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I love this series!!!! 18+ only ☺️

SNEAK PEEK - I've Had Better (Chapter 6)

Whole chapter dropping tomorrow!

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... That's it. That's the sneak peek!

This man can throw me over his shoulder anytime!! Another great chapter Cait

arranged: pt. 6 (blindsided)

arranged - pt. 6 (blindsided)

mafia!Chris Evans x Female Reader

Series Summary: Living in this life, you’ve never gotten to have much say in anything. What you wear, who  you hang out with, and now, who you marry and you’re dreading your arranged marriage to the Italian mob boss, Chris Evans. Expecting to suffer through a life of abuse while being kept under lock and key, you’re pleasantly surprised when Chris is nothing like you expected. He’s the most feared man on the East Coast, only brought to his knees by one thing and one thing only. You.

Warnings: language, alcohol, arranged marriage (chris’s family signs contract with readers family that promises their first born daughter to their first born son), parental abuse mentioned, age gap. Reader is 25, Chris is 35. Guns, violence, blood. this series has smut (18+ only).

A/N: love me some angst ;)

W/C: 8.3k

Italian and Italian translation in italics. DISCLAIMER - I am not Italian and do not speak Italian, if there is something wrong or something not phrased correctly, PLEASE CORRECT ME! Huge shoutout to @chaelle for helping me with the italian translations :)

likes, reblogs, and feedback ALWAYS appreciated! ❤

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Lydia’s hands cupped your shoulders, pushing you back to do a once over, “Well, don’t you just look perky and freshly fucked!” 

“Jesus, Lydia!” You pulled away from her, smacking her arm before taking a seat across from her. 

She wasn’t exactly wrong. 

It’d been a couple of weeks since the night you told Chris you loved him and you guys had just about christened every surface in the house. The bathroom vanity, both dining room tables, the kitchen counter, the pool, his desk in the study…. A bookshelf… You couldn’t keep your hands off of each other and neither of you were bothered by that. He’d fucked you over the hood of his car just 20 minutes ago before the two of you parted ways. The man was insatiable. Although it definitely wasn’t one sided. Being with Chris was like having all the comfort of coming home after a long day, mixed with the adrenaline rush of jumping out of a plane coasting at   20,000 feet in the air. You couldn’t get enough either. 

Your eyes scanned the tables around you, hoping they were oblivious to the comment she’d just made, “Why are you like this?” 

A grin spread across her face as she swept her long black hair over her shoulder, “You love me.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” you rolled your eyes, smiling at your best friend. You studied her face for a second, her normally bright, vibrant, green eyes seemed tired, dull. If you didn’t know her so well, you wouldn’t have noticed the dark circles under eyes, strategically covered with concealer. You chewed on your lip for a second, your smile faltering, “Lyds… you doing okay?” 

She waved you off, taking a sip of the mimosa in front of her, “I’m fine.” 

“I’ve known you for like 22 years, what’s going on?”  

Her hands rubbed against her thighs as she shrugged, “It’s just– everything with Seb. I don’t know. It sucks.” 

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DUN DUN DUN……..Cliffhanger!

the boston brute series: pt. 12 - welcome to sudbury (dual pov)

The Boston Brute Series: Part 12 - Welcome To Sudbury (Dual POV)

Pairing: NHL!Chris Evans x Athletic Trainer!Reader (female character)

Summary: When you graduated from Northeastern University, you had your sights set on the West Coast. And then you were offered a position with the Boston Bruins Athletic Training Department. And then you met Chris. A 6′3″, ruggedly handsome hockey player dead set on making your life a living hell by pushing every button and getting on every nerve. Despite your obvious disdain for each other and the ‘No Fraternization’ clause in your employee contract, you’re drawn together in a passionate, fiery love affair that seems to burn everything in its wake.

Warnings: Crude language. Chris’s asshole father mentioned, parental abuse mentioned. There’s a police officer in this fic, too lol. Idk if that’s a trigger, but just to be safe. Lots of fluff and soft Chris. Please do not read this series if you are not a fan of asshole Chris or fics with a lot of angst. As always, let me know if I missed anything!

W/C: 9.3k

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All players and scenarios are made up completely. This story does not reflect things that actually happen in the NHL or with its players. Additionally, I talk about Chris’s family in this fic. Again, work of fiction and is no reflection of his parents or grandparents in real life.

likes, reblogs, and feedback ALWAYS appreciated! ❤

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Chris POV

Chris’s grip on the steering wheel tightened every time he drove past a mile marker, signaling you guys were one mile closer to Sudbury. His knuckles were way past the point of turning white and his fingers started to ache from the hold he had. 

He’d kept the itinerary to himself for almost the entire drive, finally passing it over when you’d asked what the plans were and for some reason, he was more worried about your reaction to a meticulously planned out Christmas than facing his family. 

His stomach turned when your eyes widened. 

“There’s an itinerary?” You asked, looking over at him with raised eyebrows. If he wasn’t so fucking nervous about how this weekend was going to go, he might’ve given himself a second to appreciate just how much he loved the way your feelings were so easily displayed through your expressions. 

Christmas had always been a big deal to Lisa and he’d mentioned it in passing a few times, but Chris failed to inform you just how seriously she took it. Itinerary and all. 

Your eyes narrowed at Chris. “Did you wait until we got on the road to tell me so I wouldn’t back out?” 

His eyes flickered from you to the road nervously, trying to gauge your reaction. Busted. He should’ve known better. “No…” He lied, his voice unconvincing, even to himself. 

“Christopher!” You scoffed, shaking your head. “I can’t believe you.” 

He could tell by your tone that you were teasing and not actually upset with him, but he still felt bad. You told him you didn’t celebrate Christmas and that this would be the first time you’d spent any sort of holiday around a family and here he was basically throwing you to the wolves. 

Chris reached over and squeezed your thigh gently. “It’ll be fun, I promise.” He peeked over at you, smiling at the fake grin you had on your face. You were trying so hard not to show him just how worried you were because you also knew how worried he was about being around his family. 

Which was stupid. 

It’s his family. 

He can spend a few days with his family. No big deal. 

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Cait…………..now we know why you had to take breaks from writing!!

arranged: pt. 5 (amore mio)

arranged - pt. 5 (amore mio)

mafia!Chris Evans x Female Reader

Series Summary: Living in this life, you’ve never gotten to have much say in anything. What you wear, who  you hang out with, and now, who you marry and you’re dreading your arranged marriage to the Italian mob boss, Chris Evans. Expecting to suffer through a life of abuse while being kept under lock and key, you’re pleasantly surprised when Chris is nothing like you expected. He’s the most feared man on the East Coast, only brought to his knees by one thing and one thing only. You.

Warnings: language, alcohol, arranged marriage (chris’s family signs contract with readers family that promises their first born daughter to their first born son), parental abuse mentioned, age gap. Reader is 25, Chris is 35. Guns, violence, blood. SMUT. oral, fingering, unprotected sex (18+only)

A/N: oooooof this part is steammmmyyyyy

W/C: 6.5k

Italian and Italian translation in italics. DISCLAIMER - I am not Italian and do not speak Italian, if there is something wrong or something not phrased correctly, PLEASE CORRECT ME!

likes, reblogs, and feedback ALWAYS appreciated! ❤

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JOIN THE TAGLIST HERE (i will not be going through comments or reblogs anymore for tag requests)

Sooo…” you leaned back against the counter, pausing for a second to roll your bottom lip between your teeth while you toweled off your wet hands, “Will you be home for dinner?” You watched Chris move through the kitchen quickly, paying attention to his phone. 

“No,” he responded quickly, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, putting his phone to ear when it rang, “Yeah?” 

You watched him for a second, setting the hand towel back on the counter while trying to brush off the disappointment panging in your chest. Almost every dinner for the past 3 weeks was spent much like the first few days of your marriage. Alone, leaving a plate for Chris in the fridge. Only now, the plates were there the next morning instead of eaten and cleaned. Chris’s presence around the house had been scarce while he and Romano tracked down whoever ordered the hit. You made the mistake of asking why they couldn’t get the cops involved, which Chris scowled, growling out, “No. Cops.” and then left. Again. 

You understood why he was busy, after visiting Sebastian, you wanted whoever ordered the hit to pay, too. But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss him. Things had gotten lonely around here, there were only so many ways you could distract yourself. Although, the many Amazon packages being delivered everyday proved that you were at least trying. 

Turning around, you dipped your hands back into the soapy water, grabbing the sponge to finish off the dirty dishes from your 10th attempt at making the perfect batch of chocolate chip cookies. Chris stepped into the other room for his call, leaving you to it. Once again, you were trying to convince yourself that he was just busy and it had nothing to do with you. It was his job. His life. One of his men was attacked and it was up to him to make them pay. That was his life. You were just his wife. If there’s anything you learned about this life, it’s that you would take a back burner. 

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the boston brute series: pt. 6 (don’t give up on me) - sneak peek

The Boston Brute: Pt. 6 - Don’t Give Up On Me (Sneak Peek)

Pairing: NHL!Chris Evans x Athletic Trainer!Reader (female character)

Summary: When you graduated from Northeastern University, you had your sights set on the West Coast. And then you were offered a position with the Boston Bruins Athletic Training Department. And then you met Chris. A 6′3″, ruggedly handsome hockey player dead set on making your life a living hell by pushing every button and getting on every nerve. Despite your obvious disdain for each other and the ‘No Fraternization’ clause in your employee contract, you’re drawn together in a passionate, fiery love affair that seems to burn everything in its wake.

Warnings: Angst, language. Chris being an asshole. Talk of Chris treating reader poorly. 

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All players and scenarios are made up completely. This story does not reflect things that actually happen in the NHL or with its players.

A/N: This next part is very angsty. Please do not read if you do not like angst. 

likes, reblogs, and feedback ALWAYS appreciated! ❤

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“What are you doing?” Chris stopped, turning to look at you. 

“My job.” 

His jaw flexed. “Do your job elsewhere.” 

God, this man is insufferable. “Jesus fucking christ, Chris. Let me in the goddamn room. My job is to make sure you don’t fall over, crack your head open, and bleed out on the bathroom floor. I know that for whatever reason you can’t stand me, but I could give two shits what you want. Do you seriously think I’m dying to sit in a fucking room with you after the way you treated me? Because the answer is no. I would rather pull my teeth out with pliers than spend one more minute with you. But I don’t have a fucking choice because it’s my job. So let me in the goddamn room.” 

Chris stared at you for a second, his shoulders dropping a tad. His face softened, making him look sad instead of pissed off, and for some reason it made you want to punch him even more. What right did he have to feel sad right now? “Did you– Did you sleep with him?” 

You scoffed. “That’s unprofessional and none of your business.” Your lips pressed together in a tight line, your pissed off expression unwavering. “Are you done?” 

“Are we done?” He asked softly. 

Taking a shaky breath, little hairline fractures splintered your resolve at the tenderness in his voice, but you still couldn’t just forget what happened and how he treated you. “There is no ‘we’, Chris.” You paused, tearing your eyes away from his and dropping them to the patterned carpet of the hallway, “Please don’t make this any harder than it already is.” 

Ooooooo the sexual tension!!!!

the boston brute - pt. 3 (the first game (Chris POV)

The Boston Brute - Pt. 3 (The First Game - Chris POV)

Pairing: NHL!Chris Evans x Athletic Trainer!Reader (female character)

Summary: When you graduated from Northeastern University, you had your sights set on the West Coast. And then you were offered a position with the Boston Bruins Athletic Training Department. And then you met Chris. A 6′3″, ruggedly handsome hockey player dead set on making your life a living hell by pushing every button and getting on every nerve. Despite your obvious distain for each other and the ‘No Fraternization’ clause in your employee contract, you’re drawn together in a passionate, fiery love affair that seems to burn everything in its wake.

Warnings: Chris is an asshollleeee, language, sexual innuendos, parental death mentioned, Chris gets into a fight, blood mentioned. Toxic ex is mentioned and introduced into the fic. Smut mentioned, (18+ only, minors DNI)

A/N: Can we all just agree to fight Dean? Also, my fics still aren’t showing in the tags, please reblog if you can ❤️

W/C: 7.8k

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All players and scenarios are made up completely. This story does not reflect things that actually happen in the NHL or with it’s players.

likes, reblogs, and feedback ALWAYS appreciated! ❤

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The first game of the season.

Chris walked past the line of fans and press, his face remaining impassive and unreadable despite the questions and praise being thrown at him. ‘Welcome To The Jungle’ by Guns n’ Roses blared through his airpods, blocking out most of the noise as he entered the building and made his way to the locker room, his dress shoes sticking slightly to the rubber floor as he walked. T-Minus 3 hours until the face off. 

He walked past your new office, dipping his chin in his version of a greeting when you stepped out. You jumped in surprise, almost running into him when you exited the room. Chris wanted to smile when his greeting was met with an ice-cold glare, satisfied that you were successfully pissed off. He blamed his indifference towards you on your ‘rainbow and sunshine’ personality, trying to rationalize his behavior because no one was really that fucking happy in life. Ever. Something was hiding beneath your happy-go-lucky façade and he was going to break you. 

He’d gotten pretty close, but he wanted to see you unravel, not just throw a couple f-bombs at him. Still, Chris imagined that this side of you wasn’t something Connor was accustomed to. He had been very surprised by your reaction last week when you’d told him to fuck off. Chris thought it was funny. Connor did not. He definitely ripped Chris a new one for how he’d been acting towards you. 

He, of course, tried to defend himself, reciting some of the insults that you’d thrown his way, but Connor didn’t care. Chris knew that he couldn’t exactly play victim here. 

He wasn’t Mr. Sunshine, and there was a reason they called him the Boston Brute. He was an asshole. Chris was unapologetically blunt, he took what he wanted, and he made no apologies for whoever he fucked over in the process. On and off of the rink. His mother blamed it on hockey. That it was a savage sport that had turned Chris into a man who lacked emotion and empathy. Someone who solved his problems with his fists instead of words. Though this past week, his words proved to be just as lethal.

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arranged: pt. 1 (the wedding)

arranged - pt. 1 (the wedding)

mafia!Chris Evans x Female Reader

Series Summary: Living in this life, you’ve never gotten to have much say in anything. What you wear, who  you hang out with, and now, who you marry and you’re dreading your arranged marriage to the Italian mob boss, Chris Evans. Expecting to suffer through a life of abuse while being kept under lock and key, you’re pleasantly surprised when Chris is nothing like you expected. He’s the most feared man on the East Coast, only brought to his knees by one thing and one thing only. You. 

Warnings: language, alcohol, arranged marriage (chris’s family signs contract with readers family that promises their first born daughter to their first born son), parental abuse mentioned, age gap. Reader is 25, Chris is 35. Mention of running away. this series will have smut (18+ only, please)

A/N: I’m honestly in love with this series. I hope you guys enjoy! 

W/C: 5.9k

Italian and Italian translation in italics.

likes, reblogs, and feedback ALWAYS appreciated! ❤

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You sighed, laying your head on your best friend Lydia’s shoulder, both of you stretched out on her king sized bed. It was happening. The moment you’ve been dreading since high school. Tomorrow was your wedding day. 

You knew this was inevitable. You’ve known this was coming for at least 10 years, but it didn’t make it any easier. Part of you always thought that maybe your mother would step in and reason with your father, put a stop to the wedding, but any time the conversation was breached, it ended with a new bruise somewhere on her body. 

The contract that sat in the safe in your father’s office taunted you, day in and day out. No matter what you did, the fact of the matter was… you were already sold to the highest bidder. 

“You’re gonna be a married woman. It’s crazy,” she finally spoke up, looking over at you. You’ve known Lydia since you were both in diapers, her father working in close contact with yours. Although you didn’t need that connection, you and Lydia were practically soulmates. Something tells you that you would’ve found your way to each other one way or another. Mafia ties or not. 

There were 3 families in Boston that ruled the Italian mafia. Your family, the Ricci family, and the Evans family. 

Your father owned just about every deli in Boston and while he didn’t directly tell you what he did, you knew enough to know that every deli was a front for something. Arms trade, drugs, even exotic pets. 

The Ricci’s owned a bunch of Italian restaurants in the Boston area, the banquet halls put on a permanent reservation for the families to conduct their business in  while enjoying fine dining.

And finally, the Evans family. The top tier of the Italian Mafia. The most feared man on the East Coast. The man you were going to marry tomorrow. He owned just about every nightclub on the strip. You knew that after Chris’s father had passed a few years ago and that the family business was signed over to him and that was about it. You definitely wouldn’t use the word shy to describe Chris, but he wasn’t a man of many words. He was also 10 years older than you at 35, so it’s not like you’ve really ran in the same circle. He was a mystery to you.  

You groaned, scrunching up your face,  “Don’t remind me. It’s not fair. I don’t–” you paused, your emotions taking over, “– I don’t even know him. Like… at all. And tomorrow, I’m gonna be his wife and live in his home and expected to… procreate with him,” you shook your head at the thought, “I’m gonna have to have sex with this stranger at some point.” 

She looked up to her ceiling, “Well, at least he’s not bad to look at.” 

You let out an unamused laugh. She wasn’t wrong. Chris was very attractive but you knew absolutely nothing about him. You’ve only said maybe two words to him in the 25 years that you’ve been alive and yet you were expected to live with him, share your life with him, and have children with him. Tomorrow, you were going to be his wife. The wife of a don. You didn’t know much about the life, but you knew enough to know that Chris was a dangerous man and the thought that he could be anything like your father made you sick to your stomach. You lived a life of abuse and were so close to getting out, but if Chris was anything like your father, you were just trading one angry don for another. 

“What if he hits me?” You whispered, a few tears escaping from your eyes, “I can’t– Lyd, I can’t,” your lips quivered at the thought. Lydia knew your dad put his hands on you and your mother. But it wasn’t like anyone could do anything about it. Half of the Boston PD was on his payroll and the other half was too scared to do anything, there was no way in hell he’d get prosecuted for anything. 

Lydia turned to face you, “Then we’ll run. We’ll pack our shit and we’ll leave.”

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Tequila Sunrise 1

Warnings: age gap, power dynamics, creep behaviour, other dark elements. As usual, be mindful of your content consumption.

ft. Cole Turner, older!reader

I also beg of you to leave me some tuppence in the form of a comment and/or reblog. You are cherished!

Enjoy, my loverlies.

You need this. For all the stress of your life, not to mention the added chaos of planning the getaway, you the week to be decent. No, not just decent. It has to be absolutely amazing. You haven’t spent so much time, money, and energy getting this all together for it to just be acceptable. 

You make yourself stop gritting your teeth, a bad habit your dentist and doctor both reproach you for. There’s also that pesky blood pressure issue and the stress headaches. That’s why you’re desperate for this. It’s not just a girls’ weekend, though none of you are really ‘girls’ anymore, it’s a therapeutic detachment from reality.  

For the next seven days, you are not a manager, you are not an ex-wife, or a middle child. You are on vacation. From all of it, from all of them. 

You’re the first there. That’s typical. Mandy rarely shows up within the first hour of a dinner, Jamila always runs in breathless saying she was somewhere important, Soo cancels more often than she shows, and Elaine is usual right on the dot. 

You made the booking, you have all the confirmations; you’ve checked, doubled-checked, and triple-checked and your early arrival is the very reason. You follow the automated voice of the GPS down the country road, your destination just ahead of you. Jamila found the airBnB online. It had rave reviews and you weren’t into a resort with all the young toned bodies or a beach house with sand blowing in from the beach. 

Maybe it’s age, maybe you’ve always been boring, but the farmhouse getaway sounds about your speed. You trust that you’ve brought enough wine and snacks to see you through a relaxing but rustic reprieve. You steer up to the wooden gate in the farmhouse style, the sort of vintage piece you see in films, and stop. 

You lean forward and tap your phone, leaving it on the dashmount as you flip through the app. The entry instructions... ‘honk’. What? 

You sit back and lay your palm gently on the horn. You don’t think you’ve ever actually used it. You put your weight into it and the blare makes you yipe and retract your arm. You sit there and idle just outside the gate. 

Should you get out and do it yourself? The latch looks easy enough. 

Before you can muster your courage to let yourself in, a voice calls and a man catches your sight with a waving hand. He runs down, his flannel shirt billowing open around a ribbed tank top. A tuft of sandy hair sticks out awkwardly at his crown and his jaw is dusted with heavy stubble. He’s about a decade younger, at least, and shows it. 

“Hey,” he calls out as you roll down your window. 

He unlatches the gate from the inside and lifts it as he pulls it open. He smiles as he steps back and waves you through. You slowly roll forward and stop just beside him. 

“Am I in the right place? I have a booking for a farmstead?” You ask. 

“That’s me,” he grins, his blue eyes sparkling as he bends to look you in the face, “you’re just going to wanna pull all the way down,” he points and looks after his hand, “you’ll be staying in the guest house. It down the other end of the property. Secluded so you don’t need to worry about me.” 

“Oh,” you try not to show your concern. That wasn’t in the listing. It’s supposed to be a girls’ weekend, not a supervised outing. 

“Your family following you up?” 

“Pardon?” You keep your foot on the brake. 

“Yeah, I saw the booking for five. You must have quite the clan.” 

“Uh, no, my friends,” you explain. 

“Oh, well I hope you ladies have a good time. I’ll just grab my truck and follow you down. Straight shot, just keep going down the road. You can’t miss it. I’ll be right behind you to show you around.” 

“Mm, okay,” you agree dully. “Thanks.” 

“Cole,” he offers his name and hand, and says your name in return, “that’s you, right?” 

“Yep,” you answer. Definitely the right place. 

“I’m just around in case there’s any issues. Maintenance or whatever. Swear, you’ll hardly even know I’m here. I’ll be around the main house,” he looks behind him at the large farmhouse, “guest house is way better. Fully updated. Oh and I just redid the bathrooms.” 

“Oh, sounds great, the pictures looked wonderful,” you give a fragile smile, “so, uh, straight ahead?” 

“You got it,” he slaps the top of the car and keeps his hand there. His chest hair peeks out from under the tank as his neck tendons clench, “take it slow. I can’t lose any more chickens.” 

“Oh my,” you grimace. 

“Uh, yeah,” he laughs, “sorry, kinda grim. Well,” he pushes himself straight. His tank is almost transparent with sweat as it clings to his stomach, “I’m sure you’re dying to get settled.” 

“Yeah,” you agree and turn your sights ahead of you. 

He steps back and you ease onto the gas. As you clear him, he’s running off across the grass. He has a lot of energy. It’s the perfect contrast to your complete lack of. 

You keep your eyes straight ahead and follow the worn and weathered tire tracks. Your car jostles with the lumpy ground and you stay alert for any feathery creatures wandering around. Maybe it isn’t the ranch house paradise you thought but it’s still palatial. You won’t care much once you have some wine in you. 

Safety Captain (1)

lifeguard!Steve Rogers x vacationer!Reader (see series)

Summary: A very sexy man shows up at a very unsexy moment during your vacation.

Warnings for mild language, other guests being as thirsty as Reader, and a vague injury/danger. WC 1945

Written for @bigtreefest's Summer Lovin' 300 follower celebration (I'm very late tho 🥲), using the prompts “it hurts when I ___” “then stop doing that” and pool/resort/hotel. There will be a few small parts to this with eventual smut; this is just the meet-cute sorta.

If you consider drowning a peaceful and relaxing experience, then your trip’s going splendidly.

Water hitting your lungs stings much worse than sunscreen in your eyes, but the shock makes you gasp anyway. Your skin feels pressure everywhere. You don’t know which way is up. The world is bright and blue and shimmering until an arm encircles and yanks you backward by your chest—your bare chest, you realize, since the cups on your bathing suit top flipped when you hit the the pool at such a steep angle.

Once at the surface, a gift and a curse greets you, garbled hum replaced by a solid slap of screaming, the blare of whistles. Light burns, water burns, air burns.

Oh yes, this is going swimmingly.

You struggle to get enough fresh hell anyway, coughing out water, air stinging worse. Your limbs contract to fight the pain, but the wall of muscle behind you is unyielding.

“Out of the way,” a deep voice shouts close to your ear. “Buck, make me some room. Get them back.”

He—whoever he is holding you so firmly and safely—moves you to the shallow end’s stairs with heaving strokes, and just when he releases your body to lift you out of the water, he quickly flicks the front of your suit back into place.

Bless you, kind sir. You’re in love…

…or maybe that’s the hypoxia.

Unceremoniously hauled to solid ground, you continue to sputter.

“It’s alright. I got ya. Breathe for me. That’s good.”

Your sunglasses are gone, so you squint up in his shadow to see nothing but a halo of dripping gold hair. Then your eyes adjust. You see him.

Suddenly, the world is bright and blue and shimmering again, all contained in the stare of your sweet savior.

When he smiles, well, you need even more air to recover.

You’re on your side until he’s sure all the water is out of you, until his hands help you sit up, looky-lous everywhere being herded farther off by two more lifeguards and some resort security.

“The boys…” you rasp out.

“Everyone’s okay,” he rushes, rubbing your back, warm and slick against your wet skin. “You don’t have to talk yet. Take it easy.”

You still feel compelled to explain.

“The—they were teasing him—“ you point to the chubbier kid in your group, the poor thing cowering by your lounge chair headquarters for the morning “—and I tried to stop them.”

“I know, shhh, I saw. Just breathe slowly.”

“Don’t like bullies,” you cough out anyway.

The lifeguard at your side grins from ear to ear, quickly interrupted by a girl shoving your sunglasses in his face.

“I found these,” she announces, elated. “I thought it was important since you were so brave, saving someone who fell in.”

You didn’t fall; you were pushed. There’s a difference.

The lifeguard’s smile turns tight, but he gestures for the girl to hand them over to their rightful owner. She continues to stare with huge, bambi eyes.

Politely, he takes them from her and clears of his throat.

“Thank you. Now step back please.”

Her disappointment is palpable before his blue gaze returns to you. As he asks if you’re ready to move, his palm lands on your lower back and stays there supportively.

The best you can do is shift your legs beneath each other and then hiss, “it hurts when I put weight on this leg. I think I twisted my ankle on the way down.”

“Then stop doing that,” he chuckles, swooping to get his arms under you and carry you to your lounger—the right one, immediately, as if he saw the boys fighting but knew exactly where you were before then, too.

The stout little thirteen-year-old who’d been picked on steps up to you with guilty eyes. He’s one of your charges today while the other adults all drink at the swim-up bar.

“I’m sorry they—“

“It’s fine,” you croak.

“—but they wouldn’t stop, and I told them to—“

“Hey, hey,” your lifeguard whispers, deflating the boy’s panic, “she’s gonna be okay. Just a little banged up, but we got the best of the best coming to help.”

Shamefully, the boy’s eyes turn down. “Sorry they called you a ‘bitch.’”

Great. Yeah. That needed to be repeated.

“Don’t worry about it. Can you go grab your cousin and—“ a brief wheeze overtakes you “—the girls and bring everyone back here so I know where you all are? Just a real quick check-in.”

He nods and runs off, almost plowing into a woman heading straight for you.

“Ah, your nurse has arrived.” The handsome, dripping wet man sitting with a hand still on your knee beams. “The best of the best, as promised.”

The older blonde lady purses her lips and rolls her eyes, ticking her head to the side. “Scoot, Steven. Let me have a look.”

He—Steven, apparently—rambles off what happened and what you mentioned hurt, standing out of the blonde’s way, but leaning over her shoulder, hovering while she manipulates your ankle.

“Thank you, darling.” She looks up pointedly. “I’ve got it from here,” she says, turning back to you. “I’m Sarah, dear. We’ll get you fixed up in no time.”

“I’m Steve,” your lifeguard interjects as he backs away. “Glad you’re alright, Miss…?”

You introduce yourself in return. “Thanks for…um…” You glance down and tug at the front of your swim suit, remembering that this man might have already seen and touched your breasts. “Thank you,” you finish weakly, voice hoarse.

Steve beams again before Sarah swats him away.

While she wraps your ankle and anchors a bag of ice to it, you scan the guard towers to realize all three of the guys on duty are ripped, but Steve is…well, he’s something else.

“God, he’s gorgeous,” you sigh aloud without realizing.

Sarah snorts, muttering, “he gets that a lot.”

You smile, thinking it’s probably no secret that the cute guy gets around. “Bit of a man whore, is he?” you joke.

The nurse looks up at you sternly. “I should hope not! I raised him better than that.”

Shit.

Your face drops, a harsh and painful swallow globs down your throat, and you…just objectified that poor man to his mother who he so sweetly called ‘the best of the best.’

Is drowning totally off the table, or can you revisit that?

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—I—I just meant—“

She squeezes your hand, putting you out of your misery.

“It’s fine, dear. He is handsome, and I suppose there’s no harm in looking.” She packs away the last of her gear only to catch Steve’s eye across the pool.

He waves in your direction.

Sarah chuckles but doesn’t wave back. You put a quick hand up and mouth ‘thank you’ even though he probably can’t see that part.

“Well,” the nurse adds, “seems you aren’t the only one looking.”

Having one foot twice the size of the other can work. You can make it work. You’ll just camp out on a beach towel farther up the shore, no problem. The whole party is together today, day three of seven, so the good news is that you aren’t responsible for anyone. Also, your foot is only that size due to bandaging and not because it’s that swollen. Still hurts though.

In addition to a wicked limp, you need a relatively hard surface to sit on or stand up from. You end up on the rim of damp sand, wriggling to get comfortable. You try laying on your side, propped up on a bent arm. You try your stomach. You’re about try your back, reaching for one of the kids’ towels to roll up as a pillow when you notice a group playing volleyball.

Must be fun to, like, walk and stuff.

You sigh.

It’s fine. You are lucky enough to be on this trip in the first place, your ticket paid for by all the parents combined (with the agreement you’ll help wrangle the younglings for periods while the moms and dads do adult activities). The ‘job’ is a wildly fair trade since the families only split so far was the pool yesterday.

Is that…is one of the volleyball players waving at you?

You look over your shoulder, but there’s only the rest of your group, splashing and running through the surf. No one is facing you or the game.

As you turn back, starting to raise your hand, you see the golden glow of the player’s hair and think that sure resembles the lifeguard, Steve, from—

The guy waving at you gets hit, hard, by a spiked ball and stumbles back. Some commotion rumbles through the group, but you can’t hear specifics.

Shit, that is definitely Steve, son of Sarah, employee of the pool, jogging toward you. Are your tits covered?

You awkwardly pull yourself upright, shielding your eyes from the partially-overcast, bright sky, and smile.

“Hey,” Steve chirps, “thought that was you.” He is, again, in naught but board shorts and beauty.

“Yup, living the dream.”

He ignores your sarcasm and asks how your ankle feels (“meh”), if it’s messed with your plans so far (“had to bow out of zip lining this morning”), and if he might be welcome to sit with you for a while.

You blink a few times in shock behind dark sunglasses. “Won’t your friends…?”

He shakes his head, hair falling into his face, and drops down to the sand.

“I don’t see why not,” you say after he’s made himself comfortable.

When the littlest girl from your group comes shrieking over, bucket and scoop in her hands, you’re about to apologize for the interruption, but Steve immediately offers to help her build the castle of a lifetime.

He is sure to warn her to be careful around your foot.

This time, when you mouth ‘thank you,’ he sees it and returns another beaming grin.

Alright, perhaps vacation is looking up.

Steve is…very, very good at strategizing the sandcastle. After the first ‘tower’ goes up, the other kids get involved. Before you know it, the parents are all behind you gushing over how good your friend is with them.

"Handsome, too."

"Lots of energy."

"‘Bout your age, isn’t he?"

They aren’t quiet enough to not be heard which is clearly the point once the mother of bucket girl shouts out that Steve should join you all for dinner.

Oh, sweet holy—

“Not sure I wanna dive into your family time, ma’am,” he says politely, encouraging some water be brought up for the moat they’ve just dug.

“Then you should take our lovely girl here out. Show her more of the island.”

You glare daggers at the other woman who just chimed in.

“I can’t walk,” you bite out. “Where am I gonna go?”

Steve clears his throat to get your attention. “They line food trucks over on the west road until late, and…” his lip pinches to the side “…I can carry you.”

One of the dads darkly drawls, “like a fucking princess,” and you hear a sharp slap from his wife in annoyance.

Steve’s gaze remains locked on yours as the parents erupt in obvious innuendo.

“Could be fun,” he admits, only loud enough for you. “How about it? Getting hungry?”

All you manage is a nod before a bucket of water is tossed on Steve, and he chases the culprit down the beach and into the clear blue sea.

You’ll have to wait until the ‘monster’ is vanquished by the ecstatic children jumping to take down the big, strong man you, apparently, have a date with.

[Next Chapter]

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

A/N: Apologies that this isn't the whole dang thing. With how long everything has been taking me to write, I was afraid it wouldn't even be summer anymore, and if there is even a small chance that posting this will light a fire under me to finish, I am willing to try.

Cait, you are an amazing person and I’m sorry that certain people only wanna bring out the worst in this situation. Sending you hugs, and I hope baby lullaby feels better soon.

OKAY.

LISTEN UP PEOPLE. It’s 8am and i already wanna delete my account.

I absolutely, under NO circumstance, need ANYONE to bully or berate anyone on my behalf. If you’re sending anyone hate thinking you’re helping me in any way, you are DEAD ASS WRONG. Don’t come on here and bully someone and call someone nasty names. It’s immature. It’s horrible.

I am fully capable of handling situations with other accounts like the adults that we all are and would appreciate it if you guys would let me.

I have a very sick one year who needs my attention and i do not have time nor the headspace to be dealing with this shit at all. Especially right when i wake up.

I’m not tagging the account because i don’t wanna bring anymore attention to the issue before i have time to actually sit down and assess/respond to everything, but just stop reaching out to them. Leave the situation alone.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna deal with my actual kid instead of the children blowing up my asks.