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peraltasames · 1 month

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Kate Sharma and Anthony Bridgerton Bridgerton — 3x01: "Out of the Shadows" (2024)

#THIS IS EVERYBTING TO ME #im so obsessed #her dress is so gorgeous as well #bridgerton

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peraltasames · 5 months

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Rest in Peace, Andre Braugher.

#💔💔💔#truly no words :(

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peraltasames · 5 months

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#i saw 3 this year but the other 2 last year :)

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peraltasames · 5 months

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spotify wrapped is out and everybody is always posting their top 5 songs….. let’s see some love for number 6 that didn’t make the cut. rb and add your number 6

#me & you together song by the 1975…which has been in my top ten since it came out in 2020

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peraltasames · 9 months

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📸 | Simone Ashley on Instagram: “💚”

#she’s so unreal #simone ashley

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peraltasames · 10 months

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BENEDICT & ANTHONY BRIDGERTON IN BRIDGERTON | S02E02 "Off to the Races"

#i miss them!! when will my idiot boys return #bridgerton

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peraltasames · 10 months

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hey big fan of your writing!! you write jamie so perfectly 💜 pls forgive me if you’ve already written something about this (i haven’t been able to find it if so) but could you write something post-mom city episode with the reader taking care of jamie when he’s hurt after the game and telling him how proud she is?? 🥹 thank you!!

This one’s canon compliant with you don’t want to know me for no reason other than the fact that I like to make my fics match up. It’s fun for me to pretend like I could write something with chapters someday😇 Hope you like it!

you’re in the kitchen humming

Of course, the one game you can’t go to is the one where Jamie gets injured so badly he has to come home on crutches. He’s not even the one who texts you about it. It’s Ted who writes, Your boy got hurt pretty badly. Might want to come pick him up when we get back.

So now you’re headed to AFC Richmond because Jamie only just let you know they’re back.

we’re in the treatment room, he says, and you don’t even take a moment to ask who we is.

It’s Roy and Keeley, and you aren’t a little bit surprised. They’re been passing around a bottle and laughing, so obviously Jamie can’t be hurt that badly. His right foot is stuck in a bucket of ice, so you get him up, say goodnight to Roy and Keeley, and help him tipsily hop to your car. Jamie chatters on about the game the whole ride home, only leaving room for you to interject the occasional “mhm,” or “I’m so proud of you!”

It’s somewhat of a chore to get him out of the car, mostly because he’s laughing so hard at the sheer absurdity of the situation, humor exaggerated by the champagne.

You finally maneuver him onto the couch and get him laid down, leg elevated. He’s still giggling.

You flip on the kitchen light to make him some food. You wonder briefly how many times you’ve done this: put Jamie on the couch, made him food, and let him take you to bed. It’s been a few years’ worth.

You’re at the stove humming softly, when you hear a tap thump, tap thump as Jamie hobbles over to wrap his arms around you from behind.

“Oi, you need to be lying down, mister,” you scold.

Jamie just presses his face into the crook of your neck.

“Can’t get comfortable. I’m still in my kit and I need help getting it off.”

His words are laced with a suggestive tone, made more apparent by the fact that his hands are no longer on your waist per se, but more under your waistband.

You put down the spatula and turn off the stove.

“Jamie Tartt,” you say in a tone that means listen the fuck up, “if you want even half a chance of getting in my pants tonight, you’ll go back to the couch and put ice on your ankle.”

His hands slip away and he groans, but complies. You shake your head and slide the eggs onto a plate.

You hate eggs, but they’re Jamie’s go-to post-match food. You asked him why once, and he said something about his mum and it being the only thing she could cook without burning.

So you suck it up and make him scrambled eggs every time he comes home from a game, whether home or away. Tonight, you bring him his plate on the couch, sit next to him, and hold it for him to eat.

You say softly, “I’m really proud of you, Jaim,” as he pushes himself into a sitting position. “Didn’t really get a chance to say it, but I am. You absolutely smashed it today.”

Jamie smirks. “I got your emojis,” he says. “Had twenty-one missed texts from you, none of ‘em containing a single word.” He puts down his fork and reaches into a pocket for his phone. “Got a fuck-ton of hearts, some fireworks, and one squirrel.”

You blush. Ah yes. The squirrel.

“Don’t think I can make it up the stairs,” he laments. “Might just have to stay on the couch all night. Sad. Alone. Fucking horny.”

You roll your eyes and flick his arm with your free hand. “You done eating? Because you need a shower. You smell, and I’m not fucking you until you’re clean.”

Jamie grins. “But you are going to fuck me.”

You shake your head. Yes, you are. With a goal like that, how could you not? Plus his foot’s injured, and he must be in pain. He could use a good distraction.

Jamie’s mind has to be going in a similar direction because he asks, “You gonna shower with me? I hate showering alone.”

“Obviously,” you respond. “You can barely stand on your own and you’re going to need help with your hair.”

—

This shower is a lot less sexy than some might imagine. Jamie is trying to keep his balance without putting weight on his foot, but it’s difficult because it’s slippery. You’ve made it through most of his shower routine (and yours too) but now you’re at the final step. Conditioner.

You grab the bottle and Jamie frowns. “You remember how much to use?”

You nod, but he’s not convinced. “Let me put it on your hand,” he says, grabbing the bottle and forgetting to be careful of his ankle. He puts too much weight on it and it gives out with a “fuck,” leaving Jamie’s lips.

He’s slipping and trying to grab onto something and that something is you so now you’re both tangled on the floor of the shower, water running in your faces and Jamie grimacing from pain.

—

You do manage to get him back up and condition his hair to his satisfaction (“It’s a delicate balance, babe,”) but the slip was not good for Jamie’s ankle. You have to go back downstairs for more ice, so now he’s lying flat on his back on the bed, towel wrapped precariously loose around his waist. When you’re satisfied that the ice is secure and Jamie’s foot is at a good angle, you flop down in the bed next to him. You’re still in your towel, too.

“I can’t stop thinking about that kick,” you say.

Jamie asks, “Which one? I did a lot of those,” and you laugh.

“The one to block Man City’s goal. The one where you landed wrong. It was probably the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. I’m so, so proud of you. I just can’t get over the fact that you can do all that and then you come home to me. It boggles my mind.”

Jamie’s blowing tickly breaths in your ear to make you shiver. “I was pretty sexy, weren’t I?”

You laugh again. “Everything’s always about being sexy with you, isn’t it? Sure, I’ll admit you were sexy. But you were also admirable and selfless and brave and amazing. You can’t sell yourself short.”

Jamie’s silent for a moment, and you think he’s fallen asleep. You look over to see him staring at the ceiling with glazed eyes.

You ask, “Are you crying?” and the words are barely out of your mouth before Jamie’s saying fuck no but you know he means fuck yes so you roll over to kiss him, because sometimes it’s better to leave some things unsaid. He’s pretty great, and you’re glad you’re the one who gets to tell him.

#this was so so sweet thank you! 💜#ted lasso

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peraltasames · 10 months

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