiency."

The words slipped out without much thought, but as soon as they did, the bullpen stilled. You glanced up, heart sinking as you saw every face turned in your direction.

Morgan’s grin was the first thing you notice, wide and knowing, stretching across his face. He tilted his head, eyes bouncing between you and Spencer like he was putting pieces together in real time.

“Wait a minute,” he said, sitting forward with a gleam in his eye. “Did you just quote him? Like, word for word?”

Your cheeks heated instantly. “What? No. I mean — maybe. I don’t know.”

“Pretty sure you did,” Morgan shot back, smirking. “Man, what else has he been teaching you? You got the periodic table memorized too?”

You rolled your eyes, leaning back in your chair. “Oh, please. If you’ve been around Spencer long enough, you’re bound to pick up a few things. He’s like a walking encyclopedia.”

“Well,” Spencer said, his head tilting slightly as he spoke, “your cinnamon sticks always end up at the back of your pantry. That’s why I figured you might appreciate the idea of organizing by use frequency. Like I said, practical efficiency.”

The moment the words left his mouth, you knew he’d made a tactical error.

Garcia gasped, her eyes lighting up like she’d just been handed the juiciest piece of gossip of her life. 

“Oh. My. God. Spencer Reid, how exactly do you know what the back of her pantry looks like?”

You froze, rooted to the spot as the realization hit you like a cartoon anvil. 

This was bad.

Spencer’s expression mirrored yours for half a second, bug-eyed panic, but he quickly scrambled for an answer. 

“It’s, um… a logical assumption,” he stammered, his fingers toying with the pen in his hand, a nervous tell he couldn’t quite suppress. “Spices like cinnamon sticks always seem to migrate to the back of the pantry unless there’s an intentional system in place.”

Morgan let out a long, low whistle, rocking back in his chair with enough force to make it creak.

“Nice save. But I don’t think Garcia’s buying it.”

Garcia tapped her chin, clearly enjoying herself far too much. “Oh, no, no, no. This is too good. I mean, logical assumption  my fabulous behind! Cinnamon sticks in the back of her pantry? Really? What’s next? A detailed analysis of how she stacks her cereal boxes?”

You laughed, though it sounded more like a bark than anything natural. “You’re all reading way too much into this. Spencer just knows weirdly specific things about, well, everything. That’s kind of his thing, remember?”

“Mmhmm,” Garcia hummed, clearly unconvinced. “Alright, genius, I’ll let it slide this time. But I’m watching you.”

“Please don’t,” Spencer muttered under his breath, earning a round of laughter from the team.

Garcia spent a solid ten minutes in full interrogation mode after that, her eyes narrowing with each and every pointed question she lobbed your way. Morgan, of course, was no help. He leaned back, grinning like a kid with a front-row seat to the circus, his smirk practically screaming that he knew they were this close to striking a nerve.

Spencer and you had been so careful. You'd been dating long before you joined the BAU, but the moment Hotch had called to offer you the position, you both knew you'd have to keep things under wraps. Dating a coworker was one thing; dating Spencer Reid, a genius with an accidentally too-honest mouth, was an entirely different challenge.

You hadn't expected it to be this hard, though. Keeping the secret wasn't the worst part, it was pretending he wasn't the center of your universe every time you walked into the room. It was keeping your hands to yourself when all you wanted to do was smooth out the messy strands of hair that always fell into his eyes. It was biting your tongue when someone interrupted his long-winded tangents because the truth was, you loved hearing him talk.

The hours stretched on, and the bullpen slowly thinned out. Garcia was the first to leave, blowing a kiss to the room. Morgan left soon after, pausing to flash you one last grin before disappearing. Even Prentiss packed up for the night, muttering something about needed an extra shot of espresso tomorrow morning.

"You handled that well."

You looked up from your report to find Spencer by your desk, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other skimming lightly along the edge of the divider. His expression was surprisingly soft, almost bashful, as though he had been waiting to get you alone.

"Handled that well?" you repeated, raising an eyebrow. "You were the one who almost blew it, Spencer. Cinnamon sticks? Really?"

He smiled, lips twitching upward as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Okay, I'll admit that wasn't my most subtle moment. But in my defense, they do end up at the back of most pantries."

You couldn't help but laugh, shaking your head as you leaned back in your chair. 

"We're lucky Garcia got distracted. If she'd pushed any harder..." Your voice drifted into a soft sigh. "That could've been bad."

"That was a close one."

The quiet that followed wasn't uncomfortable, but it felt a little more substantial, if that was the word, filled with that miniscule ache that always bloomed in your chest when he was near. 

Spencer stepped closer, his hand brushing against the edge of your desk. His body angled toward you, like even when you weren’t touching, he couldn’t help but gravitate toward you.

“You know,” he said, his voice softer now, “I don’t think she actually suspects anything. But we should probably be more careful.”

"Probably," you replied, drawing out the word in a teasing, sing-song tone. “Unless you’d rather keep showing off how ridiculously well you know me.”

His cheeks flushed a soft pink, but he didn’t look away. Instead, that shy, boyish smile, the one that always made you a little breathless, spread across his lips.

"That's going to be hard," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "I noticed a lot about you."

You could feel the flush creeping up to your neck, and you mentally cursed him for how easily he was able to do this to you.

"You're lucky I like you."

His smile widened, and his eyes crinkled at the corners in that way they only came out at specific moments. Like when he successfully performed a card trick for the team or when he stumbled across an original copy of a book at a library sale. 

The same one you'd seen when he talked about his mom on her good days, or when you asked him on a date. 

You leaned forward. "And since I like you, any chance you'd want to kiss me right now?"

"How could I not, with you looking at me like that?"

The angle was clumsy, your chair too low, his frame leaning awkwardly over, but all of that melted away the second his hands found your face. His thumbs brushed soft circles against the place where your cheek met your jaw.

His lips were soft against yours at first, testing, before growing firmer, more sure. The kind of confidence that came with a hundred familiar kisses before. 

Time seemed to slow, or at least for you it did, the rest of the world nonexistent.

The sound of a throat clearing broke the spell, and you jerked back from Spencer, your chair wobbling slightly as you turned toward the sound. You immediately regretted it — your lips felt swollen, your face hot, and there was Prentiss, leaning against the doorframe.

"We were... uh, testing something," you blurted, avidly avoiding eye contact. "You know, like... oxygen exchange! For scientific purposes."

Spencer blinked, then mumbled, "Oxygen exchange? That's the best you got?"

"Shut it," you hissed through gritted teeth, not daring to look at him.

Prentiss arched a brow. "Relax, lovebirds. If this is your idea of scientific research, I'll make sure Garcia doesn't find out. You're welcome."

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join my taglist here!

[liberalsarecool]

THE ERA OF VANISHING HAS BEGUN

They are not arresting people. They are vanishing them.

Rumeysa Ozturk wasn’t read her rights. She wasn’t told why she was being detained. She was walking to break her fast in Somerville, Massachusetts when masked men in an unmarked SUV pulled up, took her phone, slapped on handcuffs, and dragged her into a vehicle like she was some kind of national security threat.

She’s a doctoral student. A Fulbright scholar. A trauma researcher. But in Donald Trump’s America, she fit the profile: Muslim, foreign-born, sympathetic to Palestinians.

Now she’s locked in a for-profit detention center in Louisiana, hundreds of miles from her lawyer, after a federal judge specifically said she wasn’t to be moved.

They moved her anyway. Because rules no longer apply to those with badges — real or fake.

A MOVEMENT BUILT ON CHAINS AND COWARDS

Alireza Doroudi is gone too.

He’s a doctoral student at the University of Alabama, born in Iran, studying mechanical engineering. No criminal record. No warning. Just scooped off the grid.

ICE refuses to say where he’s being held. No public charge has been announced. His only crime appears to be existing in the wrong body, from the wrong country, in the wrong era.

Mahmoud Khalil was next — a Columbia student, arrested for leading pro-Palestinian protests. Trump labeled him a “radical foreign Hamas sympathizer” on Truth Social. Days later, he was gone.

Jeanette Vizguerra was taken from her Target shift in Colorado, chained at the waist.

Alfredo “Lelo” Juarez, a farmworker organizer, was dragged from his car at dawn in Washington. His window was smashed by federal agents. His voice silenced.

These aren’t isolated incidents. These are deliberate acts of political intimidation.

They are testing the system — testing us — to see how many people they can disappear before we stop calling it democracy.

WHEN ICE IS A BADGE — AND A COSTUME

While the real ICE disappears scholars, organizers, and mothers, the fakes are circling like vultures.

In South Carolina, Sean-Michael Johnson posed as an ICE officer. He pulled over a van of Latino men, screamed slurs, jiggled their keys, and knocked a phone out of someone’s hand. “You’re going back to Mexico!” he shouted. He wasn’t an agent — but he played one with conviction.

In North Carolina, Carl Thomas Bennett used a fake badge to sexually assault a woman at a motel. He told her if she didn’t comply, he’d have her deported. He held up a counterfeit ID and pretended to be the state.

And in Philadelphia, a Temple University student in an “ICE” shirt tried to storm a dorm building with two accomplices. They were dressed for the part, intoxicated by the illusion of authority, emboldened by the climate.

This is what happens when the state makes cruelty a brand. When a badge becomes a fetish object. When the line between enforcement and cosplay disappears altogether.

THE WHOLE SYSTEM IS THE CRIME

Let’s stop pretending this is a coincidence.

This is a unified strategy. The Trump administration is using ICE like a personal strike force — targeting international students, protest leaders, organizers, and mothers with surgical precision.

They invoke secret designations. They bypass due process. They manufacture pretexts out of thin air and rely on the fog of bureaucracy to hide the blood on the floor.

The point isn’t law enforcement. The point is deterrence. Spectacle. Control.

This is what political cleansing looks like when it’s dressed up in the language of national security.

They’re showing the world that resistance has a cost — and the cost is your freedom, your voice, your visibility, your future.

SILENCE IS CONSENT. AND WE ARE LOUD.

There is no middle ground here. No fence to sit on. No neutral position when people are being kidnapped in the name of the state.

ICE doesn’t need your applause. It needs your silence. Every time a student vanishes and the media shrugs, every time a woman is cuffed and the public looks away, the machine gets stronger.

They are daring us to ignore it. They are counting on our numbness. They are betting that we’ll keep scrolling.

We cannot let them win.

This is not border policy. This is not visa enforcement. This is not safety.This is authoritarianism with a PowerPoint presentation.This is fascism disguised as formality.

This is the state stripping people from the land and pretending it’s order.

Let the record show:

They took people.

And we did not look away.

We saw it.

We named it.

We raised hell.

And we did not stop.

(I didn’t write this. Credit goes to Fear and Loathing: Closer to the Edge)

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

🧪 Character Arcs 101: what they are, what they aren’t, and how to make them hurt

by rin t. (resident chaos scribe of thewriteadviceforwriters)

Okay so here’s the thing. You can give me all the pretty pinterest moodboards and soft trauma playlists in the world, but if your character doesn’t change, I will send them back to the factory.

Let’s talk about character arcs. Not vibes. Not tragic backstory flavoring. Actual. Arcs. (It hurts but we’ll get through it together.)

─────── ✦ ───────

💡 what a character arc IS:

a transformational journey (keyword: transformation)

the internal response to external pressure (aka plot consequences)

a shift in worldview, behavior, belief, self-concept

the emotional architecture of your story

the reason we care

💥 what a character arc is NOT:

a sad monologue halfway through act 2

a single cool scene where they yell or cry

a moral they magically learn by the end

a “development” label slapped on a flatline

─────── ✦ ───────

✨ THE 3 BASIC FLAVORS OF ARC (and how to emotionally damage your characters accordingly):

Positive Arc They start with a flaw, false belief, or fear that limits them. Through the events of the story (and many Ls), they confront that internal lie, grow, and emerge changed. Hurt factor: Drag them through the mud. Make them fight to believe in themselves. Break their trust, make them doubt. Let them earn their ending.

Negative Arc They begin whole(ish) and devolve. They fail to overcome their flaw or false belief. This arc ends in ruin, corruption, or defeat. Hurt factor: Let them almost have a chance. Build hope. Then show how they sabotage it, or how the world takes it anyway. Twist the knife.

Flat/Static Arc They don’t change, but the world around them does. They hold onto a core truth, and it’s their constancy that drives change in others. Think: mentor, revolutionary, or truth-teller type. Hurt factor: Make the world push back. Make their values cost them something. The tension comes from holding steady in chaos.

─────── ✦ ───────

🎯 how to build an arc that actually HITS (no ✨soft lessons✨, just internal structure):

Lie they believe: What false thing do they think about themselves or the world? (“I’m unlovable.” “Power = safety.” “I’m only valuable if I’m useful.”)

Want vs. need: What do they think they want? What do they actually need to grow?

Wound/backstory scar: What made them like this? You don’t need a tragic past™ but you do need cause and effect.

Turning point: What moment forces them to question their worldview? What event cracks the surface?

Moment of choice: Do they change? Or not? What decision seals their arc?

🧪 Pro tip: this is not a worksheet. This is scaffolding. The arc lives in the story, not just your doc notes. The lie isn’t revealed in a monologue, it’s felt through consequences, relationships, mistakes.

─────── ✦ ───────

🛠️ things to actually do with this:

Write scenes where the character’s flaw messes things up. Like, they lose something. A person. A plan. Their cool. Make the flaw hurt.

Track their beliefs like a timeline. How do they start? What chips away at it? When does the shift stick?

Use relationships as arc mirrors. Who challenges them? Enables them? Forces reflection? Internal change is almost never solo.

Revisit the lie. Circle back to it at least three times in escalating intensity. Reminder > confrontation > transformation.

─────── ✦ ───────

🌊 bonus pain level: REVERSE THE ARC

Wanna make it really hurt? Set them up for one arc, and give them the opposite. They think they’re growing into a better person. But actually, they’re losing themselves. They think they’re spiraling. But they’re really healing. Let them be surprised. Let the reader be surprised.

─────���─ ✦ ───────

TL;DR: If your plot is a skeleton, your character arc is the nervous system.

The change is the thing. Don’t just dress it up in trauma. Don’t let your character learn nothing. Make them face themselves. And yeah. Make it hurt a little. (Or a lot. I won’t stop you.)

—rin t. // thewriteadviceforwriters // plotting pain professionally since forever

P.S. I made a free mini eBook about the 5 biggest mistakes writers make in the first 10 pages 👀 you can grab it here for FREE:

[salemlunaa]

YOU ARE NOT SEPARATE FROM YOUR DESIRES

creation is finished

Hi my loves, I missed you guys and as you can see I have taken a long break, the longest break since i’ve started blogging. And in that time it lead me to reflect on so much, especially when it comes to manifestation.

And i’m here to tell you that

1. You aren’t separate from what you want

2. Creation is instant

You are an instant creator, as soon as you decide you want something it is done. For instance, let’s say whilst playing League of Legends, you get a notification telling you to come play Candy Crush. That notification wouldn’t exist without the game Candy Crush itself. If there was no such thing as Candy Crush you would not be getting a notification while playing League of Legends. It’s just like desires, a desire is like you getting a “notification” in your current reality, telling you that better one exists. If that reality didn’t exist, it wouldn’t pop into your mind like a notification. That’s how instant creation is. As soon as you want it, it exists, and you ARE it.

If you can see it in your mind you can have it. I don’t care what it is, jumping to a whole new reality, getting your dream body, revising a major event. If you can desire it, there is already a reality where you have that thing. Nothing is impossible, only the ego assigns labels to things.

And what do you have to do to get there? Absolutely nothing, nothing but living in the knowing that you are it. Once you realise that creation is finished and that time is an illusion, you collapse the illusion of time and space and you get what you want instantly.

Now why is it so effortless? Because as god, you are everything. You are not separate from your desires. The need to do techniques shows that you believe that you must do something to get your desire, and that is the illusion of separation, you believing you do something or try and be someone to created. When in fact, creation is finished and you need to do nothing but be in the present moment, knowing you have what you want.

The Idea that you need to move from A to B is an illusionistic concept. When in actuality, you are A AND B. Whether A or B is visible or invisible to you is where you decide to shift and place your consciousness.

YOU ARE ALL THAT IS 👁️🌀

[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

LIFE WE GREW SERIES MASTERLIST <3

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.