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abbotjack · 2 months ago

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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.

#request #anon request #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot #dr abbot #dr abbot x reader #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #the pitt hbo #pregnancy

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bitters-n-sweets · 29 days ago

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gym crush — jack abbot x fem!reader GYM CRUSH JACK ABBOT. because have you seen his ARMS? im DEAD

warnings: none? it's just cute and fluffy masterlist

There's always this guy whose gym schedule lines up with yours. He's older, maybe in his 40s, with salt-n-pepper hair, and forearms you've been dying to touch but settled with staring. For now.

He usually shows up around 2 or 3 PM on weekdays—prime quiet hours—which makes you wonder what kind of job lets him sneak away like that. He's too young to retire, but maybe he's an entrepreneur, or he's in a good position in his job that allows him to leave work whenever he wants.

You're staring again.

You have to physically pry your eyes off his arms when he does curls. You try to focus on your set, but it’s hard—his breathy exhales do something to you, and not in a helpful way.

You shouldn't be thinking this way. He might be married—though you don't see a wedding ring, or dating, or whatever, you shouldn't—

"Hey."

Oh shit.

You lift your head to see him standing near you. He doesn't have the friendliest face, that was the first thing you noticed, and now you're worried if maybe you've done something wrong, or he's there to tell you he caught you staring.

"You need some help with your set?"

Oh.

"I noticed you're not really in it today. Maybe a spot?"

Oh??

Does that mean he's noticed you before?

"S-sure!" You get into position, and he stands behind you, hands loose at his sides, eyes scanning your form. It's oddly intimate, maybe just because he's your gym crush.

He has calloused hands. You make a note. Especially when he taps your elbow, coaxing out one more rep with that low, steady voice. God, you imagine how this all would in the right context.

"That's it, atta girl." He gives you a high-five. "You feeling okay?"

"Yeah, just—" You glance at him. "Work has been stressful."

"I get that." He nods. "I'm Jack."

You say your name. Hopefully correctly. And then he smiles, and heads back to his weights.

Jack has noticed you staring. Stealing glances. The way your eyes flick to him even when he’s on the far side of the gym, out of your line of sight. As if your brain has a compass, and he’s north.

He finds it flattering, really. And he can't hide it (well, maybe better than you), but he watches you too. He finds it adorable that you come in with a different gym set for every session, and your water bottle somehow always matches your outfit. Who owns that many water bottles? It baffles him. And entertains him. And somehow makes him like you more.

He likes your hair too. Sometimes it’s braided, sometimes it’s in a ponytail. Beyond that, he has no clue what the styles are called—he just knows they all suit you. Ridiculously well.

And today?

You’re wearing his favorite set.

Yes, sure, kind of creepy for a man who’s never spoken to you to have a favorite gym set. But that shade—God, that shade—brings out your eyes like nothing else. And on days like this, with that color hugging your body? How is he supposed to look away?

The day after he offers to spot you, Jack finds himself hoping you’ll show up again. What started as stolen glances has turned into quick smiles as you pass each other, protein shake cheers between sets, and casually trading spots like it's second nature.

You still don’t talk much—nothing too deep, anyway—but his presence makes the gym feel different. Like something to look forward to. Something that gets you out the door on even the laziest days.

Then a week passes.

No Jack.

You tell yourself maybe your rest days just aren’t lining up. But another day goes by. Then two. And now it’s been a full week, and the dread creeps in: maybe Jack’s found a new gym.

It sucks—but it happens.

You try to focus on your workout, but you’re hopelessly distracted. Every time someone walks in, your head turns, heart kicking up… only to sink again when it’s not him.

You sigh and settle under the barbell.

Creak.

The gym doors open.

You whip your head around—"Shit—"

Your form wobbles, balance gone. The bar slips, and the weight traps you beneath it.

"Um, a little help?!" you gasp, struggling under the bar.

A gym employee rushes over with another regular, both of them working quickly to lift the bar off you. The pain in your shoulder flares immediately, sharp and hot, and you try to breathe through it.

"I don't think you need an ambulance, but we're gonna get you to the ER just in case."

You nod mindlessly.

Greg—the gym employee, and Harry—the regular, are kind enough to help drive you to the ER. They left once it's your turn, and you're now sitting in an exam bay, waiting for a doctor.

The ER is freezing. Or maybe it's just the adrenaline fading. You're still in your workout gear, couldn't even grab your hoodie, and your arm in a temporary sling. The pain's dulled to a throb, but the embarrassment is still fresh.

"The doctor will see you soon."

You're not really listening, until you hear a familiar voice.

"Okay, so what do we have—oh."

You look up. "Jack?"

He freezes when he sees you, clipboard halfway raised. His salt-and-pepper hair’s a little messy, dark scrubs clinging to him like he’s been running all over the place. There’s a stethoscope slung around his neck.

A smile starts tugging at his mouth. "Hey."

"You're a doctor?"

"That topic never came up?"

You chuckle. "Not really, no."

Jack steps closer, eyes flicking to your sling as he gently helps you adjust it. "Wanna tell me how this happened?"

"I didn't have my usual spotter."

He half-smirks. "Sounds like an unreliable prick. But seriously, walk me through the accident, I skimmed your chart, but I need to hear it from you."

You look at your feet. "It's dumb."

"Try me."

You fiddle with the edge of the paper sheet under you. "I was going for a new PR on squats. And… I got distracted. Lost focus, lost balance, and the bar pinned me."

Jack studies you for a moment. "Distracted by what?"

You glance at him, then away again. "Does it really matter?"

"It does to me."

Your voice is quieter when you finally admit, "I thought it was you coming into the gym. I heard the door. And I looked up."

Jack’s brow softens, and then so does his smile. "You were looking for me?"

"Ugh, you were gone for a week, okay, and I miss—I got worried." You groan lightly, more embarrassed than hurt now. "Don't make a thing out of it."

He laughs, smoothing a stray hair behind your ear. "I absolutely will make a thing out of it."

Jack proceeds to examine your nasty bruise, and making sure you didn't hit your head too hard by telling you to touch his finger where he points it, but intentionally making you miss.

"Jack, I swear—"

"Just messing with you, sweetheart." He laughs again, and you think you might die. "You're good to go home, just take some aspirin if the headache is too much."

You get down from the bed accidentally bump into his chest. You can practically feel his breath on you.

"S—"

"For the record," he leans down, voice brushing your ear, "I missed you too."

Your breath hitches, eyes wide. He pulls back with a low chuckle, then presses a kiss to your cheek. "Get home safe, I'll text you later. Okay?" He murmurs.

"O-Okay." You try your best to speak.

"Oh, and no gym for at least a week!" He calls out as he walks away.

You’re still reeling as you head home, Jack’s jacket slung around your shoulders and your mind spinning from everything that just happened. That smile. That voice. That kiss. It all feels like a fever dream—until a sudden realization hits you.

Jack doesn’t have your number.

And you don’t have his.

You groan. Of course. You’re benched from the gym for a week and just when things were finally happening—

Ding.

Your phone lights up with a text from an unknown number.

Hey, it’s Jack. Got your number from your chart. Want to grab dinner tonight? :) Don't forget to take aspirin for your headache

You stare at the screen, grinning like a fool.

Okay. Maybe today wasn’t so bad after all.

#jack abbot fluff #jack abbot the pitt #jack abbot x you #dr jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x female reader #female reader #the pitt #dr abbot #jack abbot #jack abbot x fem reader

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yandere-daydreams · 3 months ago

Text

exhibit #3 - stepcest.

an installment of the freak shit march gallery showcase.

pairing: yandere!toji x reader (jjk).

length: 3.0k.

warnings: non/con, fem!reader, step!dad + step!daughter, manipulation, mentions of death, mentions of grief, age gap (toji is in his mid 40s, reader is in her early 20s), long-term stalking, rampant daddy kinks, and slight infantalization. dead dove: do not eat.

Your plane landed about two hours before the funeral. By the time you got to the house (a tucked away two-story built for recluses and retirees), Toji was waiting for you in the driveway, already half-dressed in a pair of suit pants and a plain white button-up – leftover from a wedding or one of your mother’s work parties, you were sure. There was a fifty-dollar bill crumbled messily in his hand, and he palmed it to the cab driver after helping you out of the backseat and hauling your lone, malnourished suitcase out of the trunk. Another day, you might’ve tried to stop him, to insist on taking care of yourself, but you weren’t really in a place to take care of much of anything, at the moment.

You waited in silence for the cab to pull out, disappearing down the greenery-crowded backroad that led into town. When the vehicle was finally out of sight, you took a deep breath, shut your eyes, and collapsed into Toji’s chest.

His arms were around you in a heartbeat. You went boneless against him – exhausted from the news, the sobbing, the flight. If you hadn’t been so tired, you might’ve been able to greet him, to say you were sorry, to recognize that he was in mourning too, but you were tired, and you were sad, and it was all you could do to mutter distantly into his shoulder. “It just feels so…”

“I know, kid, I know.” He squeezed you against him, the same way he had the first time you’d failed a class, or after you’d heard your mother planned to sell your childhood home. It was the good, bone-crushing kind of hug, the type that flattened your lungs and made you feel safe. It was the kind of hug you’d only ever gotten from Toji. “It’s a lot to take in.”

“And you’re sure the ceremony is—”

“All taken care of.” He laughed airily. “We should get you dressed. I tried to lay out everything that still fits, but it’s gonna take some trial and error.”

His hold loosened, but didn’t fall away. You stayed where you were. “If we’re early, do you think I’ll be able to get a few minutes alone with her?”

He sighed, then kissed the top of your head. “It doesn’t matter what time we get there, princess. If anyone tries to stop you, I’ll deal with them.”

You sniffled, but straightened, determined to take consolidation where you could. Toji slung your suitcase over his shoulder and, taking your hand, led you inside.

You weren’t early. Toji had to help with your dress – your hands were shaking too badly to slot the buttons into place. You thought, briefly, about make-up, but you hadn’t remembered to pack any, and the only stock in the house would’ve been hers. Instead, you kept your head bowed and your eyes on the floor as you waded through rarely-seen friends and distant relatives, as faces you only just barely recognized recited hollow platitudes about how wonderful your mother was, how much they’d miss the light she’d brought into their lives, how fortunate you’d been to grow up with such a sparkling presence in your life. The business trips, the boarding schools, the screaming matches – those remained unmentioned, unthought of. It was the cruelest thing they could’ve put you through, and it was the most merciful they possibly could’ve been. It was terrible beyond description, and it was the best you could’ve hoped for.

Toji was at your side all the while, only occasionally stepping away to grab yet another box of tissues or a fresh bottle of water. He guarded the doors during your private visitation, and when you left a few minutes into the ceremony to vomit, he held your hair back without a word of complaint. His own estranged children – Megumi and Tsumiki – made an appearance. Neither spoke to you, but Tsumiki hugged you close and Megumi rested a hand on your shoulder. Their sympathy was hollow, but welcomed. What they’d gone through was different, easier. They’d lost both their mothers as children, when they were too young to really know what that meant, but you appreciated the sentiment.

There wasn’t a burial. Cremation had been in the will, added only a few months before the accident. It wasn’t your place to complain, but you wished she would’ve talked to you about it. Even a hole in the ground would’ve been more comforting than knowing you’d have to pick up a cold piece of porcelain containing what was left of your mother some time next week. Toji promised he’d take care of it as he drove you back home, and you couldn’t find it in yourself to argue.

Left to your own devices, you wandered the house. It’d been less than seventy-two hours since the accident, but already, the house seemed colder, emptier. Too many doors were shut rather than left ajar, too many counters clean rather than cluttered, too many blankets folded instead of absentmindedly thrown into a heap – the way your mother would always leave them when she got up. You tried to brave her bedroom, to find the sweater she’d been attempting to crochet for as long as you could remember, but you couldn’t make it farther than the doorway.

Toji caught you on the staircase. He stood at the bottom, arms crossed and back against the banister. As you neared the end of your descent, he sighed. “Any big plans, kid?”

You tried to smile, but it fell away quickly. “I think I might turn in early. I’m pretty tired from the—” You paused, swallowing. “—from everything.”

He hummed, letting his eyes fall to your feel. Abruptly, you realized that you hadn’t taken off your dress after the funeral. Or your jacket. Or your shoes.

“Yeah.” He straightened, pushing himself onto his feet. “That’s not going to happen. Change, get your ass on the couch, and put on a movie. I’m ordering take-out.”

He didn’t want you to be alone. You might’ve felt a little warmer, if you’d been able to feel anything at all. “I’m fine, I promise. You don’t have to babysit me.”

“And listen to you cry yourself to sleep?” He let out a breath of a laugh. “Ass. Couch. Now. I’ll be there in fifteen.”

It didn’t seem like he ‘no’ for an answer. Reluctantly, you shuffled past him and did as you were told – throwing on a pair of shorts and oversized shirt you hadn’t worn since your sophomore year of college. The living room seemed too big, too foreboding, so you stowed yourself away in the garage, your mother’s makeshift movie room. An unmemorable romcom was chosen out of a catalogue of identical titles with no particular sense of favoritism, but your mind began to wonder as soon as the opening credits started to play.

Toji was a good guy. Really, he was. You had to remind yourself of that from time to time, when something made you think of the bank-vault full of handguns he kept in the guestroom or your mother complained about how vague he was about his high-paying occupation, and you hadn’t always thought so – fuck, when she first brought home a man nearly fifteen years her junior with the build of a hitman and scars to match, you’d called her insane and insisted that, if they ever got married, you’d never speak to her again. You’d figured he was a scam artist, but a conman wouldn’t get up an hour before sunrise to make breakfast for their mark every day without fail, or volunteer for the droning domesticity of weekly laundry and vacuuming, or hide enough cash to cover the first three months of rent in their girlfriend’s daughter’s suitcase when she finally moved out.

You doubted he really loved your mom, but you doubted she’d ever really loved him, either. Toji was good for her, a steady hand to balance out her rashness, a beating heart to keep your home alive whenever her impulsivity led her elsewhere. When they did eventually get married in a small, unglamourous courtroom ceremony, you’d even acted as their witness. He was good to her, and she was happy. That was all that really mattered, you guessed.

When Toji came back, he was carrying a large paper bag printed with the logo of your favorite restaurant – ordered before your conversation, most likely. He pretended not to watch you as you ate, the action mechanical and joyless. You didn’t have much of an appetite, but you didn’t want to seem ungrateful.

The romcom had only passed the half-way mark by the time you tuned back in; the point where your protagonists began to lull into a false sense of security before their lives came crashing down around them. You would’ve expected Toji to leave after making sure you’d gotten something to eat, but instead, he sat stiffly next to you, half buried by your mound of blankets as you stretched your legs across his lap. The hero was delivering his nth poorly written monologue – something about family or belonging, it was hard to tell. As the actor struggled to cry on demand, Toji rested a hand on your knee.

As the heroine stormed out of his apartment and into the melodramatic rainstorm waiting outside, his touch wandered, skirting over your bare thigh.

As she ducked under the canopy of a brightly lit café, pulling out her phone to call her estranged parents for the very first time in five years, his hand slipped under your shorts and settled over your cunt.

Your immediate thought was, embarrassingly, that it had to be an accident. You weren’t sure how it could be, but the logistics didn’t matter – it had to be an accident. The stiff shape pressing into the underside of your calf was a nonfactor, static cast over your conscious mind. You wanted to get up, to take a hot shower, to lock yourself in your room, but your body wouldn’t move. Couldn’t move. That’d get his attention, and he’d realize what he was doing, and—

The heroine sobbed and threw her phone in the overflowing gutter, her reconciliation having ended messily. At the same time, two of Toji’s fingers slipped underneath your panties, tracing the length of your slit before pushing a quick circle into your clit. That was it. You scrambled off of the couch, your foot catching on a cushion and leaving you shambling and crumpled on the floor. You tried to pick yourself up, but you weren’t fast enough. Toji was already shifting, already leaning down, already taking you by either side. A little too easily, he hauled you back onto the sofa and threw your back against the armrest, the impact forceful enough to bruise the base of your spine. You cringed, but he only laughed, letting his hands fall to your hips and squeezing. “Where do you think you’re going, kid?”

“I wasn’t—” A knee was forced between your thighs, nudging them apart. Toji was quick to fill the empty space. “It’s—Uh, it’s kind of funny, actually. I thought I felt something touch my leg, and—”

“Mhm. Just like how I used to find you rooting around in my stuff because you thought it belonged to the old hag.” You winced. That’d been early on – when you were still too suspicious to let your guard down and too naïve to be subtle about it. You’d assumed he would’ve forgotten about that, by now. “Have anything else you want to get off your chest? Go ahead – Daddy’s here to listen.”

Disgust pricked at the back of your throat, bitter and acidic. It must’ve shown through to your expression - Toji smirked as he hooked a thumb underneath the waistband of your shorts, dragging them down to your knees. Your hands shot out on reflex, grappling for what was already lost, but Toji only clicked his tongue and bowed his head, his tongue drawing a wet stripe over the seat of your panties. In the end, it was all you could do to tangle your fingers in his hair and shut your eyes, as if drawing him closer had ever done you any good.

The sound was the worst part. Messy and indulgent, the soft click of saliva against skin and Toji’s airy groans as he buried his face between your thighs. He traced the shape of your cunt through your panties, only occasionally pausing to grind the fabric into your clit, to draw the meekest possible ‘no’ or ‘stop’ out of you. His hands fell to your thighs, forcing them over his broad shoulders and letting him pin you down that much more efficiently. Your body suddenly felt smaller than it had in years, as fragile and as helpless as the morning you’d first woken up with a strange, gigantic man in your home only to be told that the person you loved most in the world invited him in. It was hard to believe you’d ever trusted him, that you’d ever been stupid enough to trust anyone. You’d been in danger from the moment you decided you were safe.

You only realized you were crying when your vision blurred, when you felt the first tear drip onto your chest. Awareness accompanied revulsion as you felt your body start to react, your thighs going rigid as something other than Toji’s spit started to dampen the fabric of your panties. Arousal wasn’t really the right description. Fear-induced hysteria would’ve been a better fit, or a latent survival instinct you would’ve preferred to live without. Either way, Toji chuckled as he pulled back, dragging your panties to the side and thrusting his tongue into your now-sopping cunt. You felt him curl and flex, causing friction where stretch wasn’t possible. You let out a miserable sob, digging your nails into his scalp, trying to pull him away. In response, Toji only nuzzled closer, grinding the bridge of his nose into your clit.

Your orgasm was humiliatingly swift. You’d never really had time to date, not between work and school, and there was only so much that masturbation could prepare you for. You weren’t used to it – the heat, the slickness, the pressure of something splitting you open from the inside out – and it was all happening too quickly, too mercilessly to stave off. Your hands fell away from his head, darting up to cover your face as you came into his mouth. Rather than warmth, a cold dread filled you in-tandem with your climax, the knowledge that’d you’d just done something terribly, terribly. He was your mother’s husband, for fuck’s sake. He was your—

Your mind went blank before you could make the full connection, two wires disconnecting before the unthinkable could be communicated. You imagined black clothes and cardboard tissue boxes and coffins, and convinced yourself that nothing else had ever crossed your mind.

Toji wasn’t as introspective. He pulled back with a jarring sort of rush, then just hastily, shoved his mouth against yours. You could taste yourself on his lips, on his tongue as he all-but forced it down your throat. By the time he let you breathe, he was panting.

“Been waiting years for that.” He picked himself up, calling against the back of the couch. You stared blankly at the ceiling. “Since the first time I heard you fucking yourself on those pathetic little fingers. You know how thin those walls were, right? You were probably trying to get caught – needy little brat.”

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. Something vital to you had curled up and died in your throat minutes ago, and now, it was all you could do to try and suck in air around it. Toji’s gaze flickered over you, then he laughed. “C’mon, now, don’t play shy. You had to know.”

The words weren’t yours. They belonged to someone else, someone in another body. “You married my mom.”

“Jealous little brat, too.” You felt his arms around you, drawing you upward. Your body was stiff, uncooperative, but Toji was patient – carefully positioning you to straddle his lap, resting your hands on his shoulders and planting his own on your waist. His eyes were softened, half-lidded, his smile lopsided – weighed down by affection. If you didn’t know better, you might’ve mistaken him for genuinely lovestruck. “I had to. She never would’ve let me stick around if I didn’t, and—” He paused, squeezed your side. “I wasn’t going to give you up. Not when we were just starting to get to know each other.”

That wasn’t true. He’d already been living with you for years by the time they’d gotten married. You liked him enough not to tell your mom when you caught him smoking on the front porch or not using coasters, and he liked you enough to invite you out on his long, late-night drives and do your laundry with—

Oh, god.

He’d been doing your laundry.

Your voice was soft, almost inaudibly so. It took everything you had just to get your lips to move. “…can I go, now?”

“Not just yet.” A hand slipped between your body and his, dipping below his sweatpants. His cock – flushed and veined and monstrously thick – was pulled free, allowed to press into your stomach. Weakly, you tried to draw back, but Toji held you still, taking himself by the base and pumping once, twice. “I had to call in a lot of favors to make that accident happen, y’know. It’d be nice if you could show me a little love.”

The shock was cold, numbing. Toji guided you onto your knees, positioning the head of his cock against your entrance. Slowly, delicately, he dragged you down, lowering you inch by agonizing inch until your hips were slotted against his. He started to let his head roll back before thinking better of it and pulling you closer – burying his face in the crook of your neck.

You blinked. His cock twitched inside of you, and it was all you could do to melt, to rest your forehead against him and let your body go slack in his embrace. “Toj—”

“You know that’s not right, pretty girl.” His hips rolled against yours, drawing a pitiful whine from your lips. “Tell me who takes care of you.”

“D-Daddy.” And then, sniffling into his chest. “I’m really scared.”

“I know, baby, I know.”

It might’ve been easier to believe, if you hadn’t been able to feel his grin biting into your throat.

“That’s what you’ve got your daddy for, right?”

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen imagines #yandere jjk #jjk x reader #jjk imagines #yandere toji #toji x reader #fushiguro toji x reader #yandere fushiguro toji

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sadbicth · 2 years ago

Text

israel posted a video of them giving water bottles to palestinians on a beach, then destroyed their luggage and shot at them after they stopped recording.

israel posted a photo of one of their soldiers "assisting" with an elderly man, then they shot him twice in the back and killed him.

in 2015, the idf posted pr photos of an israeli soldier giving water to an elderly palestinian woman, only for them to execute her after the photo was taken.

in 2005, an idf soldier emptied his rifle into a 13-year-old palestinian schoolgirl. he said he would have done the same thing if she was 3-years-old. he was acquitted of all charged.

israel claimed that hamas beheaded 40 israeli babies and then a month later cut off power to a palestinian hospital where premature babies were on incubators.

israel bombed a group of children collecting rainwater.

israel shot and killed two palestinian children playing with their scooter.

israel shot a hard of hearing girl in the face with a stun grenade and broke her jaw.

israel is using bombs with blades that are designed to cause maximum damage to the person in range.

israel forced medical workers at al-Nasr medical center to leave babies in incubators in order to evacuate the hospital they were bombing.

israel turned off power to hospitals in palestine, forcing nurses and doctors to use their phone flashlights when treating patients.

israel raised their flag over Al Shifa hospital.

israel has blown up the chambers of the palestinian legislative council.

israel targeted a "suspicious vehicle containing several terrorists”, meanwhile the only people in the car were three girls, ages 10, 12, and 14, their grandmother, and their mother. the only survivor was the three girls' mother.

israel planted a copy of mein kampf in a children's bedroom in a gazan house they claim hamas was hiding in.

israel poured fake blood onto the floor of an israeli child's bedroom and claimed hamas killed them.

israeli soldiers posted a video of them dancing on gazan graves.

israel posted a video showing a calendar in a palestinian children's hospital was a hamas guard list because it was written in arabic.

israel was using white phosphorus on hospitals.

israel bombed a refugee camp.

israel has burned olive trees in palestine.

israel has put cement into the water supply of palestine.

israel claimed that they found tunnels under Al Shifa hospital, only for it to be exposed that those tunnels are actually in sweden.

israel built a bunker and command room under Al Shifa hospital in 1983, only for them to now say that they are hamas tunnels.

israeli police arrested an israeli high school teacher, who posted on facebook expressing sympathy with palestinian civilians who have been killed.

israeli soldiers filmed themselves throwing a stun grenade into a palestinian mosque.

we are witnessing a genocide in real time framed under the guise of stopping hamas. israel has been terrorizing palestine for as long as israel has existed, but their access to technology and social media has made it much easier to fool people into supporting them.

meanwhile, noah schnapp is posting that zionism is sexy and celebrities are standing with israel. just absolutely twisted shit.

edit: for those who would like sources, my twitter is alliiesmith. i have retweeted everything i’ve mentioned. i apologize for not providing this sooner

edit 2: i’ve had some people in the replies and reposts pointing out that linking my twitter seems like promotion. i just wanted to clear up that that was not my intention. i’ve been retweeting resources and news much faster than i’m able to add to this post, and i thought that my twitter profile could be something of a hub for information. i don’t care if you follow me, but i think scrolling through and seeing what i’ve retweeted could be helpful.

#*#allie talks #israel palestine conflict #israel #idf #palestine #gaza #west bank #politics #current events

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sweetreveriee · 6 months ago

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WILDFIRE AID RESOURCES MASTERLIST

these are all the places ive found helping those affected by the la fires. please stay safe everyone <3

______________________

FREE THINGS:

Planet Fitness Offers Free Things (ends January 15)

Form To Get Free Temporary Housing From AirBnB (space limited, eligibility criteria required)

List of Restaurants Offering Free Meals (updated January 9)

______________________

UPDATED MAPS:

CalFire

Watch Duty

______________________

INFORMATION:

List of Updated Info

Spreadsheet of Resources (by location and type of aid)

If you have anything to add to the list linked above, comment here

______________________

SHELTER:

If you need shelter, text "SHELTER" and your zip code to 43362 for nearest open shelters

open shelters:

Arcadia Community Center – 375 Campus Drive, Arcadia, CA 91007

Ritchie Valens Recreation Center – 10736 Laurel Canyon Blvd., Pacoima, CA 91331

Pan Pacific Recreational Center – 7600 Beverly Blvd., Los Angeles, CA 90036

Westwood Recreation Center – 1350 Sepulveda Blvd., Los Angeles, CA 90025

El Camino Real Charter High School – 5440 Valley Circle Blvd, Woodland Hills, CA 91367

Pasadena Civic Center – 300 East Green Street, Pasadena, CA 91101

Pomona Fairplex – 1101 W McKinley Ave, Pomona, CA 91768

YMCA of Metropolitan Los Angeles - locations unaffected by fire are open and providing free childcare to those who need it. also offering evacuation sites, temporary shelter, basic amenities, and showers.

for updates and locations click here

______________________

TRANSPORTATION:

CalTrans Updated Road Closure List

Fare collection suspended at Metro through January 9. A list of updates and changes that occurred because of the fires and winds can be found here.

Lyft is offering two free rides of 25$ each (50$ total) for 500 riders using code CAFIRERELIEF25. offer ends January 15.

Uber is offering a free ride of up to 40$ for those who use code WILFIRE25 in the wallet section of the app

______________________

ANIMAL CARE:

List of Shelters (check capacity and availability)

______________________

MENTAL HEALTH:

LA County set up a 24/7 hotline to help with anxiety, distress, and grief. Call (800) 854-7771.

______________________

WHAT TO PACK:

remember the six p's:

people and pets

papers, phone numbers and important documents

prescriptions, vitamins, and eyeglasses

pictures and irreplaceable memorabilia

personal computer, hard drive, and disks

plastic (debit, credit, ATM cards) and cash

what to put in your "go bag":

face masks/face coverings

three-day food supply (nonperishable)

three gallons of bottled water per person

map marked with AT LEAST two evacuation routes

basic first aid and medical supplies

sanitation supplies

toothbrushes, toothpaste, hair brush, deodorant

period products

prescriptions and medications

a change of clothes (bring AT LEAST one warm coat)

spare eyeglasses or contacts (if needed)

extra set of car keys

chargers for your devices

cash, credit/debit cards, traveler's checks

flashlight

battery powered radio

EXTRA BATTERIES

(copies of) important documents such as birth certificates, passports, insurance, a list of emergency contacts and phone numbers

your wallet (ID CARD)

food, water, and meds for your pets (checklist here)

a can opener

not necessary but you might want to bring:

valuable items that can be easily carried

family pictures that cannot be replaced

blankets

more than a day's worth of clothes

important school supplies (for students)

books

trophies, medals, certificates, awards

pens and paper

self defense tools (pepper spray, pocket knives, etc) (NOT ENCOURAGING VIOLENCE. FOR SELF DEFENSE ONLY)

extra shoes

fuzzy socks

non-essential hygiene products

gum/breath mints

ALWAYS PREPARE BEFOREHAND. EVEN IF YOU ARE NOT DIRECTLY IMPACTED, THE FIRES CAN GROW. KEEP YOUR BAGS IN THE CAR SO YOU CAN EVACUATE QUICKLY IF NEEDED.

______________________

WANT TO HELP?

Best Friends Animal Society

LA Fire Department (donations sent directly to first responders)

LA Food Bank

LA Works

MusiCares

Salvation Army

Santa D'Or (in need of fosters for displaced cats)

Silverlake Lounge (also offering a communal gathering place)

Sweet Relief Musicians Fund

Dream Center (in need of volunteers + non-perishable food items)

The Red Cross

We Are Moving the Needle

World Central Kitchen

United Way of Greater LA

As of January 9, the Westwood Recreation Center and Pan Pacific Park are at full capacity and not accepting additional donations. Check with all organizations by phone, text, or email before donating if possible.

______________________

IF THERE'S ANYTHING I MISSED OR MESSED UP PLEASE ADD IT OR LET ME KNOW SO I CAN FIX IT. REBLOG TO SPREAD AWARENESS!!!!!!!! stay safe everyone

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cranberrymoons · 28 days ago

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core four hobby head canons.

buck, obviously he cooks but I think that's less of an innate hobby and more of an inherited one. I think buck likes to do MIXOLOGY and he does call it that and takes it very seriously, like a makes his own bitters kind of guy. eddie has been buying him cocktail books for his birthday and christmas etc since they first met because it was one of the first things he learned about buck and then the tradition stuck. and when they have a night off buck always makes a big deal out of Trying A New Recipe from one of his books and ends up buying some $40 bottle of liqueur that he's only going to use half an ounce of and then presenting Eddie with a drink that's so good he doesn't even mind :))

hen hmmmmm i think she plays an instrument, like maybe the clarinet or the saxophone. and I think she did play it at school and WAS in marching band but did not continue with it into college. but then she picked it back up in adulthood when she was on her big Search For Meaning journey before becoming a paramedic, and then she just sort of kept up with it. and I think she plays with a jazz quartet sometimes when she has a saturday off and karen goes to her shows and drinks long island iced teas at the bar and tells everyone That's my wife!!!!!!!!!!!!!

chimney writes fanfiction. like novel length fic, and I think it's good. possibly star trek? but I could also be persuaded into it being for a fandom that you would NOT expect, like I would love it if he is writing novel length gossip girl fanfiction. I think whatever the fandom is, his fic has a cult following to the point where he has been approached by a publisher or two about doing serial-numbers-filed-off publishing of his fic, and he has turned them all down because he is fundamentally against people who do that. maddie reads all of his fic even though she doesn't know much about whatever fandom it's for <3 and she leaves long rambling comments on it

eddie likes to tinker :))) I don't think he's particularly stellar at it but I think he likes to fiddle around with his truck and with things around the house. I think he is the kind of guy who always has like 14 half-finished projects going, like building some shelves in the garage and making a little brick patio for the smoker out in the backyard and fixing the door that jams a little bit. basically just working with his hands, because I think it's cathartic and kind of soothing for him. and I think he occasionally branches this out into gardening but quickly loses interest which leaves buck in charge of the weeding and watering and pruning etc. yay.

#911

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reiderwriter · 1 year ago

Text

Satisfaction Feels Like a Distant Memory

Chapter Three of I Can't Help Myself

Summary: Your mounting attraction to Spencer Reid pushes you to the edge, turning begrudging friendship to deep hatred when he finally shows up on your doorstep. He's the only thing that can out you out of your misery even as you sink further into it.

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, hate sex, rough sex, argument as foreplay, oral (f recieving) and face fucking, fingering, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, forced orgasms, "forced" submission, creampie, p in v penetrative sex, etc.

A/N: I've had about as much sleep as the reader in this fic has for the last week, but HERE IT IS! Chapter Three 🥰 You may need a bottle of water on standby, or at least a hand fan, because this one gets a bit heated....

Masterlist || Add yourself to the taglist!

You hesitated in front of your office door, which you supposed was going to become a bad habit of yours now. You tried lying to yourself, that nothing was different now, that you weren't attracted to him in a completely stupid way, but you still stood frozen in front of your own office door.

Frozen and horny.

Shit.

You mentally went through a list of the worst things that could happen if you went in.

1. He was there.

2. He wasn't there.

3. He was there, and he touched you again, and you moaned.

4. He was there, and he didn't touch you again, but you still moaned.

5. He was there, and you threw yourself at him immediately because why wouldn't you when you'd seen what you could be working with the night before? Fuck moaning once, moaning multiple times as he pushed you against the bookshelf would-

“Are you gonna go in, or are you just going to fondle the door handle?” He asked from behind you. From too close behind you.

You turned, keeping the doorknob in your grin, and immediately flattened yourself against the door as he took a step closer.

So close. He was so fucking close and it was suddenly all you could think of.

“W-What?”

“You know, the CDC warns that door handles should be washed every 20 to 40 hours To prevent bacteria like Escherchia coli and Staphylococcus aureus from-” You ignored his words, drowning everything else out as you tried to dampen the fire burning under your skin.

“Cock?” You said, all attempts obviously not working.

“Staphylococcus, yes. It can cause Adenovirus, Rhinovirus, not to mention-”

“Okay! Okay, Spencer. Taking my hand off the handle now.”

Finally, you twisted it and walked backwards into your room, walking backwards a few steps before your foot caught on a stray pile of books.

“What the-” you cried, waiting for the impact of your landing as you swung out your arms frantically for purchase, screwing your eyes shut as you found none.

Instead, you found an arm snaked around your waist, another wrapping your hip tight as Spencer Reid cradled your body to his own.

“Thanks,” you breathed out, not even hearing the words yourself for how much air was in them. How was it possible to expel air and hold your breath at the same time? Because that was how it felt being in his arms: at once a sigh and a stopping of all bodily functions barring want.

“I thought this was your office, Y/N. Surely you should know the layout by now.”

Moment over. You pushed at his chest to stand upright, and he stepped backwards, removing his hands from your person.

“Very funny. We both know these are your books. Setting traps for me now, Spencer?”

You moved around the piles of books again as he flicked the light switch, moving the opposite way around your desks, before meeting you again next to yours.

“You're usually more observant than this. Is there something wrong today?”

“What, like Adenovirus or Rhinovirus?”

“No, like something…” he searched for the right words, pace slowing as he tried not to scare you away by talking with you like this.

“Like something on your mind.”

You snorted, leaning down to switch on your computer, and also to avoid his eye contact. Unfortunately, academic curiosity had gotten to you in the last few weeks, and you'd read some of his psychological papers. You knew exactly what it was the BAU was apparently so good at, and you didn't want him to know that you'd imagined him balls deep in you hours before.

“Not friends, Spencer. If there's something I need to talk about, I'll talk to a friend,” you said, standing straight again and turning to him again. You still avoided eye contact, but it didn't matter. His eyes weren't on your face but angled further down, like he'd been checking out your ass as you bent over or something.

No. No, you weren't going down that train of thought.

“Or even better, my therapist.” You were planning on the words being a bit more playful, but your voice came out deeper than you expected it, more gravely somehow.

Your bedroom voice, you were using your stupid fucking bedroom voice on Spencer Reid.

You cut yourself off again before you said anything else. Before he touched you or didn't touch you, and you got to test your earlier theory about which would be the more demeaning reaction.

“I have class in ten. Clean up before I get back,” you ordered, and you felt the hairs on the back of your neck stand up when he replied.

“I don't take direction well, Y/N.”

No, you didn't think he would. Neither did you though.

For a week, you tiptoed around the man, your words sharp, but your body weak to him.

By day, you were hurling insults back and forth, messing up his papers and screwing with him via bookshelf again.

“YOUR…FLY…IS….OPEN.”

“VERY….MATURE.”

“MADE…YOU…LOOK…THOUGH.”

“BUSY….LOOKING…AT…OTHER….THINGS.”

“LIKE…THE…UNDERGRADS…THROWING…THEMSELVES…AT…YOU…?”

“LIKE…THE…PROFESSOR…I'M APPARENTLY…DATING”

“Very fucking funny, Spencer,” you sighed at the last message, throwing the books off the shelf and pilling them up on the floor.

“Don't even for a second entertain the idea of making that gossip a reality.”

He grinned at you from behind his desk.

“Okay.”

“Don't even - don't even think about it,” you said, stepping over his desk and poking at his chest as his smile deepened.

“Heard.”

“I'm serious, Spencer, don't-”

“You've thought about it.” You froze in shock at his words, as if your blood wasn't sure whether to run cold or burn hot and fast.

“What?” You spat the words at him, unable to stop them coming out any other way.

“You've thought about entertaining the gossip. You've thought about it a lot.”

You needed to deny him, but he was right. By day, you tried to torment him, but by night, he did torment you. A week of wet dreams, of imagining him taking you over every inch of your office, of sleepless rest and failed orgams, and you could not escape.

“No,” you said with a whisper, shaking your head and trying again even as your voice cracked from the lie and your body's cry for pleasure, for this man.

“No, I haven’t- I don't-” You took a deep breath, but you knew it was no good, as his hand grabbed yours and flattened it against his chest.

“Your pupils are dilated, your pulse is heightened, and your legs are practically clamped shut. Your mouth is dry, and I'm not sure if you've noticed yet, Y/N, but you're shaking.”

“All signs of anger, Spencer, as you're well aware.”

He let go of your wrist and sat back in his seat, just out of reach of you again.

“Shame,” he whispered under his breath, nearly low enough that you didn't catch it, as he flipped open his book and continued whatever the fuck it was he even did in this office.

You ignored it, anger really flooding you now, warring the heat of arousal that was firmly settled in your body for dominance.

The anger won out.

You grabbed books from your desk, files, and papers from the side table by the couch and your laptop from your desk and left the room quickly.

You slammed the door, and you didn't look back, knowing that if you did, you'd see his winning smirk staring right back at you.

You marched yourself right to the staff administration office and put in for a week of leave. Spencer had one more week of work at the university, and then he would go back to being a regular FBI agent.

Your paths wouldn't cross because you wouldn't let them cross, not when it meant for certain that you would give in.

You spent the week working to distract yourself from work. You finished books for your next semester courses, highlighting the better articles and essays to use, going through each bibliography to find better sources if they weren't good enough. You wrote more of a research paper you didn't have time to think about with so much going on. You corresponded with students, with TAs, with the other professors who wanted to know where you were.

Okay, that was a lie. You aired the professors, but you did look out for any inboxes from him. Surprisingly, there were none.

You spent a week throwing yourself head first into your work, and still, each night, you felt his phantom touch on you. No matter how exhausted, your brain still co jured images of his hands grasping your wrists, pushing them above your head and forcing his cock into you, his lips biting against your skin, the fire of his kisses leaving scars where they trailed down.

You were running on three hours of sleep per night, sure, but at least you were as far as you could possibly get from the man ruining your life.

You poured yourself a glass of wine the next Sunday, knowing that when you went back to work the next day, he'd be gone.

You wrapped yourself in blankets and put everything else off for the day, ordering food and eating it and not moving as you worked your way through boxes of pizza.

It was when you finished your first glass and went to pour yourself another that there was a furious pounding at your door.

“Y/N, I know you're in there, open the door.” His hand sounded again, and you nearly dropped the glass at the sound of Apencer Reid's voice.

Your body acted alone, immediately following his directions as you damn near tripped over your own feet to open the door for him.

Throughout all of your arguments, all of the quips you'd thrown at him, every stupid little thing you'd done to get under his skin, you had not once seen Spencer Reid looking this angry.

His brow was furrowed uncomfortably, as if it were frozen in place. Gone was his perpetual smirk.

“Spencer, what the fuck a-”

“Thoughtless. Careless. Do you even know what you've done?” He snapped at you, stepping into your apartment and closing the door behind himself as he immediately walked into your space and began touching things.

“Stop! Fucking stop it, Spencer!” You said grabbing his arm and pulling him around to face you. He brushed you off quickly and worked his way through papers you'd left on your coffee table.

“No. You stormed out over a week ago, you blocked my number, you did not answer any of my emails-”

“I didn't get any emails,” you spit back, pushing yourself between him and your things now, bodies so close they were touching.

“Then you blocked my email, too. You don't even know what I'm looking for or the damage you could have done, do you?” His hands were on you then, not threateningly, as you'd expect, his anger still burning through him if his shaking voice had anything to say for it.

His hands stroked up your sides and back down again, smoothing away your need to think.

“My files. My team sent me a file. It was on the coffee table, and you took it with you when you left. The case is ongoing, and I'm flying out tomorrow, and without some of the classified information in that file, we will be at a disadvantage. Our odds of catching our unsub fall from 83% to 47% without all of the pertinent information.”

Your breath hitched as he leaned in closer.

“So yes, I'm going to go through your things, and if you're a good girl, you'll root through with me and help me find it.”

He stepped away then, and you held your tongue. As much as you hated him, he was right. You knew what he did, you knew who he was and to trust him not to lie to you about his chances without this information.

“The files on the coffee table are research notes, everything I took from the office is in that case over there,” you said pointing at a bag still where you'd dropped it by the door a week earlier.

He walked to it and rooted through it quickly before finding the file he obviously needed and letting some of the tension out of his shoulders.

“You're probably glad to see the back of me, right?” He said, laughing bitterly as he turned back around to you.

“Obviously not as happy as you are,” you spat back, stepping back over to him.

“If you ever speak to me that way again,” you started, spitting at him in the most threatening voice you could muster. “It won't be a fucking unsub that ruins your life.”

“And how are you going to manage that, Y/N?” He said, stepping closer to you until he had you backed up against the wall, trapped in by his bigger frame, using it to his advantage to intimidate.

“How will you manage to ruin my life,” he said, his voice softer as he finished his sentence, but not by much. “When you shake with just every time I get close?”

“This is not lust,” you growled the words out, but try as you damn might, you were shaking, vibrating even.

“Then what is it?”

“Hatred, dislike, loathing, detestation, abhorrence, fuck Spencer, you can pick up a thesaurus yourself and find out.”

“Yeah. Okay. I'll believe your lies for a second.” He walked away, he was walking away but the fire was ringing in your ears and you needed him to stay fucking put so he could take it all.

“You're a jackass.”

“Original.”

“You slammed into my life, expecting me to bend to your will and be at the mercy of your needs, your wants. Your office space, your fucking case files, your job-”

“None of that was my choice.”

“And it wasn't mine either, but at least I fucking left you alone. I spent the week in this apartment and left you the fuck alone, and you couldn't even allow me the same.”

His focus was back on you again, but you refused to be backed against a wall this time.

“What did you say?”

“You will not let me know peace. I have lost my security, my patience, my fucking sanity with each word you have said, my peace of mind, my sleep, my fucking sanity, Spencer.” Your chest was heaving, touching his with each exhale as he too held his place in front of you. He was so close, you'd practically spat the words directly into his mouth.

“How is that my fault?” He whispered, voice still dripping with disdain even as his hands again wrapped themselves in your hair, and he tugged your head back, baring your neck to him as he leaned down into you.

“How do you know that you're not doing the same to me?”

You refused to answer, though, meeting his eyes for one last second before you grabbed his hair in your hands and yanked him down to your mouth.

It wasn't so much a kiss as a battle for dominance, each trying to torture a surrender from the other with clashing tongues and teeth.

You made the first move, but he was obviously expecting it, and he didn't even pause before launching his own attack, finally pushing past your strong defence to walk you back to the sofa you'd abandoned earlier.

His tongue still lashed against yours as you retreated, refusing to give up your upper hand even as you moaned into his touch. The couch hit the back of your knees, buckling, and you silently cursed your lack of sleep for leaving you so unstable right now.

No, that wasn't true. It was him. He had left you so unstable, moving between happy and playful to angry and wrathful in the space of a week without you, and you'd been denying yourself the ability to even entertain any of this happening. Now that it was, your body was unprepared, totally at his mercy, as he pushed you to your back and pushed up your skirt.

“You're already so fucking wet,” he groaned slipping two fingers inside you as you moaned around him, no longer capable of thought. This was the moment, this was when he was going to make you submit to him finally.

Instead, he dropped to his knees and you gasped as his to guess found your sweet cunt and he began sucking to your clit.

You were on fire, skin scorched from the inside out, spreading in waves from your pussy to the furthest regions of your body.

With one hand, he spread your thighs further apart and pushed his entire face further into your cunt, tongue pushing inside right by his fingers, nose pushed right up against your clit as he didn't relent. Every movement was another curse falling from your mouth.

“Shit, Spencer, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” you whimpered, hips rocking back and forth as you tried to fuck his face, begging for more.

To your surprise, he didn't keep your hips still but let you keep riding his face, riding his fingers as you chased your first orgasm.

It came quickly, overwhelming you with the impact, jolting through your body like a lightning bolt as he let your hips shake and crash across his tongue.

When he finally pulled his face away, it was glistening, and he wasted no time shoving his tongue back in your mouth. His message was clear - he may have let you take whatever pleasure you'd wanted with him, but he was still the one in control.

You trailed kisses along his cheeks, neck, shoulders as he divested himself of clothing, shirt, belt, pants, ripping at yours to free your body as well, until the two of you were only left with underwear and you'd picked up every last drop of your cum left on his skin.

“On your back, now,” he said, and you complied. You spread your legs, and rubbed at your still wet cunt, jolting as he finally lined himself up with your cunt.

But he didn't push in yet. Instead he wrapped two arms under your knees and pulled you closer, so his cock rested over the top of your stomach, and leaned down, his face hovering inches over your own, holding himself up with a forearm rested just above your head.

“You see that?” He said, glancing down. “That is how much I am going to fill you. That is how deep I am going to ease into you. That is how far I am going to go to claim you. You can take it like a good girl, right?”

“Just shut up and put your cock inside me, Spencer.”

“You're so fucking pushy for a submissive little slut,” he said, smiling finally.

“I am not a-” you started to protest, but he slid inside of your hot cunt and you lost the ability to focus.

“Not a what, Y/N? Speak up,” thrusting shallowly as your cunt grabbed him and held tight.

“I'm not a- SPENCER!” You screamed his name as he pulled out quickly, thrusting into you again with a speed and strength that had you wrapping your arms and legs around him tightly, fighting for him to stay right there deep inside.

“Not a sub? Y/N, you're whimpering and drooling right now. You're three seconds away from begging for my cock, why the fuck can you not be honest with yourself?”

“Fuck…you,” you said between moans as he rutted into you like a beast. He wasn't man anymore, bit monster, and he was claiming you inch by disgustingly perfect inch.

“Let go. Let me take care of you, let me control you. Come on, baby, you know how good it would feel,” he said, before ducking his head and wrapping his tongue around a nipple.

You screamed his name again, but you still tried to resist.

“Come on, Y/N. Show me. Cum on my cock.”

For a brief moment, you'd thought you'd resisted the demand. But then your brain faded, and your nails cut into his back like daggers as your body followed his commands and you came on his cock for a second time that night.

“Perfect. One more, you can do one more,” he said, kissing your lips and lifting himself back up so he was sitting on his knees as he again picked up the pace.

You mumbled his name over and over again as he fucked out all of the frustration in your body. Every thing either of you had said or done melted away in the glow of pleasure, your body buzzing from the feeling of him taking ownership of you.

“One more, Y/N. One more, you need to cum one more time.”

“I can't, I can't I can't I can't, Spencer I can't I really can't,” you said, voice growing pathetically whiny as the tears sprang to your eyes and you choked back a sob.

“Yes you can, one more. Together, we can do it together,” he said, groaning as you clenched around him.”

He claimed your mouth again, his hand wrapping around your throat as he cut off your air supply for a second, then two, then three, as your ears buzzed and you finally slipped over the edge again.

But this time, as promised, you weren't the only one caught in the pain of pleasure. Spencer collapsed on top of you as his dick spurted inside you, holding you close as he unloaded everything he had into you.

He sat there, warming his cock as he lazily kissed open mouth kisses into every inch of your shoulders, collar bone and chest. Everywhere he could reach without pulling out of you and leaving you there.

After weeks of no sleep because of him, it was his soft lips that finally enticed you into the hands of the sandman, his weight a comfort as you closed your eyes.

When you woke in your bed, clean and clothed, he was gone, and so was every sign that he'd ever been there in the first place.

🔖 @stillhere197 @understandingsunrise @mindfullycriminal @aliteralsemicolon @r-3dlips @alexafromamazon15 @jasf444 @subunitless @thebloomingeagle @lackingoriginalthoughts @empressgraytea @nox-sprite @alondralolll @allspicestones @chiyozai @i_heart_mgg @2hiigh2cry @tiyuel @jiuseoks @readinglatenights @placidus @dreamsarebig @pisceslovrr @waywardgoddess66 @tampon_racecar @kbaby-024 @luvdella @feyresqueen @a1dyn @pleasantwitchgarden @kolasbombaf @lovehadlovelost @kissesforspence @moonchildooh @bubbleebubz @theoraekenslover @melagem02 @calypso-read @ari-aurelia

(Note: There are multiple broken tags above. Please check your account settings and make sure you can be tagged when signing up for the tag list. I'll remove all dead tags after two chapters of broken tags!)

#spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfic #mgg #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid smut #criminal minds fandom #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid criminal minds #dr spencer reid #spencer reid x reader smut #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x self insert #dom spencer reid #sub reader #x reader

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petermorwood · 11 months ago

Note

Recent article on NPR about the history of artificial light somewhat frustrated me -- they portrayed all of pre-kerosene history as dark and heinously expensive at all times. Thing is, the writers based their findings solely on tallow candles, & ignored oil lamps, beeswax candles, clever use of refraction & outdoor light including moon/starlight... Also seemed to ignore the ubiquity of hearths / cook fires. Was wondering if you'd be willing to talk about non-tallow light? This isn't to ignore that truly, artificial lighting WAS much more difficult & expensive for much of human history, but acting like tallow candles were the ONLY light source seems very silly! (Plus your other lovely post about bottles of water used to make those candles more efficient via refraction & focus)

I'm betting the article you mean is this one - which refers back to this one.

For matching reference, my own posts about period lighting are here, One and Two, including observations about painting walls white, how to light candles and lamps without matches, and several other matters.

*****

It didn't take too much listening before I got tetchy, because the first half of this podcast seems more about mocking how WEIRD and PRIMITIVE old-time people were, than passing on any useful information.

Despite the presence of Jane Brox (author of "Brilliant: The Evolution of Artificial Light") whale oil only gets touched on in passing, and olive oil isn't mentioned at all.

Instead she starts talking about using oily seabirds (stormy petrels) as "candles", despite this scholarly study concluding that it was something talked about far more than done, besides being so very, very localised that its relevance to the history of lighting is very, very small.

But hey, WEIRD and PRIMITIVE, right?

*****

By contrast, making candles was so commonplace that it was another of those jobs which created surnames. Fletcher once put feathers on arrows, Cooper made barrels, Fisher, Miller, Baker and Farmer are obvious, and Chandler used to make candles.

Lampier, of course, made lamps, which helped keep those naked candle-flames away from anywhere they shouldn't touch. The man on the left is making the lantern bodies, the one on the right is shaving sheets of horn as windows.

It's cheaper than glass, less easily broken yet is translucent enough, when shaved properly thin, to give quite adequate light.

*****

The podcast has a digression about measuring the light output of a reproduction Ancient Babylonian lamp. Here's an original and a repro.

Yet that too says nothing about what fuel the lamp is or should be burning - olive oil, traded all over the Mediterranean by ancient olive-growing cultures.

These are Roman oil-lamps, from simple and cheap to elaborate and costly.

As for beeswax, so far as the podcast is concerned might as well not exist, despite being a by-product of honey, which was THE principal pre-sugar sweetener for centuries when not being made into all that mead whose existence, production and quaffing nobody questions.

Oh yeah, and then there was the amazed discovery (2:40 / 1:25, depending on which you're listening to) that melted beef fat "...smells really nasty, like, ANIMAL nasty,"

Why is this guy surprised? It's part of an animal!

*****

It's the same sort of infotainment ignorance as displayed by this TikTok twit, right up to complaining about the effort involved in preparation of anything because not having powered appliances was so labour-intensive, oh woe. Yes, it was, welcome to any historical period before about 1920. That's where "the daily grind" originates.

However the implication (listen, it's there) that cattle were raised just to provide fat for candles is ludicrous. The fat was a by-product, not a main one, and was often a butcher's side-line, while members of the Chandlers' Guild only worked with superior beeswax.

I don't think you could make candles like these with tallow:

...and you definitely couldn't make one meant to be hand-held.

Picture evidence shows, by their clothing, the class of society who bought these, and tallow-greasy fingers would have been a no-no.

A Chandler didn't make individual candles. By the time that fresh batch is hung up, the first batch away down at the end is cool enough to be dipped again.

A chandler's shop in a medieval city would look very similar, and often had a horizontal wheel on which to hang each batch of candles, rotating them up and around to cool, then back to the dipping pot. Non-modern people may not have had modern tech or time-and-motion studies, but they weren't stupid.

*****

By contrast, the podcast's disparaging attitude of WEIRD and PRIMITIVE is emphasised by what seems a deliberate avoidance of anything which counters it (examples of that in my own posts) and finally at 11.24 / 9:50 came this:

"Even when you get all the way to the 1700s (...) most people are still subsistence farmers, living in some kind of hut, trying to grow enough food not to starve to death (...) and light? Light still comes from finding stuff that's lying around and just lighting it on fire."

Some kind of hut...

Stuff that's lying around...

After making such a declaration, I'm surprised - since they'd been implying it for half the podcast - someone didn't just go ahead and announce that "there's some lovely filth down here..."

That's when I stopped listening.

Enough is enough, and I'd had it.

*****

ETA:

cc: @asmuchasidliketo :->

Here's a photo of what purports to be a Petrel (not petrol, that's something else) Candle, held in the Pitt-Rivers Museum, Oxford. It's mentioned in that scholarly article I linked above.

Just as "one swallow doesn't make a summer", so one - and only one - known example of this, which may have been a fake-up to spoof the Southerners, doesn't prove it was a common or even rare practice.

There's another reason to take this with a big pinch of salt, so maybe Jane Brox was on a low-sodium diet when she wrote her book.

Creatures with a layer of fat or blubber for insulation all have it like any other form of insulation, on the outside, where it does some good. A wick passed through the inside couldn't draw on it for fuel since there's a layer of muscle and another of internal organs for the oil to get through first.

The cropped-off bottle just visible to the left is a far more likely way seabirds became lamp fuel: by rendering out their oil. This oil is from the Northern Fulmar, Fulmaris glaciaris (or glacialis, I've seen both. Same bird regardless).

Incidentally, the Wikipedia article on European Storm Petrel mentions a supernatural connection, that the petrels were the souls of drowned sailors, and killing them is unlucky.

Not just killing them but making them into candles sounds like A Bad Idea, and is yet another reason why, IMO, the candle thing may be a folktale, or a deliberate leg-pull, or...

Let's just say "improbable" and leave it there. :-P

#period lighting #research #writer notes #too light too dark #worldbuilding

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namism · 6 months ago

Text

Request: Hi, I was wondering if you could write about Mihawk x civillian reader and about how their relationship would work with him being the world's strongest swordsman and the reader being an ordinary civillian with no fighting skills, no haki and no devil fruit? Thank you for taking the time for reading my message. 🙃

not a hero, lover | dracule mihawk

➳ categories: canonverse, gender neutral civilian reader, failed kidnapping scenario

➳ word count: 1.5k

➳ summary: Running into the face of danger is a price you pay for dating the world's strongest swordsman and Warlord of the Sea, Dracule Mihawk.

➳ notes: i wasn't too sure about this so i might write headcanons next time. thank you for requesting! 🍷

➳ cross-posted on ao3

Years after Mihawk was globally recognized as the "Strongest Swordsman in the World," he found himself getting bored.

There was no competition, no enemy who wanted to challenge him because everyone feared him (pirates, Marines, and civilians alike) beyond the perilous waters of the Grand Line. Even as he searched far and wide for an opponent worthy of fighting, no one ever came close.

So he took the peace that came with it, the solitude that came with being feared by all and many, as well as the privileges of a Warlord who was untouchable by the Marines and wandered out and about. He was vacationing in islands in the East Blue, sometimes the North, and regularly the Grand Line to find something that interested him. That was when he met you.

As a vineyard owner, you were popular among the locals of your town for cultivating a special cultivar of the common grapevine. You had hectares of land, and you sold the best wine. Mihawk was interested the moment he stumbled upon your stand at the bay market, and knowing himself, he couldn't resist purchasing a bottle.

Although one bottle became two, and two bottles became four. There was something about the wine you sold that made him come back for more, sailing off to your town on days when he needed to restock, until you decided one day that he was a loyal customer.

On his eighth visit, he realized he had a problem.

Or rather, problems. He had a drinking problem and a crush problem.

He was disgusted. Not by you, but with himself.

Mihawk had no business calling anyone a crush at his age. He was in his 40s and it revolted him every time he thought of having a "crush"—but unlike his drinking problem, it was an issue that could be resolved with a simple meeting, a simple question.

Mihawk took the liberty of visiting once more on a random evening. As you were closing down, he waited at the corner street until you were ready to settle for the night.

When you emerged, Mihawk caught you by surprise and introduced himself for the first time. He expected you to run amok and start a panic among the civilians, but you giggled to yourself and invited him over. The next thing he knew, he was looking into the horizon, admiring the stretch of land that housed rows and rows of the cultivar he loved. He was silent as he admired the sight, but he didn't tell you that.

Instead, he told you how good your wine tasted, that it tasted complex on his palate after he swallowed and waited for the aftertaste. Then he dropped the question.

"Would you like to go out sometime?" he asked.

You were surprised.

But you accepted.

It still feels like yesterday, even though a lot has changed. It has only been five months or so, yet Mihawk visits every week whenever he can, sometimes more when he's bored. He stays at your place on nights when you can't sleep alone, and you spend it on the hill overlooking your vineyard with some late-night wine. Mihawk has to be more careful now that he's committed to you, as he would be attracting criminals left and right. While his Warlord status keeps the Marines and weaker pirates at bay, he's positive that trouble will come regardless. If they aren't after him, they would be after you.

You suppose it's a price you pay for dating him. Although you hope to steer clear of danger, you wouldn't give up your lover for anything.

"I should teach you," Mihawk suggests one day as you walk across the vineyard, his fingers intertwined with yours.

"Teach me what?" you ask.

"How to hold a sword," he says. "How to fight. You live too close to the town that pirates roam often. You must learn how to protect yourself."

"Hmm. I'll think about it."

Born an ordinary human, you have not once faced danger in your life. Nothing ever called for the need for combat, swordsmanship, or the arcane power of the Haki unlike the pirates who sail the seas. You come from a place of privilege, but it soothes your nerves that your life is peaceful.

Mihawk warned you several times that he was going to bring trouble before dating you, yet it didn't bother you one bit despite your lacking abilities. You knew he was strong and you trusted him. He can protect you on his own just fine even if you aren't skilled at fighting.

Well, not quite.

Tonight is one of those nights when you can't sleep a wink, so you invited Mihawk over who didn't need much convincing to come. As you arrive at the hill where you spend most nights together in secret, you notice something strange.

A gust of wind blows west. The smell of fire wafts in the air, followed by the scent of burnt grass. You hold your lantern out in the dark. You're close to the hill's peak where no one rarely goes, yet something feels bizarre.

You sniff the air. The scent is awfully close. When you trudge up the hill and reach the very top, your eyes land on the remains of a campfire under a mahogany tree. Two cups of steel lay on the ground empty like someone was just here with another, the other cup knocked over like someone had just scampered away.

You shudder.

You and Mihawk never made a fire. No one else should even have access to this place besides you.

Suddenly, a man pounces on you from behind.

"Ahhh! Let go of me!" you wail as you struggle against his grip. A big man who can overpower you, he binds your hands together with a rope and throws you over his shoulder. "Ugh! Please—"

A second shadow emerges from your peripheral vision. Holding a rope, he binds your feet together and poorly stuffs a cloth in your mouth. Squirming, you spit out the cloth. He forces a hand on your face to still you, but you bite down on him, causing him to pull away.

"Why, you little—"

"Help!" you scream at the top of your lungs. The other man tries to suppress you, but you wrestle out of his clutch. "Mihawk! Someone, please— ew, don't touch me!"

"Just shut up already!" He slaps you across the face, and you quiet down. His accomplice snatches the cloth and ties it around your mouth.

"Shit at fighting, but amazing at biting." He grimaces as he looks down at his bleeding hand. "Stupid one! Couldn't get your man to teach you how to fight, so you bite people?!"

You thrash around and howl suppressed cries. He points downhill with a weak finger.

"Pack it up. We'll leave before anyone hears."

As they trek down the hill, you start to accept your fate. They're burglars. You've seen them in the newspaper a long time ago when they made it to the local news. They primarily targeted property owners and emporiums, but you were out of their radar because your vineyard was two blocks down the constabulary. Now that you're associated with Mihawk (and news of his frequent visits has spread among the island felons), they suppose they can get him by taking you hostage, even if it meant waking the constables in the middle of the night.

"Sorry, but hear what, exactly?"

In just a split second, the man holding you falls to his knees and lets you go. You stumble backward helplessly as he screams in agony. Blood seeps through his vest, a pool of liquid collecting on the grass under which he lays. Suddenly, a gust zips past you, and the man's accomplice gets down. Mihawk cuts across his chest and fluidly swings his sword to pierce through him.

Your eyes close in fear. You inch away from the man below you and fiddle with the knot that fastens your hands.

A few feet away, Mihawk scoffs.

"'Before anyone hears?' Anyone would have figured it out by now. You fools run around like mice."

"Mihawk!" you exclaim. He quickly runs over to you and helps you out of your plight. As your limbs break free, you untie the cloth around your mouth and lean into your lover. "Good god, I was so scared! I thought you wouldn't come, I—"

"I'm sorry," he says exasperatedly. He strokes your cheek softly with his fingers, eyes casting downward. "Were you hurt?"

You shake your head. "No. Just horrified."

He sighs.

"I'm afraid we can't stay here. If they find these two gone, they will look for you," he says. "Did you lock up the yard?"

"Yes," you say. "Why?"

"Come to Kuraigana with me."

"Like, where you live? I-I'll leave with you?"

He pats your head gently. "Just for tonight, my dear. We'll be back in the morning when it's safer."

You breathe out. Mihawk expects an answer.

"Fine. Take me with you."

Mihawk offers a hand and hoists you from the ground. At that moment, you lean into him for a hug as you look away from the lifeless bodies below your feet. A shudder runs through your back once again.

"Thank you for saving me, hero," you tease. Mihawk almost chokes on his spit as he cringes, but he keeps you close to his chest.

"Not a hero. Just your lover," he corrects. "Anyway, about that training I was telling you a month ago..."

"I'm in. Please, go and lead the way."

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baronessvonglitter · 1 month ago

Text

The Wedding Crasher

Lucien de Leon x f!reader | WC: 2.6K

Summary: crashing your ex's wedding reception lands you in hot water with his dad Lucien..

WARNINGS: 18+ Only! Explicit. TW: dub-con due to reader being tipsy. Reader is a toxic, slutty, hot mess. Mentions of drinking alcohol. Age gap (reader is 20-30, Lucien is in his 40s). One bed trope. Infidelity. Secret Relationship. Fingering. Degradation. Daddy kink. Ball worship. Oral (m receiving). Pube pulling. Anal play/analingus/references to past anal sex. Spitting. Unprotected piv. Facial. Reader wears makeup and a dress and has hair long enough to put in a ponytail.. y'know.. for BJ reasons.

A/N: may I introduce my submssion for @mushgloomz PPCU Smut Writing Challenge ✨Kia assigned me this prompt and lemme tell y'all, I got EXCITED. I haven't written for our guy yet and I know nothing about him because I haven't seen the movie yet, but I was happy to explore some darker elements because that's just where my mind's been lately. The smut would. Not. Stop. And so I let it continue 😅 Enjoy!

dividers by @strangergraphics 👑

FULL MASTERLIST

Lucien's grip around your arm is tight as he leads you down the corridor. He's been quiet since you left the elevator, ignoring your tears and your pleas that you'll just go home quietly and everyone can forget all the fuss you've made.

And what a fuss you made.

You found out where your ex-boyfriend's wedding reception was being held and made it Priority Number One to crash it. All decked out in your sluttiest little dress that showed off all your curves and left little to the imagination, you maxed out your credit card to get a room at the hotel venue. After downing some liquid courage you marched down to the reception and confronted him and his bride as they sat at their grand table, feasting and drinking champagne, as if he'd never broken your heart and chosen some "good girl" over you.

Grabbing a glass of bubbly, you loudly tapped it with a fork and made your announcement. Both bride and groom's family looked at you in horror. They'd heard the stories of your toxic relationship, the things you'd done to keep him from leaving you. But it appears not even a restraining order could keep you away. Tears overflowing and ruining your makeup, you call him out on his general shittiness. He left you high and dry, broke up with you over text and the next thing you knew he was getting engaged with this stupid prissy girl on a beach in Mexico.

You were in the middle of your speech when someone pulled you away. Assuming it was security, you were fully prepared to spend the night in jail if you had to. You did what you came here to do.

But when you got outside to the hallway you saw it was just your ex's dad Lucien, his handsome face set in a grim countenance as he dragged you away from the party. "Come on," he'd growled, "gotta make sure you stay put."

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he mutters, finally bringing you back to your room. The AC has been left on and it's freezing, your nipples already hardening under your dress. Lucien pretends not to take notice as he sits you down on the single queen-sized bed and hands you a bottled water from the minibar. "Don't worry, I'll cover the cost," he says, and notices you've already plundered it. Emptied mini bottles of Crown Royal are all over the dresser. "Jesus, sweetheart, you're a fucking mess. I'm gonna have to stay here and make sure you're okay."

You lean back on the bed and cry, your hands over your face. "He said he loved me! He broke every single promise to me! He'll never be happy with that stupid little bitch!"

"Come on," he soothes, sitting next to you, propped up on one arm. "What do you expect? He's young and dumb. Every guy his age is." His fingers delicately trace over your exposed thigh, your short dress riding up. "Isn't that why you kept coming to me?"

A shock goes through you at his touch, zinging straight to your cunt, growing wet just by him being here. "It was a mistake," you tell him, still unable to face him.

"Maybe the first time was, but every other time after that?" he teases. "When he wouldn't come home after you fought, who did you call when you were lonely and scared? Who came right to your aid and gave you tissues to dry your tears, a shoulder to cry on, and a nice big cock to make you feel better?"

"Lucien!" you moan in frustration.

"Nuh-uh, let me finish. Who snuck into my room when I took us all on vacation to Aspen, and my son was too tired to fuck you? You were lucky my wife was in the shower that long. What if she'd come out and seen you face down and ass up, taking my cock like the little slut you are?" Despite his words, there's no sting behind them. You're well aware of your nature and your strong desire to be fucked.

"Stop," you whine, but you're bringing his hand to your dripping pussy, shoving your thong to the side, eager and desperate for a release.

"That's why Alejandro broke up with you. Not because of the way you dress, or how you want to take a swing at everyone when you get a little bit of whiskey in you, but because you're a slut for his old man."

He grabs you, moving you how he wants you on the bed, your legs splayed obscenely. The black thong with tiny hot pink bows on the waistband does little to cover your dripping slit, folds already puffy. Lucien watches as you clench around nothing.

"Jesus, mija, you really need it bad, don't you? Now tell me honestly: did you really come here to win back my son, or did you want to show off in the hopes that I'd fuck you again?"

With his thick fingers he gently moves the string of your thong out of the way and runs his knuckle along your gash, bringing it to his mouth for a taste. "That's why he broke it off with you, baby. He found out about us. You left one of these little lacy fucking things in my car and he threatened to beat the hell out of me. Can you imagine? I love my son but he's a skinny little prick."

He swiftly inserts two fingers, watching the shock on your face quickly turn to bliss, your eyes closed, lips parted as he starts pumping his hand.

"This is what you needed, huh mija? Need to be stuffed just to be happy.. now say that sweet little word that drives me fucking crazy.." he whispers, his smoky voice tinted with perversion.

"D-daddy," you stutter out, taking a deep gasp of air as he curls his fingers inside you.

"Daddy what? Come on, princesa, use your words.."

His rhythm is steady as he continues to glide his fingers in, dark eyes on yours as he patiently waits. That's one thing you hate about Lucien. He's never in a rush; he makes you come to him, crawling, begging, pussy weeping with pure need. And he fills that need every time.

"Tell me what you want, sweetheart," his rough, baritone voice beckons to you, daring you and mocking you all at once.

"I wanna come," you confess. tears streaming down your face as if you're confessing to a crime.

"Oh yeah? Wanna come real bad, don't you? Haven't been stuffed in awhile. I can tell. So fucking tight." As a reward for your honesty his thumb swipes over your clit and he smirks as your hips raise up, tight cunny constricting around him. He leans in, wide body over you, crowding you in every sense of the word, his lips ghosting over yours. "Tell me again, but this time say it properly."

Your throat feels hot and tight as you try to swallow. Your mind is still a little fuzzy both from the alcohol and from the way Lucien's fingers are pistoning into you. "Daddy," you tell him in your sweetest voice. "Daddy, please make me come."

"That's more like it," he says with pride in his voice, giving you a few more gentle flicks of his thumb on your clit. "You think you've earned the right to come after the stunt you pulled tonight? Showing up where you're not wanted?" His touch grows rougher, insistent, fingers plunging deep inside.

"No.. I don't know! Just please!" you beg him, helpless against his tough love.

"Maybe I'll consider it if you get on your knees and stuff that little puta mouth with my cock."

Desperate, you slide to the floor, the hotel room carpet not the kindest on your knees as you settle down before Lucien. He's already undoing his pants, his dress shirt and jacket still on, including the boutonnier still pinned to it.

You're dirty, disgusting, filthy for wanting him more than you ever wanted Alejandro. When Lucien's cock springs free from his briefs you're already droooling. He brings your hair to a makeshift ponytail as you lick up the bead of precum from his slit, teasing the tiny hole with your tongue.

"Fuck, you little tease. C'mon, that's not how a real puta does it," he goads you. Eyes on him, you spit on it, letting the thick saliva run down before you wrap your fingers around him and stroke him, determination in your veins as you tug on his cock, lifting it to get to his balls. You curl your tongue around the smooth shape of them, popping one between your lips and gently sucking, feeling validated in Lucien's grunts and groans.

"Getting me all sticky," he comments, pulling you back by your hair as he sees your sparkly lip gloss on his balls and the base of his cock. It's your way of marking him, of letting his wife know you were there. As if she'd care. She's only with him for the money and you're only seeing him for his dick.

"Lick all this off, baby," he commands. "Make me sticky with something else."

You lick the cherry lip gloss off, smiling to see some of it's gotten in his thatch of hair as well. You comb your fingers through it, knowing he likes it, gently pulling it up to watch him squirm. "Little bitch," he grunts, his voice playful despite the uncomfortable sting you gave him.

Your tongue glides across him, pulling the foreskin down further, getting yourself ready to take him. You're an old pro at this, and no one's ever taken him as deeply as you do. Working past your gag reflex you slide him into your mouth, generating as much saliva as you can, taking him out and stroking him when it's too much, only to get him down your throat again, breathing through your nose as he presses your head down, attempting to keep you there gagging on his cock.

"Perfect little hole for me," Lucien mutters. "But I don't want to come down your throat this time. Get those panties off."

Obediently you pull the soggy material down your legs, twisted up, and kick them off. Lucien moves you onto the bed, your dress hiked up, showing off your fresh wax job. "C'mon, baby, ass to the edge. You know the drill."

As soon as you're settled he shoves his middle and ring fingers inside you, turned down so his thumb can play with the puckered ring of your ass. Lucien spits on it, gently easing his thumb inside while his other fingers slowly piston in and out of your sopping pussy.

"Daddy!" you cry out, clenching in both places, so wet that it's dripping down to alleviate his entry into your ass. And his fingers are so thick that it's both a pleasure and a pain to take them.

"Why are you weeping like you're a virgin?" he tuts. "Don't act like no one's ever come through here and played before. Remember Puerto Vallarta? And how you let me fuck this tight little ass right there on the beach? You weren't crying then. In fact you loved it. You even called me Daddy back then."

He leans down and tickles your asshole with his tongue, spreading you open with his free hand, chuckling darkly when you squirm and shake before him. He spits on it some more, delving in a bit deeper with his thumb, watching you with a predatory look.

"You going to apologize for crashing my son's wedding?"

"No," you gasp out, brows drawn together in a vision of ecstasy.

"Thought not." He removes his hand and teases your puffy cunt with his cockhead until you're begging him to put it inside. When he does he only feeds it into you inch by agonizing inch, retracting when you ask for more. He loves the control he has over you, the way you, like a perfect doll, will do whatever he says, and even when you fuss about it you'll give in because you both know no one can fuck you like he does.

"Please, daddy," you groan, desperate in your own skin, feeling like you're drowning without having him inside you, stretched and filled, more than anyone else ever has done to you. Lucien loves to toy with you and you let him because he does it so well. "Not yet, mija," he purrs. "Open wide for me. Come on."

Like a good girl you open your mouth, tongue hanging out to receive the glob of his saliva as it strings between his lips, and your tongue curls around it, housing it for a moment before you swallow. Alejandro would never spit in your mouth; Lucien insists upon it.

You almost choke when he slams into you, his hands supporting the backs of your thighs as he spreads you out around his hips, finally using slow, shallow strokes, barely moving inside of you, watching your face for when he hits that sweet spot deep inside. You're angled just so that his tip brushes against it, and when you clench down on him, your girl juice dribbling out onto him, he knows he's there.

He starts a steady rhythm, eyes on you as you pull down the top of your dress, fondling your tits, bringing a nipple up to your mouth to lick it into a perfect pebbled hardness. Lucien's eyes go dark as he watches you, continuing his unchanging motion.

"So fucking tight," he groans. "How does a puta like you stay so tight, honey?"

You don't give him the satisfaction of telling him his dick is just that big. He knows it. You've gushed over it, literally and figuratively, dozens of times before.

Now is no different, the lewd, sloppy squelching of your pussy as he brings your knees over his shoulders, folding you in half like a fucking pretzel. You haven't come yet and he's in his element, edging you, holding off when he feels you start to tighten, hips bucking beneath him. He could fuck you like this for hours, bringing you so close and keeping you just hanging on to the brink.

"Lucien," you mumble his name over and over, like a prayer that will snap you out of the haze of need you're trapped in. "Please, pleasepleasepleaseplease.."

"Fuck," he hisses. "All right, come on my cock you little whore. Milk me good, baby."

Your pussy pulsates around him, choking his dick like it owes him rent. "Daddy!" you gasp out one more time, nearly blacking out at the sweet release he's finally giving you.

"Hey, hey, eyes on me," he commands, twitching inside you. "C'mon, tell me where you want it."

"Wherever.. ah! wherever you want," you respond, going through the aftershocks as Lucien absorbs the quivers and convulsions. With no hesitation he pulls out of you and straddles you, hurriedly stroking himself until he comes, spilling over your face, the saltiness of his cum finding its way into your mouth when you gasp.

"All that pretty makeup ruined. Probably paid good money for that lash lift," he smirks as he tucks softening cock back into his trousers. With a sick kind of pride he surveys your wrecked form, face covered in his jizz, dress fitting snugly around your midsection, tits and pussy on full display. He admires the glistening between your thighs, your sweet and musky scent still in his nostrils.

"Damn, maybe you should've been the one to marry my son after all," he says thoughtfully, giving your thigh a good smack. "I would have loved having you as a daughter-in-law."

(Spanish terms: mija = daughter ; princesa = princess ; puta = whore)

tagging some peeps I think might be interested: @itwasntimethatdidit40 @tateypots @sunshinehaze1 @cxrsed-angel @everybodylovedcontractors

@thedilfdiaries @milla-frenchy @joelalorian @604to647

@slimybeth69 @aurorawritestoescape @inept-the-magnificent

#ppcu smut challenge #lucien de leon #lucien de leon x reader #lucien de leon smut #lucien de leon x you #lucien de leon fanfiction #ppcu #ppcu fandom #ppcu fics #ppcu fanfiction #ppcu smut #pedro pascal cinematic universe #ppcusmutchallenge

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ofstarsandvibranium · 10 months ago

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Playing with Fire: The House

Fandom: Marvel (Dad’s Best Friend AU)

Pairing: DBF!Bucky x F!Reader

Summary: Your dad's coworker and best friend, Bucky, decides to tag along with you on your errands after your boyfriend bailed on you last minute.

A/N: This was long overdo! But here's the last part of Playing with Fire! Reader is in her mid/lates 20s. Bucky is in his early 40s!

Warning: smut - oral (f receiving), p in v

The Book Store | The Photobooth | The Restaurant

After your errands and lunch with Bucky, he drives you guys back to your house. When you enter, your dad is sitting on the couch watching tv.

"Hey! Get everything done?"

You nod, "Yup! Buck was surprisingly very helpful," you playfully nudge the older man and he snorts.

"Well, she was being a brat the entire day."

You slap his arm, "Was not!"

Bucky chuckles, "Okay, okay. You weren't." he looks to your dad, "It was a good day. Things go okay at the office?"

Your dad lets out a deep breath, and holds up the beer in his hand, "This is my second beer of the day, so that should tell you how it went."

"Yikes," Bucky mumbles and joins your dad on the couch.

As you go through the stuff you purchased today, you pull out the DVD Bucky bought earlier, "Oh! Bucky found this movie at Carol's bookshop," you toss it to Bucky, who handed it to your dad.

"Woah! I haven't seen this movie in forever!"

You snort at your dad's excitement, "I guess I'll go change, make some popcorn and we can watch it?"

"Sounds good," your dad responds and looks at Buck, "You stayin'?"

He shrugs, "Yeah, I guess I'll stay around you losers for a little longer," he looks over at you and gives you a wink. You roll your eyes at him and head to your room to change into something more comfortable.

When you come back down, Bucky's in the kitchen grabbing himself a beer. You walk past him to grab a bowl and a bag of popcorn. He glances your way and then doubles back.

His eyes rake your body as you wear tight work out shorts and a thin strapped tank top. You're standing in front of the microwave, waiting for the popcorn to pop.

With a quick glance at your dad in the living room, Bucky moves to stand behind you, placing his hands on your hips. You gasp in surprise and hiss, "Bucky-"

He leans in, lips hovering over your ears and he whispers, "You look so fucking good in this outfit." He immediately pulls away and you spin to look at him. He gives you a smirk and a wink, exiting the kitchen as if nothing happened.

You let out a deep breath, mentally cursing yourself and your dad's best friend for getting you riled up.

You shake off the tingling sensation you felt when Bucky held you and whispered in your ear. No. You can't do this. You can't feel this way. You have a boyfriend!

When the microwave beeps, you immediately pull it out and dump the contents into a large bowl. You grab a water bottle for yourself and head into the living room.

Bucky and your dad sit on opposite ends of the couch, leaving the middle for you. You turn off the lights and plop in between them. You pull a blanket over yourself, the bowl of popcorn nestling in your lap, "Okay, ready!"

Your dad pushes play and the movie begins. Bucky immediately stretches his arms out and rests one along the couch, practically hovering over your shoulders.

You immediately shoot him a look and he just shrugs, turning his attention to the tv. The movie is an action comedy. The dialogue and humor is dated, but you still find it enjoyable. Bucky and your dad laugh throughout the movie. You chuckle at some points, but you're mainly there for the vibes.

Halfway through the movie, your dad loudly yawns and apologizes. You pause the movie, "You can head to bed if you want. It's getting late anyways."

He glances at the time and frowns, "It's only 9:30."

"Isn't that late for you old guys?" you ask with a smirk.

Bucky snorts and your dad chuckles, "Alright, you brat," he says affectionally, "I'm surprised you're not tired from running all over town with Bucky."

You shrug, "My youthful energy keeps me up."

"Hm, well, I am exhausted from work today, so I'll head to bed early," he points at Bucky, "See you tomorrow. Don't let this one," he points at you, "Bully you like she does to me."

Bucky gives a salute, "I'll keep her in check. Good night, man."

"Night, Buck," your dad pecks a kiss to your head, "Good night. Behave. Don't stay up too late."

"Got it! Night, dad!" you give him a wave and watch as he heads to his bedroom. You continue the movie, eyes glued to the screen.

The hair raises on the back of your neck as Bucky's fingers start drawing shapes along your shoulder.

"Bucky-"

"I'm not doin' anything, sugar. Be a good girl and watch the movie."

You bite back a moan. The way his voice was low and rasp when he said that, it definitely aroused you and you mentally scold yourself for it.

Bucky leans in as he grabs some popcorn from the bowl on your lap. He takes this opportunity to scoot closer to you.

You do your best to watch the movie but you don't even know what's been happening for the past few minutes.

Bucky leans in again and smells you, murmuring against your skin, "You smell so good, sugar. So sweet," his fingers play with the thin strap of your top, "Bet you taste sweet too."

You turn to him with a glare, "Bucky, stop. I have a boyfriend. I know you don't think he treats me right or whatever, but this needs to stop. I know you're trying to prove a point but I just-fuck."

Bucky immediately drops the act. He looks at you with remorse, "I'm sorry. I-I was pushing your boundaries and that was wrong of me." he distances himself from you, "I just," he pauses and runs a hand down his face, "You're a beautiful, smart, and sweet young woman. You deserve to be properly loved and cared for. This John guy doesn't seem like he's doing that for you. I just want you to know that you deserve better." he promptly stands from the couch, "I think I should head out now. I am sorry, sugar, truly." He gives you a nod then lets himself out of your house. You slump into the couch and bring a pillow to your face, screaming into the fabric.

_______________________________

A Week Later

You're annoyed. You're annoyed with yourself, with John, but most importantly, Bucky.

Bucky was right and you kind of hate him for it. John treated you like shit and what's even worse is while you were out running errands with Bucky and mentally scolding yourself for finding your dad's best friend attractive, John was fucking some other woman behind your back! He'd been cheating on you this entire time and you defended him when Bucky opposed him.

Ugh. What a fucking mess.

You're so upset and annoyed with Bucky that you drive over to his place to tell him so.

Your chest his heaving as you waltz up to his door and knock hard.

And of fucking course, he answers the door wearing a tight tshirt and gray sweatpants. He looks at you confused, "Sugar? You okay?"

You push past him, entering his home, "No, I'm not okay! I'm so annoyed with you!"

He cocks a brow, crossing his arms over his chest, causing the fabric of the sleeves to hug his biceps even more, "What did I do?"

"You were fucking right! John wasn't treating me well and he certainly didn't care for me as much as he said he was because he was fucking cheating on me!"

Bucky looks at you confused, "Wait, so your now ex-boyfriend cheated on you, yet you're upset with me?"

"Because you were right and I was feeling guilty for finding you attractive while I was still with John but that didn't even matter 'cause he was cheating on me a majority of our relationship!"

Bucky tries to hold back a smirk and you groan, "Stop that! Stop looking so fucking hot and riling me up! I hate it! I hate that now I see you as someone more than just my dad's best friend! I hate that I see you as this older guy who's smart and funny, annoying but handsome, dorky and also sexy and it frustrates me!"

Bucky licks his lips and steps closer to you, "Then why don't we do something about that frustration, sugar?"

Fire. You're playing with fire. This is your dad's best friend and yet you can't help but want him. You are a moth and Bucky is a flame and you're desperate for his warmth and glow.

"Fuck it," you mumble before pulling him by the back of his neck, pressing your lips to his.

Bucky doesn't hesitate to deepen the kiss. He grips you by the waist, pulling you closer. His hands move back to grip your ass, causing you to moan into the kiss.

He pulls away just enough to murmur, "You sure about this?"

You look into his bright blue eyes and smirk, "Show me how a real man fucks, Bucky."

You watch as his eyes dilate and he practically growls, "With pleasure." He takes your hand pulling you straight to his bedroom. You've been everywhere in his house when you and your dad come over, but you've never been inside his room.

It's just like the rest of his house, dark colors, photos and knick knacks scattered around. Some paintings that his friend Steve had done, donning the walls.

You don't get much time to take in the room because Bucky picks you up and tosses you onto his bed. You giggle as you bounce a bit.

He falls to his knees, his hands sliding up your legs, "I'll treat you like a fucking queen, sugar. Show you how you're supposed to treated." he tugs down your leggings, tossing them to the floor.

He teases you through your underwear. He smirks as he feels how wet you are already, "Already soaking for me, baby? That's what I do to ya, huh?" He pulls you closer to him by the ankles. He presses a kiss over your clothed core and you whine.

"Buck, please."

"Whatcha want, pretty baby? Hm? Use your words?"

"Fuck me with your tongue. Please? I wanna feel your mouth on me."

He chuckles, "Whatever the lady wants, she gets," he quickly pulls off your underwear. Unbeknownst to you, he pockets the garment. He brings you even closer, your thighs sandwiching his head. He spreads you open and licks a stripe up your slit, causing your breath to hitch.

He moans as he tastes all of you, his tongue delving deep inside to then circle around your clit. Bucky watches you with hooded eyes as you grip his bedsheets in pleasure. Your back arched, eyes closed, and mouth open. You look like a goddess.

While Bucky's runs circles along your clit, he slowly inserts a finger into you. He pumps the digit in a slow rhythm which causes you to grind up into his face. You crave more and Bucky happily provides. He inserts another finger and you moan curses, paired with Bucky's name.

His fingers and tongue work in tandem together. You feel that pleasure building up inside you more and more.

You're crying out to Bucky, begging for more, desperate to cum for him.

"Shit! Bucky!" his name is the last thing on your lips as you gush around his fingers. He takes it all, happily so, as your legs shake around him.

When your body stills, he slowly lowers your legs onto his bed. And he stands, lapping up his fingers while taking in your spent figure.

"I was right," he says.

You look at him in a post-orgasmic haze, "About?"

"You taste just as sweet as you are."

You roll your eyes at him as he pulls off his shirt and pushes down his sweats. He crawls onto the bed, body hovering over yours, "You still want to do this? There's no going back after this."

"Please, Bucky. Fuck me."

He grins and pecks your lips, "Now how can I say no to you when you beg for me like that?"

He pulls away to rid himself of his boxers. He reaches into his bedside drawer and pulls out a condom. He quickly rips it open and rolls the rubber onto him.

He then goes to kneel in between your legs and you quickly wrap your legs around him, causing him to fall forward.

His arm catches himself before he can collapse onto you, "Eager, sugar?"

"You're taking too long, old man," you respond with sass.

Bucky's eyes darken. He grabs his length, and teases your entrance with it, "Tsk. Tsk. How can you be so sweet and so bratty as the same time?" He then sheaths himself inside you and you gasp.

He smirks at you and chuckles, "Nothin' to say, sugar?"

"Fuck me, Bucky," you mumble.

He promptly sits up and pulls you by the hips. His cock hits you deep and then he pulls back to only thrust back into you again. His movements are hard and fast to the point the bed rocks in the rhythm he sets.

"That's it, baby, so fucking pretty taking my dick." Bucky says as he watches your face scrunch up in pleasure. You're gripping onto his arms as he holds your hips while he fucks you.

"Does your dad know you're here, hm? Does he know how his little girl is getting fucked by his best friend?"

You shake your head, "No. Fuck, no."

"Of course he doesn't. Can't know that his little girl is my fucking naughty girl, hm? Fuck, you feel so fucking good, sugar."

He bends down, propping himself by his arms, his body hovering over you as he fucks you. You pull him into a heated kiss, moaning into his lips while he gives hard thrusts.

"Rub your pussy for me, baby. Wanna cum together and 'm close."

You nod, immediately bringing your hand down to your clit and rubbing fast circles around the nub. The added pleasure causes you to clench onto his cock.

"Fuck, that's it, baby. That's it. Fucking close. Shit."

His hips slam into yours, harder, faster, as he's so desperate to get that release.

You're close too as you moan his name, "Bucky! Oh fuck!"

He thrusts once...twice.. and thrice until his hips still. He lets out the sexiest moan you've ever heard as he cums in the condom.

"Goddamn," he groans as he slowly pulls out of you. He wipes the sweat off his forehead and runs a hand through his brown locks.

He gets a good look at you. Your body is covered in a thin sheet of sweat, your chest rising and falling as you catch your breath.

"Fuck," he murmurs, "We really just did that."

He pulls off the condom, tying a knot in it, and tossing it into a nearby trash bin. He then climbs off the bed, pulling on his boxers.

"I'll be back." he heads to the bathroom where he grabs a hand towel. He dampens it with warm water and comes back to you. You keep your eyes on him while he wipes you down. You take in his furrowed brows and a pit of insecurity opens inside you.

"Do you regret it?"

He sighs, "We shouldn't have done that."

"Okay," you murmur. After he's done, you immediately get up and start to undress.

Bucky stands and makes you pause, "Hey."

You look at him, on the verge of tears and it breaks Bucky's heart. As a tear cascades down your cheek, he immediately wipes it away, "I don't regret it, but doing that just made things complicated."

"I know."

"Your dad obviously can't know about this."

"I know."

"You also just went through a breakup."

You let out an exasperated sigh, "Bucky, are you rejecting me or not?"

"Not really. Your emotions were high. You just found out your boyfriend was cheating on you. All I'm saying is give yourself some time to heal before.."

"Before?"

"Before we can see where this," he gestures between you and himself, "goes."

Your brows shoot up in surprise, "You want to explore this?"

He shrugs, "We clearly have some chemistry, but you're also young. You're still in your twenties and have a lot going on. If you don't want anything with me, that's fine. I'll live. I just don't wanna hold you back from exploring and enjoying your twenties and college life."

You can't help but scoff, "Bucky, I've been spending a majority of my twenties either at school or with you and my dad. I don't think you'd be holding me back at all."

He shrugs again, "Still. Just, take your time, alright, sugar? I'll be here when you need or want me."

"Okay," you reply softly.

You and Bucky both redress and he leads you to the kitchen where he makes you lunch. Afterwards, you give him a peck on the lips and leave.

On your way home, you think about what had just happened.

You thought you after getting Bucky out of your system, you'd be done. But nope, you're still drawn to his roaring flame. Are you bound to get burned? Probably. But that's what happens when you play with fire.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #marvel #marvel au #smut #dad's best friend au

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buckys-arm-and-rios-dagger · 1 year ago

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Let Me Take Care of You

Bucky x GN!Reader

Description: you help Bucky relax after a long day

Warnings: fluff!, Nudity kind of? I mean you give Bucky a bath but the fact he's naked isn't really brought up, Nonsexual massage, gratuitous use of pet names, mentions of anxiety

A/N: Bucky deserves all the gentle affection and soft touches and love and I plan to write him receiving them 😤😭💙💜

((18+ only below the cut please and thank you!!))

You heard the door slam, and knew that Bucky was home

Slowly, you sat up, poking your head over the couch to see your boyfriend kicking off his boots

“Hey, Sweet Boy,” you kissed his cheek when he sat down beside you, “how are you doing?”

He let out a grunt, crossing his arms over his chest and focusing on the TV with a little huff.

“Buck, talk to me,” you cupped his jaw, bringing his face to yours, “what's wrong, hm? Why are you so grumpy?”

“‘m always grumpy, according to Sam.” He mumbled.

“Not here, not with me.”

His blue eyes met yours, bright but bloodshot.

“Having a rough time right now, Doll. I'll be okay in a bit.” He took your hand and gently kissed the back of your palm, “jus’ some work stuff.”

You nodded sympathetically, wrapping your arms around him and all but forcing him to lay down with you.

Bucky needed some TLC and you were gonna give it to him, dammit.

He settled down on top of you, laying his head on your chest as your hand began to card through his hair.

Your free hand slipped under his shirt to rub his back, and that was when you felt it

His muscles were tense and taught, his entire back one big knot

That tore it for you

He needed more than some TLC

Bucky needed to be absolutely spoiled today, and you were going to make sure that he was

“Hey,” Bucky's eyes met yours, “I’m gonna go run you a bath."

“You don't have to do that, Doll,” he kissed your cheek, “don't go through all that trouble for me.”

“I wasn't giving you an option. I'm taking care of you today.”

“I'm sure you have more important things to do than fuss over me.”

“My Bucky needs some pampering, that's more important than anything.”

He smiled softly at you and kissed your lips, “thank you.”

“Of course, Baby.”

A bit later Bucky was settled in a warm bubble bath, relaxing as you massaged shampoo into his scalp.

You always took longer than you probably needed to when working the soap into his short hair, just so you could hear the content little hums he was making.

“Alright, Baby. Head back, I'm gonna rinse you,” he did as instructed and you gently ran the shower head over his hair, shielding his eyes

“I was thinking, one you're done with your bath I could work those knots out of your back for you,” you told him, kissing his forehead once you'd finished.

“You don't have to do that, Doll.”

“I know I don't have to. But I want to,” you kissed his cheek, “your back has to be hurting all tied up like that, I want to make you feel better.”

Bucky smiled warmly.

“I love you,” he whispered as you helped him lean back against the porcelain, a relaxed sigh escaping him.

“I love you too, Baby.” You lovingly scratched his stubble, “I'm gonna go get out room ready, okay? You just stay here and relax, shout if you need me.”

He nodded and closed his eyes as you left him.

You turned down the bed and dimmed the lights, pulling up the 40s music playlist on your Spotify and letting it play softly in the background.

You put Bucky's favorite throw on the bed for him and set out a pillow before placing a bottle of lilac-scented lotion on the nightstand

You knew how much he loved the scent.

When you'd first started dating he had brought you a bouquet of them, and had come to associate them with you.

Once the room was fully optimized for some Bucky pampering, you went to the kitchen, filled his water bottle, and filled a bowl with pieces of chocolate

Bucky didn't eat or drink nearly as much as he probably should, so you were always quick to feed and water him when you were caring for him like this

When everything was set you returned to your boyfriend and found him fighting to stay awake.

You chuckled fondly as you shook him awake, “c'mon Sweet Boy, time to get out.”

You dried his body with the softest towel you could find before dressing him in a pair of shorts and leading him into the bedroom.

He gasped when he saw the cozy atmosphere you had created for him.

“Doll, you didn't have to go through all this trouble for me–” he turned bright red as you cupped his face.

“Would you stop that?” You asked, stroking his cheek, “I know I don't have to do anything. I do this because I want to. I like taking care of you, I like knowing that I can help you feel good. It's what you deserve.”

Bucky opened his mouth to protest, but you place a finger on his lips, “you've been through so much, Baby Boy. You've had to be so brave and strong. You deserve to be loved and taken care of and treated like something precious. Because you are. So please Baby, just let me take care of you.”

He crushed you in a hug, hiding his face in your hair.

“Thank you Doll,” he murmured as you wrapped your arms around his waist in turn.

“Any time, Buck.” You pulled away, leading him to the bed, “alright Baby, lay down on your stomach okay?”

He did as instructed, settling his head on the pillow, supporting his head with his arm.

“Can I get started, Sweetheart?” You asked, leaning down and kissing his shoulder.

He nodded, and you set to work.

Bucky gasped as you started to rub his back, the floral scented lotion cool against his skin.

You carefully worked out each individual knot, stopping and peppering little kisses along his spine every now and then.

You smiled at the happy little noises he was making, enjoying your soft touch.

Bucky had been with you for some time now, and he still couldn't comprehend how you could be so gentle with him

There was a pleasant fuzzy feeling creeping into his mind as you worked, blocking out every negative thought and anxiety Bucky had been carrying all day and allowing him to only focus on the here and now.

The way you massaged each taut muscle, working out each knot without causing him pain, the tender kisses you pressed to his back, it was so much more than he was used to

More than he'd ever dreamed he'd get, and far more than he thought he deserved.

You finished his massage and pressed a kiss to his temple, “how're you feeling, Baby?”

He let out a little hum, making you smile.

“Do you need anything else?” You asked, carding a hand through his hair, “I thought we could take a nap.”

“Skin-on-skin?” he asked, looking up at you with pleading blue eyes.

“Of course, Honey,” You smiled and slipped off your shirt before climbing into bed beside him.

Bucky laid down on top of you, resting his head on your chest.

As he nestled into you, you grabbed his water bottle, “can I get you to drink something for me, Baby Boy?”

Bucky nodded and allowed you to slip the soft silicone mouthpiece between his lips, taking long, slow sips off the bottle.

“Good, Bucky,” you smiled, “are you hungry?”

He nodded, and you began to hold pieces of chocolate up to his mouth, feeding him with one hand and stroking his hair with the other

You knew that Bucky was an adult, fully capable of taking care of himself

But he'd taken care of himself for long enough, he deserved a break

And if that break came in the form of getting the skin-on-skin contact he desperately needed while being hand fed like a prince, then god dammit you’re gonna give it to him.

You’d give him the universe if he asked

Once he finished his chocolate, you noticed he was fighting to stay awake, his blue-gray eyes fluttering against your skin.

You kissed his forehead

“Take a nap, Sweetheart. I’ll be here when you wake up,” you brushed his hair out of his eyes and kissed his cheek, “sleep tight, Baby. I love you.”

“Thank you for taking care of me, Doll,” he whispered as he drifted off.

You smiled softly and kissed his forehead.

“Always, Bucky.”

#bucky barnes #mcu #james bucky barnes #james barnes #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes headcanon

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